Then Alice
Then
Alice
I slide into class ten minutes late, wearing the jeans of yesterday with a blue striped shirt Jake has lent me, which Rick notices immediately. He makes his eyes enormous and hisses, ‘Alice Garland, have you been collecting scalps?’
We are in Gordon King’s class, which is unfortunate because my mind is fried, my face raw from this morning’s intense kissing, my groin aching, not unpleasantly, from a full night of lovemaking.
I fetch the lithograph of the oak I made in the last session and begin to mix paint, four specific colours: titanium white, yellow ochre, cadmium red and ivory black. This restricted palette, made famous by the Swedish painter Gustav Zorn, gives me all the scope I need for the microscopic metamorphosis from bark to flesh, or rather, a hue that can be perceived as both. There is an art to getting the right shades to effect the transformation, almost a kind of wizardry. I know exactly what is needed and begin with the gradual reduction of black and yellow ochre; I will use the resulting greens and browns for the first wash of colour.
Just looking at these tones of bark can transport me back to the old oak tree in the field behind my house, with a hollow big enough for me to hide in. I might make a version with the hollow painted on afterwards, symbolic of the emptiness inside my tree. Not much of a leap to remember the first time I hid within the oak, aged twelve, the day my first full report arrived home from boarding school. A rash of B minuses and the occasional C (plus D for needlework, which I claimed privately as a triumph).
My father called me into his study.
‘Well, hello, Miss Average,’ he said as I walked through the door.
The words held an edge of jokiness that didn’t meet his tone. I realised in the next fifteen minutes as he railed against weakness and mediocrity that trying to please him would never be enough. I was a different girl when I left his study, with the whole of the long, lonely summer holiday ahead. I knew my father didn’t love me, couldn’t love me, wouldn’t love me, and from that moment on, my childhood became simply something to get through.
I am absorbed in my preparation, and Gordon’s voice, his presence right in front of me, comes as a shock.
‘What is this, Alice?’
His voice is quiet, and I know, from a whole childhood of experience, that a quiet, measured voice can be the most vicious.
‘It’s a tree,’ I say; not to be facetious, more as a preparation for what comes next, for the groundswell of indignation that will accompany my defence.
I am a woman who paints trees, humanised ones. I am being paid a hundred pounds to capture the likenesses of a band who are being talked about as the new Rolling Stones.
‘If you’d been on time, you would have heard what I said at the beginning of class. If your idea isn’t working, then start again with a fresh approach. Don’t waste your time and mine with repetition of a weak concept.’
‘Gordon, if you would hear me out, I’d like to explain why I’m painting trees and what it is I’m trying to convey.’
He nods his assent, his sharp-featured face tensed into acute irritation.
I tell him about the series of people trees, caught at the exact moment of metamorphosis. I talk about why I’ve chosen the Zorn palette, to find not just skin tone but the exact shade for bark, lichen and moss. I tell him that when I look at certain trees, I can see character and emotion, traits and flaws displayed in the gnarl and twist of the branches; I see gender, history, triumph and disappointment.
‘Very well, Alice. Since you’re so passionate about it, carry on.’
His voice is neutral, unexpressive, hard to read. But I am instantly buoyed by his change of heart, the first time he has ever listened to me.
I am immersed in my work and the next hour and a half flashes past, no thought for anything except the personality of my tree. Strong, bold, confident. The way I am feeling today, as if I am wearing Jake’s self-assurance along with his shirt.
At the end of class, Gordon leans against the edge of his desk and waits for us to listen.
‘In art, intellect is everything. Passion is everything. Curiosity is everything. If you have an intrigue, the essence of something you can dig and scrape away at until it becomes an actual concept, then pursue it. That curiosity and passion is the whole reason you are here.’
Across the other side of the room, Rick catches my eye and winks. Victory to you, tree girl, the wink says.
Our second ‘business meeting’ takes place in the Coach and Horses, a chance to get to know the band, Jake says, and so I bring Rick along for moral support.
The pub is crowded, but they’re easy to spot, gathered in a corner, their own little pocket of black. Jake has his back to me, so it’s Eddie who sees us first.
‘The art students are here,’ he says.
Jake whirls around, pint sloshing over his hand, laughing as he pulls me into his arms. He kisses me on the mouth, briefly, though just the lightest touch of his lips is a pathway of electrons leading straight to my groin.
‘Come and meet the boys,’ he says, introducing us to Eddie first, a James Taylor lookalike with the same strong brows and dark, shoulder-length hair; then Tom, the drummer, who jumps up and shakes both our hands.
‘Jake’s been telling us all about you. A pair of geniuses according to him.’
‘He’s exaggerating. Wildly.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Rick says.
Jake has swooped upon a table littered with empty fag packets and scrunched-up bags of crisps, which he sweeps to one side. Tom brings over a tray of drinks, including a couple of pints for me and Rick. Jake, I notice, has switched to whisky, which he drinks neat without ice.
He says, ‘As you know, Alice is going to be working on our artwork for the album cover. We should probably tell her a bit about the record.’
‘It’s a rock album,’ Eddie says. ‘But with more ballads than the last one. So we need the artwork to reflect that.’
‘And the love songs are sorrowful and melancholic,’ Tom says. ‘That’s the mood we want to convey.’
‘Can we see the drawing you did the other day? The expression on that guy’s face is exactly what we’re talking about. She’s unfazed by nudity, by the way. We could all take our kit off and Alice would be there with her pencil measuring the distance between our eyes.’
Everyone laughs, including me, I feel myself beginning to relax. I’m not at all self-conscious flipping the pages of my sketchbook, until we come to the latest drawing of Josef.
‘Wow, he’s beautiful,’ Tom says, and there’s a wistfulness in his voice. ‘What a face.’
‘Jake is right. This is incredible work,’ Eddie says, and his approval, coming after a coolness I do not understand, gives me a little rush of satisfaction.
‘Are you sure you want a charcoal sketch? You don’t want to try oils?’
‘Definitely black and white and sort of sketchy,’ Jake says. ‘I liked your idea of us posing as if we were the life models.’
‘We could try out very classical poses so you look like statues but you’re on a stage and you have your instruments around you. Almost as if you’ve been turned to stone.’
‘See? I told you she was good. Robin is going to love this artwork.’
‘Who’s Robin? Your manager?’ Rick asks.
‘He’s an art dealer, kind of our patron really. He spends a lot of time with musicians and actors and writers. He has a whole scene going on.’
‘Please don’t tell me you’re talking about Robin Armstrong?’
‘Yeah, that’s him. He likes to support new talent. He did a lot for the Stones at the beginning.’
Rick clutches a hand to his chest, miming cardiac arrest.
‘The man is a god. And here you are just casually dropping his name into the conversation.’
Jake says, ‘You can meet him if you want. We’ll introduce you.’
And I know Rick feels exactly as I do, that this chance meeting with Jacob Earl, lead singer of Disciples, is causing ripples and repercussions in our lives, his and mine, that seem miraculous.
I marvel at Jake’s confidence when he kiboshes a suggestion for the five of us to go out for a curry.
‘Alice and I might make other plans,’ he says, standing up from the table and holding out a hand to me. And though Rick whistles and Eddie rolls his eyes and Tom laughs, no one seems to care.
The moment the door to his flat closes behind us, things turn frantic. Grabbing each other, kissing, wrenching off clothes. I am torn between the urgent desire to feel Jake on top of me, our skin melding together, his ribs pressing painfully into mine, and wanting to slow down, like he did, wanting to make him wait. He puts his arms around my waist as if to carry me to bed, and I say, ‘Hold on, not yet.’ I begin to kiss a pathway down his chest and hear his sharp intake of breath as I fall to my knees and move closer and closer to his groin.
And so it will be a game of control between us, I realise, as I reach his erection and take him tentatively in my mouth.
Jake says, ‘Oh God,’ and the tortured tone of his voice is a shot of aphrodisiac. After a few seconds I return to the slow exploration of his body, first my lips, then my tongue, and this time he gives a long, low moan and grips hold of my head with his hands, his fingers laced into my hair.
‘Fucking hell, Alice,’ is what he says.
Afterwards, we lie on his sofa, wrapped up together, the room lit only by the lamps outside. Soho is in full night-time swing, the rattle of cabs in the street below, the drunken laughter of strangers.
Inside, though, we are silent, as if it is impossible to put into words what is happening between us.
Jake smoothes his palm along the side of my body, rhythmically, as if he’s stroking a cat. It feels comforting to be touched like this, it stirs something inside me, something that goes way back.
‘I like the way you touch me,’ I tell him, and he smiles.
‘Same.’
I reach for his hand, holding it in my own, rubbing circles in his palm with my thumb. Instinctively, I press my thumb up and down, right in the centre.
‘That feels good. Reflexology?’
‘I don’t even know what that is.’
I carry on with my thumb-pressing, working my way slowly up to the base of his hand and then his wrist. My thumb hits a thick ridge of scar tissue, confusing at first. I stop pressing and start stroking, learning its shape. Jake just watches me.
‘What’s this?’
He takes his other hand from where it rests on my thigh and brings both wrists together.
‘Two of them, actually. A matching pair. Stupid mistake when I was sixteen.’
I’m so shocked I can’t find any words. Instead, I kiss each of his wrists in turn.
‘But why?’ I say finally, and Jake shrugs.
‘I think the correct term is a cry for help.’
‘I hate that you were once so sad,’ I say, and my throat feels tight with unshed tears.
‘Seems to me you didn’t like childhood much either. Lots of people don’t. It really doesn’t matter.’
He moves even closer so that he can kiss me, eyes first, nose, then mouth.
‘Don’t look like that, Alice. The past is over. You and me, here, in the now. That’s all there is.’