SEVEN DAYS (2 page)

“Yes,” she said before she could stop herself. As a student, expressing herself through art had been the height of her ambition, but she was unable to undertake a relevant course due to other commitments and, admittedly, poor grades. After gaining her degree at university, she had tried an evening class in art, but dropped out on discovering that art simply wasn't in her any longer, not after three years of business studies, three years of the real world, three years of life.

Her life had turned out to be a square, all straight lines and neat edges. Perfect corners into which things—love, work, family—could be stored. Straight lines were tidy. Art was not. She was no artist anymore.

She felt herself being drawn to this man and the way he appealed to the squashed artist within her. The hushed tones in which they were speaking made her feel conspiratorial; a delicious feeling. She wanted it to go on for hours. Not only were they continuing to shuffle towards the payment desk, however, but there was her potentially-romantic date Peter to consider.

“First step to being creative,” the man was saying now, “is to stop filling your mind with useless shit.”

Judy was so shocked that she laughed. Several people turned round. They glanced at her book. Now she really wanted to throw it as far from her as she could.

“That,” he said, indicating the book, “is too big for a doorstop. Too small to sit on. Useless.”

“I don't have time to queue up for another book,” she said.

“But you have six hours to read something you'll hate? Imagine how much fun we could have in six hours. Dinner? Walk by the river? See a movie?”

“To be honest,” she said, reddening and feeling that she ought to come clean, “this book's not for me. It's a gift.”

“Worse,” he said.

This was the first unexpected thing that had happened to her in weeks...months. Rather than being anxious, she felt safe with him. She was enjoying the game. She could see that he was eminently used to the unexpected, used to improvising.

She wondered if he was as good with his mouth as he was with his words. He knew what to do with his mind, but did he know what to do with his hands? She challenged him with her eyes and he responded by taking yet another step towards her.

Her breath hitched in her throat and her head was spinning. She hadn’t felt like this in such a long time and he hadn’t even touched her. Yet.

She noted that the staff behind the counter wasn’t paying them much attention.

“You must do this kind of thing often,” Judy told him, indicating his colleagues who were ignoring him.

“Asking out women in the book queue? No. This is my first time.”

He was going to ask her out!

“I was actually talking about convincing customers not to buy books,” Judy said, grinning. “I'm surprised they let you in the door, let alone the bookshop.”

They took another step towards the counter. Now they were only six people away from being served. Rather than wanting to hurry the queue along, Judy now felt that time was running out.

“So?” he asked. “I'm not normally this pushy, but we're almost at the checkout. Are you free tonight?”

“I’m not free at all,” she whispered, hardly able to believe that this was happening to her and with a guy as good-looking as this and that she was turning him down. “I can't go out with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because this book is for somebody very dear to me and his name is Peter,” she said.

“Peter.”

“Yes. And he'll love the book.”

“I see. And will he love you too?”

“Of course,” she said. “He loves me.”

 “And you love him, of course.”

“Yes,” she said.

“How perfect. Is he big?”

She laughed.

“He used to be a fireman,” she said.

“Of course he did,” the guy said, and Judy couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or just admitting defeat. “I feel like a bit of an idiot,” he admitted. “I promise you, I've never done this before.”

“There's no need to feel bad,” she said.

“Enjoy your tome,” he said and took a gallant step back. In one movement, he was beyond her reach.

Though her stomach turned, she had no doubt that she'd done the right thing. Here she was buying a book on erotic art with the hope of taking her agonisingly platonic relationship with Peter to the next level and it wasn’t okay to then flirt with the first guy to show her a little attention.

For a moment, she thought that the guy in the white T-shirt, walking away from her may have come over because he sensed her need for physical contact, but she decided that that was unlikely. She had been in desperate need of someone for weeks.

The book seemed heavier than ever. The more that guy had criticised it, the heavier it had seemed. Now it was practically slipping through her fingers.

As was he.

It was a strange sensation that made her call out to him, even though it would draw attention to her again.

“What's your name?” she asked.

“Mark,” he said. “Nightingale.”

“And why do you hate this book so much?”

“Because I wrote it,” he said.

There it was, in big letters, a couple of inches beneath the title.

MARK NIGHTINGALE.

She burst out laughing.

“That’s a good line,” she said. “I’ll give you that.”

 “Can I help you?”

It was the smiley girl behind the counter, but she wasn't smiling anymore. She appeared to have been trying to get her attention for some time.

“Can I help you?” she snapped again.

“No,” Judy said and wandered away from the desk. She wandered out of the queue and over to ‘Mark Nightingale’.

I must be wandering out of my mind,
she thought.

“I can't believe I just did that,” Judy confessed. “I queued for over half an hour.”

It was now 18:47, which meant that she'd have to walk extremely quickly to get to her date.

“I guess I'll put this back on the shelf,” she said ponderously.

The guy  took the book from her and tossed it in the bin. The dust-jacket tore and the bin crumpled under the book's weight.

“That's done then,” Judy said, “but I can't leave here empty-handed.”

“You won't,” he said. He took her hand and led her into the foyer.

* * * *

On the escalator, normally Judy would have wanted to walk, taking advantage of the ability to move twice as fast as would ordinarily be possible, but this evening she was content to stand beside her newest friend.

“What’s your name?” she asked. “Seriously.”

“Mark,” he said, all innocent. “Seriously.”

“Okay then, Mark Seriously. Where are we going?”

They moved to let people by and each time she felt his body brush against hers. Each time she held her breath. It was the closest she'd been to a man for a long time. In a way, she felt closer to him than she did to Peter.

Mark respected her story about 'Peter', which made her like Mark even more.

Peter existed, that was true, and he did used to be a fireman, sort of, but they were not an item. Once. But not anymore. They just weren't compatible. They never had been.

With Mark, she already felt different, but the timing was wrong, and she wasn't used to doing things on the spur of the moment.

“I'm still seeing Peter after this,” she warned him, warning herself in the process.

“Of course,” he said, “But if it doesn't work out...”

“It'll work out,” she said. “I just appreciate your help finding a book he really will like.”

Jesus
, she thought,
stop being such a jerk. Tell him that at another time in another place, she might have taken him up on the offer. Tell him. Stop hiding. Just say it. What harm could it do?

“The book I recommend is only stocked in the upper bookshop,” Mark said “It's a smaller store, so you'll be served quickly. Don't worry. You'll be on time for your hot date. More's the pity.”

Beneath them, the Turbine Hall was in preparation for the next great exhibit. The previous spectacle had been dismantled and now she saw scaffolding and spotlights. Black drapes hid whatever was being constructed from view.

“Exciting, isn’t it?” Mark commented. “The anticipation.”

Judy saw only metal poles, strapped together. She felt nothing. Mark seemed to sense her lack of enthusiasm.

“Let me show you something,” he said, when they reached their floor.

“In the bookshop?”

“We'll be quick. I promise.”

“I don’t have time,” she assured him.

Mark looked at her long and hard and she found that she couldn't move. At the top of the stairs, people were parting around them, going left and right, as if they had formed an island.

“Please,” he said.

His eyes were so open. He would have accepted any answer she gave right then, because he'd laid himself bare for her.

She opened her mouth to say that she couldn't possibly spend time on a diversion, but what she actually said was:

“Okay.”

“May I?” His fingers were warm against hers. His grip was firm, but gentle. He held her as though holding a precious thing that he must not break and that he must not lose on any account.

She imagined those hands commanding her, laying her down on her bed and positioning her just the way he wanted. She’d be unable to resist him.

They took a necessarily circuitous route through the churning crowd until ahead of them was an enormous, red doorway that stretched up to the ceiling. This was the much-proclaimed exhibition of erotica. An enormous sign above the door said: NAKED.

As they continued through the mass of people, Judy realised that they were jumping the queue. Mark nodded at the gallery attendant at the door.

“She's with me,” he said and at once she felt like his property. She felt every inch that very precious thing. She relaxed and he tightened his hold on her.

“Come on,” he said with a grin.

It was only as they passed through the doorway that she realised it had been designed to look like giant labia. Her instinct was to laugh, but she thought that that probably wasn't seemly in a serious gallery of modern art. Instead, she followed Mark's lead into what must accordingly have been considered the fallopian tubes of the exhibition.

They passed through a stiff, double door on which there was a clear, printed warning that the rooms that followed contained very explicit images and was intended for adults only.

“Ready?” Mark said, but he didn't wait for an answer before pulling her inside.

She felt an illicit flutter of delight with every minute squeeze of her hand in his, every tiny readjustment, every imagined caress.