Claire stands in Helga’s bedroom, not quite believing that she’s actually here. She wants to be the kind of person to impress Dominica and Helga and the others, who have encouraged her to step out of her comfort zone, but she hasn’t let on how terrifying she finds this whole idea.
She can’t tell the Sea-Gals that since she had the boys, she mostly loathes her body. It would seem petty to admit such insecurity, when she’s been stripping off in front of them for months. But body shape doesn’t seem to matter when their group is all shapes and sizes. In the sea the notion of the ‘perfect body’ Claire has always been so intimidated by is totally irrelevant. Hand on heart Claire finds every one of the women she’s come to know and admire in their swimming tribe both amazing and beautiful. Can they possibly feel the same about her? They must do for Helga to be so keen to draw her.
She walks over and strokes the soft Nordic blanket on the end of Helga’s low bed and inspects the framed model of a sailing yacht on the wall. The room feels oddly masculine, with its blue rugs over the rickety exposed floorboards. Above her, the beams slope downwards. Claire picks up the framed photograph next to the bed. It’s of an earnest young blonde woman. There’s an old leather necklace with a shell on it wrapped around it.
‘That’s Mette, my niece,’ Helga says, coming in with a robe. ‘Just put this on and come down when you’re ready. We’re all set. Everyone is here.’
Claire nods and thanks her. It’s too late to back out now.
She changes out of her clothes, feeling more and more nervous as she unhooks her bra. She leaves everything in a neat pile on the low leather chair in the corner and slips on the thin cotton robe. It smells of stale perfume and she wonders when it was last washed. She takes out her phone and sees the thumbs up message from Pim to her text. She’s told him that she’s having a drink with a friend, but he’s clearly not bothered. It’s been insanely busy for him going back in the classroom. She hasn’t had the nerve to tell him where she is, or what she’s doing. It’s not that he doesn’t approve of the Sea-Gals, but she knows he’s a bit put out by her new friendship group and how she’s doing things she never used to do. Like volunteering for Tor and getting up at dawn for a swim. When she came home and told him about her scary tumble getting out of the sea, he said he thought she was stupid for putting herself at the risk of hypothermia and that she ought to be careful swimming with strangers who he presumed weren’t medically qualified.
She creeps downstairs and walks past the pushed back sofas to the conservatory, where Helga is hosting the life-drawing class. There’s an electric bar heater next to a wooden stool and there’s a dressing mirror along with a large spotlight on a stand. It’s like a stage and Claire feels jittery with nerves.
‘There you are,’ Helga says. ‘This is Claire, everyone.’
She introduces an elderly couple, a man and woman both with matching grey ponytails, but Claire doesn’t catch their names. There’s an earnest-looking young man with a waxed moustache and a girl with ginger hair. They’re all behind easels.
Helga leads Claire over to the stool.
‘Sit with your back to us,’ she says and Claire sits down on the stool, wiggling her bottom on it to try and get comfortable. Helga adjusts the spotlight on the stand and the earnest guy asks her to move it backwards. He has an odd accent. Russian maybe.
‘When you’re ready.’ Helga touches Claire’s shoulder reassuringly.
‘You want me to take the whole thing off?’
‘Ideally, but just be comfortable.’
Comfortable? That’s the last thing she is. This is way, way out of her comfort zone, but Helga doesn’t seem to think it’s a big deal. Claire realises that she has to be a grown-up and brazen this out. She presses her thighs together, aware of her nudity, of the parts of her body she hides away as she lets the robe fall, closing her eyes, waiting for what? Gasps of shock?
But there’s nothing, just a scratching on paper as the group start to draw.
‘Can you turn a little to the side?’ Helga asks from behind her easel. If she’s noticed how Claire is feeling, she’s not going to mention it.
Claire turns a little and she can see her reflection in the mirror and the artists behind her. The chap with the long ponytail has already started stroking the paper on his easel with a charcoal. He stands back, contemplating the paper and then looking at Claire’s back.
‘What shall I do with my hands?’ Claire asks.
‘Just stay still. Just as you are. It’s perfect,’ the girl with the ginger hair says. She sounds excited.
Some lovely classical music starts playing in the studio and Helga comes back from a CD stack.
‘I like this music,’ Claire says.
‘Debussy. “Clair de Lune”. Seems appropriate.’ Claire smiles. ‘Just relax, Claire. You look wonderful.’
It’s hard to sit still though and she tries not to tense her muscles. She’s aware of her belly and her breasts and how they hang and the stool pressing into her thigh, accentuating her cellulite, but then she glances at the artists in the mirror, and she sees the ponytail woman’s eyes glistening as she glances at Claire and then at her paper.
And it’s this scrutiny that makes her imagine that she’s one of the artists herself. She observes her smooth skin and the proportions of her body and suddenly, rather than hating herself, she remembers that this body, which five people are also appraising, is a wonderful thing. It’s a body that has borne children and that has got her to this point in life. A body that is worthy of art.
Maybe getting older isn’t so bad, she thinks. Maybe Helga’s right. Maybe not giving a damn about what anyone else thinks is the way forward.
She’s stiff, though, by the time the session has ended and she gets up and stretches and puts the robe back on, although surprisingly, she’s got used to being naked. She doesn’t feel shy as she turns to face everyone. The guy with the ponytail shows her the sketch he’s done and she gasps. It’s really beautiful. She looks like a woman in one of the famous Botticelli sketches and, oddly, like her mother. But in a good way. He’s caught her profile – her chin and the slant of her nose. Even her hair, which makes her feel self-conscious, is drawn artfully.
‘Maybe this is where I’ve been going wrong,’ Claire tells him. ‘Maybe, instead of photographs, which always seem to highlight my faults, maybe I should get people to sketch me.’
‘You can keep it if you like,’ he says.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Your husband would like it, I bet,’ the woman with the matching ponytail says.
Claire smiles, accepting the gift, wondering what on earth Pim would say if she were to present him with this. And what would the boys think? They’d die if they saw a picture of their naked mother, wouldn’t they? That she has done something so shocking feels rather marvellous.
‘Do you want to stay for a drink?’ Helga asks.
‘I should get back. To my family.’
‘You have children?’ the ponytail guy asks. He sounds surprised and she wants to make a joke that he must have guessed from her stretch marks.
‘I have two boys,’ she says. ‘They’re very messy.’
‘See, that’s why I never had children. I can’t stand other people’s stuff in my space,’ Helga says, taking a sip of wine. ‘Children. Brrr.’
‘You’ll miss them when they’re gone,’ the older lady says to Claire. ‘That’s what made us take up life drawing. When we had an empty nest. Make the most of them.’
Claire feels exhilarated after her modelling session. It’s not just the confidence it’s given her, but the unexpected pleasure of meeting new people, as well as having a chance to see Helga in her home. It’s made her feel like their friendship is even stronger. But the second she gets through her front door, the feeling evaporates. The whole place is a bombsite. She spent the morning cleaning, but now Ash and Felix have disgorged the contents of their school bags on the floor. There’s mud on the stairs and, as she walks into the kitchen, there’s evidence from a sandwich-making session. Their game blares from the TV in the living room, the sound of explosions is deafening.
‘Where have you been?’ Pim says, from his laptop at the table. It’s strewn with papers and books. ‘We’re starving.’
‘I was doing something for Helga,’ she says evasively. Pim’s so disinterested, he doesn’t enquire further. Claire yanks open the freezer and pulls out a packet of fishfingers and a bag of frozen chips. ‘There,’ she says, dumping them forcefully in front of him. ‘Shouldn’t be too hard to work out.’
Because it shouldn’t be. Why the feck can’t they feed themselves if they’re hungry? Why is everything always down to her? She’s had enough.
Pim, shocked away from his screen, looks up at her with confusion. ‘Claire?’
‘I’m going to have a bath.’
‘Mum?’ Felix asks. ‘What’s for dinner?’
‘Ask your father,’ she says and she stomps up the stairs, feeling their shocked stares on her back, but she doesn’t care. It’s time they started to respect her.