The Love of My Afterlife(37)

“Delphie?” Frida whispers beside me. I look up to find that everyone has already begun drawing. Kat has stood up and disrobed, her arms upright and in a prayer position. “You were caught in a daydream.” Frida says.

I pick up my charcoal and press it against the sheet of paper. It immediately snaps in half. Damn. I have no clue what I’m doing. I place one of the broken halves of the charcoal on the easel ledge and look up at Kat. Her skin is so unmarked, like it’s been filtered. You can see her ribs, but she is not skinny. She has a narrow strip of pubic hair that is so neat it looks like it’s been drawn on. Is that how it’s supposed to look? Because I wouldn’t know where to begin.

Shit. Jonah has seen Kat naked. Have they slept together? Surely they must have—two people as genetically blessed as them seeing each other in the buff week after week.

“Delphie!” Frida repeats. “Are you well?”

While I’ve been worrying, she’s done an entire drawing that’s not half-bad. A little beeper goes off, and Kat changes her pose. She does a sort of splits position on the floor, and holds one hand to her ear as if she can hear something in the distance.

“I’m fine! I’m doing it!” I wave Frida away. Pressing the charcoal to the paper with less tension, I begin to sketch the outline of Kat’s body.

Before I know it, the timer has beeped again and Kat is now sitting crouched, with her hands across her knees, and then again standing up and doing a martial arts posture. I fall into a kind of trance, only the smell of charcoal dust and the sound of scratching on paper making any dent in my consciousness.

“Time is up!” Claude shouts. I blink as if I’ve just awoken from a long sleep. A flood of emotion spreads through me. It’s a good emotion, euphoria almost. My heart is beating fast like I’ve had a little too much coffee.

That was…I haven’t drawn anything since the incident at school. God, I’ve missed it.

“Wow,” Frida says, leaning over to look at my drawings. She picks up my papers one by one, making a noise of delight at each new sketch. “You didn’t say you were a professional.” She holds up her hand to high-five me. I studiously ignore it.

“I’m not a professional.”

“She is not,” Claude murmurs from behind me, weirdly close to my neck. “But perhaps she could be…one day.”

Frida hands him the papers, which he examines, making comments about lines and compositional choices that I don’t quite understand. All I know is that it feels good. Whatever is happening right now feels good.

“You work well on the female form,” Claude drawls. “And you will get to do more of Kat in session two because alas, dear Jonah has texted to say he cannot make it.”

I jump up, my papers scattering onto the floor. “What? No! I thought he was the model for the second session? I came here to see him.”

Claude puts his hands up. “I’m sorry! Since he modelled for David Hockney last year we have many people show up just to see him.” He rolls his eyes. “But life drawing should be about the art, not the model! This is not a pop concert, you know.”

Frida muffles a snort beside me.

“Jonah modelled for Hockney?!” I yelp. I love David Hockney. He’s my second-favourite artist after Modigliani. And Jonah modelled for him? What are the chances?

Claude nods like it’s no big deal. “Jonah is an excellent model. He makes the most wonderful shapes with his body.”

I wonder dazedly about the shapes that Jonah makes with his body. What shapes can I make with my body? Will Jonah like my shapes? I quickly shake my head and force my mind to focus on the more vital issue at hand. I have to see Jonah tonight. I’m running out of time. “You said he texted you, right? I need to get in touch with him about…something. Please can I have his number?”

Claude presses a hand to his chest. “Gosh, no. I can’t just hand out the private information of my models to anyone. Their safety is very important to me.”

“Safety? I don’t want to hurt him!”

“I wouldn’t know that. How would I know that?”

“She would never hurt him,” Frida pipes up, full of indignation, as if she’s known me for longer than the sum total of sixty-five minutes.

“I’m his…friend. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt him, ever. Please give me his number.”

“If you really are his friend,” Kat calls over, “surely he would have texted you to tell you about the last-minute gig.” A gig? Doing what? “Some exclusive dance event at the Shard,” Kat continues. “That’s why he can’t come tonight. He was so excited about it. I expect he texted all of his friends. He texted me. But not you. You don’t even have his number. Which leads me to believe you are not his friend.”

Kat. You gotta love Kat. “Yes, yes,” I say, digging out my phone and pointing at the empty black screen. “Ah yes! The Shard! Dance event! There’s the text! What time did it say the event was on your text?”

Kat opens her mouth, but Claude tells her to hush. “Kat! She is clearly lying. Zip it.”

Kat literally mimes zipping her mouth.

I dash over to her. “Kat, will you give me Jonah’s number? Woman to woman. It’s important.”

Kat points at the imaginary zip on her mouth.