SEVEN DAYS

by Silence Welder

  As the class walked around the room and looked at each other's interpretations of the subject under the strain of various challenges, their mouths beamed and their eyes shone.

  “Learn anything today?” Mark asked Judy.

  “Yes,” she said. “Nobody's perfect. Not even you.”

  After this, he left her alone for the rest of the day. He was polite and no longer unkind, though she could see that it took him a great effort to be so. Every time he interacted with her he had to move away from her, crossing the room or even leaving entirely.

  If he really had slept with Maggie, they were doing a good job of keeping a lid on it. While Maggie remained flirtatious, they seemed no more nor less intimate than they had been the night before, whereas several people had already asked her what was going on between she and Andre.

  Maybe, she thought, god forbid, but maybe, I owe Mark another apology.

  That was a terrible situation to be in. She was so used to being right about everything, it was difficult to accept even the possibility that she had made so many mistakes about him.

  She needed the courage to go after what she wanted, not what she thought was available. It was a thing easier said than done, though.

  She was about to ask if she could speak to him alone when his phone rang and he took the call rather than talk with her.

  “Monday?” Mark said. “As in today? As in this afternoon? No, of course I didn't forget.”

  He hung up the phone with a haunted look on his face, which gradually cleared as he formed a plan.

  “Ten more minutes to finish,” he said, “and then we have a surprise excursion.”

  * * * *

  Mark attempted to call Andre, but his friend, or ex-friend, wasn't answering his phone, so Mark impressed everyone by driving the minibus himself.

  “What are you doing here?” Maggie asked when she saw that Judy was sitting on the back row, as far from Mark as she could get.

  “Change of scenery,” Judy said.

  They alighted at a nursery school about thirty minutes later and a similar performance to what happened at Gorodka happened here. Mark stood on the doorstep, gesticulating, making grand gestures with both arms, while the woman in the doorway glared at the minibus passengers—who waved back—frowning and shaking her head.

  No. No. No.

  Eventually, Mark elicited acquiescence from her and he quickly instructed the group to get into the building before she changed her mind.

  The classroom was as light as their studio, with colourful drawings on the walls on huge black sheets of paper. The kids who had done these were sitting around four tables pushed together in the centre of the room and they were drawing and painting while wearing multicoloured aprons. They looked to be about three or four years old and they were certainly not 'afraid of the canvas'.

  They waved to Mark, who greeted them and introduced his group, describing them as his friends, which made everyone smile, except for Judy, who felt more like a creep than ever. He introduced the group to the kids, by name.

  “That's so sweet,” said Maggie, and clapped her hands together, her skull-adorned bangles jangling.

  Mark explained that they were here to watch the kids create. They pulled up tiny chairs or crouched or sat on the floor and observed what they were doing.

  “Look how he holds his brush,” Mark said.

  “It can take years for an adult to be as free as that,” he noted.

  “Watch how this boy mixes the colours,” he advised in a whisper.

  A girl with glasses and pigtails, not dissimilar to how Judy might have looked when she was a little girl, was peeling one piece of paper from another and revealing something not dissimilar to the Rorschach-inspired paintings in the Tate Modern. Judy glanced up at Mark. He turned away from her, focussing his attention on the kids.

  * * * *

  At four-thirty, the school day ended and they parted, the kids returning to their parents, except for one boy with a superhero on his T-shirt. The boy ran up to Mark and gave him a massive hug.

  “I have to take you to work with me,” Mark said. “But don't tell your mum that.”

  He helped the boy onto the bus and then got into the driver’s seat.

  Fuming, head spinning, Judy sat at the back.

  “That boy's gorgeous,” Maggie said.

  “The big boy or the little boy?” Simon asked.

  “The big boy actually,” Maggie said. “But his son's sweet, too. Must be amazing having a dad like that.”

  “Yeah, so exciting.”

  “Yeah,” said Judy. “He's full of surprises.”

  * * * *

  That evening, Judy strode down the corridor to Mark's room, which was on the ground floor, unlike the participants' rooms that were all on the first floor. He was already a cheater. The boy meant that he was possibly married or in a relationship. That would make him a double cheater.

  She banged on the door, harder than she had intended.

  The door came open and Mark looked startled.

  “What do you want?” he said.

  “I want to talk.”

  “I'm listening.”

  “Firstly, you've got the wrong impression of me,” Judy said.

  “Oh yeah?” said Mark.

  “And it's your fault.”

  “How so?”

  “You got me high or drunk or whatever on that stuff in that bottle and then I made a fool myself and then I ended up kissing Andre...and that was all, we just kissed, once...twice...and it wouldn't have happened if you hadn't insisted on drugging everyone. What kind of a teacher are you?”

  “I didn't drug anyone,” Mark said. “I offered it to you and you took it. You're in charge of what you put in your body, but then, you know that.”

  Judy opened her mouth to protest that he had sold his product so effectively that everyone had tried it, but Mark cut her off by raising his hand.

  “Secondly,” he said, “there was no drug. It was water and sugar, and not much sugar at that.”

  Judy gave him a sideways look.

  “There was no drug,” he repeated. “Only the power of suggestion. What you did, you did because you wanted to.” He gave it a moment to sink in. “I'm not judging you,” he said. “What you do is your business. I was hurt; that's all. I thought...”

  “What?”

  “I would have taken you home myself, but I had to stay with the students. Believe it or not, I'm working. But if I'd known that you and Andre would...never mind.”

  “Nothing happened,” Judy said. “I mean, we kissed. That was all.”

  He looked annoyed, pained. His eyes gazed through her and she felt herself almost physically disappear.

  “That's not entirely the point, is it?” Mark said. “I thought we had something.”

  “I only did it, because you were with Maggie.”

  “I was,” Mark said. “And also with Simon and Ophelia and Kristine. We were here, in this room, talking until late. When they went to bed, I went up with Maggie to see if you were okay, but you weren't there. I went to find Andre and I found you both instead.”

  “I saw her undressing in front of you,” Judy said. “You were touching her.”

  “You’re the only person she hasn’t shown her tattoos and you share a room,” Mark observed.

  “I was jealous,” Judy said. “But maybe I needn't have been. I think I might have made a mistake about you. Again.”

  Mark touched her face.

  “You were right,” he said. “What you said earlier. Nobody's perfect.”

  “Maybe you,” Judy said.

  “Not me,” he said. “Not anyone. We’re all doing our best. Speaking of which, I trust you not to tell anyone about the water and sugar. It would ruin the illusion too soon and I might need to pull that trick again before the week is over. I really need them to believe my spiel, just until they're exceeding their expectations by themselves. Then it doesn't matter who or what I am to them anymore.”

  Judy
looked down the corridor. It was uninviting, uninspiring, lonely.

  “Can I come in?” she said.

  Mark shook his head.

  “It's Ace's bedtime,” he said and opened the door a little more to reveal the little boy, drawing with crayons.

  “Your son?” Judy said tremulously, giving the boy her best smile. To Mark, she said: “And where's his mother? Are you still married?”

  The boy laughed.

  “He’s my nephew,” said Mark. “My sister's away for the night and I said I'd take him.” He whispered: “I almost forgot to pick him up. That would have been the second time. See? Not perfect.”

  “You're a doofus, Uncle Mark,” the boy said.

  Mark guffawed for him and he cracked up.

  Over Mark's shoulder, Judy saw that the room was a chaos of books and DVDs, food cartons, hand-written papers and clothes. Organisation was not Mark's strong suit.

  “This whole course is one improvisation, isn't it?” Judy said. “You're winging it.”

  “I've been known to think on my feet,” Mark said.

  “You're making it up as you go along.”

  “Like life,” Mark said. “Organisation is the illusion of control. Art is about letting go. But, yes, I am absolutely making all of this up and I am so, so out of my depth that I'm terrified every second of it, but I've never let that get in the way of the creation of something beautiful and I won't let it get in the way of my students either.

  “They're going to be great artists, if that's what they really want. As long as you don't tell them what I've just admitted to you.”

  “Maybe you can give me something in return for my silence,” Judy suggested.

  “Do you have something in mind?” asked Mark, closing the door somewhat again so they could talk more privately.

  Judy allowed her eyes to drop to his chest, then his crotch.

  “Maybe tomorrow?” she said.

  “Too far away,” said Mark and then he turned to his nephew and said: “Ace. Stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “A minute?” Judy cried. “Is that all you have for me?”

  “You’re right,” said Mark. “Ace? Make that five.”

  * * * *

  “If you think I’m going to cook for you,” Judy said, “you’ve got another thing coming.”

  Mark smiled.

  “The canteen is as far as we can get from the private rooms without leaving the house,” he said.

  “Are you intending to make a lot of noise?” Judy asked.

  “Somebody might be getting spanked tonight,” he suggested.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I’ve been naughty.”

  An uncomfortable moment passed between them. It was the first moment of real awkwardness, with neither of them knowing what to say to the other.

  Judy responded by removing her clothes. She pulled off her T-shirt. Then she unclipped her bra and tossed it away. Next, she kicked off her shoes and stepped out of her socks.

  The floor was covered in her clothes and stone tiles that drew the warmth out of her feet.

  “It’s freezing,” she said.

  “That’s too bad,” he said.

  She grinned at him.

  “You’re not really angry at me are you?”

  “You frustrate me,” he said. “But you’re irresistible. I’m not angry with you.”

  She unbuttoned her jeans and slid them, peeled them, down, down, down, breasts dangling delectably as she did so, then she stepped out of her jeans. She kicked them aside with one icy foot.

  “Does that mean you’re not going to spank me after all?” she said, pouting.

  “I didn’t say that,” he said.

  “Good.”

  She stepped out of her knickers.

  She’d never felt so sexy as this moment.

  He circled her and she closed her eyes, overwhelmed by anticipation. His feet clicked on the tiles while she shivered and waited to learn his desire.

  He stood behind her for a long time, not touching her, just breathing, his breath close and wonderfully warm on her neck.

  Her chest ached and her own breath became rapid. She wanted to tell him to take her, but this was his moment. She gave him no demands but waited impatiently for his hands. Instead, she received his words.

  “Lie on your back,” he said.

  They both knew that the tiles were like ice. She hesitated, but he was unwavering. She bent her knees to lower herself to the ground. She lay back, gasping as the heat rushed from her body.

  She surprised herself by feeling even more sexy than before. The discomfort only added to her desire for him.

  “Touch yourself,” he said.

  It was no hardship to do as he bid. One hand massaged her breasts while the other sought the folds of her labia. She was wet and used two fingers to rub her clitoris, not trying to be sexy nor readying herself from him, but seeking her pleasure. No frills, no embellishment.

  This, her fingers were saying, this is what I like.

  He removed his own jeans and shorts and kneeled beside her, cock in hand. He didn’t need to tell her what to do with it. She immediately took him into her mouth, as deep as before, then deeper, no longer gagging, but opening up her throat and taking him deep, deep into her.

  She held his cock in a tight grip and worked earnestly to make him come, wanting him to feel something akin to the way she had felt in the studio.

  Before she brought him to orgasm, he pulled away.

  They made love simply, with him on top of her and her legs spread to accommodate his body, wrapped around his thighs and waist.

  From time to time they rolled over and took turns to be on top.

  “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 no
r 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.