SEVEN DAYS (11 page)

She prayed that what he was doing to the computer did not fail. She felt that failure of any kind, even mechanical, would be a terrible omen right now.

* * * *

On the following Friday, two exceptional things occurred.

She had just exited the shower, when the doorbell rang and she knew that it would be Lisa. It was Friday night and she'd be asking for help zipping up her dress or finishing a bottle of wine or demanding that she join her on the town.

Judy had accepted her offer once in a moment of spiralling and disastrous optimism. It had been a night not to be repeated. They had arrived at a warehouse that had been 'converted' into a nightclub and the first guy to approach her had said, word for word:

“Hey love, your friend's gorgeous in't she? You're not bad, but she's a stunner? She seeing anyone?”

The evening had gone downhill from there.

She had told herself that she would never go clubbing with Lisa again and she had kept her word, but if her neighbour wanted to come in for a drink, that would be fine. It was Friday night after all.

She threw on a dressing gown and tied it at the waist as she descended the dusty stairs in her bare feet.

When she opened the door it wasn't Lisa at all but a young man with wild, dark hair and extraordinarily deep eyes. They were the brightest darkest eyes that she had ever seen.

“Mark!” she said, shocked.

“Judy,” he said.

Hearing him speak her name sent shockwaves through her body and mind. It was ridiculous, but it was real. She could deny it as much as she wanted, but he had had an extraordinary effect on her and he was still dazzling her with a single word and a smile.

He seemed relieved that she was pleased to see him.

“Forgive me,” he said, “but I've been thinking about you.”

“Really? I mean. Really?”

“I wanted to see you again. Last time was...weird.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I was weird.”

“As long as we can talk about it,” he said, “I think we're okay. We can talk, right?”

She thought of what Lisa said the night she had lost her keys.

“Would you like to come in for a drink?” she asked demurely.

* * * *

Judy sent Mark up the stairs before her and watched his bum cheeks as he ascended. For a few seconds, she was gleeful, the blood thundering to her head. He was smart, sensitive, creative and he had a gorgeous bum. too. Boxes: ticked.

Then she had a mild panic attack, because she wasn't expecting special guests and she hadn't had a chance to tidy up. She needn't have worried, of course. The place was as tidy and organised as ever. Compartmentalised. A place for everything and everything hidden from view.

A moment later, she was having the same panic attack for the opposite reasons. It had always pleased her that her place was such a picture of calm and organisation, but now she had the urge to run around messing up the cushions on the sofa and leaving dirty plates in the sink. For Peter, she might have obsessed over whether or not the glasses had been dried and stacked stem up or stem down. For Mark, she wanted to display some sign not only that she lived here but that she was alive here, too. She could not. It wasn't true.

Mark seemed too tall for her low ceilings and too wide for her narrow hallway. His body was not in the league of Jules the IT guy, but he had an air about him, a quality that gave her the impression that her little flat could not contain him.

He doesn't belong here,
she thought forlornly.
I want him to belong to me, but he can’t.

If her lounge looked as though a team had constructed it from the pages of a fashion catalogue, then he had leapt down a graffiti artist's sketch. He was all wild lines and sharp edges. He fluttered when he moved and, frankly, so did she. His presence shone a light all of its own.

He paused in front of the three landscapes before passing deeper into her main room.

“What do you think?” she asked and when he winced she wished that she could take the question back. She was about to get an honest answer.

“They're beautifully-framed,” he said. “Did you hang them yourself?”

“Subtle,” she said, smirking.

“They obviously mean a lot to you. I don't have to like them.”

“So you don't like them?”

“I didn't come to talk about art.”

She put her hand on her hip, accentuating her waist and enhancing the swell of her breasts, naked beneath the dressing gown.

His eyes flicked over her body. At the same time, she allowed herself to enjoy his body too. He was wearing worn, blue jeans and a simple white shirt. He had three buttons open at the collar and she thought about what it might be like to slip her hands in between cotton and skin. First her hands and then her face, allowing her hair to fall against him, allowing him to take her hair in his hands.

He appeared to be having a similar fantasy, his hands sliding under the folds of her gown, peeling back the flimsy top layer and laying her bare. Although her dressing gown covered her from her neck to her knees, she felt undoubtedly sexy being naked beneath and still wet from the shower too.

Undressing her with his eyes wouldn’t have taken long and then there was the question: what next?

“Why did you come?” she asked.

“I came to talk about you,” he said and then their eyes locked, no more roaming, just an understanding passing between them. No matter what else was going on, no matter how much she felt stupid because of the other night in the gallery, no matter how honest Mark was being with her, the truth was undeniable. The truth was that there was a connection between them that was beyond anything Judy had ever felt before.

 “Excuse me a moment while I slip into something less comfortable,” she said.

Jules would have called her a spoilsport then or would have told her not to do so on his account, but Mark didn't capitalise on the moment, which made her question whether he fancied her after at all.

In the bedroom, she talked rapidly in whispers, debating whether or not to return to the lounge wearing nothing at all in order to make up for lost time.

“That's better,” she said when she entered the lounge in tight shorts and a T-shirt. She’d gone for a clothing option between two extremes.

His mouth fell open when she walked in and his eyes smiled at her.

“Wow,” he said in appreciation.

She was wearing her best lacy underwear beneath. Knowing that her prettiest lace was between her outer clothes and her skin made her feel even sexier, changing the way she moved around the room, changing the way she looked at him. Her every movement was pleasurable. Every fibre of her being invited him to touch her.

She pulled at her T-shirt to make sure it was straight and she brushed a hand through her hair.

“You've probably had a good rummage around,” she said, smiling. “In fact, I expect you made a copy of my key and have it in your pocket right now.”

“If I had a copy of your key,” he said, “you would have found me in your kitchen this evening eating peanut butter out of the jar with a spoon.”

“I'm changing the locks,” she said with mock horror.

She urged him to sit down.

“What would you like? Wine? Red? White? Coffee? Tea? Glass of water?”

She was listing liquids. Idiot.

She was gabbling, because he didn't take his eyes from her and she felt at once safe and exposed. She loved the feeling, but she didn't want to blow it by telling him too clearly. She was supposed to make out that she was busy or disinterested or something, right? She was about as good at relationships as she was at art.

“Glass of water,” Mark said. “I take it you're no longer angry with me.”

She shook her head and explained that Lisa had suggested that it was not yet a crime to wear a white T-shirt in a gallery.

“Not yet,” Mark agreed.

“She also said that you probably really are a writer named Mark Nightingale and that I was being paranoid.”

“Perhaps,” Mark said.

“And an idiot.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“What have you been up to?” she asked, folding her arms and crossing her ankles as she leaned against the wall. She thought that she was doing a good impression of being relaxed, despite her nerves.

“I should be preparing for a big project,” he said, “but I've not been able to concentrate on anything.”

“Oh really?” she said. “What's wrong? Is there something I can do?”

“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe there is …”

“So what's been on your mind?”

“You,” Mark said.

“I promise you, I'm fine,” Judy assured him. “I over-reacted.”

“I don't mean like that,” Mark said. “I was worried about you, yes, but that's not the only reason I've been thinking about you.”

She gave him a moment to go ahead, but he looked so serious then that she was afraid and she blurted:

“I've been painting. Want to see?”

Why couldn't she just stop talking?

“Okay,” he said and that was how she interrupted him but got him into the bedroom.

She'd boxed her recent sketches and paintings, not sure what to do with them, but thinking that they might come in handy if, by some miracle, she really was chosen to be part of the artistic retreat. She glanced at them now as she handed each one to Mark and wished that she hadn't mentioned them at all.

To his credit, he gave each one his attention. To his credit, he held each one the right way up. She could imagine Peter looking at his son's art homework, under duress, and intoning, in all seriousness:

“That's great, son. Absolutely superb. And what is it supposed to be?”

Judy watched Mark's beautiful face as he gazed at each one. Each time, she hoped, in a deep, deep, secret place, that his eyes would blaze at some point and that their connection would deepen, but the moment never came.

“You don't have to finish,” she said, squirming with embarrassment again.

“You made them,” he said. “I want to see, but I really ought to tell you something.”

“I'm a bit fragile,” she said. “I've had a rough week. Can it wait?”

“It might be a good surprise, or an unpleasant surprise, but I really need to tell you something,” he said.

“I really do need you not to,” she replied. “Just...sit down.”

They sat on the bed. She sat cross-legged and she noticed him looking at her bare legs as she positioned herself in front of him. They weren't bad in these shorts, but they could have done with some sun. With any luck, in a few weeks' time she would get the weather she craved, as well as the country air, with its scents of morning flowers and freshly-mown grass.

She thought of asking him if he wanted to come with her, but they hadn't known each other long enough for that.

Not only that, but she was reluctant to tell him about the course. She felt embarrassed about it. One whizz around an art gallery and she thought she could be an artist.

Having said that, though she had been despondent about her application this week, she now felt the same sense of potential she had felt on meeting him, that sense that together they could achieve anything. The feeling was even stronger now than it had been then, because he was in her flat, in her bedroom, on her bed. A beautiful thing was already happening. A dream was already coming true.