Chapter 9
Nine
French Impressionist. Painted subjects in their natural setting. Activity: examine and try out pointillist technique – how detail becomes evident but only from afar.
(Taken from Calliope Thorne’s teaching notes.)
The Starling family had been good fun. Loud and eccentric but enjoyable company. After several pots of tea, they’d queued up to bestow lavish kisses and hugs on Callie and had then clattered out, as noisily as they’d arrived.
Johnny had disappeared for the rest of the day, and she hadn’t seen him since. She couldn’t really understand his problem with them. However, she accepted wryly, she was the last person qualified to comment on family relationships and admitted they might overwhelm someone not quite as extrovert.
Plagued with contradictory feelings about Johnny, suffering a little social anxiety over the forthcoming Starling barbeque, all against the background of nagging Frida worries, Callie poured herself into her work.
Avoiding the busy harbour, she found a quieter spot in the public gardens to set up her kit to paint.
Far behind, the town castle ruins stretched, its gate tower reaching up into the cobalt-blue Dorset sky.
Her fingers itched to paint it but not today as it was a mass of activity.
The theatre company looked to be setting up for the forthcoming production.
A bevy of low loaders were parked up on the track outside and a scruffy army of men were carrying in a strange assortment of enormous wooden frames – which she assumed were scenery – into its grounds.
She hoped the good weather held; there was nothing better than sitting outside watching theatre underneath balmy night skies.
She and Frida had often seen plays at Ludlow.
This castle was nowhere near as grand but was impressive in its own way.
In her position against the shelter of a venerable oak tree, partly hidden but with an excellent view of the harbour directly below, and of the stretch of coast to her left, she was able to paint uninterrupted.
Gradually, her shoulders relaxed and the stiffness in her neck eased.
The rigours of the last academic year were loosening their grip and, while not disappearing, all the strains and stresses seemed less urgent.
As she swept a colour-wash over as a base, she frowned, deep in thought.
Why did she let it get to her? She’d been teaching all her working life.
Even though new initiatives came along with predictable and depressing regularity, she’d dealt with similar before.
She’d risen to become team leader quickly and knew she was an effective manager.
Chewing the end of her brush she squinted into the sunshine.
She’d worked so hard for so long but none of it seemed worth the effort anymore.
She put the paintbrush down, waiting for the wash to dry.
It wouldn’t take long; there was a delicate shiver of a sea breeze taking the edge off the heat of the day.
Was she getting jaded with teaching? It had seemed much harder work this year, had left her sapped of energy or emotion.
Leaning back against the tree trunk, she gazed at the view.
It was stunning. Blue as far as she could see.
Sea and sky smudged together, the horizon indistinguishable.
The occasional snatch of sound drifted up from the beach and promenade: a childish squeal of delight, a dog bark, a keening gull.
The cliffs to her left, a tangy orange in the sun, stretched out to Portland which was just about visible in the sea haze.
In the calmer water near the shore, paddleboarders tried to stay aboard.
One fell off with a shriek. Out to sea, it looked windier, and several white yachts bobbed and dived gleefully, while a sightseeing boat plugged away stoically through the waves.
A curl of breeze drifted towards her, ruffling the pages of her sketchbook and bringing in from the sea a fresh salty tang.
She inhaled deeply, feeling it cleanse and invigorate her lungs and lift her mood.
Much as she loved Worcester, you didn’t get this back there.
She was probably just end of term exhausted.
‘I certainly need this holiday,’ she murmured.
‘I’ll be fine come September. The teaching mojo will come back,’ she added bracingly.
It was the same every summer. After a punishing academic year, she’d happily never step foot in another classroom.
And then, come the new term, she was back at it with renewed vigour.
However, for the first time ever, she wasn’t sure it was what she wanted the rest of her life to look like.
‘I’m only forty-two,’ she murmured. ‘It’s a long way to a pension.
’ The oak tree and her colour-wash prep refused to answer.
The thump of something wooden falling and splintering, and a cut-off curse from the castle ruins behind her brought her back to reality. Testing the watercolour paper with a fingertip, she decided it was ready. Time to paint. And to forget all about having to teach for another twenty years.
She was going to be late. Time had drifted in the gardens, and she’d painted until her shoulders hunched, and the frown of concentration between her brows threatened to become permanent.
Shivering and realising how low the sun had dipped in the west, she hastily got her things together and half jogged back to Sea Haven House.
Did she have time for a shower? What was she going to wear to this family barbecue?
She’d only brought one decent outfit and intended saving that for the competition awards ceremony at the Art School.
Dropping her gear by the French windows, she shot upstairs to arrive on the landing just as Johnny left his bedroom.
Wearing a crisp white shirt and chinos, his hair was still wet from the shower.
Callie felt forgotten lust pool in her stomach and the breath stole from her body.
Sensations she’d left behind long ago fired through her.
Perhaps it was the hot sunshine or being more relaxed on holiday but her hormones revved into overdrive.
It had been years since she’d desired a man and Johnny’s attractiveness hit her like a sledgehammer.
A flickering memory of Sunil’s meltingly good looks and their youthful passion returned.
They’d had fun and she didn’t regret Frida, the result of their brief coupling, for one second, although couldn’t claim it had been easy bringing her up single-handedly.
After she told Sunil she’d decided to have a termination, he’d disappeared.
The relief on his face told her everything about how he felt about the situation.
She couldn’t blame him; they were only nineteen after all and still student teachers.
His family, she assumed as disapproving as hers, had whisked him off somewhere out of temptation.
Unable to go through with her decision, she’d gone on to have Frida and hadn’t seen Sunil since.
Sometimes regret that she hadn’t ever told him he had a daughter nagged at her but she stifled it. She and Frida managed just fine. The two of them. There hadn’t really been anyone else. Didn’t have the time, for one thing.
Teaching was a lifestyle choice, a vocation rather than job and definitely not nine to five.
In between school prep, choir, her painting and sorting out Frida, Callie had no spare time and even less energy left over.
Plus, she hadn’t wanted to introduce a relationship to Frida only to risk it going pear-shaped.
Frida had been strangely uncurious about her father, content with their life in Worcester and the status quo.
Callie hadn’t wanted a man inserting himself into what they had and then leaving.
Besides, the whole Sunil experience had left her wary.
‘You’re staring,’ Johnny said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Are you okay, Calliope?’
For the first time she realised Johnny nearly always used her full name.
The only person who ever did. It was a bit much, she supposed.
She had no idea where her usually ultra-conventional mother had dreamed it up from.
Her nostrils widened as the scent of his cologne drifted over.
Johnny looked – and smelled so good. Maybe sex hormones were like muscles, the more you used them, the more toned and strong they became?
If so, hers were currently easing painfully out of early retirement.
She couldn’t tear her eyes away. He had such an arresting face and, while she preferred creating landscapes, thought it would be an interesting exercise to draw it.
‘You’re still staring.’ The words were softened with an irresistible smile.
God he is gorgeous. Callie shook her head, gulping. ‘I’m so sorry. Miles away. Been painting all day and I’m still in the zone. Having trouble bumping down to earth. What time do we have to be there?’
‘At the barbeque? The later we arrive, the less time we have to spend there.’
This made her giggle. ‘Your family can’t be that bad.’
Cocking his head onto one side, he said, ‘Perhaps we can decide that on our return. I’ll be in the sitting room having a numbing whisky. No hurry.’
He brushed past her, trailing the scents of soap and spicy aftershave in his wake.
Callie unlocked her bedroom door, jiggling the key with shaking fingers.
Closing the door behind her, she collapsed against it.
Images of a naked Johnny in the shower, water cascading erotically down his body, crowded her brain.
Running her hands over her breasts, she tried to breathe.
Her nipples felt swollen and tender, as if bursting from her T-shirt.
Either she was perimenopausal, turned on, or pregnant.
If the latter, it was an immaculate conception.
Just as well she and Johnny would be surrounded by other people and especially the sobering company of his family; she’d jump him otherwise.
Having been unused for so long, the sex hormones or muscles or whatever they were, had flamed into action with alarming speed.
‘Get a grip, Calliope Thorne. He’s just a good-looking bloke and you haven’t had sex for over twenty years. And look where it got you the last time! He’s just a reasonably presentable, intelligent man who you happen to get on with. A new friend.’
The beat urgently throbbing between her legs told her she was a liar.
‘Liar, liar, pants on fire,’ she scolded. Ripping off her clothes she ran the shower as cold as she could stand.