Short Story

Lessons in Love
Santa Montefiore

2,491 words

It had been four months now since Lorenzo Maschioletti had arrived in Stanbury. How things had changed. Leo wondered whether it was because people knew. Perhaps they were jealous. But certainly her friends treated her differently. She sat in the café, hunched over a cup of cold coffee and watched the drizzle floating on the wind outside the window. It always drizzled in Stanbury, but somehow she hadn’t noticed in the last month. It hadn’t mattered.

She looked at her watch and wondered whether she should try his studio again. For the fouth time. They always met on Tuesday afternoons. Always made love. He always painted her. Naked, brazen, proud even. Not at all like her. What would her friends say if they knew? What would Bruce say if he knew? Or her children? She played nervously with her wedding band and tried not to think of her children.

Lorenzo Maschioletti had arrived with a small bag and a large case of paper and paints at the end of March. He had appeared with the swallows and like the migrant birds he would stay only a short time before spreading his wings and flying away again. He was laconic, handsome with curly black hair to match impenetrable brown eyes and a coy, lopsided smile that suggested he was full of mystery and knowing. He had charisma, an aura that surrounded him like the glow of a flame that one could almost see and a thick Italian accent that seemed so out of place, so deliciously exotic, in the English café on Mortimer Street.

Leo had been sitting in the café with her girlfriends, Kate, Fiona and Eve as they did every Saturday afternoon while their husbands were at the pub or with the children (now teenagers) on the beach, pretending to be young, holding in their paunches, trying not to fall off their windsurfs. Their conversation always centred on gossip, usually inspired by jealousy because someone was prettier, happier, luckier than them. They complained that they had no role in life now that their children were growing up and away. They lacked fulfilment, motivation. Their husbands didn’t understand, called it the menopause. Weren’t the mid-forties too young for the menopause? Then in the midst of all this dissatisfaction a stranger sauntered in, causing their voices to trail off into mute admiration and resentment, because none of them believed he would cast a glance in their direction. But they were amazed when those conker eyes rested on them, one at a time, appraisingly, before he walked over and smiled, rubbing his stubbly chin bashfully.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for Mortimer Street,” he said and his voice was grainy like sand, a little husky too, indicating that he probably smoked.
“This is Mortimer Street,” Leo replied boldly, because she knew the others had yet to find their voices.
“Bene,” he said. “My name is Lorenzo, Lorenzo Maschioletti.” And he nodded formally. Leo thought it sounded like an ice cream and could certainly hear herself saying, ‘I’ll have a Lorenzo Maschioletti please.’ Kate, Fiona and Eve suddenly retrieved their tongues and held out their hands, introducing themselves in unison. Lorenzo chuckled as he tried to shake them all.
“Why don’t you join us, or are you meeting someone?” Leo knew she sounded confident and ran her long fingers through her hair. Latin men love blondes, she thought and smiled back at him warmly. She would confess to him later that her stomach had turned to honey.
“No, I’m not meeting anyone. I am a painter. I have rented a studio here for the summer. To paint and…” he hesitated and gave a boyish grin as if he knew the effect he was having on these middle aged women and afraid that he might appear calculating. “To teach.”

Eve’s moonstone eyes widened with interest. Lorenzo lowered his and drew up a chair. The four friends looked from one to the other.
“Who are you going to teach?” Eve asked. A faint red hue spread across her cheeks relieving them of their pastiness and restoring her youth. Of all of them Eve was certainly the most beautiful. With thick auburn hair and skin as pale and pink as the smooth lip of a conch, she possessed allure. But Eve was also the most discontent because she felt she had never fulfilled her potential. Surely with her looks she could have done more with her life?
“Anyone who wants to learn to paint,” he replied.
“Are you any good?” Fiona was always reluctant to appear too keen. She was the cynic. Mistrustful and suspicious of happiness. After a lifetime of disappointment she had lost the courage to dream. She wasn’t pretty, hadn’t bothered to keep in shape and was consequently always on the defensive, sharpening her wit and begrudging anyone who had the nerve to hope for something better.
“I’m very good,” he said, looking at her with such intensity that for once Fiona was unable to think of a clever response.
“How much will you charge?” Kate asked, pushing her glasses up her nose. Kate was like a Hedge Sparrow: modest, unassuming and good-natured. She lost herself in books, had been to university, was so much cleverer than the others. She seemed to be self-sufficient, seemed not to need anyone. But Kate’s books were an escape for she read about adventure and love that she would never dare seek and of beautiful, vivacious heroines she could never possibly be.
“Well, if you formed a class I would charge you £10 each for an afternoon.” He noticed their faces flush with excitement and added in a low voice, “that’s a special price for you, so don’t tell anyone.”
“It would be fun, wouldn’t it?” said Leo, biting her bottom lip. “That’s a good price too. It would be nice to paint. I was rather good at painting at school.”
“So was I,” said Eve. “I’ve thought of taking it up again, loads of times. I just never got round to it.”
“What’s the point? You’ll never be Picasso,” Fiona argued, shrugging, secretly longing to be convinced.
“Fiona,” he said and her toes curled as he articulated her name. “Do you think Masaccio ever thought ‘I’ll never be Giotto,” or Michelangelo ever thought, ‘I’ll never be Masaccio’? Besides, why not take the apple off the tree and eat it for the sole pleasure of the taste, not because you desire to make the best apple pie that’s ever been made.” Fiona found herself smiling.
“Okay, I’ll give it a try,” she conceded, blushing deeply because he had convinced her so easily.

Lorenzo’s studio was at the top of a pink house on Mortimer Street. It was spacious, Spartan and full of light. When the four friends arrived on Thursday afternoon they were lured up the stairs by the stirring notes of Mozart that danced on the air already charged with expectation. Lorenzo had set up easels with paper and paints and was lounging on a chaise long, waiting for them. “Today we don’t paint at all,” he stated firmly, getting up. “Today we observe.” They looked at one another. The only one who minded was Eve, who had been looking forward to painting. As if reading her thoughts he put his hand in the small of her back as they walked back down the stairs and said softly, “I promise you we will paint next time. Today is of great importance, trust me.” She took off her glasses to wipe away the steam.

He walked with them through the town to the cliff tops that overlooked the sea and instructed them to sit down. Leo positioned herself beside him and wondered whether he had noticed that they had all done their hair and applied make-up. Even Fiona looked quite decent. “What do you see?” he said after a while.
“Sea,” said Fiona and chuckled.
“What else?”
“Sand, birds, rocks, grass,” added Leo, wondering what he was getting at.
“What else?”
“Sky,” said Kate. “No one’s said sky yet, have they?”
“Foam, ripples, sunlight hitting the water, waves, clouds. White fluffy clouds.”
“Molto bene, Eve. Go on.” She pulled a small smile and ran her fingers through her long red hair.
“I see pale blue sky, forget-me-not blue. I see feathery clouds, darker on the horizon, quite luminous above us. The circling of gulls, fluid movements, like music really. Their wings outstretched, catching the sunlight.” He nodded encouragingly.
“Leo, what do you see?” Not to be outdone by Eve she described the sand, shells and rock pools that glittered like precious gems. Kate picked a daisy and spotted a beetle in the grass and Fiona was suddenly able to see beyond herself to the world about her that had always been there but which she had never bothered to notice before. They all sat together high up on the cliffs as the sun sunk into the horizon, alighting the sky with reds and golds that to Fiona’s surprise she was able to describe with the fluency of a poet. Then no one spoke for a long while and Leo, Kate, Fiona and Eve felt a gentle stirring in the depths of their souls, touched by the mystery and magic of Nature for the first time in their lives.

The following Thursday Lorenzo placed a red rose in a vase and proposed that after describing it as they had described the scene up on the cliff the week before, they should paint it using the same powers of observation. The hours passed swiftly. When they congregated in the café afterwards they felt dizzy with laughter and something none of them had felt since their youth: enthusiasm for life.

It wasn’t long before Lorenzo seduced Leo. “I want to paint you,” he whispered after one of their classes, then discreetly placed a finger across his lips. “Just you.” She understood that it would be their secret and felt a delightful sense of triumph as she watched the others gaze at him with longing before departing with their unrequited dreams.

Leo had never had an affair before. She had never wanted to. She had fantasised about other men but had never dared consider turning those fantasies into reality. Somehow with Lorenzo it didn’t feel traitorous, just an extension of his classes – learning to appreciate life and to love oneself. As he had said, why not pick the apple for the sheer pleasure of tasting it?

They met on Tuesday afternoon. Once again the sound of Mozart floated on the air with the scent of sandalwood and paint. She felt nervous. More nervous than she had ever felt in her life but she was good at hiding her fears. As she walked through the door he took her face in his hands and kissed her lightly on her lips. Then he looked at her with intensity and asked her to remove her clothes so that he could paint her. She felt self conscious as she slowly removed the dress she had taken so much care in putting on, unclipped the silk brassiere she had bought especially and finally the knickers, the only matching set of underwear she owned and which Bruce would never see. Then she draped herself on the divan while he silently observed her, his paintbrush caressing the paper with long, languid strokes.

He said nothing, just watched and painted and while he did so she felt her skin bristle with a new sexuality. When, finally, he took her to his bed, it was nothing short of magical. He was as skilled at love as he was at art and took an earthy pleasure in every inch of her imperfect body. “How can you love my stretch marks?” she asked in disbelief.
“ Because I’m a sensualist,” he replied, kissing her there again. “I despise perfection. I want to make love to a woman not a mannequin.” When she tried to sneak a look at the painting he threw a blanket over it and grinned at her mischievously. “You will have to wait. An artist never shows his work until it is finished.”

Leo’s affair with Lorenzo changed everything. Not entirely for the best. Within a very short time she felt her three friends regard her with suspicion. It wasn’t obvious, just something she sensed between words in conversations, in the pauses, the hesitations, the moments when no one said anything at all. On the surface they continued to laugh and take pleasure from the lessons, but she was aware that they ceased to confide in her. Lorenzo was never discussed. Once she noticed Eve staring at the divan in his studio as if she sensed the secrets within it. She caught her eye and Eve lowered her gaze quickly, flushed and began to paint more vigorously than ever. She felt bad that she hadn’t told them, she used to tell them everything. But he had made her promise she wouldn’t. She enjoyed their Tuesday afternoons too much to jeopardise them.

As she sat in the café, her eyes fixed in the half distance, somewhere between the café floor and the drizzle outside the window, she pondered on how much their lives had changed since Lorenzo. They all dressed better, took more care to look their best. Even Fiona, who had never bothered before, had manicured nails. She had lost weight. She even looked attractive. The most remarkable thing was that she smiled. All the time. Leo couldn’t deny the fact that by showing them how to appreciate the splendour of Nature, they had inadvertently been shown the beauty within themselves. So why were they unable to share it with each other?

She decided not to try his studio again. Perhaps he was unwell. She would wait until their class on Thursday. She was very disappointed. Besides, he said he only had to do the finishing touches to her painting and then she could see it. She was consumed with curiosity.

Thursday finally arrived. Leo made sure that she set off early in order to have a few moments alone with him before Fiona, Kate and Eve turned up. To her disappointment they were already there at the bottom of the stairs. They looked nervous, shifty. No one looked her in the eye. ‘They know’ she thought miserably. ‘They know and they hate me.” Without a word they climbed the steps together. It was silent. No Mozart and no scent of sandalwood, only the faint smell of old paint.

The door was open as if expecting them, but Lorenzo was gone and so were all his belongings. Four paintings hung on the wall. Leo was stunned to see he had painted them all in the nude. Most beautifully. The way he saw them. The way they dreamed to be seen. The friends slowly looked at each other in amazement. How well they had guarded their secrets. Then one by one they began to laugh.

THE END

Back to the top