Night Street by Kristel Thornell Read Free Book Online Page B

reddened. Clarice’s and Henry’s ideas of beauty were incompatible.
    Her smile was diluted. ‘It took my fancy,’ she said.
    Someone giggled.
    â€˜Oh, leave her alone,’ Henry mumbled, but burst into strident laughter, the others joining him.
    Clarice laughed for a moment too, then noticed a spot of paint on her cardigan. Ultramarine. It would not come out.
    â€˜You’re unimaginative,’ said the tall man to those who had laughed.
    It was a clever insult to direct at artists, a dire pronouncement, and they were shamed. He had taken revenge for her. As though he were offering her an arm for support. She had a sense of accepting the arm and standing up straighter beside him. The room had been pacified, now harbouring softly cloudy light. His authority animated it, each detail of the space made significant by its proximity to him. He was closer to her in age, she thought, than to the younger ones.
    Meldrum made his usual decisive entrance, on a mission. They moved to their places, metamorphosing into mute students, acolytes.
    Meldrum stopped by the tall man, addressing him respectfully, ‘Arthur.’ It was the first time she heard his name in anyone’s mouth.
    The two men shook hands; as Arthur gave his right hand, she saw the wedding band on his left. A ring—that cool, conclusive statement of ownership. Of fate decided.
    And she heard the other name. ‘It’s good to see you here,’ Meldrum continued. ‘How’s Bella?’
    The question constricted her chest, somehow more than the ring. She felt bitterness for that bouncy bubble of a word, Bella . It was at this point that she weighed her desire, so overblown it must be the blossoming of a longing that had always been in her, growing; simultaneously, she understood how it could be thwarted.
    After class, a bunch of them decided to walk to the station together. Henry sidled over to Clarice, by way of an apology for before, and asked if she would go with them. She was rubbing futilely at the paint stain on her cardigan. She had overheard that Arthur would be among the group. They were all taken with the novelty of him.
    â€˜I’ll tag along,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’
    She dawdled, packing up. He was behind her.
    She turned and . . . yes. He—Arthur—was at the back of the room, leaning towards the panel she had hung to dry. He was studying it.
    She thought he blushed as she came near.
    â€˜You have quite an eye,’ he said.

8
    The low sky thickened, like a white sauce reducing in a pan. Clarice and Arthur walked behind the others. Wisps of conversation reached them, a mention of Freud. Someone was doggedly analysing last night’s dream.
    â€˜You have an umbrella,’ Arthur said. ‘Do you have far to go at the other end?’
    â€˜No, not far.’ She heard her voice, feeble and intent on lightness. ‘Anyway, I don’t mind rain.’
    â€˜I’m the same myself. People are always complaining about the weather. I like any weather.’
    She nodded. It was necessary, safer, to be sparing with words. As if they were spies, every element of an exchange and the interplay between the elements had to be evaluated. She had not felt this before with a man. He seemed to be trying to adjust to the rhythm of her stride. She listened to the city, people packing up shop, heading home or for a drink, rushing to catch trams or trains, pausing at doors that were entrances or exits, depending on the direction of one’s intention.
    Up ahead, Henry was evoking a dream in which he was a king. He expounded on the kingly trappings, fine clothing, jewels and several buxom wives. It did not have the feel of a true dream. An inaudible, evidently bawdy detail provoked guffaws. The party atmosphere was Arthur’s doing. It was his confidence, his casual splendour. They were not brave enough yet to talk freely to him, but he agitated them.
    â€˜I wouldn’t know how to