Read Online Night Street by Kristel Thornell - Free Book Online Page A

‘but we’ll talk about that later.’
    â€˜There’s so much confidence in her paintings,’ suggested Ada, with an odd formality, as if too timid to direct this at Clarice. ‘I wish I had her confidence.’
    Confidence seemed a strange word, when she was suffering this stage fright. ‘Painting, you can be yourself,’ Clarice said, recalling that Ada was thought to copy her. ‘You try to be yourself. You don’t always manage it.’ She raced on: ‘At these things, who are you? I never know. I’m very awkward.’ Rather pathetically, she blushed; you were not supposed to admit to social unease.
    Mrs Hamlin took her hand for a moment and pressed it. The contact was calmly firm, anchoring. Clarice tried to smile. The lady holding her hand was long, solid, queenly, magnificently rounded in the shoulders, and the rest of her, too, was covered generously with flesh. Mrs Hamlin said, ‘You’ll have to get used to intimidating people. Men will be alarmed, because you can do such things and you’re beautiful, also, which will confuse them. One rarely sees a fair skin as radiant as yours. That’s another sort of beauty I have an eye for. I’m a beautician. For my own pleasure—my husband sees it as a hobby, an interest rather than a profession, but I take it quite seriously. Manicures and pedicures are my area of expertise. I’ve been told that my own feet are a work of art.’ Was this intimate information proffered to balance Clarice’s declaration of discomfort? ‘And not just by my good husband.’
    Ada wore a faint smile, perhaps picturing those feet, as Clarice was. She saw them oversized, on a statue, in marble, gleaming. Her brain was absorbing Mrs Hamlin, becoming permeated by her; people could flood you. Had Clarice been inclined to do such work, this woman would have made an intriguing subject for a nude—what would you find beneath that velvet and gloss, her solidity and great capacity for enthusiasm?
    â€˜Your work would be interesting,’ she said, not really able to imagine it but not insincere.
    â€˜It is,’ Mrs Hamlin affirmed. ‘And I think I feel so close to artists because my work is also about beauty and nature, natural beauty. We have a lot in common. I have many artist friends, we get on so well. We see the world in a similar way. I love being around you.’
    Clarice laughed gauchely. And she noticed, when Ada said, ‘Your dress is a lovely colour,’ how good the girl was with people, light-handed.
    â€˜Lavender,’ Mrs Hamlin said. ‘It’s special, isn’t it? And feel that.’
    Clarice, too, automatically put out her hand to stroke the dress; the texture was quite hypnotic. Mrs Hamlin was now studying Ada, wanting to compliment in return. But they were so different. Mrs Hamlin large and full; Ada petite and slight, lightly freckled nose, plain dark dress, brown hair neither really fair nor dark, all quietly pleasant. She had an air of knowing herself to be unassuming, forgettable. And this made her a thin presence, somehow, the thinness accentuated by her gentle way with people—which was probably rather tragic.
    â€˜You’re charming,’ Mrs Hamlin eventually told her, kindly, and the girl bowed her head.
    Clarice was suddenly very grateful to be in the company of these gracious women, to have merged, however briefly, with the evening’s stagey talk. It took her mind off Arthur, the too-handsome bridegroom, her paintings on the wall, her frightened vanity, the grandiosity and shocking immodesty of it all. It let her share her happiness.
    As usual, Father was done with The Age before Clarice and her mother were up; he must not have seen the review, as he had not made any comment. He did not read the cultural sections, as a rule. Meldrum had told the class that it would be coming, and the anticipation had kept her awake all night. Now it was Mum’s