‘Spare any change?’
Angela turns to see a beggar squatting against the sheltering wall of the Town Hall.
‘Spare any change?’
She shakes her head and crosses the road. The girl, about her own age, had looked scared; not lifeless like they usually were, but scared. Angela stops and retraces her steps. She undoes the front pouch of her rucksack and takes out an apple,
‘Here.’
The girl looks up and then back down at the bowl on the pavement.
‘Here, take it.’
The girl reaches out and takes the apple. Angela turns away. It is then that she notices Edward, bent heavily over his stick, making his way along Surrey Street. He stops at the pavement edge and darts his head in what seems an almost furtive fashion from side to side, checking for traffic. Angela partially closes her eyes. In his black overcoat Edward appears like a thorn tree in winter. His stick, one single stem, his legs another, and his head and back the nub where the branches have woven together to be moulded and shaped by a harsh wind.
‘Hey!’
Angela turns.
‘I don’t want your apple.’ The girl throws the apple for Angela to catch. She ducks and it falls to the ground, smashing against the edge of the kerb and splitting into two almost perfect halves.
‘I need money.’
Angela snorts, ‘Tough, I’m just on my way to work to earn some. Shall I bring you my wage packet after?’
The girl shrinks back against the wall, curling deeper into herself, closing her out. Angela turns away and searches the crowd for Edward. He is nowhere to be seen.
Edward stands at the pelican crossing and presses the button. He closes his eyes and waits for the beep, beep to tell him it is safe to cross. He hears it, hears the halted cars revving their engines and smiles to himself as he presses the button again. When the green man flashes for the second time he crosses the road and stands outside the restaurant window. He tries to peer in but he cannot see past the tall ferns in the window. He has been here before with his mother, he is sure he has.
Edward pushes open the door and enters the restaurant. The ceilings are high and the noise of the place disorientates him. He glances round, searching for an empty table.
‘Hello. Fancy seeing you here, I was just thinking about you.’
Angela is standing in front of him holding an empty tray. When he looks down at the tray she drops it to her side and, as he looks into her face, she says, ‘I saw you on Surrey Street a bit a go.’
‘Did you?’ He smiles, ‘I thought I’d come and see you, apologise for my mother’s behaviour.’
‘Let’s find you a seat. Look, there’s a free table over there.’
She guides him over to a table and waits as he removes his coat and sits down.
‘Right. What can I get you?’
He ignores her request and asks instead, ‘How are you?’
‘Okay,’ she smiles.
‘I nearly didn’t recognise you with your hair dyed black.’ He fingers the edge of the menu and watches as she pulls her hair into a bunch at the nape of her neck.
‘My gran,’ she shrugs. ‘She didn’t like it. This is a compromise.’
‘You said you were an art student. Is that right?’
‘Well remembered,’ she slides into the seat opposite him, ‘Final year. I’m supposed to come up with an idea for my dissertation, but I don’t seem to be able to get my head around it.’ She gets up, ‘What can I get you?’
‘I’ll have a coffee please.’ He pauses, ‘Maybe I could help? I work in the library.’
She puts her pad back into her apron pocket, ‘Funny that, I’ve just been in the library. I went in to see if they had any different art books than at college.’
‘And did they?’
‘They had a nice one on Degas.’
‘I could look downstairs in the basement; see if they have any unusual ones.’
‘Thanks, but it’s not books that I’m really looking for. I need a life model.’
‘A life model?’
‘I’m still looking for the right person.’
‘And are live models so difficult to find?’
‘Yes,’ she laughs. ‘You see, I’m not really sure yet what I’m after.’
He watches as she returns across the floor with his coffee, holding a small tray on the palm of one hand. ‘Edward? You don’t mind me calling you that, do you?’
He shakes his head, ‘No, of course not.’
She places the coffee carefully on the table in front of him. ‘I want to ask you something. But please don’t take offence …’
‘Ange!’ A waiter from across the room calls her. She grimaces, ‘Sorry, I’ll be back in a minute.’
He catches sight of her working the tables at the other side of the room. She has a great fluidity of movement, her body seeming to move from the waist; her hips swaying from side to side. It is a very natural movement. Undulation, he thinks.
Yes. She undulates.
Please don’t take offence. He keeps recalling the words. What can she want?
She smiles at him apologetically from across the room and shrugs her shoulders. He is putting his coat on when she eventually returns.
‘Sorry about that.’
‘What is it you wanted to ask me?’
‘Oh. It wasn’t important. I forgot to ask you how your mother is. Will you tell her I’ll have her picture soon? I’ll give her a ring about bringing it round.’
He picks up his stick. ‘Tell me,’ he hesitates, ‘What did you really want to ask me?’
She laughs, tilting her head away from him like a nervous animal. ‘Really it wasn’t important.’
He observes again the vein that runs like a shadow-line down her cheek. ‘You can’t say, ‘I want to ask you something but please don’t take offence‘, and then just walk away.’
She bites her bottom lip, looks directly into his eyes. ‘I was wondering …’
‘Go on.’
‘If you’d consider it.’
‘What?’
She laughs nervously, ‘Have you ever considered being an artist’s model?’
He hears his voice squeak in astonishment. ‘Me?’
She nods.
‘What? Your life model?’
‘That’s what I had in mind.’
‘Well,’ He gulps. ‘Why me?’
Her boss calls out from the kitchen, ‘Ange!’
He catches her arm. Her skin is covered in a fine down. She looks down at his hand on her arm. He lets go. ‘Tell me, I need to know. I mean, I’m hardly something out of a Degas painting, am I?’
‘I saw you earlier while you were waiting to cross the road, and, well, I just knew.’
Edward shakes his head, frowning. ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’
Her boss is beckoning her. She starts to back away. ‘Sorry, I really have to go.’
Dazed, he sits back down on his chair. The inside of his head feels like cotton wool. She hesitates, ‘Are you all right?’
‘You didn’t answer my question. Why me?’
‘If I knew, I’d tell you.’
He stands up, and she halts a moment,
‘Can you come back on Thursday? I’ll see if I can think of with a better explanation.’
He nods, and watches as she walks away.