kept glancing up to stare at his eyes as he worked. Intense concentration. But when she reached for a sketchbook from the table he forbade her from opening it. Another hour. She poured herself a second glass. The wine on an empty stomach caused her to get light-headed. She took up another art book and stretched out on the divan.
And while the painter painted, Emma fell asleep.
TEN
Emma lay in that delicious moment between sleep and wakefulness. She had not been dreaming, she had not been anything. Now she was back and she was undecided as to what it meant. She opened her eyes and stared up at the bare beams of the barn without recognising them. Then slowly the pieces tumbled back into place. The smell of turpentine. The soft jazz. The book on her breast. The empty glass of wine. All was as it was. She must only have dozed off for a second. The light had not dimmed, but Marco was no longer by the easel.
‘Marco?’
There was no answer. Emma raised herself onto her elbow and the book fell to the ground, pages splayed. Emma swore and picked it up, bending back the damaged pages. She closed the book properly and placed it on the chest. The sketchbook he had forbidden her to look at was still there.
He’d have removed it if he really didn’t want her to open it. She pretended she wasn’t interested in it and she lay back. She’d wait for him. She loved the atmosphere in Marco’s studio. She would stay there forever. Be his assistant. His muse. His lover. She didn’t mind as long as she could stay.
The sketchbook could not be ignored. She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillow. She was smiling into the fabric as her left arm reached blindly for the forbidden fruit. She dragged the large book along the chest and onto the floor. She turned and turned it until it was ready to be opened and then she paused. Without lifting her face from the pillow she slid open the sketchbook. Now she was absolved of guilt. She could claim the book was like that when she found it.
Emma dragged her face across the pillowuntil her left eye could look over the edge of the divan. She was disappointed. The page was covered with small detailed studies of woodwork. Chair legs, balustrades, table legs. She flicked the page. Another disappointment. Stonework. She turned pages, more and more studies. Emma’s heightened senses calmed. She had been expecting him to return and catch her, but now it didn’t matter. He had forbidden her because it was a book filled with his exercises.
Emma found a page of small studies of hands. Women’s hands. One page over. Ankles and feet. Women again. Charcoal and pencil. Flick. Necks. Ears. Heads turned away. Then pages of women’s backs. Beautiful images. She thumbed more pages. They were blank. She slammed the large book shut. A page was dislodged in the back and Emma slid it out. It was a nude. A woman. Exuberant charcoal. Full page.
She flicked through the blanks and found pages of nudes. She studied them one by one. These drawings made Emma smile. There was something about Marco’s sketches, something new that she hadn’t seen before in figurative drawing. They were not detached, they were not about beauty. She had never studied art and had none of thetechnical language needed to be clear about what she felt was so different. They were erotic. They were captured passion.
She flicked the page again and came across a sheet of small erotic scenes. It wasn’t about technique. The difference was somewhere there in what he was feeling or sharing with the sitter. It was obvious to any observer that the women in the larger portraits were involved in the act of creation somehow and were not just models. There was some relationship between artist and subject. And viewer. That relationship made the sketches intimate, they included her in them, they invited her into the scene, to participate.
She brought the page of small erotic scenes closer to her eyes. One little sketch was absorbing all
And while the painter painted, Emma fell asleep.
TEN
Emma lay in that delicious moment between sleep and wakefulness. She had not been dreaming, she had not been anything. Now she was back and she was undecided as to what it meant. She opened her eyes and stared up at the bare beams of the barn without recognising them. Then slowly the pieces tumbled back into place. The smell of turpentine. The soft jazz. The book on her breast. The empty glass of wine. All was as it was. She must only have dozed off for a second. The light had not dimmed, but Marco was no longer by the easel.
‘Marco?’
There was no answer. Emma raised herself onto her elbow and the book fell to the ground, pages splayed. Emma swore and picked it up, bending back the damaged pages. She closed the book properly and placed it on the chest. The sketchbook he had forbidden her to look at was still there.
He’d have removed it if he really didn’t want her to open it. She pretended she wasn’t interested in it and she lay back. She’d wait for him. She loved the atmosphere in Marco’s studio. She would stay there forever. Be his assistant. His muse. His lover. She didn’t mind as long as she could stay.
The sketchbook could not be ignored. She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillow. She was smiling into the fabric as her left arm reached blindly for the forbidden fruit. She dragged the large book along the chest and onto the floor. She turned and turned it until it was ready to be opened and then she paused. Without lifting her face from the pillow she slid open the sketchbook. Now she was absolved of guilt. She could claim the book was like that when she found it.
Emma dragged her face across the pillowuntil her left eye could look over the edge of the divan. She was disappointed. The page was covered with small detailed studies of woodwork. Chair legs, balustrades, table legs. She flicked the page. Another disappointment. Stonework. She turned pages, more and more studies. Emma’s heightened senses calmed. She had been expecting him to return and catch her, but now it didn’t matter. He had forbidden her because it was a book filled with his exercises.
Emma found a page of small studies of hands. Women’s hands. One page over. Ankles and feet. Women again. Charcoal and pencil. Flick. Necks. Ears. Heads turned away. Then pages of women’s backs. Beautiful images. She thumbed more pages. They were blank. She slammed the large book shut. A page was dislodged in the back and Emma slid it out. It was a nude. A woman. Exuberant charcoal. Full page.
She flicked through the blanks and found pages of nudes. She studied them one by one. These drawings made Emma smile. There was something about Marco’s sketches, something new that she hadn’t seen before in figurative drawing. They were not detached, they were not about beauty. She had never studied art and had none of thetechnical language needed to be clear about what she felt was so different. They were erotic. They were captured passion.
She flicked the page again and came across a sheet of small erotic scenes. It wasn’t about technique. The difference was somewhere there in what he was feeling or sharing with the sitter. It was obvious to any observer that the women in the larger portraits were involved in the act of creation somehow and were not just models. There was some relationship between artist and subject. And viewer. That relationship made the sketches intimate, they included her in them, they invited her into the scene, to participate.
She brought the page of small erotic scenes closer to her eyes. One little sketch was absorbing all
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