by Grace Lowrie
‘Whole bathroom stinks now.’
‘Good. Serves you right.’
The truth was I’d deliberately taken Cally’s things to provoke her – in order to see her again. I wasn’t too sure why I’d felt compelled to see her again, but it had worked and now, as I scrutinised her with my eyes, my fingers recreating every line in black dust, every shadow with a smudge, I was glad she was here.
She sighed and wiped a rogue tear of amusement from her cheek. ‘Do you mind if I make myself a drink?’
‘Help yourself,’ I muttered, still focused on my sketches.
‘You want one?’
I nodded absently.
From the freezer she extracted a bottle of vodka, carefully pouring modest measures into two glasses before opening the fridge. ‘Wow, you actually have food in here,’ she said, removing a chilled bottle of lemonade.
‘I’m not completely incapable of looking after myself.’
‘You could have fooled me,’ she muttered under her breath. I bit back a cutting retort, discarded my sketchbook on the bed and made my way over to her. She shifted uneasily as I stepped close to her to take a swig of the drink she’d prepared for me. It was sickly sweet. She clutched her glass close to her chest as I added more vodka to mine. Cally smelled delicious – light and floral – and radiated disapproval. I fought the urge to goad her into another altercation.
‘How was work?’
She hesitated before answering, a shadow flickering across her features. ‘OK.’
‘You don’t sound sure, did someone hassle you?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘What then?’
‘I don’t know… I haven’t being doing it very long – I think I just need more practise.’
‘Maybe it’s not right for you…’ It was the wrong thing to say – her face flushed with indignation.
‘How would you know?’ she snapped. ‘I’m a bloody good dancer!’
‘I’m sure you are; I just meant—’
‘You don’t know me; you don’t know anything about me.’
‘OK, OK, I take it back – you were born to be a fucking stripper – happy?’
She pierced me with an icy look of loathing, but there was hurt behind her eyes, too, and I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. She finished her drink and poured herself another.
‘You can’t keep practising pole dancing on trees; it’ll damage your hands.’
She closed her eyes, sighed, and raised an arm; squeezing the back of her neck beneath her hair. ‘I know.’ Cally’s arms were slender and toned; the muscles feminine but well-defined, and the skin on the underside was as delicate, pale and flawless as virgin snow – crying out for me to touch her, taste her, mark her…
‘How’s your painting going?’ she said, lowering her arm, opening her eyes and snapping me back to reality.
I drained my glass and poured myself another drink, this time with only a splash of lemonade. ‘Good, I think.’ Cally was already making her way across the room to my current work in progress – a three foot by three foot canvas; an impressionistic, acrylic version of a peacock butterfly trapped in a spider’s web. It had a darker edginess to it than I’d originally intended, and it was still missing something; an element that I hadn’t yet identified – but it was salvageable. I’d long since set the butterfly from my windowsill free, and watched it flutter off into the dawn.
‘Wow, you’re really talented,’ Cally said softly as I gravitated to her side. ‘Do you sell them online, or in galleries?’
‘Both I think. Felix – my agent – he deals with all that shit for me.’
‘And you make enough to live on?’ She turned to me and I could see her thoughts processing; colour staining her cheeks. ‘Oh, but, maybe you don’t have to, if you own this building and everything…’
‘I do OK.’ As she returned her gaze to the canvas, I retrieved my sketchbook and settled on my bed, this time choosing a soft pencil over charcoal.
‘Can I have a look at the others?’ she said, gesturing to the other canvases lined up and leaning back-to-front, against the wall.
‘Knock yourself out.’
By the time Cally had retired next door, my blinds were drawn, the sun was high in the sky, and I had sketched whole pages full of her; standing, bending, crouching, peering, preparing pasta carbonara, sitting cross-legged at the end of my bed, eating, sipping coffee, and politely yawning with a delicate hand to her mouth.
Alone once more, I lifted some weights and rowed several miles on the machine in my home gym before switching off the music and wearily collapsing into bed. But sleep would not come easily. My fingers still tingled with the thrill of having fresh material to play with; a new subject; different shapes, lines and forms in which to lose myself. I had to admit, my preliminary drawings were good; they gave me a buzz; I was onto something and my mind was already running ahead with anticipation, exploring the possibilities in other media; pastels, acrylics, oils…
And yet she was just a girl – the girl next door – prudish, ordinary and irritating. Why her…?
Chapter Seventeen
I was physically exhausted by the time I got into bed – my limbs, my head, and my eyelids all ached. I stared at the ceiling for ages, but I couldn’t sleep. Fleetingly I wondered if insomnia might be a new symptom, but quickly dismissed the idea – even if it was, I didn’t want to know.
No-one had ever drawn me before; my neighbour was the only artist I’d ever met. Were they all like that, or was it just Bay? The way he gazed at me intently, for hours, was disconcerting. He didn’t ogle my body the way the men at the club did; as if I was a thing; an object to be bought and toyed with, and I don’t think it was just because I’d kept my clothes on. Bay had really looked at me; openly; attentively; with steady concentration, as if trying to see inside me, and without apparent shame or judgement. It was unsettling, but it was also intensely flattering to be regarded so thoroughly by another person. Especially after years of being invisible.
But why me? I wasn’t unattractive but I wasn’t model material either – I was plain-looking with gappy front teeth, bony knees and a washed-out complexion, even in summer. Bay must have many more interesting friends to hang out with; people as bold, quirky, and as artistic as himself. As much as I’d like to deny it, my new job and new clothes didn’t fool him – he’d seen straight through me from day one. Bay knew exactly who I was, or rather who I wasn’t. So why paint me?
When I finally managed to sleep, it was restless, and it was evening by the time I roused, showered, and dressed myself. Acutely aware of Bay’s brooding presence lurking just the other side of the wall, and having wasted the day in bed, I decided to escape – to leave the flat and go exploring – make the most of being in the capital, now that the evenings were getting lighter.
Upon reaching street level I realised I was hungry, but the thought of enduring a sit-down meal without company or a good book to read didn’t appeal. In a grocery shop I bought myself an off-the-shelf packaged cheese sandwich, and devoured it on the tube on my way to Hampstead Heath. Once there, I spent some time roaming about; discovering woodland walks, walled gardens, swimming ponds and, of course, spectacular views across London. But it didn’t escape my notice that out of everything this great city had to offer, I had gravitated straight to a green space filled with trees, grass, and wide open sky.
It had been six weeks since I’d left Wildham, and though I was reluctant to admit it, I was starting to feel homesick. I missed walking through the town square and seeing faces I recognised from childhood; I missed after-match drinks at the pub with the Wildham Warriors; and I missed taking the pretty path through the woods to the corner shop to buy milk on a Sunday morning, and being greeted by at least ten different muddy dogs and their owners along the way. Hampstead Heath was surprisingly busy and the proliferation of picnicking families, Frisbee-players, and romantically-strolling couples only increased my sense of solitude.
I thought of Li
am. He would have brought me here if I’d asked him to; held my hand; bought me ice-cream; probably even picked me flowers – he was sweet like that. But I never got around to asking him. We rarely ever tried new things. He did his job and I did mine; we looked after each other and stuck to our routine. It was safe and familiar, much like our sex life.
Lately, with the stripping and everything, sex was suddenly on my mind. It had never been a priority in my relationship with Liam and, blinkered by contentment, it hadn’t occurred to me that I might be missing out on anything – I doubt it had crossed Liam’s mind either. But now I couldn’t even recall the last time we’d done it in our usual missionary position with the lights off. Clearly it wasn’t memorable. I was starting to realise sex was a whole subject area I’d never properly explored.
And if I was honest, these new thoughts also had something to do with my neighbour. It wasn’t just the streak of danger in him that piqued my curiosity, it was the raw and uncompromising masculinity he exuded; potent, intriguing, and unlike anything I’d ever experienced. It made me wonder what sex with someone like Bay would be like. Not that I had any intention of finding out – I wasn’t stupid – but I couldn’t help wondering. Despite the cruel way I’d left Liam, I hoped it had been a catalyst for him, too; I hoped he would take the opportunity to let loose a little; go a little crazy; try something new. But maybe that was my guilt talking.
As the sun began set, and the rosy glow faded from the sky to be replaced by drizzle, the last dog walkers drifted away until I was entirely alone. Unwilling to give up and head home, I made my way back to the West End in search of distraction. But I couldn’t seem to settle on anything; the bars and pubs were rowdy and intimidating, and by now it was too late to catch a show, or even a late cinema screening. I sat on a bench in Leicester Square for a while, people-watching, but mostly I kept walking. London, the 24-hour party city, did not feel that way to me. Not on a damp Sunday night.
By midnight the theatres, restaurants, bars and clubs had closed, and even the drunks and prostitutes had cleared the streets in search of shelter. When I finally found a late-night cafe that was still open, I discovered that my purse had been stolen right out of my bag. It had only contained about thirty quid in cash, but tears of shame and frustration stung the back of my eyes. Pick-pocketed! Like some lame, naive tourist!
Saturated with rain and humiliation I cancelled my coffee order and squelched back out into the street, resigned to crawling back to TMC Tower in defeat.
*
What on earth…! In the middle of the day I was rudely awoken by shrill intensive drilling; the sound vibrating through my pillow and grating inside my already-aching head. Surely that wasn’t coming from the offices below; not on a week day? Stumbling into the living area, I blinked in the light with increasing irritation. The din was coming from next door.
‘That no-good, self-serving, egotistical arsewipe…’ I marched out of my flat and in through Bay’s open door, by-passing his kitchen and his bed until I was close enough to be heard. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
The noise stopped abruptly and my feet faltered as three sets of eyes turned to look at me. The two men in Bay’s flat were clearly builders, complete with tool belts and heavy duty boots. One guy even had a pencil perched behind his ear. I folded my arms across my chest and ignored their raking gazes as I took in the construction project between them, my mouth dropping open in astonishment.
‘I believe that’s my T-shirt you’re wearing,’ Bay said, smirking. He was leaning against the window frame, smoking; wearing boxers and a sleeveless T-shirt as if he’d recently got out of bed himself.
I glanced down, mortified to be caught wearing his shirt, but relieved that I was at least wearing pyjama shorts beneath it. I probably had crazy bed hair and yesterday’s make-up smeared across my face, too. ‘It was just the nearest thing to hand,’ I muttered, traitorous heat rising to my face.
‘I’d quite like it back at some point.’
‘That’s a pole.’ I said, gesturing to the metal shaft and podium the workmen were mid-way through installing in Bay’s living space. All three men grinned at my words and I mentally chastised myself for not having woken up properly before coming over.
‘Well spotted,’ Bay said, flicking his cigarette butt out the open window.
‘I don’t understand…’
The builders where still standing there, following our exchange with open curiosity. ‘Carry on, guys,’ Bay said over his shoulder as he sauntered towards me. As the whine of the drill re-erupted in my ears, Bay steered me over to the kitchen area out of earshot. ‘You needed somewhere to practise.’
‘Yeah, but… you’re installing that for me?’
Bay shrugged, but his expression was now serious. He filled the kettle and used a palette knife to transfer instant coffee granules into two broken mugs. ‘I could paint you while you dance.’
‘What?’ I said, appalled at the idea of stripping in front of him.
‘Dance, not strip,’ Bay emphasised, correctly interpreting my expression.
‘Oh.’ Bay poured in boiling water and stirred the contents of the cups with a paintbrush handle, while I tried to imagine him watching me pole dance in his living room. ‘What if I don’t want you to?’
‘Why wouldn’t you?’
God he was arrogant. ‘I don’t know, it’s just…’
‘What?’
‘Weird.’
He stared at me as he took a prolonged gulp of hot coffee; his eyes boring into mine as if he were trying to read my mind, or change it.
‘Your eyes are green,’ I said.
‘Yeah, so?’
‘I’ve never noticed before – this must be the first time I’ve seen you in daylight…’ He kept staring at me without reply, but even the rich emerald hue of his eyes, like sunlight through leaves, could not distract me from his proposition. Because, secretly, I was thrilled that he’d gone to so much trouble just to paint me. Admittedly it would have been nice to be asked first, or given a choice in the matter, but then Bay was never polite as far as I could tell.
‘All done, mate,’ one of the workmen said, releasing us from our silent staring match. At some point the racket had stopped and they had gathered up their tools.
While Bay showed the men out I went over to inspect their handiwork; stepping up onto the carpeted podium and testing the pole with two hands; it seemed rigidly secure. Reassured, I positioned my right hand higher up and slowly spun myself around in a wide arc. I landed softly back on my toes to find Bay watching me.
‘Well?’ he said in a low voice.
‘It’s perfect, thank you,’ I said, unable to keep a smile from my face, my headache now gone.
Chapter Eighteen
The sight of Cally twirling daintily around that pole did something to me. She had morning breath, panda eyes, messy hair and most of her figure was disguised under my ill-fitting shirt, but for a moment I couldn’t breathe, or move, or think straight. All the blood had rushed to my cock and I thought I might pass out.
Sternly I reminded myself that I wanted to paint her, not fuck her. I didn’t want to be one of those clichéd arsehole artists who fucked around with their muse; especially when I had nothing good to offer in return. God I needed another smoke already. Her smile hurt my eyes so I turned back to the kitchen to retrieve my coffee and put some distance between us. She took a few more experimental turns around the pole while I calmed myself down enough to take a coffee back for her.
‘Thanks,’ she said stepping down, wrapping her palms around the mug and sipping gratefully.
‘Do you want some music on?’
‘Yeah that would be great; do you have anything suitable?’
‘Probably not, but have a look, see.’
‘I should go change and freshen up first.’
‘No. Just stay as you are.’
‘Oh… OK…’
While she scrolled through the music on my phone I mounted a large sketchpa
d on an easel and positioned it near the pole along with a trolley full of painting equipment. Settling myself on a stool I located a tin full of oil pastels and picked out some neutral colours. By the time the melancholic strains of Portishead’s ‘Glory Box’ filled the room, I was ready.
‘I’m going to pretend you’re not here and try out some new routines, if that’s OK?’ she sprung back up onto the podium and immediately threw herself into her work.
Cally looked nothing like a stripper – she made no effort to be seductive. In fact, there was no eye contact at all. Stopping and starting, she repeated the same moves over and over again and even muttered to herself – lost in concentration. And I filled page after page with quick preparatory sketches, in a vain effort to capture her graceful movements, analyse her methods and understand the peculiar effect she had on me. Despite the fact she was only rehearsing and not performing, I could tell she was good – really good – formally trained, technically skilled and naturally gifted. I knew fuck-all about dancing, but there was poetry in the way Cally moved.
My hand was cramping by the time she stopped and came over to see what I’d achieved. She was breathing hard and the sweetly-scented sheen of sweat on her skin made my groin twitch. As a rule I didn’t allow anyone a glimpse of my work at the first stage of the process, but Cally was so much a part of it; almost living, breathing and writhing within the paper, that it would be churlish to exclude her. I let her look while I fetched her a pint of cold water from the kitchen and she gulped it down noisily while I sorted through my scattered drawings, discarding some in favour of others. Now that I had a good stock of sketches to use, I wanted her gone so that I could take a long, cold shower and get high.
‘So, how is this going to work, then?’ she asked.
I cocked an eyebrow at her.
‘I mean, when do you want me to come and dance? I won’t want to practise on the days I’m working; I’ll be too tired, but what about the other days? Do you want me to come over at a set time or something? How did it work with your previous models?’