Tate Modern Love Story

This is the love story that came out of my meanderings at the Tate Modern, primarily inspired by a full-length portrait of a young lady that I ended up sitting in front of (people give you the weirdest looks when you're sprawled on the floor of an art museum, scribbling in a notebook like a maniac). The second work of 'art' that 'inspired' it was a canvas with a bunch of branches and brambly things stuck onto it. Also, read 'The Beggar Maid' by Alice Munro a few weeks ago, and there's a bit of that in there as well. And we had to include the particular profession that we were assigned the prior week (window washer). Seeing as I've been talking for far too long, I think I'll just paste in the story and let you guys read it. Keep in mind that it hasn't been edited at all. The way I typed it out initially is the way that you're seeing it. Also, I know that it's cheesy. Deal with it.

- Lena

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She was waiting. She wasn’t sure why she was waiting, as she wasn’t even sure that she liked him, especially now that he was a half hour late.

She’d spent the last hour doing her hair, cleverly manipulating the hot iron so that the rippling waves of her auburn hair fell around her face just so.

And in the process she’d burned herself three times, the red scorch marks mottling her white hands. She’d hoped he wouldn’t notice them when he came to pick her up.

She’d put on the flowing white skirt, the one she only wore on special occasions, the one that rippled around her legs like a restless ocean when she walked. It was a point of pride for her: she didn’t have much of a figure, elbows and angles sticking out in places she’d rather not have them, but she had legs, long, slim ones that seemed to precede her when she walked into a room.

And the matching white shoes were peeping out from under the skirt (even though she knew that they were a bad idea. They were princess shoes, made for someone who’d never get her feet dirty. But then, she’d hoped he was her prince and had put them on anyway).

The coral peony she’d been hoping to wear in her hair (it was pretty, and much cheaper than jewelry, the practical portion of her brain told her) nicely set off the soft mauve of her top, the flowing, curtain sleeves covering just enough of her shoulders.

But the flower lay neglected on the small wooden table in the kitchen, sitting forlornly next to the wooden bow from her cello, which sat not-so-far away. She’d been practicing earlier, so focused on the music, wrapped up in the echoes in her mind, that she’d nearly forgotten to get ready.

But she had. She’d spent her time waiting for him to pick her up. Not because she liked him, but because Mother did (or at least liked the contents of his wallet).

And when the silly little rich boy had offered to take her out for a nice dinner, she’d said yes.
And now, at 6:40, she sat waiting and knew that he wasn’t coming.

She gazed down at herself, pitying the time she’d wasted in getting ready, the time she could’ve spent with the warm wood of her cello or reading the pile of books stacked up by her bed. And then the thought came to her.

It wasn’t ladylike (as most interesting thoughts nearly never are), but it made her smile.

“Fuck him,” she thought. “I’m all ready to go, so I’ll go out on my own.”

And with that, she grabbed her wrap and stepped out into the street, feeling the cooling breeze of the oncoming evening chill her cheeks as she swung the door shut behind her.

Of course, it wasn’t until the door shut behind her that she realized she didn’t really have anywhere to go. But that didn’t really matter.

The park, she swiftly decided, picking the first reasonable option that came to mind.
And so she wended her way down the street towards the park. It was a lukewarm August evening and the sun had not yet set. It glittered against the many windows of the soaring buildings, and she couldn’t help looking up at the sparkle.

So engrossed was she by the sparkling windows in the sunset that she didn’t notice the gentleman washing them, or, indeed, the ladder that he was on.

Didn’t notice it, in fact, until she’d walked into it. And then she noticed it. She noticed the loud cry of surprise which seemed to come from the man (and observed an equally loud scream that had seemed to come from her own person). She noticed the ladder toppling down (and the man with it). And finally, she noticed the rather thorny mulberry bush that she’d been knocked into.

Attempting to pick the twigs out of her hair (which was no longer the neatly coiffed thing it had been when she’d left the house) and brushing the dirt off of her hands, she rose, rather angrily, from the depths of the bush. Seeing her white skirt streaked with the purple of the bush’s namesake, her face quickly grew to match, eyes narrowing to angry slits as she glared at the man in front of her, who seemed to be whistling as he pulled his ladder back up and started setting everything to rights.

“Are you all right?” he asked, seeming genuinely concerned.

Ignoring his question, she raged up him, jabbing a finger in front of his rather long, straight nose.

“You ruined my skirt!” she shouted, as though accusing him of murder.

“Yes, well, you knocked me off my ladder and set me back in my work,” he replied calmly. “So, all in all, it seems like a fair trade.”

His equanimity seemed to enrage her more, and her face turned a deeper shade of purple, if that was even possible (after all, human complexions, particularly ones as pale as hers, have their limit).

“YOU!!! But … I ….But you … And I’m going to…. And you’re ….. AAUURRGGHH!!”

Her mouth didn’t seem to want to put together a coherent sentence, and her brain wasn’t cooperating either (although a small, rational part of her mind told her that he was right, and that she had knocked him off of his ladder, after all), and with the final shriek of outrage, tears began to spill down her plum-coloured face, and she stormed off, the still-white heels clomping on her way down the pavement.

That same small rational part of her brain was asking her why she didn’t just go home and try to wash the stains out of her skirt, but she pushed it to the back of her mind, the way one throws a squalling alarm clock under a pillow, and her feet kept her going.

Because stained skirt and rumpled hair or no, she was going to make the most of her freedom. She was going to make it to that damn park if it killed her (and it just might, that rational tiny part of her mind said, as she began to feel her toes throb).

The sun made its final descent behind the trees in a splash of red and gold and the colour cheered her up just a bit as she finally set foot on the gravel paths of the park, surrounded by trees whispering in the wind, and the light of dying sun, the last bits of gold glittering off of the green in their leaves.

She sat down on a park bench, feeling the solid wood beneath her, and closed her eyes for an instant, feeling the breeze against her face, rearranging the disordered curls of her hair.

“Nature’s first green is gold,”[1] she whispered into the wind, and might have continued reciting the entire poem, softly to herself, if the breeze had not brought the trace of a familiar voice.

“Yes, darling,” he said. “We can go get an ice cream if that’s what you’d like.”

Her blood froze in her veins, and it wasn’t because of the wind.

An overly feminine giggle followed the proposition concerning frozen desserts (which she was certain, now, would involve more than ice cream). Looking over, she saw him, his arm wrapped around a petite blond, whose long hair twined down her back.

He twirled her hair around his fingers, his arm around the blonde’s shoulders as they stopped under a willow, letting its branches shadow them in the growing dusk. And it was still just light enough outside that she could see him as he lowered his face down for a kiss.

And then she’d had it. It was enough that he’d stood her up, and now he was making out with this floozy in the park, right in front of her?

She stood up and marched over to the couple on unsteady feet (her toes still hurt).

“Gerald?” she asked, her voice squeaking up at the end, like a little girl’s.

It took him several seconds to extricate his tongue from the blonde's mouth and gather his wits together enough to realize who had called his name. And then he had the decency to at least look a little bit embarrassed.

“Lydia. Hello,” he replied.

“You …. You never picked me up,” her words came out jumbled, and she had intended something more accusatory, but somehow hadn’t quite gotten there.

“I …. well …. I’m sorry … I’d forgotten that we had a … ummm … appointment,” he managed to splutter (apparently his tongue was still tied up with the idea of its former occupation).

“Appointment, huh?” she asked, anger building in red spots on her cheeks. “We didn’t have an appointment. We were supposed to have dinner. We were supposed to go out. And you never showed up!”

With each truncated sentence her voice had grown louder, and anger had turned her voice from a little girl’s shrill to a shout.

“Now that you, erm, bring it up,” he replied, finally gathering his wits about him and continuing smoothly. “Genevieve, here, (he nods toward the blond, who is now standing smugly against her tree) is an old friend of mine, and when I ran into her, you know, on my way to pick you up, I simply had to take some time to catch up with my old friend.”

The last few words had contained ice, and Lydia felt a prickle behind her eyes as she studied the blonde, Genevieve, at closer range. The blonde wore a mink stole around her shoulders, on top of a rather tight pink silk dress. Diamonds sparkled at her throat and wrists … and Lydia gulped as she saw the sizable diamond ring on Genevieve’s left hand.

It took her a moment to realize that he was talking again.

“And now I’m rather glad that I didn’t remember to pick you up,” he continued smugly, “Seeing as you prefer a rather more natural look than I generally like.”

His eyes slid up and down her figure, noting the torn and stained skirt, disheveled hair, scratched skin. He smiled, but it did nothing to relieve the ice daggers shooting from his eyes.

“I … well …. I … you see … it just …” she continued to stammer, helpless in the face of his composure.

It was completely dark now and the streetlamps were lit. Coming from the edge of the park, she heard a whistle and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. The last thing she needed now was for someone else to witness her humiliation. It was enough already that Gerald would tell everyone he knew about tonight, and he knew everyone.

She didn’t open her eyes until a slightly familiar voice, seeming to come from a few feet away, spoke, seemingly to her.

“Are you all right, miss?” asked the window washer she’d passed earlier.

Clearly, he’d finished the job that she’d delayed him in completing, as he was walking along with his ladder in one hand and a bucket in the other. He seemed different now, and she could see the kind twinkle in his blue eyes, noticed that he was taller than she’d observed earlier.

She tried to blink back the tears in her eyes and find appropriate words to express just how ‘all right’ she was, and looked somewhat frantically from Gerald to the window washer.

She didn’t quite manage to assemble her words, and all that came out of her mouth was “Well …. I …. He … I’m just …. It’s just...”

But apparently that was enough, and the smile quickly faded from the window washer’s lean face. More swiftly than she would’ve thought possible, he’d dropped his bucket and ladder to the ground and walked over to the troubled threesome.

And before Lydia could stop him, he’d punched Gerald in the face and taken her hand. Shocked, she smiled at him quizzically as he pulled her away. He picked up the ladder and bucket and they ran, before Gerald had even had time to wipe off all of the blood streaming from his nose.

As Gerald and Genevieve faded into the background, Lydia was pleased to see that Genevieve had gotten blood on her pretty silk dress, and was now squalling uncontrollably while Gerald tried to stem the blood flow.

When they finally stopped, a good distance away, and she’d caught her breath, she began asking questions. They were both leaning against a building, and the brick was cool and a bit scratchy against her arms.

“Why did you do that?”

“Because he was a jerk.”

“Yeah? And how did you know that?”

“It’s not that hard to tell when someone’s an idiot,” he replied.

And then he added a bit sheepishly, “And besides, he was making you cry, which is more than enough to prove that he’s an idiot.”

She blushed crimson in the darkness, and hoped that he couldn’t see.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, just loud enough for her to know that he could hear her. And she smiled at him, only to find, when she looked up, that he’d been smiling down at her.

“But I knocked you off of your ladder, and spoiled your work. Aren’t you upset over that?”

“No harm done,” he said. “And sometimes it’s worth getting knocked off your ladder, if the person doing the knocking’s as pretty as you.”

She laughed then, and was glad when he laughed too. He had a good laugh. It was deep, throaty and warm.

“You must’ve hurt your hand, punching him as hard as you did,” she mused aloud.

“No … I’m...” his voice trailed off as her hand found his.

Her small white fingers carefully inspected his larger, rougher ones. And they didn’t let go once they’d found that there really hadn’t been any damage done.

“Will you walk me home?” she asked.

He smiled back in response and nodded.

Picking up his things again, he somehow maneuvered well enough to do it with one hand, as his right one was still being monopolized by the girl in the stained white skirt.

As they approached her house she reluctantly let go of his hand, and he wished that the street had been longer.

She found herself glad that Gerald had stood her up.

Looking up into her window washer’s eyes, she pulled herself onto her tip-toes and kissed his cheek, before she went inside. She glanced back at him on the final stair, smiling, and knowing, somehow, that life could be, would be, so much better after tonight.



[1] Robert Frost. “Nothing Gold Can Stay”


Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day,
Nothing gold can stay.