SEVEN DAYS (10 page)

Still, she didn't think that they were good enough to submit as examples of her best work.

Among her sketches, were drawings of accidentally-deformed dogs and cats, a failed landscape or two and an awful, abandoned experiment in abstract painting.

This wasn't going to work after all.

Beneath an abundance of useful plastic bags, behind an array of sensible shoes, a First-Aid box contained what she used to refer to as her Emergency Art Kit, consisting of a few sketching pencils and a superb eraser, some charcoal, a palette of watercolour paints and assorted brushes wrapped together in a bamboo holder.

“Hello, old friend,” she said. “Are you going to get me out of trouble or into it?”

After a three bean salad to keep her going, she spent the rest of the afternoon attempting to breathe life into still life, which had always been her favourite kind of painting. At first, she had worked freely, with her tongue curled at the corner of her mouth, a sign that she was really concentrating, but the longer she worked on the paintings the less they looked like the objects she intended them to represent. They didn't look solid. They were flat and floating.

She might have enjoyed reclaiming the process of drawing and painting if she hadn't been so tense. The deadline for applications was days away, which meant that she had to get hers in the post tomorrow morning at the latest.

Barry had always commended her and recommended her for her ability to work under pressure, but that evening she became more stressed than she had been for a long time. The more she worked the harder it got, which was not the outcome she had been expecting. It was not the outcome she was used to at all.

By the evening, an entire pad of paper lay strewn over the bedroom floor. A second carpet, crunching and cracking beneath her bare feet.

Frustrated, but unwilling to give in, she removed her white blouse and then removed the paint set from the box.

An hour later, she was huffing and puffing and feeling tenser than ever. On opening up the wardrobe, she looked at herself in the full-length mirror. It was a good thing that she had stripped down to her bra, because she had a habit of folding her arms while she was thinking and was so engrossed in her ideas that she forgot she was holding a paintbrush. As a result, she was adorned with colourful smears on her arms and sides. She couldn't explain the smudge of blue paint on the end of her nose though. She had no recollection of that one.

Her mind was only ever this sloppy when she was painting. She had lost all track of time too and was dimly aware that she should be wrapping this up and getting to bed if she was to get up for work tomorrow.

Now that she had spent so long working on her painting, however, let alone her letter of motivation, she was loathe to go to sleep without having sealed the envelope so it was ready to go in the post first thing in the morning.

She gazed at her reflection, assessing how many more minutes she had in her. Worry and lack of sleep had made her pale and in this light her hair was an uninspiring shade of brown. In a moment of uncharacteristic poetry, Peter had described her hair as having the colour of autumn leaves. The only resemblance now was that both were dead and dry and drifted about on the whim of every draught.

The smudge of blue on her nose made her a crying-on-the-outside kind of clown.

Staring sleepily and miserably at her blue nose, however, gave her an idea.

In the top drawer of her dressing table, she found an unused mirror, about A4 size, and lay it on the floor, on top of discarded sketches. Kneeling before it, she used a fine, black marker pen to trace her reflection onto the surface, tracing the lines of her face very carefully, knowing that she would only have one chance to get this right.

Tired eyes.

Tense, thin lips.

It looked somewhat like a child's drawing, until she added her wavy, unruly hair.

She tinkered with it some more, realising that 'tinkering' with a marker pen put her on dangerous ground. She added the slight dimple in her chin, the beauty spot beside her left eye and filled in her pupils so that the image stared directly out of the mirror.

It was somewhat crude, but some people thought that Cezanne was 'clumsy' and this was a good likeness of her, even if she said so herself. It looked sad. It looked about right.

As she waited for the ink to dry, she became sure that she had created the most accurate self-portrait she could. The portrait admitted that there wasn't much to see when looking at Judy Knight. She was an outline, with slightly wobbly lines if you looked closely. Aside from that she was empty. There was nothing for anybody to find except for their own face, their own thoughts, their own feelings, reflected back at them. She had become an expert at deflecting questions or interest in herself. She was better than invisible.

This explained why she had found it so difficult to write her letter of motivation. Writing authentically about herself had been impossible. She had invented or spun every sentence, every word, in an attempt to be the ideal candidate, not herself.

She'd be stuck if she really did make it onto the course. She'd have to keep up an electrifying act for seven days.

She dated and initialled the reverse side of the unusual canvas, entitling it: 'Mirror Image'.

To her horror, she realised that she had created conceptual art.

Mark would have been amused or proud. She didn't know which. She pretended not to be bothered.

She wrapped the mirror in paper and then some leftover bubble wrap, which was neatly organised and labelled in her stationary cupboard, and then wrapped that in some more paper before sliding the lot into a large, padded envelope, which she marked: “Fragile. Please handle with care.”

Before inserting her letter of motivation, she added a line to the bottom of the last page.

“None of this is true,” she wrote.

She was such a neat freak that a neatly-addressed envelope and a strong adhesive strip made opening the envelope seem almost impossible. She didn't yet know that sealing that envelope had sealed her fate.

Chapter Four: Clocking Off

Auguste Renoir:
“One must from time to time attempt things that are beyond one's capacity.”

“That's...er...sweet,” Barry said and Judy wished that she hadn't mentioned the art retreat to him after all. It was done now though and couldn't be taken back, like her application in the post box outside the building. “Somewhat unusual,” Barry went on, “but, it might make a nice change.”

“Why unusual?” Judy demanded, peaked.

Barry raised an eyebrow. Why did people keep doing that to her?

“I'm used to you punching numbers into a computer. I've never seen you show any interest in art.”

You've never seen me,
she thought,
but that's my fault, not yours.

“I like art,” she said.

“You'd better. You'll have a week of it if you get on the course.”

“Which I'm unlikely to do, right?”

“I didn't say that, but...is the competition high?”

“Yes,” she admitted, feeling foolish for having got her hopes up. “Yes, I think so.”

“Well, if you don't get on the course, you can just go somewhere else, right?”

She felt like he was trying to let her down gently, preparing her for the inevitable. She wanted to shout him down, but he was right that her application was a long-shot and somewhere between the idea and sealing the envelope, she had started to believe it was a real possibility rather than a way to pass one of many lonely evenings.

She didn't dare tell Barry that she had had to submit an original work of art too. Unfortunately, however, she let it slip to Jules, the IT guy who came to upgrade her machine that morning.

“That's...er...sweet,” said Jules, waving the mouse around, clicking and closing all her windows.

“Why is everyone saying that?” Judy asked. “It's not sweet. I can be artistic.”

“At times, I think you can be autistic. Artistic? I don't know.”

“That's not funny.”

“I'm not joking.”

He said no more for a few minutes and then asked: “So, did you enjoy your rest yesterday?”

“Does everybody know about that?” Judy snapped.

“You really do need a holiday,” said Jules. “Chill out, will you? Why wait for an art course? Just go for a massage or something.”

“I don't need a massage,” she said. “I need a computer that does what I tell it to do.”

“That is why I'm here,” Jules agreed, “but I could throw in a massage for free.”

“Just make it work, Jules.”

“You're the boss.”

She admired the way he just let things slide, whereas she let things get to her. Jules never gave the impression of vulnerability. He was the most relaxed person she had ever met.

He worked out at the gym several times a week, where he also took a course in a martial art of one sort or another. She had heard him say from time to time that he was an artist, though she didn't see what was so beautiful about kicking people in the head.

Still, it was working for him.

“Have you ever meditated?” she asked.

“Why?”

“Curious.”

“Free the mind,” he said, “and the rest will follow.”

“The rest of what?”

“I could show you?”

“Just fix my machine.”

Jules had a gorgeous body. She always said that she didn't like muscles, but even now her eyes flitted to his strong arms and she felt flutters in her stomach as his T-shirt rode up over his biceps. Just twitching the mouse made great cords stand out in his arms and she imagined him holding her.

They had flirted with each other for weeks when he first started work. Things might have moved more quickly between them, but she had kept putting on the brakes. She couldn’t believe that someone like him was so into her. Eventually, she had had to believe it. She’d open her inbox and there’d be a message from him under a subject like ‘Primal Action Items’, ‘Unscheduled Upskirt’ or, her personal favourite, ‘In/Out Procedures’ and upon clicking on the link she’d be confronted with a suggestive or downright dirty email.

One such email had been a memo outlining the plan for an upcoming meeting, but he had edited all the information, changing the location to his place, making the attendees just the two of them and adding a dress code: stockings, suspenders, high heels.

He was relentlessly persistent, which had creeped her out at first, but ultimately, at a low ebb, had made her feel wanted, and she had finally taken him up on one of his offers. He had been trying it on with her for so long that his outrageous flirting had become a routine part of their meetings and her acceptance rendered him speechless.

It had been fun to see him on the back foot for once, but when she got to his place he was back in control. He had been utterly charming and had clearly made a massive effort for her arrival at short notice, unless he always lived so well, which she doubted.

His flat was adorned with the latest technology, as she had expected, but he didn’t have PCs all over the place in various states of construction. Rather, there was soft lightning, wine, candles. They’d had a great night in town and then she’d returned to his where he had lowered the lighting further and they had promptly undressed each other,  falling over each other in their hurry to get to his bedroom.

They destroyed the neatness of the sheets when she shoved him back onto the bed and he had refused to let go of her, dragging her down on top of him.

She had wondered then if she could trust him. People would inevitably find out about their date when they got back to work, but she wondered how much he would tell. She’d wanted to lose herself with him that night, but couldn’t quite allow herself free reign. Instead, she’d let Jules throw her onto her back and spread her legs. He positioned himself between them, readying her with his fingers before discarding her knickers completely.

She remembered that she could barely move that night. She remembered wondering how she had got to that point and whether or not it was really a good idea considering her future with the company. She had a list of things never to do and dating people she worked with was one of them. It normally didn’t bode well when she broke her own rules.

A vague superstition about impending doom, however, was no match for her immediate sensation, delicious and wet and hot, a taster of things to come that evening.

He played with her clit while he slid his cock in and out of her, proving that he was as expert with his fingers as with the rest of his body.

They moved together in a kind of dance. He led and she held on and yet he was tender and deliberate and meticulous. No gesture was without a purpose, no touch was wasted.

It turned out that all his bravado and all his bragging at her desk when they were alone were justified. He proved himself to be an amazing lover, at least in terms of physical expertise.

They had sex on the bed above the covers and then again in his kitchen, with her bare breasts flattened against the table and his hands on her hips while he stood behind her, fingering her ass and moving his cock inside her pussy.

By the time they returned to the bedroom, later that evening, she’d lost all inhibitions. She shoved him onto the bed again and climbed on top of him, first riding his cock with her hands flat on his chest to steady herself as she raised her ass up and down, easing herself over the entire length of his penis, then allowing his cock to slip out of her before settling above his face so he could lick her pussy.

There was no part of each other that they did not explore in some way that night. That was, physically. There was that word again.

In the morning, she woke up before him and stared at his face. He was handsome in a cheeky, boyish way, even with his styled hair looking less than perfect the morning after. He was smart and despite his arrogant exterior, he had been a sweetheart to her during their entire date.

She recalled thinking that he was nice and that they might make good friends one day soon, but that was all. If they saw each other again out of work, it would be for sex.

She snuggled up next to his warm body, wanting to fit into the shape of his body.

He woke and looked surprised that she was still there.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” he had said and he had kissed her tenderly before reaching down between her legs as she reached down between his.

She had wanted something emotionally deeper, but knew that it wouldn’t happen with Jules.

How right she was.

They saw each other a few more times over the following month, during which period Judy discovered that he had also been sleeping with Clarissa, the intern on the fourth floor, Asia, a motorbike courier they saw every week and Lisa, none other than her next-door neighbour.

She had felt so let down. They had never agreed to be exclusive, but she had wanted to feel special, for more than a night. Just for a while: say, anything between six months and a year would be nice. She'd already given up on forever.

Even now, however, Jules never gave up. He still wanted her and despite her disappointment his yearning for her gave her a secret thrill.

When she was at her lowest, like now, she  wondered what he saw in her.

“Do you feel sorry for me?” she asked.

Jules sat back from the screen and stared at her.

“And why would I do a thing like that?” he said.

“Isn't it obvious?” she said.

“No,” he said. “It's not clear to me at all.”

“You're kind,” she said.

“No, I'm not.” He turned back to the machine. “And you know it. Too well. That should reassure you that there's undoubtedly, absolutely nothing wrong with you. This computer, however…”

“I think this course of mine is the equivalent of an upgrade.”

He hissed.

“Upgrades don't always go as planned,” he warned her. “Sometimes the machine just can't support the software. You make the system unstable and you have to spend a week reinstalling the bastard thing.”

“Don't call me a bastard thing,” she said.

“I didn't.”

“Sure you did. You're preparing me for failure with your analogy. And you're right—you're not kind.”

“At least I didn't say that the machine's too old.” He held his hands up to fend off her glare. “I just don't want you to get your hopes up. If you don't get on the course, you can still go away and do something, right? When I say you, I mean we, of course. What are your dates again? I'll make sure I'm free.”

“You're right,” she said. “If it doesn't work out, I'll still go away.” She left him hanging.

She didn't mean a word of it. She felt as though failing to get on the course would be the end for her. She had no idea why so much was riding on it, but now it was at least in part her desperation to prove everyone wrong. If her application wasn't accepted then she feared that she would remain an outline of a woman in a mirror forever. The course was intended to fill her up. Not receiving a place would break her.

“Don't touch this machine,” Jules said, leaving to respond to a call on his mobile.