Free The Art School Dance by Maria Blanca Alonso Page B

busy working on the post, would have neither the
time nor the energy to spare for him.
    I stowed my
paints away in my locker, even washed my hands so Stephen wouldn’t
mind me holding his, and was outside the offices where he worked in
time for his five-thirty finish. A few minutes after the half hour
the workers started to spill from the building in twos and threes,
males and females, senior staff and juniors. Stephen walked from
the door in the company of two slightly older men. Just as I was
about to cross the street to greet him, though, he saw me and
scowled, hardened his mouth and gave a quick shake of the head.
    No? Keep
away?
    This must be
his meaning.
    I followed him
and his two colleagues along to the bus stop, noting the neat
haircuts and the smart suits, joined the queue for the bus some
three or four places behind them. I couldn’t hear what was being
said, but saw Stephen smile and nod a great deal in agreement with
the conversation. The bus arrived and took us through town towards
home; again I was a little behind Stephen and his colleagues, could
see the movement of his lips but was still unable to make out what
was being said. The two men had briefcases on their knees, as did
Stephen, knees together and ever so proper; he was being very
attentive, much more so than he ever was when I talked about my
work. One of the men got off the bus and right away the second
slipped across to the seat beside Stephen to continue the
conversation; if it was finance they were talking about, which I
assumed it was, then I never realised it could be such an absorbing
topic.
    The bus
crawled through heavy traffic and three or four sets of lights and
it was almost ten minutes before I could get up from my seat and
follow Stephen down the length of the bus; I had to pause a moment
behind him, while he said goodbye to his companion, and then we
both stepped down onto the pavement.
    ‘ What
was all that about?’ I demanded, when the bus had pulled
away.
    ‘ The
conversation? We were just talking about work, that’s all,’ Stephen
replied, starting to walk along the street.
    ‘ I
didn’t mean that,’ I said, striding along beside him.
    ‘ What,
then?’
    ‘ Why did
you warn me away like that, when you saw me outside the
office?’
    ‘ I was
with someone,’ he said, which answered nothing.
    ‘ So?’
    ‘ I work
with those people.’
    ‘ And you
claim to be in love with me,’ I reminded him. ‘Can’t the two
mix?’
    Stephen
hesitated long enough for me to see that there was obviously a
point, a boundary, beyond which my life could not impinge upon his,
and though this worked both ways -by mutual consent or otherwise he
was excluded from her art school life- I was somewhat offended by
his attitude. His sensible employment, it seemed, was turning him
into more of a snob than I could ever be.
    Stephen
stopped, cast a downward glance at my scruffy jeans and scuffed
shoes, said, ‘Be reasonable.’
    ‘ Reasonable? Are you saying that it’s unreasonable to want
to be with you?’
    ‘ You
don’t want me to be with you when you’re out with your art school
friends.’
    ‘ You
don’t want to be
there,’ I argued. ‘And you wouldn’t enjoy it if you
were.’
    ‘ Just as
you wouldn’t have enjoyed our company just now. We were talking
about work and I know how much that bores you.’
    ‘ It
doesn’t bore me.’
    ‘ Liar. I
can see it in your eyes every time I mention work.’
    ‘ So why
do you do it?’ I asked, beginning to lose my temper.
    ‘ Do
what?’
    ‘ Bore me
to fucking tears with all that bloody talk about the office every
time we meet!’
    ‘ I-’ he
began, but no further words come, just a hurt expression and a pout
of the lips, so I told him to sod off and stamped away.
     
     

Chapter Seven
     
    At five-thirty
in the morning Sleepers Hill was a different place, dark and silent
and with an eerie frosting to the rooftops. I walked into town, so
that the cold morning air could bring me fully