Page 68 of Short Stack 3

My husband ignores me, looking past me and waving. “Ivo!”

With astonishment, I see Ivo look up and grin at the sight of my husband. He waves and begins to make his way over to us. Jealousy stirs immediately.How do they know each other? Were they lovers?Ivo reaches us. Up close, he’s even more attractive, with golden eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips.

To my astonishment, Joe wriggles out from behind his easel and hugs him. I tense, but the hug is over quickly, and Joe steps back, grinning at me. “Ivo, this is my husband, Lachlan.”

His smile is proud and blows away the last vestiges of my jealousy like cobwebs in a cold wind.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, holding my hand to shake. “I’ve long been an admirer of your work.”

His grip is firm, the fingers callused. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he says, his voice husky, with a charming French accent.

I roll my eyes. “Hopefully, nothing good. That would be rather boring.”

He laughs. “He’s just like you described,” he says to Joe, who beams happily.

“I never lie.”

I shift position. “Well, not unless you’re a bride, in which case he tells more fibs than Pinocchio.”

Ivo laughs, and Joe looks at him. “So, of all the dusty village halls, you had to pick mine. What gives, Mr Ashworth-Robinson?”

“Phyllida is ill.” He looks over at me. “She’s the usual teacher and an extremely talented artist. She’s also a friend, so I said I’d stand in for her today.” He winces. “Don’t expect miracles. I’m better at doing things rather than teaching.”

“I’ll have to ask Henry,” Joe says.

“Please do. He’ll give me a glowing testimonial.”

A young man enters the room, and Ivo excuses himself to greet him. I look at Joe. “Henry?”

“Ivo’s husband. He’s Gabe’s best friend.”

I think of Joe’s friend Gabe, a sardonic lawyer. They met when Joe arranged Gabe’s wedding, and they’d become fast friends. I love Gabe and his husband, Dylan. They’re good people. Sarcastic people, but still good people. The memory of the first time I met them still makes me smile. Gabe seems to view Joe as a younger brother and had subjected me to a question-and-answer session more suited to someone being brought in by MI5, while Dylan looked like he was trying not to laugh. Eventually, Gabe nodded solemnly, indicating that I’d passed judgement, and we were allowed to eat.

“So that’s how you know each other?” I say.

Joe nods. “We meet every week for lunch. I keep saying you have to come along. You’ll fit in with the group so well.”

“I will.” It’s a promise, and I mean it. Work is a lagging second to Joe now. He comes first, and I will drop anything if he needs me.

Ivo walks to the front of the group, and everyone stops talking and turns to him expectantly. “Welcome to the class,” he says. Several people perk up at his French accent. “My name is Ivo Ashworth-Robinson. Unfortunately, Phyllida is ill today, so I will be standing in for her.”

A few people mutter as if it’s a terrible thing. They’re obviously unaware of just who Ivo is. Ivo grins, and it’s wide and warm and shaded by a rather charming arrogance. “This is the life class. It’s open to beginners because we all have to start somewhere. At first, you’ll probably focus on becoming used to drawing, but try to pay attention to the contours of the body, the elegant lines, and the curves and dips under the skin.” The group sits up, fully involved now. “Art can be both erotic and eye-opening.” He waves a languid hand as if shaping a body in his mind, and his eyes gleam with secret amusement. I wonder who he’s thinking about. “There are lots of tools in the trays. Choose the one you fancy. Maybe you will enjoy a pencil, or perhaps your taste runs to the smudge of charcoal.”

The lady beside me is already fussing in the tray next to her easel, picking up and discarding pastels, but her companion shrugs. “I only came for the nudity.”

“Me too,” Ivo drawls. “But don’t tell my husband.” There’s a ripple of laughter, and he shrugs. “It doesn’t matter what medium you choose. It’s the process that is important.” He steps back. “And for a life class to work, we need a body.” He throws out a hand, gesturing towards the young man who arrived earlier. He’s wearing a long silk robe decorated in shades of brown and gold. “This is Georgie.”

Georgie saunters into the middle of the room. He’s a pretty man, slender, with wavy black hair and a sharp little face. “Afternoon,” he says, eyeing Ivo approvingly. “This is a rare treat.”

“Thank you.”

He winks. “I meant for you.”

Ivo laughs. “Very true. Would you like to disrobe in the other room?”

Georgie waves a casual hand. “Oh god, no need for that. They’ll see my bits all too soon.” He sets his bag down on thefloor by the dais. “I’ll put some music on, though. I can’t sit in silence. It does my head in.”

We all nod, and he opens his bag. He produces a speaker, which he sets neatly on the dais, and then unpacks some water and three small bottles of nail varnish. “Once you’ve all got the pose, I might do my nails,” he announces, and we all nod again like toy dogs. He smiles graciously at us, then shucks his robe and climbs onto the dais. He has a beautiful body, but it isn’t a patch on my husband, and I wink at Joe.

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