which there were rumours, notes exchanged, suspensions, expulsions, suicides, scandal.
Could I ever tell him? I wonder. Tell him how much I look forward to our Wednesday afternoons? I’m sure to him it’s just the day he has to trek over to Barnes. Or if he does look forward to it, it’s because he’ll be financially better off at the end of it. I can’t imagine he feels toward it the way I do. I find myself waking up earlier than usual, with a feeling of great expectation. Christ, I even whistle as I shave. My heart is buoyant, my energy high, and as the hour of his arrival approaches I suck on my own anticipation, my hands twitching, unable to lie still. To my shame, I act just like an expectant lover.
And it’s not just the prospect of seeing that body again, though I still find myself staring at it each time as if it were the first time. And it’s not simply the company, though I find myself getting lonely out here these days, in a way I never used to when I worked. It’s as if he supplies a different air, richer in oxygen, and I feel myself getting high in his presence, and I become more animated as I talk, and I find myself thinking all morning of things we could talk about, and I suppose it’s like a youth drug or something. It’s as if I’m a young man again. As if I’m in love. Christ, my hand won’t stop shaking.
I’ve decided to stop going to the drawing group. It seems I have become the object of malicious gossip. Peter, in whom I had stupidly confided about Gore’s visits when we were chatting last week, has gone and told the rest of the fishwives. It isn’t that I deliberately kept it from them, it’s just that I am by nature a very taciturn and private man. It’s none of their business, I told myself. I don’t really know why I told Peter. I regretted it immediately. On the way home, after I’d let it slip, I berated myself for my stupidity, for my ridiculous vanity, showing off what? My wealth? My devotion to art? Or was I showing off Gore, my trophy? Bragging about the fact that he visits me regularly, in private? The trouble is, I find it so damned hard thinking of things to say to Peter, and I mentioned, without thinking, during one of those awful lulls in our conversation, that I was thinking of painting in oils again after years, doing sketches in preparation. He asked who was modelling for me, and before I could think to say I was working from the sketches made at the group, I blurted out Gore’s name.
“Gore?” he said. “Who’s Gore?”
And before I could think to say vaguely, “Just someone I know,” I said. “You know, Gregory—he’s modelled for the group a few times.”
“And you call him Gore?” He moved in closer, his eyes betraying his fascination. I regretted ever opening my mouth. But I stumbled on, getting deeper in the mire.
“Well, he said that’s what his friends call him.”
“So you and he have become quite pally, then, have you?” God, it was excruciating. Luckily Miss Wilkes clapped her hands loudly, announcing the end of the break in her usual manner.
“Chop, chop. Next pose.”
I was released.
After a couple of days, I had reassured myself that Peter could be trusted—that he was so shy he was unlikely to divulge the information to the others. Then, this week, the chatter in the room fell silent the moment I entered. They all looked up and smiled a greeting, which made me instantly suspicious, as they don’t usually do that. I looked at Peter and he looked away, and I knew. A sense of panic gripped me. I don’t know why, it’s not as if I’m doing anything criminal, but I felt such a sense of shame, I’m sure I blushed like a guilty schoolboy. Ridiculous, really. Let them talk.
At one point, while we were all sketching away in silence, Miss Wilkes said to no one in particular, “I really must see about getting Gregory back to model for us. He’s such a wonderful model, and it’s been such a long time since he sat for
Could I ever tell him? I wonder. Tell him how much I look forward to our Wednesday afternoons? I’m sure to him it’s just the day he has to trek over to Barnes. Or if he does look forward to it, it’s because he’ll be financially better off at the end of it. I can’t imagine he feels toward it the way I do. I find myself waking up earlier than usual, with a feeling of great expectation. Christ, I even whistle as I shave. My heart is buoyant, my energy high, and as the hour of his arrival approaches I suck on my own anticipation, my hands twitching, unable to lie still. To my shame, I act just like an expectant lover.
And it’s not just the prospect of seeing that body again, though I still find myself staring at it each time as if it were the first time. And it’s not simply the company, though I find myself getting lonely out here these days, in a way I never used to when I worked. It’s as if he supplies a different air, richer in oxygen, and I feel myself getting high in his presence, and I become more animated as I talk, and I find myself thinking all morning of things we could talk about, and I suppose it’s like a youth drug or something. It’s as if I’m a young man again. As if I’m in love. Christ, my hand won’t stop shaking.
I’ve decided to stop going to the drawing group. It seems I have become the object of malicious gossip. Peter, in whom I had stupidly confided about Gore’s visits when we were chatting last week, has gone and told the rest of the fishwives. It isn’t that I deliberately kept it from them, it’s just that I am by nature a very taciturn and private man. It’s none of their business, I told myself. I don’t really know why I told Peter. I regretted it immediately. On the way home, after I’d let it slip, I berated myself for my stupidity, for my ridiculous vanity, showing off what? My wealth? My devotion to art? Or was I showing off Gore, my trophy? Bragging about the fact that he visits me regularly, in private? The trouble is, I find it so damned hard thinking of things to say to Peter, and I mentioned, without thinking, during one of those awful lulls in our conversation, that I was thinking of painting in oils again after years, doing sketches in preparation. He asked who was modelling for me, and before I could think to say I was working from the sketches made at the group, I blurted out Gore’s name.
“Gore?” he said. “Who’s Gore?”
And before I could think to say vaguely, “Just someone I know,” I said. “You know, Gregory—he’s modelled for the group a few times.”
“And you call him Gore?” He moved in closer, his eyes betraying his fascination. I regretted ever opening my mouth. But I stumbled on, getting deeper in the mire.
“Well, he said that’s what his friends call him.”
“So you and he have become quite pally, then, have you?” God, it was excruciating. Luckily Miss Wilkes clapped her hands loudly, announcing the end of the break in her usual manner.
“Chop, chop. Next pose.”
I was released.
After a couple of days, I had reassured myself that Peter could be trusted—that he was so shy he was unlikely to divulge the information to the others. Then, this week, the chatter in the room fell silent the moment I entered. They all looked up and smiled a greeting, which made me instantly suspicious, as they don’t usually do that. I looked at Peter and he looked away, and I knew. A sense of panic gripped me. I don’t know why, it’s not as if I’m doing anything criminal, but I felt such a sense of shame, I’m sure I blushed like a guilty schoolboy. Ridiculous, really. Let them talk.
At one point, while we were all sketching away in silence, Miss Wilkes said to no one in particular, “I really must see about getting Gregory back to model for us. He’s such a wonderful model, and it’s been such a long time since he sat for