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Chapter 2


A year eight lesson was already in full swing as I let myself into the art room. Mr Roberts had them all gathered around his workstation, staring at the whiteboard as he sketched out some guidelines on perspective in squeaky red pen. His hands were fluid and natural, his grasp of depth and angle faultless, but few of them appreciated its value. Most of them were hyperactive and half-interested at best.

It broke my heart, but he didn’t let it faze him. Nothing ever seemed to faze him.

He was wearing his blazer today, a navy blue tweed that fitted like a dream but had seen better days. A blue tie to match over a white shirt already decorated with a fine mist of green paint. His hair was wild, a tumble of crazy jet-black curls to his collar, with the lightest dusting of grey at his temples. Dark stubble ghosted the hard line of his jaw. His eyes were a bright ocean blue under heavy brows, his nose was strong, slightly Roman, and his cheekbones were strong and defined. The autumn light coming through the windows played beautifully across his features.

Mr Roberts looked like an artist.

A real artist.

He looked perfect.

I set myself up in the far corner, on my regular stool, arranging my materials in their usual position, a perfect pyramid of mediums covering my sketchpads. The awareness of having my private musings so close to the muse himself both petrified and excited me, a secret thrill I loved more than anything.

Even Lizzie didn’t know the full dirty depths of my desire. She didn’t know every seedy fantasy that kept me awake at night,

and she hadn’t seen every private scribbling in my sketchbooks. Not even close.

The year eights dispersed to their stations to work on their assignments, and Mr Roberts worked the room, glancing over shoulders, dipping in to help, praising when it was working, and barking for quiet whenever the volume of chatter grew too loud. I loved his voice that way, deep and commanding and without any kind of fluster. He was calm, but he was in control.

It was a great balance.

I set out my palette, a somber collection of deep, dark sapphires with an occasional splash of red. I was working on a Picasso-inspired acrylic piece, but my spin was more edgy, more sinister, more… me. My brush moved freely, slashing at the canvas in a blur as I added definition to the landscape. The figures were huddled impressions, tormented and scared. A panicked horse eyeballed the sky, mouth wide as it reared against the onlookers. I darkened the shadows at its feet, black violet pools stretching into jagged lines.

“I’m sure Picasso would have greatly approved of your interpretation.”

His voice prickled the tiny hairs on my arms. My heart leaped. I felt the heat of him at my back, a stray spiral of his hair tickling my cheek as he leaned in to gesture at the canvas.

“I love this,” he said, his fingers ghosting the horse’s flared nostrils. “So expressive.”

My mouth turned dry. “Thank you.”

His face turned to mine, just a fraction. “I see fine white highlights.” He gestured to the huddled crowd and pointed out the spots. “Here… and… here… Maybe some contrast, some russet, here…yes, that would be… beautiful.”

I couldn’t hold back the smile, lifting my palette and tapping on the color I’d envisaged. “This one, I already picked it out.” Of course, in my mind, those russet touches were hints of flesh. My chest prickled at the thought.

He smiled back at me, and I felt it in my stomach. “Great minds, Helen. This is great work.”

“Thank you, Mr Roberts.”

I breathed him in as he maintained proximity, soaking him through my skin, watching his eyes admire my work as I admired him.

One shrill little voice and the spell was broken. Mr Roberts! Mr Roberts!

He squeezed my shoulder as he left, a firm grip, encouraging, and my heart soared.

I held the feeling tight inside, twirling it around and channeling it through my fingers. My canvas took on a whole new stage of life, of beautiful real life, and I was there, in that terrifying scene, smelling the stinking sweat from the horse’s tense haunches, the smell of fear and dread and despair, but I wasn’t scared, I was burning with passion.

Year eights were replaced by a smaller group of more sedate year elevens, yet I barely even noticed, I was flying free, consumed by the desire of the muse.

The end of the school bell sounded and I barely noticed that, either. Mr Roberts took to the sink, washing out neglected palettes and leaving them to drain on the side. I felt his gaze flicking over my canvas, and over me, too. I twisted my ankles around my stool legs and pulled my shoulders back as I watched him approach. He wiped his hands on a paper towel before casting it away.

“What a difference a few hours make,” he said. “Helen, this has life.”

I loved his eyes and genuine appreciation for the craft. He took a stool, pulled it between his legs, and perched himself at my side.

“I think I’m just about… finished,” I said, applying the final highlight. I took a long breath, closed my eyes, and held them closed as I prepared to inspect the final result with clear vision.

“Stay still,” he said, and his voice was low, so low. “You must appreciate this moment and assign it to memory. I want this in your commentary.”

I smiled. “Okay.”

“When you open your eyes I want you to feel everything about this piece. I want you to write it down, all of it, raw. This is

a magical moment of creativity brought to fruition, Helen, you are an artist. I want to know how that feels, how you feel, I want to live it through your write-up.” I could hardly breathe.

And then the unthinkable happened. I heard the clank of my pencil cases as he swept them from my sketchbook, my stomach lurching in horror at the sound of familiar pages being thumbed. My eyes were already wide as he flipped through the contents, desperate in his search to find me a blank page.

My mouth was open, but no words came out, just a weird haunted shriek as my hands went for his, tearing him away from my most private fantasies. He was just a few flips away from the forbidden zone, just a breath away from my abject humiliation, and in shock he recoiled, and so did I. The sketchbook went tumbling between us, and time slowed to nothing as I watched it fall, its pages flapping like autumn leaves until it slammed to the floor.

On the wrong page.

Fate betrayed me.

A lifelike sketch of my own naked body burned my eyes. I was bound on my knees, staring up in reverence at the shaded man before me. My wrists were tied tight behind my back, my head tipped upwards and my mouth wide to take what was coming.

The naked flesh of Rob Robertstserts was pure imagination running wild, but his face wasn’t. His face was clear and perfectly recognizable. His dark brows were deep in shadow, eyes burning as he guided his thick veined cock towards my waiting mouth. His lips were curved, smiling, his hand heavy on the back of my head, holding me tight.

Oh. My. God.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.

I let out a pained yelp and scurried from my seat, but he was there before me, my sketch firmly in his grip as his eyes roved over my dirty secret.

I felt sick and the world lurched around me, my cheeks burning as I fought back the panic. I gathered up my materials in a flurry and threw them into my art case.

“Helen…” he began, but I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t bear it.

“I’m sorry,” I whimpered. “I’m… I’m just… I’m so sorry. Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

“Helen,” he said again, and this time he reached out for me, his hand so hot on my wrist that I jolted away.

“Please, please may I have my sketchbook?” It didn’t sound like me. I sounded like a little mouse, a terrified little mouse.

He flipped it shut and handed it over without argument, and I dropped it into my case like a hot potato. Then I was up, on my feet and ready to go, clumsy feet tripping over each other in my haste to escape, but he called me again, and this time his voice was firmer.

“Sit back down,” he said. “We should talk about this.”

I shook my head. “No need, it won’t happen again, I promise. It will never, ever happen again.”

“I’m not looking for apologies or assurance, Helen, I just want to talk.”

Talking was the last thing I wanted to do. I could have cried with relief when the door swung open and Lizzie’s little pigtails came into view over the paint stand.

“I’ve got to go,” I said, slinging my bag onto my shoulder. “Please?”

He shrugged in defeat. “School’s over, Helen, you’re free to leave.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, and I was away, clattering into Lizzie by the whiteboard and grabbing her by the elbow. I frogmarched her out of there and didn’t dare look back.

I’d never be able to look back. Not ever.

I doubted I’d ever be able to look at him again.

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