The Secret Lives of Emma: Unmasked

by Walker, Natasha

  Emma left the building and crossed to the barn. The door was locked and there was a little sign – ‘I Paint’. Emma smiled. She had won. But had lost in winning. She wasn’t his muse, as he had said, she was an anti-muse.

  She left him to paint and took herself down to the sea. The sun shone brilliantly above and the sea was postcard blue. From the cliff top she counted twenty-four boats and yachts, all a dazzling white, anchored or slowly cruising by. Brown bodies lounged about, stood on or dived from the decks. She climbed down the rocky path. The scent of wild herbs mixed with the smells of the sea filled her nostrils. It was the scent of a home she had never known. It was in moments like these when she could walk away from herself entirely. She could hand herself over to the world. She was still young, she was still beautiful, she was rich in the eyes of the world. She stopped on the pebbled shore, lifted the dress over her head and dropped it to the ground.

  When Emma returned to the barn a few hours later the door was still locked. She could hear jazz playing. She resisted the urge to knock and moved on to see what Elena was doing. As she entered the kitchen, Elena’s dog Pluto came up to her, wagging his tail. Emma reached down and picked him up. Plates were unwashed in the sink. She passed through to the living room. Little Marco sat in a playpen holding a small red fire truck. He stared at her in his way – no expression – but then quickly lost interest and turned his gaze back to the truck. Emma was about to call out when she heard a particular sound. She stepped to the bottom of the staircase and listened again. Unmistakable. Emma tiptoed back the way she came, leaving Pluto in the kitchen. When she was outside she looked around for Giovanni’s van. It wasn’t there.

  So Emma sat at Marco’s bedroom window. She could see the courtyard and, over the rooftops, the sea. She knew she shouldn’t have let curiosity get the better of her but there was no fighting it. She had to know who Elena was fucking. It was too juicy a discovery. Elena had always seemed to be the model Italian wife: dinner on the table for her husband every night, always ready and willing to make food for her brother, both buildings kept sparkling, the beach rented and cared for, good mother to her son, no personal ambitions. Emma felt like cheering this indiscretion. But before she could she had to know who it was. She had to know Elena was doing this for herself and for no other reason. She hoped for Elena’s sake it was one of the hot young bods renting a spot on the rocks from her and not Giovanni’s obese boss threatening to fire her husband if she didn’t let him into her bed every Tuesday morning.

  When Elena emerged from her house she sat little Marco on a rug outside and herself on a chair and began shelling peas. Emma felt cheated. She knew what she’d heard, there was no mistaking it. It was Elena and a man. Her voice, his grunts. But no man had left the building, at least not by the door. Had Elena been watching porn and masturbating?

  Emma ran down the stairs and, smiling, entered the courtyard.

  ‘Morning, Elena,’ she said, striding up to her.

  ‘Ciao,’ replied Elena.

  ‘You look very well this morning. Very beautiful. You seem to be glowing. Did you sleep well?’

  Elena began to glow now, bright red. She nodded.

  ‘May I join you? Marco’s painting and I have nothing to do until we go into town.’

  Emma didn’t wait for an answer but went into Elena’s house, dashed upstairs and took a look around. She’d never been upstairs before. The bed in the main bedroom was made. There was no TV, no laptop. She checked the other rooms. All was as it should be. She hurried back downstairs and carried a chair out and placed it beside Elena.

  ‘I know it’s early but do you have any wine?’ And Emma was back in the house. She made her way to the living room windows. One was unlocked. She opened it wide and looked down at the ground below. It would be easy to get in and out of but there was nothing to see. No footprints or marks on the window sill. She felt thwarted. But she loved the idea of a man sneaking in too much to let the facts ruin her fun.

  Back outside with a bottle and two glasses, and after a few meaningless minutes of chatter, Emma couldn’t resist any longer. ‘I came by earlier looking for you but you were busy upstairs.’

  Elena was silent, she looked away.

  ‘I think it’s great you have a lover,’ she added, taking a gamble.

  Again her words were met with silence, but the silence was all the evidence she needed.

  ‘You should have a lover. You’re a beautiful woman. You work so hard. You deserve a bit of fun.’

  Elena kept her head turned but said, ‘I meet him on the beach. I never do anything before. I am ashamed.’

  ‘Did you have fun?’

  Elena was silent again and Emma wondered if she had gone too far. She didn’t know Elena very well.

  A moment later, though, Elena answered, ‘This is the last time. I tell him he can come no more.’

  ‘Last time? How many times has he been?’

  ‘I meet him one week ago.’ There was a slight pause while she calculated. ‘So, twelve times.’

  ‘Twelve times!’

  Elena laughed and for the first time turned her face and looked at Emma.

  ‘We meet on the beach. But cannot do nothing there. Not much. He is very grezzo. He come morning and then afternoon, too. You think me a whore?’

  ‘No. I think you a woman,’ she said, and poured a drop more wine into Elena’s untouched glass. ‘All women deserve more sex. All women need more than one man. What is grezzo?’

  ‘He make sex always. Talk sex. Touch me. Make me touch him. People watching. He will make trouble for me.’ Elena made a face and fanned herself.

  Emma laughed.

  ‘I cannot stop with him. I think only of what he do to me. Nothing else. Only what he do. When he leave I will go crazy. Giovanni is not a good lover.’

  ‘When does he leave?’

  ‘Non lo so. Tourists never long here. I tell him no more but already I am thinking of later, of tomorrow.’

  ‘Who is he? What does he do?’

  ‘Non lo so. We don’t talk much. It’s crazy, no?’

  ‘No, not crazy. Delicious.’

  ‘Delicious?’

  ‘Yummy.’

  ‘Si, si. Delicious. I want him too much. Too much! Already I am wanting and he just left.’

  The barn door opened and a shirtless Marco appeared. He smiled and locked the barn behind him.

  ‘You keep my secret?’ asked Elena under her breath.

  Emma squeezed her hand. ‘Yes.’

  They were in Marco’s room.

  ‘Did you paint well?’

  ‘Si,’ he answered, pulling off his jeans. He stood for a moment completely naked. Talking to Elena about her lover had been a mistake. Emma stared at his tanned, muscular frame and felt physical pain from knowing she couldn’t have him.

  ‘What did you paint?

  ‘Secret.’

  ‘Will you swim?’

  ‘No. I shower.’

  ‘I’ll shower, too, then,’ she said, lifting the dress above her head. He was watching. She undid her bikini top, freeing her breasts and then deliberately turned slightly and pulled down the bikini bottoms so that she gave him something to think about.

  When he made a move towards the bathroom she saw that his cock had thickened. She followed him.

  He turned on the shower and let the water heat up. She pretended to check her face in the mirror, placing both hands on the sink, her arse presenting itself.

  He stepped under the water and she joined him.

  ‘Will you wash me?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ She took up the bottle of shower gel and squeezed a generous amount into her hand. She rubbed it into his chest and washed his shoulders and underarms, then she worked her way down. She loved the muscles on his sides and his abs. She ran her soapy hands all over them. The soap suds were dribbling down his body and onto his cock, which had hardened completely. Emma squeezed more soap into her hands and asked him to turn around. He put his head under t
he shower spray and let the water wet his hair. Emma washed his back and then each of his muscular butt cheeks and then she ventured between them. She rubbed him and washed him from his arsehole to his balls and back again. Giving the area a thorough clean, pressing her body against his, she hugged him around the waist and took his cock in both hands. One hand massaging and cleaning his balls and the other sliding up and down his shaft, being very sure to get it clean. Marco was groaning and his body was jolting uncontrollably every time her fist ran off the end of his cock.

  Emma wanted to have him. She wanted him to paint. The two opposing desires ran through her with equal strength. If she were to cause him to stop painting then she will have killed a very attractive part of who he was. She had to control herself.

  She let go of his cock.

  ‘You’re clean.’

  FIFTEEN

  Emma felt trapped. She had no way of getting back to town. Every morning now Marco woke early and painted. And every morning Elena was being visited by her secret man. Afterwards she would come in search of Emma to swear she would never do it again. Twice he had visited her in the afternoon, too. Every time they met Elena had to tell Emma what he had done to her. Emma was going crazy.

  Marco was more and more gorgeous. He was so pleased with his painting. He was together again. He was a painter first, a lover second. His accomplishments in the studio filled him to the brim. But his desire for her had not diminished. Every night they had ever more frustrating naked wrestles. They would make out. Sometimes he would make her come with his fingers. Sometimes he would go down on her. But what she wanted was for him to fuck her, yet he was becoming superstitious.

  No fuck. I paint.

  She would grip his cock. Kiss its head. She would stroke it. She would let him rub it up and down her sex. Drops of pre-come would be licked off. She would begin to suck him off and he would fall back groaning. But she wouldn’t make him come. He would have to break and fuck her. She assumed he masturbated as soon as he was alone. Their nights were so hot and maddening. They would roll around in his bed like two teenagers who were too frightened to go the next step.

  Emma would have found no Marco at all less frustrating than this. Being right up against him. To be able to hold his cock. For him to express his desire for her. It worked her up to a place which she could not climb down from.

  But every morning he painted. Then they went to work. While he painted she had nothing to do. She could talk with Elena or go down to the sea. She hadn’t been able to read. Every time she was alone she ended up masturbating. She would do it on and off for hours. It was pathetic. And didn’t help.

  She had promised not to fuck anyone else while they tested her theory. But this promise was becoming harder and harder to keep. She had returned to the erotic life. The debauch with the American was just the beginning. She wanted more. She wanted never to stop. There was nothing she wouldn’t do. She’d have paid someone to fuck her. And then there was Elena’s man. She was so jealous of the sex Elena was having she had even contemplated stealing him from her. It was absurd but she had considered waiting for him by her window. She had thought about this again and again while masturbating. She could walk in on them. That was her second option. Nothing was wicked enough for her.

  Now she was completely naked and standing at Marco’s window again staring across at the barn. How many days? She felt gorgeous. She felt like sex itself. She had just made herself come twice. She just needed Marco to leave the barn and come to her. She leant her forehead against the glass.

  The biggest problem she and Marco had to face was that the test had proven her theory. She didn’t need a whole week to go by. He could paint when he wasn’t fucking her. That was that. Their affair was over. Emma was just too in love with her Italian idyll to end it. Where could she go?

  The thought of leaving Italy in summer for London was too depressing. And going back to Sydney seemed like capitulation. She’d rather take her chances heading east. Her imagination had made its choice long ago. She would go to Yalta. The Yalta of Chekhov. She would buy herself a white Pomeranian and linger too long in the park. It was something to do. She had been knocked off course and needed a point to focus on. Just the thought of Yalta was enough to steady her thoughts.

  She moved away from the window, hugging herself. She needed to be where people were. She would return to the pensione. She would clear her head and prepare herself for moving on. Piling her stuff on the bed, she went in search of her backpack and emptied it on the bed, too. She needed to talk to someone. Really talk. To share what she was thinking. She needed to find someone who would understand her. She thought of Paul. He would listen to her, offer advice. But she didn’t want advice. What was it she wanted?

  She sat down on Marco’s bed. The notebook she had bought when she arrived in Otranto lay amongst the mess. She flicked through the pages of writing. The words she had put down surprised her. It was feverish writing, full of lust and longing, of love and loss. Of regret. Sketches, fragrances on a breeze, half-caught speech, and half-forgotten touches. There was no order to the thoughts. She had written them as they came. They were beautiful and sad and drenched in love. She read them and cried. David was in the room with her again as she read them, and when she finished and closed the book she felt bereft.

  She would go to Yalta – the craziest ideas were the best. She packed her bag and dressed properly. When Marco finished painting she would go back to town with him. It didn’t need to be goodbye but she would stay in town from now on. Sleeping with him was driving her crazy. He was too damned attractive to be near. Staying was no longer an option. She couldn’t move on from here. He lived at the end of the road. She would have to retrace her steps to move on.

  But Marco didn’t stop painting that day.

  Emma had dozed off for a bit and when she woke she realised she was late for work. From the window she could see that the barn door was still locked. There was no sign of Elena, either.

  Emma knocked on the barn door and Marco called out in answer.

  ‘Open up, we’re late.’

  ‘I no go today!’ he shouted back.

  ‘You have to take me into Otranto.’

  ‘You take holiday!’ he shouted.

  ‘Open the door, Marco.’

  She waited a few moments. The door didn’t open.

  ‘Open the door!’ she repeated.

  ‘I paint!’

  ‘You fucking open the door!’ she shouted, and banged the flat of her palm against it.

  ‘Calmarti. I come.’

  He was smiling when he opened the door, paintbrush in hand. He leant against the frame wearing only his jeans.

  ‘You wanna go swim?’ he said, motioning with his thumb in the direction of the sea. His fingertips were smeared with paint.

  Emma’s resolve was shaken a little. His face was unshaven, his smile a brilliant white and the expression in his eyes told her he had already undressed her. He scratched his shoulder with the end of the paintbrush. He was completely carefree. Her eyes followed. She recalled how it felt to run her hand across the broad tanned hairless pecs. His jeans were low-slung and those muscles she had no name for which ran down either side of his abs, were entirely exposed. He was a perfect specimen of a man.

  As Emma made no reply, he smiled even more brilliantly.

  ‘Ahh … volete qualcosa di diverso?’

  Emma closed her eyes. He knew she found him irresistible when he spoke to her in Italian.

  ‘Desideri rompere la tua promessa?’

  He had an unfair advantage. She had come to say goodbye. He had gone too far. She clenched her jaw and opened her eyes. ‘I need you to take me to Otranto. I leave today.’

  The smile on Marco’s face vanished. He stood up straight. ‘You leave Italy?’

  ‘No. I will stay in Otranto.’

  ‘Because I paint?’

  ‘Because I never meant to stay this long.’

  ‘But I make painting for you.’

&nbs
p; ‘I don’t want a painting. I want you to paint. I want you to be happy and successful.’

  ‘I don’t like this.’

  ‘It can’t be helped.’

  ‘Cosa?’

  ‘What can we do?’ she asked, rephrasing.

  He looked past her and repeated what she’d said. ‘What can we do?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You want see painting?’

  ‘We have to go. I’m late.’

  ‘Come. See painting.’

  She couldn’t say no. He seemed surprised and upset by her decision to leave.

  She entered the barn and saw what he had been doing. It was vast. He had sketched a rough outline across five very large canvases, each on their own easel. Two of the canvases were partially painted so she was able to get a feel for the colours he intended using.

  ‘I never paint nothing like this before.’

  Emma stood back against the closed door to try to take it all in. It was manic and full of movement. It was erotic. Yet she couldn’t work out what it was depicting. There was flesh – that was certain. There was urgency. It was lustful and hungry.

  ‘I make from sketches. You remember?’

  He went over to the divan and picked up the sketchbook. He flicked through and found the sketches of Emma. ‘It is you,’ he said, waving his hand across the five canvases. On the page there were five small sketches, the one which caught her eye was a portrait of her sucking his cock. ‘You stay until they finished. I need you stay.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Tre mesi.’

  ‘Three months! I can’t stay three months! I’m going crazy. Do you know how hard it is? You’re too fucking hot. Look at you! I want you to fuck me ten times a day! I want you to paint and to fuck. But you can’t. You can’t do two things at once. Few men can. And I want you to paint more, so I’m going.’