by Sarah Thorn
''I'll ask Andre van Staalen to take over as your teacher from now on.''
''Why?'' The look of shock on her face surprised him.
''He's more dynamic than I am. He'll teach you at a faster rate, bring you on better. You're a great student, you deserve the best.''
''But you are a great teacher,'' she said without hesitation. ''Why do you think I've been chosen?''
''Because you're talented. Nothing to do with me.''
She stood back from him and pushed her hair away from her face. ''I don't want another teacher. I want you.'' It was genuine heartfelt appeal, one which touched him quite deeply. ''You are a great, I have learned so much from you, you just don't realize it.''
''Thank you for those kind words. None of which are true by the way,'' he said leaning against the wall. ''Alright, I don't want to disturb your studies. If you want to stay with me, then stay.''
She smiled and without saying anything walked ahead of him back into the classroom. No, stop, he told himself, desperately trying not to look at the shape of her hips and bottom as they swayed seductively in front of him.
******
The Dragoon was full as usual. The barman placed a glass of red wine in front of Peter, and he took a sip. When he saw Marion at the other side of the pub, he turned away from her. What had he been thinking taking her back to his apartment? He was a mess, and he had to do something about it. First he had to apologize to Max. He took out his mobile.
''Max?''
''Hi Dad.'' Max liked answering the phone. He'd been doing it since he was four.
''Listen, I'm really sorry I forgot your birthday. It was unforgivable. I could give you a list of excuses but I just plain forgot.''
Max was silent for a minute. ''It's okay Dad. It's not easy for you, alone without mum and me.''
It wasn't easy without Max, he was right, but being without that bitch of a woman was certainly no hardship, he thought. ''How about I take you out next weekend. Anything you want to do.'' He heard a woman's voice in the background and a rustle.
''Stop trying to bribe him to love you,'' she said. '' I want you to keep away from here.''
''You can't stop me from seeing him.''
''Can't I? Watch me.'' The line went dead.
Peter gulped down the wine and ordered another. When Marion wandered over to the bar she gave him a dirty look. ''You ignoring me?'' she said.
He shook his head. ''No, why would I?''
''I enjoyed yesterday evening.''
He had too, at the time, but now when he looked at her, she was really not the kind of woman he needed in his life. ''Me too. It was nice.''
''Can we do it again?'' she asked.
Peter closed his eyes and thought for a moment. He couldn't remember her name. ''It was nice yesterday, but I'm in no mental shape to start a relationship. Sorry.''
She looked disappointed as she turned away from him. He ordered another drink.
Two hours later the barman shouted. ''Peter. Peter,'' as he tried to wake him. ''Peter, wake up.'' Peter opened an eye and looked at the portly young man. ''You fell asleep with your head on the bar. It doesn't look good. Go home.''
The group of young men looked at each other and smiled when they saw Peter stagger out of the pub. They'd been waiting for someone like him. Respectable looking, probably with a wallet full of cash, and too drunk to fight back. Peter didn't see his attackers; they came from behind. One of them hit him on the back of the head. As drunk as he was, he fell like a sack of flour. The sound of his head hitting the concrete was nauseating. He looked at the feet around him, through the blood which was streaming into his eyes, as he tried to stop one of the attackers reaching into his inside jacket pocket. Another kicked his arm away. The last thing he saw before he passed out were three pairs of sneakers running away.
*****
The driveway from the main road to Brunswick Hall was a mile and a half long. It was Marcella's childhood home, and she knew every corner of it. As she drove her battered Fiat through the enormous sandstone gateposts into the estate, it felt oddly unfamiliar. The dispute with her father had escalated to such an extent that she no longer felt welcome. But she wanted to see her mother. No, she needed to see her mother.
She slid to a halt in front of the eighteenth-century mansion and got out of the car. It was a warm evening, and there was a row of sparrows sitting high above her on the guttering. She walked up the steps to the front door and went inside. The entrance hall had a marble floor, and it echoed as she called out.
''Hello.''
An old woman came through a door at the back of the room. ''Marcella. Oh Marcella, come here and give me a hug. It's so nice to see you.'' Marcella hugged the small plump woman. ''You're such a fine lady, these days. It doesn't seem like a minute since I used to change your nappies.''
''Thank you for reminding me,'' Marcella said. Silvia had been Marcella's nanny. Now she was cook and housekeeper to the Earl and his wife. ''Is mummy at home?''
''Yes. Somewhere in the garden.''
''I'll go and find her.'' Marcella went back out of the front door and walked around the house to the back garden. It was a huge garden that stretched down to the river. It was her mother's pride and joy. The lawns were immaculate, and the borders at this time of year, full of colorful plants. After five minutes she saw two feet poking out from a border. ''Mummy?''
Marcella's mother was a former model and fashion designer. She never had a hair out of place, but in the garden, she felt free to wear what she wanted and let her hair flow in any direction it cared to fall. ''Marcella,'' she said enthusiastically. She stood up slowly, stretching her back. ''Damn weeds. They never seem to stop.''
''You should get a gardener. It's a lot of work for you alone.''
''Since Sylvia's husband retired I haven't bothered. As you know your father it too miserly to pay for anyone else.''
Her mother was still a stunning looking woman. She was Marcella's role model when it came to looks and fashion. Her black hair was tied up in a bun, and her immaculately manicured fingers were hidden in a pair of huge gardening gloves.
''Mummy I'm sorry. I hate asking, but I haven't got any money.''
Her mother was Marcella's last chance. She hated asking because she knew her mother disliked going behind her father's back. ''How much do you need?''
''A thousand.''
''When you get a job as the Queen's sculptor you can pay me back,'' she joked. ''Come with me to the house. I'll write a cheque.''
They linked arms as they strolled over the path between the borders and onto the wide lawn.
''Marcella,'' it was her father. He'd seen the two women approaching the house from his study. He was leaning out of the window. ''Don't go bothering your mother for money.'' He was much older than her mother, and he'd never shown Marcella much affection.
''I'm skint,'' she said honestly. ''I only have a few months of my degree left. The bank won't lend me any more.''
''No, no, no. I told you when you chose that ridiculous degree that we wouldn't finance you. You should have studied something proper, like law.''
She'd heard it all before. There he was, in his tweed jacket, yellow shirt, and red tie, one of the richest men in England denying his daughter any form of happiness.
''But it's what I want to do. It's what granny did.''
''Your grandmother was a ridiculous figure. Living on that barge, like a vagrant. She did nothing to enhance the family's reputation.''
''Granny was one of the country's leading sculptors. How can you say that?''
The Earl slammed his fist down on the windowsill. ''Sculptor? All she did was make a few strange looking articles from copper. No, Marcella, no money. And you,'' he looked at his wife, ''don't go giving her any cheques,'' he said.
''Bastard,'' Marcella shouted. She began to walk towards the window. Her father knew what her rages were like and he quickly shut the window. When she thumped on it, he left the room.
''I'll talk to him,'
' her mother said, pulling Marcella away from the window. She put her hand in her pocket and pulled out fifty pounds. ''Here take this.''
*****
Marcella shouted down to Joyce, who was making supper on her narrow-boat. Joyce waved her to come on board.
''You look glum. What's the matter,'' Joyce asked, as she fished some boiled potatoes from a pan.
''My father, again.''
''Money?''
Marcella sat at the small table in the galley and looked out over the water. For a moment she wanted to be a duck. They looked so carefree. They didn't have to bother about money and careers. ''Yes. I'll be finished in a few months. I can get a job then and pay them back. He's a pig.''
''You know I would help you if I could,'' Joyce said apologetically.
''Oh no Joyce. I wasn't insinuating you should help me. I need you to talk to; that's all.''
''Could you get a job? A bar or cafe?”
''I've just been given a fantastic opportunity, and I think it's going to take up all of my time.''
''Really, what?''
''I'm representing the Academy in the National Sculpture Competition.''
''Wow. Congratulations,'' Joyce said as she opened the oven and peered at the chicken cooking inside. ''That's quite an honor.'' Marcella nodded. ''What will you make?''
''I don't know. I'm thinking about it,'' Marcella spun a teaspoon that was lying conveniently on the table. ''Mike wasn't so bad after all, you know. Perhaps I should give him a call. Say sorry.''
''Why? Because you need money or because you love him?'' Joyce said in her most abrupt manner.
''You're right. I'd just be using him.
''You could sell the barge. It's worth half a million, and it's yours.'' Joyce looked apologetic when she saw the look of horror on Marcella's face. ''Sorry.''
''Granny left me that boat. I won't ever sell it.''
''Of course. It was a dumb suggestion.''
''I've got fifty pounds in my pocket, and half a tank of fuel in the car. I'm going to go to sleep early, and in the morning, I'm going to drive home again and talk to my father. I'll pack in college and study business.''
''But....after all the hard work you've put in. It would be such a shame.''
''It would. But I can sculpt in my spare time, as a hobby. Perhaps my father is correct. You can't earn money from art.''
*****
The ambulance arrived just in time to save Peter from bleeding to death.
''He's been very lucky indeed,'' the doctor said. ''Are you family?''
''Er no...I'm one of his students. I wanted to talk to him at college this morning, but they told me he was in hospital. What happened?''
''He was attacked. Mugged.''
''Will he be okay?''
''We hope so.''
''Hope?'' Marcella said questioningly.
''Yes he should be. He needs to rest. When he wakes up, he'll have a big headache.''
''Can I sit with him?''
''Yes. Nobody else has been to see him.''
Marcella pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed. She didn't know what the machines around him were; they looked scary. He had a drip feed into the back of his hand, so she touched his forefinger. She stroked it gently. In bed asleep, he looked boyish, not at all like the man that lectured at the London Academy. His hair was brushed back from the wound on his forehead which was covered by a bandage. She felt his finger twitch as she continued to stroke it. Then, he opened his eyes.
Marcella was wearing a white T-shirt, a blue jacket and pair of faded jeans. He said something, but she didn't understand. She raised herself from her seat, closer to him.
He repeated himself. ''Venus.'' She pointed to herself. He nodded.
Marcella laughed. ''You're suggesting I'm like the Roman Goddess of love?'' He nodded again. ''I think you're delirious,'' she said.
''No. You're just like her. Apart from the black hair.''
Marcella smiled. ''I'm glad you're going to be okay.''
''Thank you for coming to see me,'' he whispered. Her beautiful presence had lifted his spirits.
When she arrived the next day, he was altogether more lucid. When he saw her standing in the door, talking to a nurse, his eyes looked at all the places he knew they shouldn't. She's a student, behave; he told himself.
''How are you today?'' she said flashing a white smile at him. She was made up more than he'd ever seen her before.
''Getting better. Are you going to a party?''
''No, why?'
''Because you're all made up.''
She wanted to say, ''it's for you,'' but she didn't think it was wise. ''So when are you coming back to the Academy?''
''The Doctor told me I can probably go home tomorrow, and go back to work in a week.''
''Great. Can I talk to you about something?''
''Sure.''
''I'm leaving,'' she said. He looked at her. If anyone had asked him how he felt right at that moment, he would have said, 'brokenhearted.'
''You can't. Why do you want to leave?''
''I have no more money, and my father won't help me. I'm going to do a business degree instead.''
She looked sad but determined. ''No. I can't allow it. You're just a few months away from graduation, and what about the competition?''
''They'll find someone else. I'm not the best.''
''You are the best. By far. No, this isn't right. No way are you leaving.''
''But I have no choice. I haven't got enough to buy the week’s groceries.''
He stared at her chest as it heaved against her blouse. ''Let me help you.''
''No, I can't accept that.''
''What are you going to make for the competition?''
''Nothing, I'm leaving.''
''Please, Marcella. Okay, let's assume you were going to do it. What would you make?''
''Something in bronze, like granny did. I know, I'd sculpt an owl.''
''Why an owl?''
''Because there a lots of them at my childhood home. I love the noise they make. You can lie under the covers and listen to them speaking to each other.'' Her eyes lit up as she thought of the prospect. ''You.......''she wanted to call him, 'bastard.' ''You did that on purpose, didn't you?''
''Yes. Look with how much enthusiasm you spoke. Would you talk with so much interest about a cash flow report or a balance sheet?''
Marcella dipped her head and looked at his hand. She wanted to touch it. He was clever, very clever and she liked him for it. He'd just shown her how much she cared about her sculpting. ''But I can't take money from you. It wouldn't be right.''
''I haven't got a lot of money, but I can help you. Tell you what. When you've finished your owl, it will be worth a few thousand. If it makes you feel better, you can sell it and pay me back.''
She smiled. The wound on his head was going to leave a scar. ''Thank you. Okay.''
His eyes lit up. For the first time in an age, he felt invigorated. You know I can't help you with the design and sculpting process don't you?''
''I know.''
*****
''You're back,'' Marcella jumped off her stool and hugged Peter. He felt her breasts crushing against him. The effect her scent had on him was even stronger than the last time she'd thrust her arms around him.
He closed his eyes, trying desperately not to touch her. What he felt wasn't right, and he was painfully aware of it.
''Yes. Back and raring to go.'' He wanted to tell her he hadn't had a drink for a week and that he'd actually decided to sculpt something again. But she didn't have to know how low he'd sunk. All she needed to see was how much he wanted his star student to win. ''Is that the beginning of it?'' he asked when he saw a clay model.
''Yes, that's the base for the cast. But I can't get it right.''
They looked at each other. Each full of lust and longing. He turned away and took a deep breath. He put his satchel on the desk and rolled up the sleeves on his checked shirt. ''Show me,'' he said, sitting down a
t his desk. ''Show me what you're having difficulty with.''
Marcella sat on her stool and picked up a knife. ''It's the proportions of the mouth and eyes. They aren't right.'' He got up and walked to the table.
He leaned to the sculpture and looked at it. ''A bit out of sync, you're right. Do you want me to show you how to get it correct? I'll get hung, drawn, and quartered if anybody knows I've helped you.''
''I want you to kiss me,'' she said desperately. She'd seen his vulnerability, and now he was showing her his strength and she wanted it all. He'd used a new aftershave, and she loved the scent of it. She imagined him between her open legs, thrusting into her, making her scream. ''Please kiss me,'' she said when the silence became too long.
''No, I can't. You're a wonderful woman. But I'm your tutor. We can't....'' She took hold of his arm and pulled him to her. He felt her breath on his face and smelled the fragrance of her hair. She knew he was aroused. He was standing, she was sitting. She could see it.
''Kiss me, I want you.''
''Arrrrghh,'' he cried. He pulled away, his back to her. His erection large and throbbing against the material of his trousers. ''I can't........I want to......but I can't.''
Marcella didn't want to push him further. ''Sorry. I shouldn't have asked you to. I apologize.''
When he turned back to her, she saw he was still hard. ''Come and show me what you meant, I will behave myself,'' she said.
He showed her the correct technique and told her she should start again.
''But it'll take ages if I start again.''
''You have to learn to destroy bad work and start again.'' He looked at her hair, shining in the sunlight that was streaming through the classroom window. Her bottom was hanging over the edge of the stool, and again he felt the need to turn away and sit behind his desk.
''Okay, I'll start again.'' He sat and watched her, entranced by the concentration on her face, the way her hair hung down her back and the way her legs wrapped around the stool.
