her in the Antiques Room and she invited him to tea at her lodgings after college.
Prompt at six o’clock, he knocked on her door. He heard his name called and stepped back to see Elinor leaning out of a window on the third floor, her heavy dark gold hair swinging forward in two sharp points on her cheeks. ‘Hang on a sec, I’ll come down.’
Footsteps, quick and light, and then the door was thrown open and she looked out at him, smiling.
‘Doesn’t your landlady mind men calling?’
‘ Men ?’ She peered round him. ‘Oops, he’s brought the regiment. No, she’s down in the basement. As long as there’s not too much noise, she lets us get on with it. She’s even letting us redecorate.’
Elinor led the way up a broad staircase whose dark green carpet had a beige strip in the centre where the pile had worn through to the backing. She was clearly in the thick of decorating – he smelled distemper the moment she opened her door. Lolling tongues of rose-trellised wallpaper lay on the floor where she’d simply seized it and pulled it off the wall. A bucket of grey, glutinous sludge, a table and a stepladder occupied the centre of the room, but a sofa and two chairs had been pushed together at the far end so that some kind of normal life could continue.
‘What colour are you doing it?’
‘Stone. I thought grey might be a bit too depressing.’
‘And you’re doing it all yourself?’
‘No, Ruthie comes round to help. She’s on the floor above. We’re doing mine first and then we’ll do hers.’
‘It’s a big job.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind, I like it. Anyway, there’s no choice. I can’t work with that stuff on the wall. There’s another room, if you’d like to see?’
The bedroom. Elinor’s bed under a patchwork quilt, a chair, a wardrobe. Nothing else. Sunlight came in through the smeared window and crept in parallelograms of light across the faded carpet. From below came the hum and rumble of traffic.
‘I’m leaving this till last.’
He scarcely heard her. He was staring at a painting she’d propped against the wall: a female nude, facing away, rubbing a bath towel down her left arm. The ends of her glossy black hair stuck in wet coils to her white shoulders. ‘Teresa.’
‘She modelled for me. I said. Don’t you remember?’
He did, now she mentioned it, but still it came as a shock. They gazed at the painting together. He felt a surge of desire, not for Teresa, but for Elinor. He imagined kissing her, and the image was so vivid that for one crazy second he thought he’d done it, and was groping about in his mind for some way of repairing the damage.
‘That’s the one I won the scholarship for.’
He realized she’d brought him here into her bedroom to show him this, but he didn’t know why. A natural pride in a good piece of work? Or something more fundamental: a demand that he should recognize her as an equal? Well, if that was her motive she needn’t have bothered. There could be no question of equality. If he stayed at the Slade another ten years he’d never be able to paint sunlight on wet flesh like that.
‘It’s wonderful. I’m so glad I’ve seen it.’
She smiled. ‘Come on, I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘Can I do anything to help?’
‘No, I don’t think so. There’s only room for one.’
He stood in the kitchen doorway while she boiled water and made salmon-and-cucumber sandwiches. He wanted to say more about the painting, but he’d always found it difficult to praise an artist to his face, her face, or even to accept praise gracefully himself. Though that hadn’t been much of a disability so far.
‘Right, I think that’s it,’ Elinor said, wiping her hands on her sides. ‘Here, you can carry the tray.’
He set it down on a small table, which she cleared by sweeping piles of books on to the floor. They sat facing each other, the sofa and chairs so squashed together their knees were almost touching. She offered him a plate and a sandwich,
Prompt at six o’clock, he knocked on her door. He heard his name called and stepped back to see Elinor leaning out of a window on the third floor, her heavy dark gold hair swinging forward in two sharp points on her cheeks. ‘Hang on a sec, I’ll come down.’
Footsteps, quick and light, and then the door was thrown open and she looked out at him, smiling.
‘Doesn’t your landlady mind men calling?’
‘ Men ?’ She peered round him. ‘Oops, he’s brought the regiment. No, she’s down in the basement. As long as there’s not too much noise, she lets us get on with it. She’s even letting us redecorate.’
Elinor led the way up a broad staircase whose dark green carpet had a beige strip in the centre where the pile had worn through to the backing. She was clearly in the thick of decorating – he smelled distemper the moment she opened her door. Lolling tongues of rose-trellised wallpaper lay on the floor where she’d simply seized it and pulled it off the wall. A bucket of grey, glutinous sludge, a table and a stepladder occupied the centre of the room, but a sofa and two chairs had been pushed together at the far end so that some kind of normal life could continue.
‘What colour are you doing it?’
‘Stone. I thought grey might be a bit too depressing.’
‘And you’re doing it all yourself?’
‘No, Ruthie comes round to help. She’s on the floor above. We’re doing mine first and then we’ll do hers.’
‘It’s a big job.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind, I like it. Anyway, there’s no choice. I can’t work with that stuff on the wall. There’s another room, if you’d like to see?’
The bedroom. Elinor’s bed under a patchwork quilt, a chair, a wardrobe. Nothing else. Sunlight came in through the smeared window and crept in parallelograms of light across the faded carpet. From below came the hum and rumble of traffic.
‘I’m leaving this till last.’
He scarcely heard her. He was staring at a painting she’d propped against the wall: a female nude, facing away, rubbing a bath towel down her left arm. The ends of her glossy black hair stuck in wet coils to her white shoulders. ‘Teresa.’
‘She modelled for me. I said. Don’t you remember?’
He did, now she mentioned it, but still it came as a shock. They gazed at the painting together. He felt a surge of desire, not for Teresa, but for Elinor. He imagined kissing her, and the image was so vivid that for one crazy second he thought he’d done it, and was groping about in his mind for some way of repairing the damage.
‘That’s the one I won the scholarship for.’
He realized she’d brought him here into her bedroom to show him this, but he didn’t know why. A natural pride in a good piece of work? Or something more fundamental: a demand that he should recognize her as an equal? Well, if that was her motive she needn’t have bothered. There could be no question of equality. If he stayed at the Slade another ten years he’d never be able to paint sunlight on wet flesh like that.
‘It’s wonderful. I’m so glad I’ve seen it.’
She smiled. ‘Come on, I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘Can I do anything to help?’
‘No, I don’t think so. There’s only room for one.’
He stood in the kitchen doorway while she boiled water and made salmon-and-cucumber sandwiches. He wanted to say more about the painting, but he’d always found it difficult to praise an artist to his face, her face, or even to accept praise gracefully himself. Though that hadn’t been much of a disability so far.
‘Right, I think that’s it,’ Elinor said, wiping her hands on her sides. ‘Here, you can carry the tray.’
He set it down on a small table, which she cleared by sweeping piles of books on to the floor. They sat facing each other, the sofa and chairs so squashed together their knees were almost touching. She offered him a plate and a sandwich,
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