The Art School Dance (65 page)

Josh?

Forget
him!

She stopped at
‘Otty’s Cafe’, just around the corner from home, thinking that some
breakfast was the thing to strengthen her. Even here she was
regarded suspiciously and all she could work her mouth around was a
mug of sweet tea. The hot sugary liquid bit into her gums where
teeth had been loosened, nagging at the nerve ends, and the woman
in the kitchen regarded her more warily than she ever regarded the
seediest of her customers.

Pain!
Everything was pain and bed was the only place to be!

Her bones
ached as she got to her feet, her knuckles hurt as she spread her
fingers on the table to heave herself upright. Limping like a
rheumatic, squinting against the glare of the sun, she went
outdoors and down the street to her flat. She had to fight with
both hands to turn the key in the lock. The rope ladder was totally
out of the question. The stairs were difficult enough, she had to
take them one at a time, resting both feet on each step to stop her
pummelled thighs from protesting. It took her minutes longer than
usual to reach her floor and she turned down the hall just in time
to see two black polythene rubbish bags being hurled out of her
room.

Her landlady
followed immediately after, snapped a padlock shut on each of the
doors and then turned to see her.

'You!'

'What are you
doing?' asked Virginia.

'You’re
out! Evicted!
Persona non grata
!'

The smart arse
quoting Latin when she was probably the most uneducated of all the
landlords that Virginia had ever had. Her only talent was her
numeracy, her ability to count the money which she made in rent
every month.

'What do you
mean?'

'I mean you
need somewhere else to live. This is no longer your flat.'

'But-'

'But, nothing.
I’ve seen what you’ve done to the place. Count yourself lucky I’m
not suing you for the damage you’ve caused. I would do, only I
guess you haven’t got a penny to your name. And where did you come
by that rope ladder you’ve got slung out the window?'

'I-'

'Forget it, I
don’t want to know. You probably stole it so I’ve thrown it
away.'

Virginia
worked her mouth slowly, like the punch-drunk boxer she must
resemble, but it was too painful to form any words. What she needed
was an oration, when it was all she could do to spit out a single
syllable. Her landlady had the advantage.

'Your clothes
are there,' she said, kicking the two polythene bags. 'I’d have
taken them in lieu of rent but I doubt even the Oxfam would want
them.'

Virginia
thought about the bags, about her bruised hands which had
difficulty in gripping, and she nodded to her door, said, 'Do you
think I could just leave them-?'

'Out! Go on!
Piss off!'

Virginia
went.

To look on the
bright side she did not have to cover the costs of the repairs to
the flat, nor pay the rent which was overdue. And that was the
bright side? Christ! It just showed how bleak and dismal her life
had become!

She struggled
downstairs with the two bags. They were not heavy, they held
nothing more than a few clothes, but they were still an encumbrance
she could do without. Lime Street station was the place to leave
them, she decided, and she caught a bus into the city; it was only
two stops, a twenty five pence ride, but in her condition she did
not feel up to walking.

There were no
lockers at the station, the place was being modernised and there
seemed to be no room for the old fashioned lockers where you
slipped in a coin and pulled out the key. Too easy a target for
terrorists, lockers, a BR man told her, a place to stash bombs,
though why anyone should want to blow up Lime Street station
escaped her. There was only the left luggage office, she was told,
and she toted her bags, her worldly possessions, over there.

'Let’s see
what you’ve got inside,' said the man on duty.

'Do you have
to?' Virginia asked.

'Usually we
only take suitcases and trunks.'

'Do I look
like the sort who’d have Louis Vuitton luggage? I only want to
leave this stuff here until tonight, tomorrow at the latest.'

'They could be
bombs for all I know. Open up and let’s see.'

Paranoia rife
at Lime Street station.

Virginia
untied the neck of each bag, opened them to show the crumpled jeans
and skirts, the shirts and blouses and soiled knickers.

'See? Clothes,
like I said.'

The chap
looked, said, 'You’d be better off taking this lot down to Oxfam
rather than paying good money to leave it here.'

'Don’t be so
bloody cheeky! Give me the ticket!'

Virginia
snatched the ticket and stamped from the office. Her face hurt
after snapping at the attendant. She needed to see a dentist. She
needed to see her face, for God’s sake, to see what damage had been
done to it. Most important of all, though, she needed a place to
stay for the night.

*

A frown, a
grimace and a smile were all the same for Coral; her cheeks puffed,
her mouth strained and the expression was open to interpretation.
Virginia detected a hint of concern in the greeting, though.

'Josh’s wife?'
Coral supposed.

'You knew she
was after me? You knew he was married to a policewoman?'

'I tried to
tell you.'

'Not until it
was too late.'

'It had its
amusing side at first, the idea of you screwing a copper’s husband
and not realising it.'

'Look at my
face, Coral,' said Virginia, leaning forward into the light. 'I’m
not amused. I’m not laughing. I can’t.'

'No.' Coral
winced, as if she might be sharing in the pain. 'You were so cocky,
though, boasting that you’d copped off with Josh. Do you think you
deserved any favours, being so arrogant? What would you have done
if the situation had been reversed?'

Dropped Coral
right in the shit, no doubt, and then stood back to laugh.

'Thanks,
Coral, thanks a bunch,' she said bitterly, but still accepted the
conciliatory drink which was offered. 'Now I think you owe me a
favour.'

'What’s
that?'

Virginia told
Coral of her encounter with the landlady, of the landlady turfing
her out and padlocking the flat.

'Thrown out
arse over elbow I am,' she said, remembering the phrase and how it
had happened to her before.

'Everyone’s
catching up with you,' said Coral. 'That bloke who was looking for
you, the one in the natty suit? He was down here earlier. Seems
that the print you stole from Gerald you ended up selling to one of
the minions in his gallery. He wants his money back.'

'Oh, fuck
him,' said Virginia. A softly spoken man in his fifties was easily
handled. 'At the moment I’m more concerned about finding a bed for
the night. Your couch will do.'

Coral shook
her head. 'Sorry, Virginia, but tonight I’m seeing Tone.'

'Him?'

Coral’s smile
broadened, became lecherous. 'Yes, him. I’ve finally managed to
persuade him to come out without Trev.'

'Put him
off.'

'No. You don’t
seriously expect me to, do you, now that I’ve finally got a chance
with him? Tonight I’m hopeful.'

'And tonight
I’m homeless. Doesn’t our friendship mean anything?'

'What
friendship?'

'You bitch!'
said Virginia, but she was philosophical about the refusal of a
bed; fornication would always take precedence over favour where she
was concerned, too. She shrugged. 'Something will turn up.
Perhaps-?'

'Yes?' said
Coral.

Virginia shook
her head. 'I was about to say perhaps Gerald...'

Coral laughed.
'No, I don’t think so. In fact you’re probably pushing your luck
hanging around here. There’s no telling when he might turn up, or
what he’ll do when he does.'

Still Virginia
lingered, though, wasted money on drink which might have been
better spent on a bed for the night. Best to be a little drunk, she
reasoned, in case she ended up sleeping out, in the park or down at
the Pier Head.

By
mid-afternoon sleeping out began to seem the most likely option;
there had been no sudden windfall of money, Coral was as eager as
ever to get Tone back to her place and no attractively wealthy
young men -or women- had visited the bar, people who had a
penthouse flat nearby and were eager to share their empty bed with
her.

Resigned,
Virginia left the ‘Corkscrew’.

'Good luck,'
said Coral, but Virginia doubted that there would be any of that
coming her way. 'If it wasn’t for bad luck I wouldn’t have no luck
at all,' she sang, as she tramped aimlessly along the street.

'Dreamer!'
someone said, tapping her on the shoulder after greeting her and
being ignored.

It was Dean.
She gave him a gruff hello.

'You sound a
bit down,' he said.

Who wouldn’t
be, with a face like the one she was wearing? He made no comment
about her scars and bruises, though, so she shrugged -’you know how
things are’- looked around and asked, 'No Goomer with you to rub
salt into my wounds?'

She had wounds
aplenty, after all.

'No. I’ve just
left him at the station. He’s gone to pay his parents a visit.'

Ah!

Dean asked if
she was on her way home, asked if she minded if he walked along
with her. Quick thinking was called for.

'Yes, I’m
going home, and please do walk along with me, I’ll be glad of the
company,' she said, forcing a cheerful smile, her mind racing
frantically.

'So what’s got
you so glum?' Dean asked, then guessed, 'Money, still?'

What was wrong
with the dimwit? Hadn't he noticed that her face was bloodied and
bruised?

Her brave
smile fixed, though, she said, 'There always seems to be a
shortage. Still, we soldier on, eh?'

'That’s
the spirit.
Nihil desperandum.
'

My, but wasn’t
the self-improvement coming along a storm! First the landlady
quoting Latin, and now Dean!

'How’s your
future shaping up?' she asked, pretending to be interested. 'Still
thinking about further education?'

He was, and he
talked enthusiastically about his plans as they climbed the hill
towards the flat which was no longer Virginia’s. She asked the
right questions, made suitably encouraging comments to keep Dean
talking, flattered him with her interest. At the door to the house
she made an act of fumbling for the keys which she had been forced
to surrender to the landlady, smiled and stepped back graciously as
Dean unlocked the door and entered, then followed him up the
stairs.

'Oh, you’ve
got padlocks on your doors!' Dean saw, when they reached the third
floor.

What to do? Be
honest about the matter? No way.

'Yes, the
locks were faulty so I had to make them secure,' Virginia lied,
then added, a little more truthfully, 'You can’t trust anyone in
this house, you know.'

'Oh, I’m sure
that’s not true.'

Pausing
between the two flats at the end of the hall, they smiled, waiting
for one or the other to take their leave.

When Virginia
made no move, Dean said, 'I was just going to make a little
something to eat. Would you like to join me?'

Risk his
cooking? The one who had professed never to touch meat or spaghetti
or potatoes or anything bad?

'Why, that’s
very kind of you Dean. I’d love to.'

'It’s as easy
to cook for two as it is for one, after all,' he smiled, as he
opened the door.

He prepared an
omelette, quite competently, it was warm and filling and revived
Virginia. He took the empty plate from her, handed her a mug of
perfumed tea which she made a show of enjoying. They sat on
cushions on the floor, their feet tucked beneath them.

'Tell me,
Virginia,' Dean said, after moments of silence.

'Yes?'

'Your
face-'

He
had
noticed it
after all!

'-I didn’t
like to mention it before.'

'Yes, once I
thought it might be my fortune,' she said, and gingerly touched a
finger to her swollen lip. The hot tea had made the wound smart.
'It’s a long story, a tragic one...'

Which she told
nobly, making it sound like some heroic Nordic saga. In her tale
she was a victim, of course.

'Poor
Virginia,' Dean sympathised, and his hand twitched as if he was
tempted to soothe away the pain.

'It hurts,
I’ve been getting these awful headaches ever since,' Virginia said,
then forced a sob. 'Oh, Dean! How it hurts!'

He was obliged
to touch a hand to her face, then; his fingernails had grown, they
were nicely manicured rather than bitten to the quick and they
grazed gently across her discoloured cheek. Then, flushing with
embarrassment, he pulled his hand back.

'No, don’t
stop,' said Virginia, grabbing his hand and bringing it back,
kissing her lips softly against the palm. 'Oh, that feels good,'
she told him. 'So good. It seems like you’re the only person who
doesn’t want to hurt me.'

'Silly. Nobody
wants to hurt you.'

That bitch
Wilkie had, but Virginia kept quiet about her and the reasons
why.

'Dean, will
you do me a favour?' she asked.

'What?' he
asked, eager to please.

'Will you just
hold me?'

'We
shouldn’t,' he said, and she felt him strain and try to move
away.

'Please, just
hold me,' she begged. 'Put your arms around me and make the pain go
away.'

The low
mattress which was Goomer’s bed was just behind them and Virginia
fell back onto it, pulling Dean down with her.

'We
shouldn’t,' he said again, even as he wrapped his arms around her
and clutched her tenderly to him.