“But you’re—”
“Here.” With a flourish she ripped the page out of her notebook and thrust it toward him. Frank took the piece of paper and turned it over cautiously, unsure what he was about to see.
It was a sketch of a young man, and with a jolt like an electric shock, Frank realized it was him. She’d caught his hair perfectly, the way he styled the front with wax so it stood up high, and there were his too-big ears and the crooked nose he’d inherited from his mother. Yet somehow she’d taken all his odd features and still made him look, well, handsome.
“This is...” His voice came out in a boyish squeak, and Frank winced.
“It’s very rough,” she said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her bag and extracting one.
“I can’t believe you did it so quickly.”
“I like to sketch on the bus.” She struck a match and lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply. “There’s always an interestingselection of life models, with the added frisson that you never know when they’ll suddenly bugger off.”
“It’s wonderful.”
“It’s not one of my best,” she said, dismissing the compliment with a wave of her cigarette. “Do you like art?”
Again, this answer felt important, and Frank opened his mouth to bluff, then stopped himself. “I don’t really know much about it, I’m afraid. My family have never had much interest in art.”
He waited for her to mock him, and was surprised to see her smile, warmly this time. “My old man’s the same. His idea of art is the cartoons in theDaily Mirror.He tried to stop me going to art school.”
“It’s not that I’m not interested. I just don’t know where to start. It’s all a bit... intimidating.”
“I know it can seem like that, but it’s not really. Anyone can enjoy art. That’s why it’s so exciting.”
Frank wasn’t sure he agreed. His parents’ attitude to art was the same as their attitude to the pictures or the theater: that it was something frivolous that only those with too much time or money could enjoy. “So, how did you learn to draw if you don’t go to art school?”
“Oh, I do go.”
“But I thought you said your father stopped you?”
“He tried, but I left home and went anyway,” the girl said. “I moved in with a friend in Clapham, and I have a part-time job in a clothes shop so I can pay the rent—that’s where I’m headed now. My family have pretty much disowned me.”
She dropped her cigarette on the floor and ground it out with her shoe. Frank watched her in awe. Even though he wastwenty-two, he could never imagine disobeying his parents like that. His father would kill him.
“You’re much braver than me,” he said, but she shrugged.
“It’s not really bravery. I didn’t have a choice. Painting is all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
“And what will you do when you finish your course?”
“I’ll be an artist.” The way she said the word sent a thrill down Frank’s spine. He’d never met an artist before, and it only made her seem more exotic and wonderful.
The bus passed through Parliament Square, and Frank stared out the window at Westminster Abbey. His parents had brought him here when he was thirteen to join the cheering crowds at the Queen’s coronation. It was one of the few times Frank could remember them ever closing the shop. He imagined turning round to his parents now and telling them that he didn’t want to work there anymore, that he had bigger dreams than standing behind a counter for the rest of his life. He glanced across at the girl, who was lighting another cigarette. What must it be like to be her, to have such a strong sense of purpose that you’d risk your whole family for it? He wanted to reach out and touch her arm, to soak up some of that unbridled confidence.
“What about you?” she said as the bus turned onto Whitehall.
“Oh, I just work in my parents’ shop.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“No, I hate it. But they expect me to take over the business.”
“And what do you want to do?”
“Promise you won’t laugh?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” she said, her face so solemn he smiled.
