The Art School Dance (54 page)

'And those
jeans. They’re filthy.'

Arching her
back to remove her trousers without getting up from the bed, she
wondered what could have come over Goomer. It was a week or more
since she had last seen him. Could he have changed so much in so
short a time?

His arm
slipped around her as she got into the bed, the palm of his hand
against her cheek pulling her down to his shoulder. He stroked her
hair as though to soothe her.

'Mm,' she
sighed, showing her appreciation, and shifted against him, her head
sliding down over his chest while her hand parted the loose
dressing gown he wore, sliding across his stomach to circle his
waist.

'You’re tired,
Virginia, you need rest.'

Like hell she
did, she thought, but sighed again to encourage the calm caress of
his fingers across her neck.

'Come on,
sleep,' he encouraged her, his hand never still, speaking as a
mother might to a sickly child. 'Sleep,' he said again. 'Dean will
be here soon.'

She laughed
softly into his chest, thinking that he had said dawn. 'Dawn’s been
and gone. It must be nearly mid morning by now.'

'I didn’t say
dawn. I said Dean.'

'A person?'
She raised her head slightly and his face smiling down at her
seemed so exquisitely formed. 'Who’s Dean?'

'Dean. You
know him. You’ve met him.'

'A bloke?'

Goomer nodded.
'A bloke. The loveliest.'

'Oh, Goomer,
you’re not going to desert me for another man again, are you?'

'I’m afraid
so, Virginia.'

'I thought
you’d got over it after the last affair. And he’s coming here, is
he?'

'Soon. So you
go to sleep, then I can get up.'

He moved, only
to make himself more comfortable but Virginia feared that he was
about to leave her. She tightened her arm around his waist and
buried her face into his shoulder.

'Poor dear
Virginia!' Goomer laughed, his hand moving consolingly across her
shoulders. 'You’re not trying it on again, are you?'

She was, but
she was not going to admit it.

'I’m so
tired,' she mumbled, rolling onto her back and trying to relax.
Goomer’s body was too much of a comfort to ignore completely,
however, and she kept her face pressed against his shoulder, her
hand against his thigh.

What was it
with the man? she wondered. Was he so innocent as to be untrue, too
kind for this world, or was he the most accomplished teaser known
to womankind? She didn’t know. Perhaps if she ever did fathom him
out then his charm would be gone. As she was trying to convince
herself that sleep would perhaps be the best thing after all there
was a noise outside the door.

'That’ll be
Dean,' said Goomer, leaping from the bed and running to the door,
his fluttering dressing gown enveloping the person who stepped into
the room. All Virginia could see of the embrace was Goomer and
swathes of white towelling; whoever was being embraced was lost in
the folds and Goomer’s tumbling blonde hair. When the excitement
subsided and the dressing gown came to rest like a bird to roost
Virginia saw a face peer out, almost angelically, from the crisp
white frame.

'Him?' she
said, sitting bolt upright.

The youth with
no eyebrows, the one from the ‘Phil’ who had offered to take care
of her.

'You remember
Dean now, then?' Goomer smiled, bringing the visitor closer to the
bed.

'Hello again,'
said Dean.

Virginia
ignored the greeting, again speaking of him as though he was not
present. 'What’s he doing here?'

'He’s staying
with me.'

'But he’s a
weirdo.'

Goomer
tightened his embrace. 'So willowy.'

'Still only a
fraction over ten stone,' Dean said, as Goomer’s arm squeezed at
his waist.

'Why is he
staying here? What’s wrong with the ‘Beaumaris’?'

'That place is
too seedy and he’s too sweet,' said Goomer, kissing him on the
cheek. 'He needs someone to take care of him.'

'But he’s a
nut! And I’ve got my doubts about you, too! Get him out of here
while I get dressed!'

Though the
youth in Goomer’s arms showed no sign of having been offended,
Goomer came to his defence. 'Virginia, you will please be a little
more polite in my flat. His name is Dean, so kindly do not refer to
him in any other way.'

Since neither
Goomer nor the one named Dean made any attempt to avert their gaze,
Virginia picked up her jeans and blouse from beside the bed and
struggled beneath the sheets until she had them on. Then she swung
her legs free and stood.

'He -Dean- is
loopy and you don’t need to be a psychiatrist to see that,' she
told Goomer. 'You know what he tried on with me in the ‘Phil’.'

'Which is
precisely why he needs looking after,' said Goomer. He turned to
Dean, who was still smiling, impervious to any insult. 'Will you
make some coffee?' he asked him. 'I think Virginia could do with a
cup. She’s had a hard night.'

'Forget it,'
said Virginia, buttoning her blouse and collecting her coat from
the foot of the bed. 'After this what I really need is a
drink.'

'See, Dean?'
said Goomer, tutting as she left. 'She’ll never learn. That’s how
she got into trouble in the first place. Lesson number one for you
must be to study Virginia and profit from her mistakes.'

Chapter Six

Though Virginia
disapproved, Goomer insisted on sharing his flat and his bed with
Dean. He was still available for the occasional walk or talk or
evening in the pub, sometimes with Dean and sometimes not, but the
times that Virginia was alone became more and more frequent. The
fact that she missed Goomer’s company annoyed her, mainly because
she could not say what it was exactly that she missed about his
company. His nearness had always been tantalising, flattering but
frustrating, and his manner often irritating, sometimes comforting
but frequently condescending. He was just too strange, too clever
and too untouchable.

Sod it! she
thought. He was nothing more than a bloody teaser; whether a
prick-teaser or a clitoris-teaser you could take your pick.

'Have you seen
Goomer lately?' Peter asked, as he refilled Virginia’s glass.

'You asked me
that yesterday,' she scowled. 'And the day before that.'

'I did? Oh.'
The glass was placed on the bar, the money taken and change given.
'This, er, friend of his, he’s still staying with him?'

'Yes.'

Peter leant
his elbows on the bar, coming close enough for confidences; there
were few customers and he had the time for an interfering chat.
'And tell me, Virginia, are they actually sleeping together?'

'I don’t know
and I don’t bloody well care!' Virginia lied. 'Now can we drop the
subject?'

'Yes. Of
course. Fine by me. Only I thought you looked a bit concerned about
the situation.'

'I’m not.'

'No. Of course
not. I mean, it’s not as though there was ever anything between you
and Goomer.'

'No!'

Smiling, Peter
went to serve a customer, only the second of the day.

'Things are
getting bad,' he lamented, when he returned to Virginia. 'People
just don’t seem to have the money to spend at the moment.'

'No.'

'I suppose
you’ll be needing to economise yourself, now, get some money saved
for the fine when your case comes up in court.'

'I suppose
so,' Virginia conceded. She counted the coins in the pocket of her
jeans without needing to take them out; there was not that much
cash left. 'I’ll probably have to get some work done,' she said.
'Have you got any you can pass my way?'

'Posters and
the like?' Peter shook his head, still the trace of a smile on his
lips. 'Sorry, Virginia, I had to get someone else when you turned
me down the last time. Remember?' he said pointedly. 'I asked you
to do some work for me but you were too busy.'

Virginia
drained her glass, took out the last of her money. 'Any chance of
you cashing me a cheque, then? I’m running a bit short.'

'Does the bank
manager sell beer?'

'It would save
me going around to the bank and queuing, that’s all. You know what
it’ll be like now, at lunchtime.'

'Sorry,
Virginia. You know I don’t mind helping out at weekends and bank
holidays, but otherwise I don’t like to make a habit of it. Nothing
personal.'

'Of course.'
Virginia returned the coins to her pocket; there was not enough
there for another drink. 'I’d better get to the bank, then. See you
later.'

Walking along
Bold Street, past the shops and between the shoppers, Virginia took
out her cheque book and flicked through it, making sure she had at
least one left. In the bank she wrote out a cheque, signed her name
with a flourish and waited patiently in the queue. When her turn
came she would pass the cheque over and the cashier -she always
chose the most attractive one- would smile and ask how she wanted
the cash.

She would say
four tens and two fives would be fine.

'I believe
that the assistant manager would like to see you, Miss.'

'Four tens and
two fives will do just fine,' she smiled.

'I don’t think
you understand,' the cashier said. 'The assistant manager would
like a word with you before any more cheques are cashed.'

'Oh.'

The assistant
manager, of course, was not as handsome nor as pleasant as the
cashier.

'It pains me
to say this,' the man lied, once Virginia had been led through to
the private inner sanctum, 'but I’m afraid I can’t let you cash any
more cheques until there has been a marked improvement in the state
of your account.'

As if her
account was an ailing patient in intensive care; if so, then it had
to be said that it was as well as could be expected.

He was a tall
thin man with brittle wrists which Virginia wanted to snap; he
reminded her of her old Latin master, ‘Styx’, a man of similar
build and with an equally snivelling manner. The memory was not a
pleasant one.

A file on the
desk was consulted and Virginia was informed that she was over two
hundred pounds overdrawn.

'Really?' said
Virginia, genuinely surprised.

The assistant
manager made a steeple with his hands, fingertips to his lips.
'We’ve written several letters to you, none of which have been
answered.'

'Yes, well, I
did change address recently.'

'I see. And
did you inform us?'

No, naturally
not, but Virginia said, 'Of course. I wrote to you. I can only
think that the letter has gone astray.'

'Yes, I
imagine it must have.' The steeple was disassembled and the file
picked up. 'This is yours. As you can see we have filled out quite
a few typewritten pages, all relating to the fluctuating balance of
your account.' A slight breeze blew as he thumbed through the pages
for Virginia to see. 'It’s quite an achievement to merit so many
pages, believe me. We have customers of twenty and thirty years
standing who can’t match this.'

If Virginia
had not been so worried then she might have been proud.

'And so,' the
man continued, coming to his ultimatum, 'you must appreciate why
I’m forced to take these drastic measures. No more cheques will be
honoured until your account is in credit.'

'Can I just
cash this last one?' Virginia asked, still clutching her cheque
made out for fifty pounds.

'No.'

'Please.'

'Certainly
not.'

'Twenty-five
pounds, then?' She reached for a pen on his desk. 'I’ll change it
to twenty-five.'

'No.'

'Twenty?'

'We are not
here to barter,' she was sternly told.

Virginia had
to come close to tears before the assistant manager agreed to cash
a cheque -’the very last one’- for a measly ten pounds.

Had she been
wise Virginia might have considered saving this last donation from
her bank, but this particular virtue no longer ranked amongst the
strongest of her traits. She went for a drink, instead, and was
unlucky enough to meet Chuck Presley.

*

Chuck was a
gambling man and sometime antiques dealer, talking aged widowed
ladies into parting with saleable items and paying them a fraction
of their worth. He did not work very often, though, and when he did
it was always for others, so he earned a wage rather than made a
fortune from his efforts. His main income, his boast would be, was
from his gambling, he earned more from this than he could from any
other occupation, and it was inevitable that he should have a tip
for Virginia.

Small and
wizened, with an uneven face which made him look like one of the
antiques in which he sometimes dealt, he waved her a greeting which
could not be heard, his eloquent hands flapping above the heads at
the bar.

'Virginia,
good to see you girl,' he said, when she was by his side, and his
garbled conversation began. 'So I’ve just left the ‘Masonic’, been
there with Brian, and I said ‘Yes, Brian, I’m still a gambling man.
Showed him the betting slip, I did, a straight fifty pound win. Of
course fifty quid’s nothing to the likes of Brian.'

'Of course,'
said Virginia.

'He’ll
probably slap a hundred on. Maybe two. He can afford it.'

'Yes.'

'Yes.' Chuck’s
eyes were closed now and his head was bobbing enthusiastically. 'So
it’s ‘Baudelaire’ with Pat Eddery riding, three forty-five.' He
opened his eyes and looked into Virginia’s face, to see if she
recognised the name, then said, 'French poet, champion of the
Surrealists he was.'

'Who? Pat
Eddery?'

'Baudelaire!
I’d expect you to know that, being an artist of sorts.'

Chuck’s
talkative hands slowed to a stop, as though all his attention was
being directed to the horse and to the money which was at
stake.