by Mandy Lee
‘Lucy!’ I call out. ‘I’m going to need some help here!’
A couple of minutes later, after a good deal of swearing and a fair amount of bruising, we finally manage to manoeuvre the crate into the hall. Another two minutes later, and the crate is wedged into my bedroom, stuck half way between the door and the wardrobe.
‘I’m fucked!’ Lucy gasps. ‘What is it?’ She’s totally out of breath from the exertion. But then again, so am I.
‘No idea. Go and sort the dinner out. I’ll open it.’
With a shrug of the shoulders, she’s gone. I sigh at the crate. Whatever it is, and whoever it’s from, I’m only going to have to return the bloody thing. It takes me a few minutes to work out how to open it. Finally, I resort to prizing off the top with a knife. At first, I’m presented with a layer of foam packaging. I pull it out, scatter it across the floor, peer back inside the crate … and freeze. Straight away, I can see the edge of two canvases and beside them, some sort of wooden contraption which I already know is an easel. I tug the easel out of the box and lean it against the wardrobe, still folded up. Next comes a palette, quickly followed by a clear plastic bag that’s crammed with tubes of oil paint in every possible colour: burnt sienna, aquamarine, deep umber, magenta, midnight blue ... I catch my breath at the sight of them. It’s a long time since I’ve seen my old friends. I’ve kept them at arm’s length for far too long. The clouds part for a brief second and I catch a glimpse of my former self: determined, committed, fulfilled. I empty out the bag, arranging the tubes across the floor, co-ordinating the colours before reaching back inside the crate. At the bottom, I find two bottles of linseed oil alongside a palette knife and a selection of brushes in a wooden presentation box. It’s all top of the range material and it must have cost a bomb. For a moment or two, I rummage further, searching for a card, anything to give me a clue to the identity of my mystery benefactor. I find nothing.
And then it hits me. There’s no need for a card. No need for any evidence at all. I know exactly who’s responsible for this. Picking up a tube of paint, I turn it slowly in my hands. I’m trembling. He’s known me for less than a week and already he’s researched me and pursued me, and now he’s hit me right where it hurts. I glance across at my mobile. There’s been no contact all weekend, not since the last text at Slaters. But should I text him now? Should I simply re-pack the crate and tell him in no uncertain terms that he needs to take it all back? Or should I thank him, accept the gift and make it totally clear to the man that he’s not just bought himself a passport to my nether regions? Or should I accept the gift and simply go with it? Throw caution to the wind, climb back into bed with him and see where it goes? Because when all’s said and done, that’s what I really want to do. Before long, my eyes are stinging with tears. I curl up into a ball, my mind tumbling its way through the possibilities. I don’t know how long I spend like that, but at last, I hear Lucy’s voice.
‘Oh God.’ She kneels down on the floor next to me and clasps her arms around me. ‘Who’s sent you this lot?’
‘Who do you think? You told him I had no paints.’
‘Daniel Foster? Jesus, this lot must have cost an arm and a leg.’
I hear myself laugh.
‘It’s nothing to a man like him. It’s just his way of getting into my knickers, Lucy, and I’m not having it. He can take it all back.’
‘You can’t give it back.’
‘Why not?’
‘You just can’t.’
‘Then it can go to a charity shop.’
‘Maya,’ Lucy says sternly. ‘You need to keep this stuff. You can’t afford to replace it and at some point, you might even get painting again. It’s got to happen one day.’
I nod silently.
‘Anyway,’ Lucy mutters, ‘dinner’s ready.’
I nod again. Pushing myself up from the floor, I return to the kitchen where I’m presented with a plate full of pink chicken that’s been carefully arranged alongside a mound of undercooked roast potatoes. The whole thing is finished off with a mountain of Brussels sprouts that are so al dente they could easily pass for concrete. I suppose we could put this right somehow, but I’m so exhausted by this point I can’t even begin to think my way through an eminently simple situation. Instead, very gently, I inform Lucy that pink chicken is a death wish … and fortunately she agrees. With immediate effect, we give up on the Sunday roast. It’s scraped into the bin, shortly before we set about creating a well-loved back up: beans on toast.
***
And then I’m back in my super-heated bedroom. I spend an hour or so staring at a blank canvas before I lie down on my bed and fall asleep. Waking just after six, I stare at the canvas some more. Perhaps it’s fatigue, perhaps it’s the hangover, or perhaps it’s the heat that envelops me. I’ve no idea what causes it, but I soon begin to see the outline of a tree. Nervously, I unfold the easel, prop the canvas up against it, take a pencil in my hand and sketch out a few lines. Before long, the tree appears in front of my eyes. And then it’s joined by another … and another. Their branches twist and curl through the air, forming an intricate lacework against the sky. The basic sketching is soon complete. It’s time to take out the oils. I retrieve the palette, select a handful of brushes and set about choosing my colours: raw umber, a deep venetian red, ochre, a touch of raw sienna. Unscrewing the tubes with a shaking hand, I squeeze a blob of each colour onto the palette and make a start. By the time I’ve laid down the darker colours, the nerves have gone and my hands are no longer shaking. Right in front of me, tree trunks emerge out of nowhere, taking their shape, branches lacing their way out across the canvas. I watch in awe, as if it’s somebody else’s hands working here. I have no idea why I’ve chosen to start with this place, but I know exactly where it is. I’m painting a stretch of woodland back at home in Limmingham. A place I visited often when I was younger. It’s my place of sanctuary.
It’s nearly midnight when I’m finally done for the evening. I return from my trance, clean up and climb onto my bed, exhausted. Still in my shorts and strappy top, I inhale deeply, taking in the welcome scent of oil and linseed, gazing up at the ceiling, quietly satisfied that after years in the wilderness, I’ve finally found myself again. My heart begins to thud at the thought of it. I’ve found inspiration, and I have no idea how that’s happened. All I know is that a button has been pressed somewhere. And now I’ve set myself back on a path. I click off the bedside lamp and watch the curtains as they flutter lazily in a breeze. It’s hot again tonight, so hot that sleep won’t come easy. My eyelids grow heavy and finally I begin to drift off into a fitful sleep. And I’m dreaming of paint, and colour, and heartbeats pounding. And I’m wondering if that’s the sound of a motorbike I can hear …
Chapter Twelve
I almost fail to go into work on Monday morning. But the rent’s due and I’ve got to pay my way. And although I’ve made my decision about Daniel Foster, there’s still something drawing me back into the building. When I arrive, I’m a nervous wreck. Scanning the lobby, I hope that he’s come in early, that I won’t be confronted by him. I just want to make it up to my office safely. And I do. Pushing open the glass door, I find Jodie already at her desk, busying herself with the task of painting her nails bright red.
‘Maya!’
At the sound of Norman’s voice, I dump my handbag on my desk and venture straight into his clutter.
‘What can I help you with, Norman?’
He gazes up at me from behind the piles of paperwork. ‘What’s going on?’ he asks, wafting a sheet in the air.
‘Nothing much.’
‘I mean with the Tyneside factory.’
‘Why are you asking me? I thought it was being shut down. Two hundred and twenty five lives shattered.’
‘It is being shut down,’ he confirms, holding the sheet out in front of him. ‘But every single one of those employees is being offered a transfer to another part of the company, or an extremely generous redundancy payout.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘He’s never done this before. Whenever he’s had to close anything down, he’s always sent them on their way with the bare minimum. These payouts are ridiculous.’
I walk over to his desk, take the sheet from Norman’s hand and run my eyes down the figures. They are, indeed, ridiculous.
‘Is this anything to do with you?’ He stares up at me.
‘Of course not.’
‘But that little speech of yours …’
‘He paid no attention to that.’
‘Maya, he paid full attention.’ With a sigh, he scrabbles around in the mess, grabs a handful of papers and thrusts them at me. ‘I’ve drafted some letters. I need you to type them up, and then I need to check them with the Legal department. Can you get them done quickly?’
‘Of course.’
I take the letters back to my desk and stare at Jodie for a moment, wondering yet again why Norman doesn’t just ask her to do something every once in a while. And then I stare at my desk. Right next to my telephone, there’s a jam jar filled with sweet peas in a whole host of colours: pink, red, white, blue, purple. Tiny petals, curling in on themselves. It’s a simple display, but I’m moved. It’s transported me straight out of the greyness of the city, back to my childhood home, to our garden and my dad’s vegetable patch.
‘What’s this?’ I ask quietly. Shoving my handbag onto the floor, I pick up the jar and take in the scent.
I catch sight of Jodie as she shrugs her shoulders.
‘Dunno. They were here when I got in.’
‘Maybe it’s Norman,’ I tell myself. It seems the sort of thing a sweet, clueless old man would do.
‘Could be the cleaner,’ Jodie suggests. ‘He’s a bit of an idiot.’
I place the jam jar back down on the desk. I don’t care if he is a bit of an idiot, if it’s the cleaner who’s done this, then it’s a sweet, simple little gesture and I love it. In fact, I’m inspired and I wish, for once, that Norman hadn’t provided me with a pile of work. I’d love to pull out a blank sheet of paper and sketch them.
‘I’d better get on with this then,’ I say loudly. ‘I’ll just do some work, shall I?
Jodie shrugs her shoulders again and blows onto the nails of her left hand. Clearly unbothered by my sarcasm, she’s got far more important things to see to.
I’m just getting into typing the second letter of the day when I’m disturbed by a trousered leg on my desk. I look up to find Daniel Foster staring down at me, his eyes glimmering, a frown lining its way across his forehead. Immediately, my heart decides to launch itself into some sort of manic dance.
‘Jodie!’ he snaps.
The pink princess seems to jump clean out of her seat.
‘Yes, Mr Foster?’
‘Sling your hook.’
‘Eh?’
‘Get out,’ he growls. ‘Now.’
‘Oh. Okay.’
Shoving the bottle of varnish back into the drawer, Jodie gets to her feet and begins to sidle out of the room.
‘How long should I be?’
‘Long enough. Here.’ He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a note. As he thrusts it towards her, I’m pretty sure I catch sight of a twenty. ‘Go and get yourself a coffee.’ Without batting an eyelid, she takes the note and scurries out of the office. My God, that girl has some gall, brazenly taking money off her boss like that. He watches the door swing to a close before he turns back to fix me with his gaze.
‘So,’ he whispers, leaning forwards and pushing the jam jar to one side. ‘Tell me. Why, exactly, did you run?’
‘I … er …’
‘I … er …’ he mimics me, ‘woke up on Saturday morning to find an empty space next to me in my little two man tent.’ His eyes flash with anger. ‘And I … er … was not amused.’
Good God, I hardly recognise him. The gentle, caring man who held me in his arms on Friday night, the man who soothed me while I was in an agony of fear, has totally disappeared. He’s back to the abrupt, rude bastard I met last week. I wonder for a moment if the gentle version was only a charade. If it was, he obviously couldn’t keep it up for long. Sod you, my brain screams out. You don’t get your own way and your true colours come out, don’t they? Well, I’m not having that. Later on, I’ll finish off my resignation letter, and then I’ll be out of here before you know it.
‘Oh, why? Because you didn’t get your fuck?’
‘No,’ he seethes. ‘I … er ...’ He falters. ‘I wanted to talk.’
His words knock me off balance. To talk? Surely not. And what the hell would this man talk about? Exactly?
‘Oh.’
‘Oh,’ he mimics me again, and that’s enough to set a spark to the anger in my gut. ‘And while you’re at it, would you care to tell me why you ignored my texts?’
‘My phone was out of battery.’
He leans down and breathes into my face.
‘Cut the crap, Maya.’
‘There is no crap to cut.’
‘We’re going to sort this out.’
‘Oh really? Are you going to sack me then?’
He sits up straight. ‘Of course not,’ he scowls, looking more than slightly offended.
‘Good, then get off my desk. I’ve got work to do.’
‘It’s my desk.’ He taps the latest romantic novel to one side. ‘And I very much doubt the claim about work.’
‘Well then, just get off your desk and leave me alone.’
‘That’s not very nice. Not after what I did for you on Friday night.’
‘Oh, so I have to pay you back for that, do I? And while we’re at it, I suppose I’m expected to pay you back for the paints as well.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘You shouldn’t go around sending ridiculous presents to total strangers.’
‘We’re not total strangers. I’ve had my hands all over that beautiful body of yours. And it wasn’t a ridiculous present. A gifted artist with no paints is a travesty. I simply rectified a bad situation.’
‘So what do you want in return? A fuck? Do I owe you one?’
He points at me, and out of nowhere he’s seething. ‘Nobody owes anybody anything around here. Now, I suggest that you get your act together because I’m going to take you for lunch.’
‘Take me for lunch?’ I simmer. ‘You’re going to take me for lunch?’
‘Yes, I’m going to take you …’ he pauses to make his point, ‘for lunch.’
Oh bugger, he’s not talking about food, is he? He actually is going to take me … for lunch. And now there’s all sorts of stuff kicking off down below and that’s not good. There’s absolutely no way I can deal with this. If Daniel Foster gets inside my knickers one more time, I think I might be lost. And I don’t want to be lost, because being lost is inevitably followed by having your heart broken. No way am I letting this man take me for lunch. No way. No how.
‘I’m working through lunch.’
‘Norman!’ he calls out.
There’s no answer. He calls again, louder.
‘Norman!’
The door opens. Norman scurries out of his office.
‘What is it, Mr Foster?’
‘Norman, enough of the Mr Foster crap.’
‘Sorry, Dan.’
‘Are you making this good woman work through her lunch hour?’
‘No. No, of course not, Dan.’
‘I should hope not. We don’t pay her nearly enough for that kind of dedication.’
‘Is that all you wanted?’ Norman asks, glancing from Dan to me, his face puckering up with confusion.
‘Yes it is. You can leave us now.’
I wince at his tone of voice. I know he’s angry with me for putting a spanner in the works with his plan to fuck me senseless, but there really is no excuse for talking to Norman like that. I wait for Norman to close the door before deciding to pull up the big kahuna on his manners.
‘I don’t care how angry you are, you don’t n
eed to be so rude to people, you know.’
He sits up straight, obviously stunned.
‘These are my employees, Maya. I can speak to them how I like and I don’t need any lessons from you.’
‘Well you clearly need lessons from somebody. You’re about the rudest bastard I’ve ever come across. I actually started to like you on Friday night, but I’m glad I bailed. I’m glad I didn’t let you screw me. You’d just walk all over me like you walk all over everyone else.’
He stares at me, open-mouthed, for what seems like an age. At last, he shakes his head. Go on then, I silently urge him. Sack me now!
‘I’ll pick you up at twelve,’ he murmurs, shoving the jam jar back to its original position.
He pushes himself up from the desk and saunters over to the fridge. Slowly, he leans down and opens the fridge door, pulling out a bar of chocolate. He’s taking his time, and I know it. He’s showing me his wares, the arrogant git. Well, I don’t want his wares. He stands up straight, turns around, unwraps the chocolate and takes a bite, staring at me all the time.
‘Nice and sweet,’ he sighs, licking his lips and chucking the wrapper into the bin. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Chapter Thirteen
At eleven fifty-five precisely I launch a getaway. I’m more than pleased with myself as I collect my handbag and scurry off down the hallway. I punch the lift and wait, but not for long. Almost immediately, the doors open to reveal no one … apart from him. A typhoon of spasms set off in my groin and my heart begins to do some sort of tap dance. My body’s doing exactly what it always does when I’m in his presence. It’s going on the rampage. And I’m not happy with it.
‘You’re not taking me for lunch,’ I mutter.
‘Oh yes I am.’ He flashes me a smile and waves a hand. ‘Get in.’
A ripple of lust makes its way up my body. Go on, a voice cries out, go and get some.
‘No.’