SEVEN DAYS (25 page)

“Fucking hell, it’s freezing,” Mark gasped from below.

“I told you.”

She swayed her hips back and forth and he put his hands on her to guide her. She used her body to bring him maximum pleasure, delighting in the way he looked up at her breasts and her face, her body undulating. She didn’t feel at all self-conscious. She gave every fibre of herself to him.

He spanked her from this position suddenly. The slap made quite a sound. It echoed and span up to the ceiling, but she barely felt it.

“Again,” she said.

He slapped her ass and she increased her pace, grimacing against the new sting of his hand, which came again and again, but at irregular intervals, keeping her guessing and keeping her anticipating the next smack and the warmth spreading over her ass.

 She looked over her shoulder and saw that her buttocks were red.

She loved it. He did it again and again, making her jump, using each strike to heighten the sensation before until it reached a crescendo. The feeling, like extreme warmth, never became unpleasant. He was an expert lover and he held her on the edge of pleasure and pain, masterful.

He came first and when he did so he was on top of her, her thighs gripping his waist. His hands, which had been all over her body, grabbed her hands. They interlocked fingers as he came.

He shuddered, his shirt wet with exertion. They held each other like that for a long time.

“You’re beautiful,” he said and she smiled to herself, because she always felt that way when she was with him.

Long may it last,
she thought.
Long may it last.

Chapter Eight: Tuesday—Beginning to Study

Scott Adams:
“Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep.”

The following morning, Mark was back to his cheerful self. Judy was proud to be able to say that she was a part of that, except that she couldn't actually say that to anyone at all. It was true, but they ought to keep a low profile and so she resisted her urge to encounter him in the doorway or to brush past him on her way to her chair.

He walked into the studio, chewing the last of his cereal and said that they needed to get outside today. He said that he didn't believe the rule of 99% perspiration and 1% inspiration applied to artists, neither those who are masters nor those who are studying the craft.

“Go out into Trignac,” he said, “find something that inspires you. A place. An object. A person. Paint them. Draw them. Bring them back. Remember that our theme is naked, but don’t get arrested.”

Judy stayed behind to talk with Mark, but without looking up from the window he dismissed her with the words:

“You too.”

She went, humbly, like a dismissed schoolgirl, but when she glanced back he was smiling at her and that gave her all the inspiration she needed.

Having had enough of music and parties, people and confrontation, she took herself off to what appeared to be a large, walled garden. She would have walked up the slope behind the house had that walk not been associated with Andre, who she hadn't seen since he'd run out of the studio in his dressing gown.

She felt bad for him, but he'd be okay. She was sure that he and Mark would remain friends and that that in itself would almost be a guarantee that he'd be all right in the future.

She headed away from the big house and down the lane, in the opposite direction to the sign for Sarlat. After twenty minutes she came to what she had assumed was a garden and found that it was in fact a cemetery.

She was about to walk on, when she saw the head of a statue above the wall and was inspired—there was the word—to go in. So in she went.

An angel stood atop an enormous sarcophagus, its wings outstretched and its hands together in prayer. Its eyes were closed and its head downcast. The tip of one wing was missing, but Judy had no doubt that should it come to life it would still fly up into the air and spirit itself away. Walking around it, Judy realised that she was holding her breath. It was a quiet thing of such simple beauty. Strong, yet gentle. A protector, yet vulnerable. Naked to the elements, rain was wearing her away, but she was still here, adorned only in subtle scars.

She pulled out her pencils and her sketchpad and hurried to take her impression of the statue, excited by finding something so wonderful, but also eager to show it to the man it reminded her of.

* * * *

She was first back to the studio. Mark was sitting at the desk in the corner, legs crossed, his pencil scratching the paper. When he looked up he was pleased to see her.

“Find something?” he asked.

She showed him her sketch of the stone angel. He remarked that she'd drawn it from near and below so that it was at once peaceful and looming.

“Even the most beautiful things terrify me,” she admitted.

“Why?” asked Mark.

“Fear of breaking them. Fear of losing them. Fear of them not loving me back.”

“Opening up does make people vulnerable.”

“Is it worth the pain?” Judy asked.

Mark opened his hand as if to show her something, but when she leaned forward he closed his hand into a fist suddenly.

“Can you go your whole life without knowing what might have been?”

Judy sidestepped the question. “What are you working on?”

“Similar assignment to you lot,” Mark said. “I found inspiration too.”

“Show me.”

He hesitated a moment and then turned the pad toward her.

She saw the face of a beautiful woman, similar to the angel she had attempted to draw. The woman's gaze was directed downwards, as if she was attempting to deflect attention from herself. She couldn't hide, however, the fact that she was beautiful. Those cheekbones. That slight smile; playful, given a chance.

Judy frowned.

“You've drawn me again?” she said.

“It's not right, but I'm getting closer,” he said.

“But I wasn't here,” Judy said.

“I did it from memory.”

She was stunned.

“There's one thing wrong with it,” she admitted.

“What?”

“You've only done my head. I do have a body, you know? Maybe you need a life model to work from, so you can complete your picture.”

“Are you offering to sit for me?” Mark said.

“Sit. Stand. Lie.” She pouted. “You tell me. Do you have anything planned for this evening? I mean, obviously not, you don't do planning, but do you think we might meet for a while?”

“I have no plans,” he said. “But are you sure?”

“I can't go my whole life without knowing what might have been,” she said.

“Don't start quoting me,” Mark said. “I make it all up as I go along.”

“And so shall we,” Judy said. “Be in your room at 10pm.”

“Judy,” he said, serious suddenly. “This is my work. I can't...we mustn't...you know ...”

“We won't,” she said and winked.

* * * *

At ten-twenty that evening, Judy sneaked down the stairs and knocked on Mark's door.

He seemed surprised that she made it.

“If I say that I'm going to sit, stand and lie for you,” she said, “I'll sit, stand and lie for you.”

She was in a new dressing gown. Silk. Black and blue. Chinese embroidery. A dragon. Lisa's. Another good luck gift.

“So,” she said, allowing the dressing gown to fall open as she entered. “Where do you want me?”

A radio was on in the background and she located its source to a large table covered in books. She saw where Mark had been sitting, surrounded by handwritten notes, coffee mugs and dirty plates.

“Sorry,” Mark said, rushing his fingers through his hair while gazing at her body. “Cleaner's day off.”

“I heard,” Judy said.

She hadn't seen Mark speechless before. Not only was he stunned by her arrival, but he couldn't keep his eyes off her.

She looked around the room and saw signs that he had been hard at work at something.

“Don't you ever get to sleep?” she said.

“I'll sleep when I'm dead,” he replied.

“If you're too tired to draw, you could just study me,” she suggested. “Where's the best light?”

He pointed to the tall lamp beside the far wall and she went towards it.

“Just so you know, I'm not going to throw myself at you. Tonight, this is a strictly, working relationship. Your career is safe with me.”

She stretched and the dressing gown shimmered. The sleeves slid down over her arms.

“Turning up in my room at night in a dressing gown isn't strictly business,” he said. “I like it, but it's not professional, even by my standards.”

“You had people in your room last night,” Judy said. “If they can be here, so can I.”

She pulled up a wicker chair covered in cushions.

“Here okay?” she asked.

He was smiling, amused.

As she bent to position the chair beside the light, he said: “You do recall that the name of our future exhibition is 'Naked', don't you?”

Judy turned and parted the gown so that the cool silk clung to her bare breasts, but revealed soft, pale skin, from her neck down to the thatch of hair beneath her belly button.

Mark gazed at her, open-mouthed.

She could see that she wasn't just a woman to him. He saw something in her that nobody else did. He neither wanted only her body nor only her mind. For him, she was the perfect package. He was looking at her as though she'd handed him a contract and he wanted to sign before she took it away.

While he weighed how best to respond, she let the dressing gown fall from her shoulders. It slipped from her in a way that was utterly natural, like the casing of a seed tumbling away. She felt as young and new as that seed. She felt as though the slightest breeze might carry her off her feet and send her spiralling over the mountain. She felt that light and yet was unable to move until he did.

He approached her, reaching for her, his dark eyes glistening as though committing this moment to memory.

She held up one hand to stop him and he waited, mid-step, eager to hear what she had to say that was so important she would attempt to halt him from having her now.

She felt her power in that gesture. She commanded him. But she was also aware that she mustn't take him for granted. He was not to be toyed with. Not any more. Not for any reason.

“I want you to finish my portrait,” she said.

She wanted his eyes on her. She wanted to savour this moment, because over the last few weeks she had discovered that there were only two ways to exist. Under his gaze or out of his sight. To be naked before him filled her with pleasure. She could hear her heart beating hard and she was already wet for him. When she swallowed, her throat felt tight. Her breaths were tremulous. And he hadn't even touched her yet.

“Now,” she said. “How do you want me?”

He strode away from her then, his footsteps thumping on the floorboards, then muffled by a rug, then thumping on floorboards again until he entered the adjoining room.

Suddenly, she felt cold. While he was away, nakedness only meant 'without clothes'. She felt silly. Jesus, what was she thinking?

Perhaps,
she thought,
I’ve overdone it and he’s about to throw me out for a change.

She'd deserve it too for all the times she had bean unreasonable with him.

Footsteps on floorboards, rug, floorboards.

He was holding a large canvas under one arm and in the other hand he had an easel. He also carried a cloth bag over one shoulder. He set the easel up with a practised flourish, kicking the legs out and standing it like a tripod. His fingers loosened the nuts, he adjusted the height and angle, and then he tightened them up again. He set the canvas in place and then set the cloth bag on the table beside him before unrolling a bamboo paintbrush holder, much like the one in her emergency art kit, and pulled out some squarish pencils of varying weights.

“I'm going to do this very quickly,” Mark warned her.

“I bet,” Judy said.

“Sit,” he commanded her.

She did so, crossing one leg over the other and placing her hands on the arm rests, exuding confidence.

He began scratching at the canvas, setting out some kind of grid or frames of reference, she assumed.