‘I have a proposition for you. I don’t want you to feel any pressure. I just thought this would be something you would like to get on board with,’ Jamie said as he opened his draw, fumbled around and then passed me a leaflet. ‘I have a friend. She used to be a social worker; we worked together a few years ago. She was always into holistic medicine and trained to be an acupuncturist after she had her daughter. I started seeing her a few weeks ago just to see if it would help with my anxiety, and we got talking.’ Jamie had experienced significant bereavements in the space of a few months, and at times, still struggled to cope with the impact of his grief. Abi had already told me that he was seeking alternative methods of support that he hoped would offer some additional help.
‘Goldenwell’s Treatment Centre; what is it?’ I asked as I started to read the leaflet.
‘Ruth owns it with her partner. It’s a treatment centre for adults recovering from drug and alcohol issues. They offer counselling, reflexology, acupuncture, but also art therapy. They’re looking for a volunteer to help out with the art therapy groups, so I immediately thought of you.’
‘Wow. It looks amazing. I would love to be part of this.’
‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ he smiled. ‘I told Ruth that I would talk to you about it and if you were interested, you would make contact with her yourself. Is that OK?’
‘Yeah, of course. I’ll do it now,’ I replied before standing up to leave.
‘Oh, Saturday night,’ he said, raising his finger. ‘Ask Steve if he’s interested in going out, but there’s no way I’m going to a vegan restaurant again. We’re thinking about the new gourmet burger place. Elle forwarded the link the other day; it looks amazing. If he can’t handle a bit of dead cow, tell him there’s a bean burger with his name on it.’
‘If you weren’t my manager, I might have thought about using some choice language, but I’m going to be the bigger person and leave.’
He laughed. ‘The day I hear choice language from you is the day I’ll start wearing black socks.’ I looked down at his feet and caught the orange, brown and yellow stripes peeking up through his brown suede brogues.
‘Maybe I’ll surprise you one day.’
When I got back to my desk, I started flicking through the leaflet for Goldenwell’s. The picture on the front showed a small brick building with a smattering of lawn and a few trees dotted around. The facility offered counselling sessions to people recovering from addiction, and support groups for family members affected by drugs or alcohol. It also provided reflexology and acupuncture as alternative treatments, but group art therapy sessions appeared to be the biggest part of its service. Inside the leaflet were photographs of people standing behind easels in obvious mid-flow. Various paintings full of bright colours drew my eyes towards them.
I picked up the phone immediately and spoke to Ruth, the co-owner, who specialised in acupuncture and counselling sessions. She said that she was thrilled to hear from me as Jamie had spoken so highly not only about my talents as an artist but about my qualities as a social worker.
‘Listen, I’d love for you to come down and take a look around. I’m here all day. Have you got any spare time? Perhaps you could nip over on your lunch break?’ Ruth asked hopefully. ‘I don’t mean to sound pushy, but you sound like someone who would fit in here, and, to be honest, we need the help,’ she laughed.
I arrived at the centre just before lunch after grabbing a quick sandwich on the way over. The centre was smaller than I imagined it to be and was in obvious need of work. There was a handmade plastic sign that looked like an old PVC tablecloth often used with children when painting to stop them from making a mess. It was flapping in the breeze and curling up at the edges. At the side of the door was a bench with a bucket filled with sand to stub out cigarettes. It was full, and various nub ends were scattered across the pavement. Just as I moved towards the front doors, a lady came out carrying a dustpan and brush.
‘I spend my life cleaning this up,’ she said as she saw me contemplating my next move. ‘Are you Kate, by any chance?’
‘Ruth?’ I held out my hand, and she took it, shaking it briskly with a wide smile on her face.
‘Yes. It’s so nice to meet you. Honestly, I was thrilled when you called. Come on in,’ she said, wafting her hand towards the door that she was now propping open with her hip.
Ruth was a tiny woman wearing a stripy cotton dress and black leggings, and on her feet were purple boots. My eyes were drawn to a large beaded necklace where a pair of red glasses dangled. Her hair was short and spiky with pink ends. I liked her immediately.
‘We’re not much, but this is us. How much has Jamie told you?’ she asked.
‘He gave me one of your leaflets but I’d love to find out more,’ I replied, taking in the space. The centre looked much bigger inside then it did from out front, like a Tardis for painters. I spotted a kitchen to the side and a couple of doors with ‘please knock’ written on tatty bits of paper ripped from a notebook.
‘These are the rooms we use for counselling sessions. We offer support to recovering addicts; mainly alcohol and drug-related, but we have taken on people recovering from other addictions. We also offer support to their families and people supporting them to recover. You’d be amazed who comes through the doors and the stories they bring with them,’ she said as I followed behind her.
‘Can I see the art room?’ I asked, desperate to take in the space.
‘Of course.’ She opened the door to a larger room and I could immediately smell the paint. Several large easels were standing to the side and a few tables were stacked on top of each other. They were littered with paintbrushes in pots, plastic boxes filled with paint, and plants in various stages of life. Mainly dead. ‘We have a class later tonight, so I’ve pushed everything to the sides. I need to get the easels out and set up a chair in the middle, but apart from that, we’re good to go.’
‘What kind of class?’ I asked.
‘Thursday nights are our busiest because we usually have a theme. We have classes where we encourage people just to paint what’s in their souls. You can tell exactly what mood people are in from those free paintings. It helps them to get their feelings under control, but it helps us as therapists to see where they are in their treatment and what they might be struggling with. This class has more direction. It could be an object we ask them to paint, or some form or another. Tonight it’s life form. We have a model coming in…if he turns up,’ she said, reaching her eyebrows to the ceiling. ‘I’ve talked one of my clients into doing it, but he can be a bit…unpredictable.’
‘I’d love to help out. My art class is about to do a life drawing class. I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks.’
‘Why don’t you come? Get involved. I’d love to see more of your work,’ she said as she clasped her hand over mine.
‘More of my work?’ I asked, unsure of how she could have seen any of my work before.
‘Didn’t he tell you?’ I shook my head. ‘Jamie sent me a photo of the painting you did for his girlfriend. I was extremely impressed. It was stunning.’
When Elle moved in with Abi last year, I wanted to give them a unique flat-warming present. I knew exactly what I was going to paint and spent hours at the embankment painting in the sunset that I wanted to capture so perfectly for them. The embankment was our space to untangle the events that life had thrown at us over the years. The painting depicted the water under the bridge, calmly meandering across the riverbank with a vivid sunset as the main colour of the piece. They immediately loved it; it hung pride of place in Abi’s living room above the sofa. Elle was trying to talk me into painting one for her new home with Ben, and unbeknown to her, I started it last week.
‘Thank you; that means a lot,’ I replied shyly. I found compliments encouraged a flash of embarrassment, so I attempted to change the subject. ‘You have a male model coming in?’ I asked, remembering Steve’s perception that the allotment committee would not agree with a paint
ing class that allowed me to study and admire the naked form. I thought a penis would tip him over the edge.
‘Yes, he’s somewhat reluctant. He refused to go completely naked, so we’ve come to a compromise. He’s art itself, so I’m very pleased he’s agreed to sit,’ she smiled.
Art itself? How intriguing…
‘Count me in.’
Chapter Three
It was a cold night with an incredibly unforgiving wind, and every step I took closer to Goldenwell’s made me feel sorry for the soon to be naked male model described as art itself. If it got too cold, maybe we could compromise and draw him wearing a duffle coat, scarf and gloves.
Ruth spotted me immediately and started waving me over from the hatch in the kitchen. ‘Would you mind helping me get some tea ready? The big pots are under the sink and the teabags are in the cupboard over there.’ She pointed behind her head as I dropped my bags. ‘Have you had time to eat?’
‘No, I came straight from a home visit, but if I grab a biscuit, I should be fine until later,’ I replied, shrugging off my coat.
‘Help yourself. I have some lemon sherbets in my bag if your stomach starts to protest,’ Ruth smiled. ‘Just give me the nod.’
I set to making the tea and put out some mugs before locking my belongings in Ruth’s office. The centre was getting busier and the room was full of activity when I peeked my head inside. There were ten easels set out in a circle; most of them had someone standing behind them setting out their paints or pencils depending on what form they wanted to use for their art. I noticed Ruth point to an easel at the other side of the room, so I took that as my cue to get ready for the class to start.
‘He isn’t here yet; I’m starting to panic,’ Ruth said as she blustered across, knocking my easel with her elbow. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy getting naked if he doesn’t arrive?’
‘Absolutely not,’ I blushed.
‘Oh, thank God; he’s here,’ she said as she scuttled to the back of the room while I continued getting my paints ready. ‘OK, everyone, can I have some quiet?’ Ruth shouted. ‘Are you ready to start? Great. I’m extremely grateful to this person for agreeing to sit for us tonight. I couldn’t quite talk him into going the full monty, but honestly, when you see him, I’m sure you’ll agree that he will bring a fascinating dimension to your piece.’
I watched as a man slunk over to the middle of the room. He was sitting with his back to me at first and was still fully dressed in a deep red and black checked shirt unbuttoned at the cuffs. Black jeans hung perfectly over his hips. He was wearing a baseball cap, which he removed as he sat down, running his fingers through the dark ruffle of hair as he dropped it to the floor beside him.
‘Please, let’s give a warm welcome to Danny Benedichi.’ The room clapped, and there were a few wolf whistles, which Danny appeared to ignore until he chose to stick his middle finger up to a man on the other side of the room. He smiled, apparent that they were friends from their finger gesturing banter and deep laughter.
‘When you’re ready, Danny,’ Ruth said as she came to stand next to me.
He shifted a little in his seat before he started slowly unbuttoning his shirt. The sleeves were bunching down his arms, and more skin began to show as he pulled the material to his wrists until his chest was fully exposed. Flipping heck. Before I realised it, the paintbrush I had been holding was now on the floor rolling across to him with a loud rumble and totally giving my flustered self away. He turned his head and caught my eyes. I swear that one look from Danny Benedichi had the ability to take off every item of my clothing, lie me down on the floor and swiftly part my legs.
‘Sorry, I’ll just get that,’ I said as I crouched down beside him to pick up the brush before quickly returning to the safety of my easel, hiding my eyes behind it.
He was pure art. Art itself. His shoulders, arms and back were adorned in tattoos. Not the kind of tattoos that had been scratched on from a backstreet doodler or done in drunken regret. They were all meticulously designed and beautiful, sweeping over the hard curves of his body, merging to form something that could only be described as exquisite.
Putting pencil to paper or paint to canvas would never justify the beauty of this man or the designs that graced his body. I held a paintbrush in my shaky hand and began to add small strokes. His fingertips drew my eye first; they flicked and wriggled occasionally and were the only tiny indication of his nerves. The rest of him pulsated with full-blown confidence. His hands were free of any artwork, but they didn’t need anything. Those fingers were art. Slender, long and tapping out their own rhythm. He had a slight dusting of dark hairs across the back of his hand and a trail that led up to the first sleeve of tattoos on his right arm. The design was so intricate that I wanted to walk up and lift his arm just to get a closer look and take in every inch. Shaded steps were leading a dark-haired child up to the shattered face of a clock, and above it was the sleeping face of a beautiful woman with what appeared to be a scarf wrapped around her head; a single piece of dark hair had fallen across her forehead and the name Serena was at her side.
Stories.
What were his stories?
What did the clock represent?
Was the child him?
The woman his mother?
How inextricably strange that I had a burning desire to know all of the answers…
Across his shoulder was a large moon, black and white with the beautiful silhouette of trees surrounding it. His muscles rippled and flexed as he changed position slightly. The white highlights across the dark shadows were amazingly bright. It picked out just the perfect amount of light, intensifying the shadows and giving prominence to the contours of the branches. They were still profoundly dark and menacing but also alluringly delicate and ethereal.
‘OK, Danny, would you like to turn slightly?’ Ruth asked quietly. He followed the instruction slowly, and I was able to see more of the designs across his back. It was covered with one large piece that looked religious in its design. As it swept down past his shoulder blades, there were angels with sorrowful looks of anguish and pain on their faces, and right in the middle was the reason for that sorrow. A large crucifix that covered the span of his shoulders dominated the scene. Christ was depicted on the cross, his head hanging down, his feet bound together. The only colour across the design was a few dots of deep red down his face, feet and hands around the large nails used to hold his body in place. It was completely celestial. So was he.
Underneath the cross at the bottom of his back was the Virgin Mary weeping at Christ’s feet as she held her hands out to the thunderous sky above his head.
‘One more turn?’ Ruth’s voice made me jump as I stared at him in fascination rather than painting him. I couldn’t help but hold my hand to my chest to steady my nerves because I was finally face to face with him. Art itself. His chest wasn’t as detailed as his back, but he didn’t need anything to define his sculpted muscles. I diverted my gaze quickly and started to paint the bright birds on either side of his collarbone. They were holding a banner in their beaks that said Faith. I couldn’t help but be directed down to the clear ‘V’ shape that was sitting amazingly above the waist of his jeans. There was some kind of elegant writing across the middle of his defined ‘V’, but I couldn’t quite make out the words. I squinted to try to make sense of the scrawl and wished that I’d remembered to take my reading glasses out of my bag.
His smirk caught my eyes. It got bigger, as did the ache between my legs. ‘Do you want a closer look?’ he said, framing the words on his skin with his fingers suggestively. ‘Come closer. I don’t mind.’
‘I’m sorry…glasses,’ I said, hitting my hand on my forehead. ‘I should be wearing my glasses.’
‘No mercy.’
‘Sorry?’ I said narrowing my eyes and biting my lip in concentration.
‘It says No mercy,’ he replied, his eyes staring directly into my sex drive. I nodded my head in thanks and returned my eyes to the canvas. Thank you, canva
s…
I didn’t dare return my gaze to his deep brown eyes. They told a thousand stories but also hid the man behind them. The only place his stories weren’t hidden was in the tattoos dancing across his skin that were both visually beautiful and utterly compelling.
I wondered if those tattoos were the only truth about him that he was able to offer the world.
Chapter Four
‘How was that?’ Ruth asked as I started clearing my paints away. The class ended a few minutes ago, and Danny had taken his time pulling his shirt back on before slipping out of the room without ceremony.
‘It was…amazing, inspiring…intense,’ I said as I thought back to his body. I meant his tattoos, the art of his tattoos, the tattoos that covered the art that was his body.
‘They’re beautiful, aren’t they?’His dark eyes? Yes. His sculpted arms? Yes. His ‘V’ shaped deliciousness that promised no mercy? Certainly.
‘Yes, so beautiful. I understand now what you meant by art itself,’ I replied as I scanned the room to see if he was still around.
‘He designed them all, you know. He’s an amazingly talented artist if he would just put his mind to it,’ she smiled knowingly.
‘Does he come here to take part in the art classes?’ I asked.
‘Not my story to tell,’ she smiled knowingly as she headed to the kitchen.
I stepped back and studied my painting of Danny. I knew that it didn’t come near to doing him justice, but I was happy with what I’d done in such a short time. I started to wipe my brushes on some old scraps of material I had found in the art room but turned sharply when I heard a deep voice behind me.
‘Don’t mind me.’ He walked over to the stool where he had been sitting earlier. ‘Forgot my hat,’ he said, pointing to the floor before raking his dark hair back with his fingers and sitting it back on his head.
‘Oh. Right. OK.’ I held my hand against my chest and noticed the speed of my heart rate as he stepped closer towards me.
Let Me Be Your Truth (Music and Letters Series Book 3) Page 2
