SEVEN DAYS (16 page)

“Yeah it is, I mean, no, it's not. I mean, what's that got to do with you?”

“I saw you on that bus, sizing up all the guys. Don't deny it.”

“Well, no, I was just...”

“I know you did, because I did too, but the difference between us is that if I want someone...” She clicked her fingers. “I'm better at this than you.”

“Look, if this is some kind of competition to you...”

“You're no competition.”

“I'm just here to learn,” Judy said.

“You will,” the girl said and slipped her mask back over her face, like a welder replacing her visor. “Out of my way,” she said and strode out of the room, deliberately bumping shoulders with her on her way out.

“Good start,” Judy said and stared out of the window. The view no longer looked so spectacular. “I'm sharing with the bitch-girl from hell.”

She checked her watch and waited out the full fifteen minutes before returning to the minibus.

* * * *

Judy kept the entire length of the bus between her and the rock chick, although that meant that she rode up front near the instructor, evidently confirming the girl's suspicions. The girl had taken up position at the back of the bus, whispering and giggling with the other 'cool kids'.

Judy tried to ignore her. She found herself focusing on the instructor instead, who was leaning into his folded arms, ostensibly asleep. She examined his hand. Long, soft fingers. No ring. When she couldn't stand it any longer, she leaned forward and said:

“It's you, isn't it?”

The instructor lifted his head and looked at her from behind his mask.

“Is this a trick question?” he said. “Are you you?”

He was being evasive, but she was close enough to see his gloriously dark eyes.

“Mark,” she said.

He stood then and addressed everyone on the bus.

She was almost certain that it was him. Again, she was glad that she was wearing a mask, because her face must have been bright red by now.

Mark—if it was really him and she didn't yet know if that was a good thing or not—told everyone that they were about to walk through the main market street and that everyone should be on their best behaviour.

“Anyone removing their mask,” he added, “will be shot. By Andre.”

There was a ripple of laughter, but Judy didn't join in. She was still reeling.

“Don't think too much tonight,” he said. “Just feel. Have fun.”

She hoped that he was addressing this last solely to her, but of course he was still talking to the group.

“And seriously,” he said, “anyone who removes their mask fails the course.”

“I didn't realise you could fail an art retreat,” the rock chick said, allowing one inky leg to rock on top of the other.

“Me neither,” 'Mark' said, emphatically. “But imagine having to explain that to your friends back home.”

On alighting, the twelve of them in their masks quickly drew a lot of attention, mostly frowns and wide berths. Strangely, Judy didn't mind their stares in the slightest. Normally, she'd have run for cover, but instead, she was rather enjoying the feeling of instant notoriety. She'd never been notorious.

It was market day, so the old city was beautiful and full of the sound of chatter, reminding her of the French language audio tapes she had had to listen to at school before scraping through her exams. She was fairly confident that she could make herself understood.

She could go to a bar and order a drink, she could ask for directions and if somebody was ill she would be able to get help. In France, you dialled 15 for an ambulance. She'd made sure to brush up on her basic French within 24 hours of receiving confirmation that she had made it onto the course.

She recognised this street from the guidebook, even through the limiting eyeholes in her mask. This was indeed the old town. Looking up, she was able to see beautifully-sculpted stone buildings and large windows designed let in the light and save candles. Many of the shutters were closed, and while some might have thought that was because the buildings were empty, she knew that it was in fact to keep the inner rooms cool.

Many of the buildings had square pigeonniers or dovecotes and very steeply-angled rooftops. She marvelled at her surroundings to such an extent that she had to be very careful to keep up with the group.

The man in the mask—was he really Mark?—didn't so much lead them as simply walk ahead. Judy couldn't explain it, but she had the sensation that not one of them was in charge. They were a team, perhaps, except that a team implied that there was some common purpose or goal and she wasn't sure what that was yet.

She had been expecting to have some mention of art other than being welcomed to the course. She had to admit that she was a bit unnerved by Andre and the masked man's insistence on referring to this week as a retreat, rather than a course. She wondered what she had got herself into.

They passed new and old buildings, one after the other. The architects had made an effort to make the new buildings fit into the environment. They passed a pharmacy and an ancient library, a buzzing cafe and a tiny, dark ‘tabac’ with a television set hung high on the wall, burbling news into the street.

Coming up on the right would be the church, she knew, and then the town hall. Somewhere nearby, they'd see the indoor market and the huge double doors that led to it, stretching up to the sky, a recreation of the massive, ancient doors that might once have kept out invaders, but were now lightweight and modern.

Street vendors laughed at the twelve of them and attempted to make conversation. Bernard exchanged pleasantries in French, but nobody stopped for fear of losing the guy in front.

Judy would have liked to have explored the town hall and taken a few pictures, but when they reached the main square the guy up ahead indicated a red, stone building that looked like a bar and in he went. The trail of masked figures ambled, shrugged and followed him inside.

Although the front of the building was entirely open, it felt cool, as if they had stepped into a cave. Indeed, it was dark too. The walls had been painted a deeper shade of red than outside and where the stone was not red it was black or bare and sandy. A few tables stood around the room, covered with leaflets and flyers for cultural and artistic events.

Okay, so at least they had got on the correct minibus after all.

A young woman stood behind one of the tables and offered them all glasses of water or wine. She also provided straws, so they could drink without removing their masks, which made them laugh.

As she handed out drinks, she said something in French that Judy wasn't quite proficient enough to catch. She was unflustered though, the plastic barrier of the mask saving her from embarrassment.

Bernard said: “I asked her if we're here to rob a bank and she said she doesn't know any more than we do.”

While the others talked among themselves and swayed from one foot to the other, Judy enjoyed the simple fact that she was far, far from home. Mentally she felt further away than she was physically.

When her mobile phone vibrated in her handbag, the illusion of distance disappeared. She wasn't hours away at all. She was seconds from work. A few hours ago, she was jumping at the chance to check her messages and to see if there was a message from Lisa, Mark, Peter or work. Now she felt embarrassed and annoyed by the phone, as if it had timed its vibration deliberately to ruin her mood.

She considered depositing the device into a bin, but that wouldn't do her any good, because then she would spend the entire time wondering if someone had called and left a message. Maybe someone would need her to dial 15 for them. Maybe the office would need her to come home and do some filing.

I'm going to ignore it
, she told herself.
I'm not going to look. I'm not going to look.

She felt herself flush with anxiety, but of course nobody noticed, because she was masked. She took a few deep breaths and returned her attention to the room only to find that the instructor was watching her. She gazed back, openly, protected by her plastic face, or so she thought.

There was movement all around, speech in French and in English, and laughter uniting the two, but neither Judy nor the masked man spoke and neither of them moved. She felt an incredible connection with him, which was inexplicable, because she couldn't see his face, couldn't really see his eyes either. She could feel his eyes on her though.

She felt as if everything in the universe had disappeared as far as he was concerned, everything was gone except for her, and that suited him just fine.

In that moment, she was desperate to see the face of the man who had trapped her so expertly, so publicly.

He didn't move until Andre clicked his fingers in his face and he recovered himself.

He shook his head, returning to the room as if from a great distance.

“Gather ‘round,” he called eventually. “Upstairs is a very exclusive venue. I've managed to get us in for dinner and drinks. Even I don't know quite how I've done that. Before we enter, I'd like us to share a minute's silence. Everyone hold hands.”

“Seriously?” Bernard said.

Judy walked directly to the instructor and took one of his hands.

He was cool and soft and his fingers squeezed hers in response to the contact. It was not the touch she expected from a stranger. This hand was not unknown to her.

His fingers propelled her back to those precious minutes of being led from room to room and exhibit to exhibit. She didn't need to see his face any longer to be certain that it was Mark holding her hand, but how could it be? What was he doing here?

Her initiative prompted the rest of the group to follow suit and soon they were all holding hands, laughing, grumbling or silent. Judy noted that the rock chick was holding Mark's other hand. She wondered jealously if she was receiving the same gently squeeze as her.

“Are we praying?” asked Bernard. “Can I pray for this to be over?”

Despite the initial reluctance from Bernard and some other members of the group, after a couple of minutes of silence there was an incredible feeling of energy in the room and it was coming from the eleven of them. For the first time, Judy felt as though she was a true part of the group. Even the rock chick had her head bowed, her raven black hair falling over her facemask, giving herself over to the group experience.

Music and laughter filtered down the stairs and through the ceiling. More chatting in French. A radio. And a chef giving instructions. The bass rumble of Andre's voice, telling people to relax and that Mark would be up soon.

The exchange didn't make Judy feel anxious. Instead, she felt special.

Let them wait,
she thought.
This is incredible.

She looked around and saw that each of them had their own posture. Some stood as if mourning the passing of a loved one while others appeared to be taking strength before leaping out of an aeroplane. Later, Mark would tell them that they were doing both of those things.

He seemed to know the exact moment to end the session and did so with a light squeeze of Judy's hand before releasing her.

She felt bereft. She wanted to cry out for him to come back, to hold her again, only to take her by the waist this time.

There were sighs and embarrassed laughter when the others released each other. As Mark ushered them upstairs, a few people lingered, not wanting the moment to end. Judy didn't want to leave the room either, but she didn't want to lose sight of Mark.

At the top of the stairs, however, he managed to evade her again, having been grabbed by Andre, muscles bulging, and dragged off towards the kitchen.