We keep stopping to kiss and touch, which turns the ten-minute walk to the art building into a twenty minute one. My head is still buzzing, but the tab of ecstasy we shared before leaving my room is washing away the worst of my hangover, blanketing me with a sense of sweet euphoria. Whenever he touches my chest it makes me giggle.
When we finally reach the building it’s all too easy to break in. He jimmies up a sash window with a metal rod, then pushes it up until we can climb inside. My feet land on the classroom floor, and my heart races, pounding against my ribcage as if it’s trying to escape. Suddenly the lyrics from Bat Out of Hell start coming out of my mouth, and Niall muffles them with his palm, hushing me as he leads me toward the studios.
“But it’s Meatloaf,” I try to tell him. “Did you know he changed his name by deed poll? Imagine having to sign your cheques Mr Loaf. He must get really funny looks when he does the weekly shopping.”
“You weren’t this chatty an hour ago.”
I hadn’t taken ecstasy an hour ago, either. Now I want to tell him everything. There’s so much in my brain that’s itching to get out, I barely even know where to start.
This time, he muffles my words with his mouth. Hard, rough kisses that send my pulse soaring. He cups the back of my head with his hand and presses the other against my bum. His tongue is soft, though, almost gentle compared with the rest of him. I let him stroke it against my own.
“You need to be quiet while I paint you, okay?” he says after I break free to take in some air. His words are punctuated by soft pants.
“I don’t know if I can.”
“At least try and lie still. I can’t do the first sketch if you keep moving and speaking.” He kisses me again, and this time I feel his hardness digging into my hip. “We should never have taken that bloody E.”
“It feels good, though.”
Niall pushes me against a table and it rocks precariously on the tiled floor. There’s a crash as a pile of books fall to the ground. He laughs and pushes me again, this time until I’m sitting on the edge, my legs wrapped around his hips. He grinds into me, kissing me feverishly until we fall back onto the scratched wooden table top.
“I thought you were going to paint me,” I say.
He pulls my t-shirt up over my head. “Later.”
13
It doesn’t get much busier than Trafalgar Square on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Filled with a mixture of tourists and pigeons, the concrete square seems to vibrate with excitement. Allegra pulls anxiously at my hand, almost running toward one of the huge black lions that guard Nelson’s Column.
“Can we climb it, can we, can we?” she chants, her cheeks blooming with anticipation as we reach the iron beast.
“I’ll give you a boost.” I squat down, linking my fingers to form a cradle. She places her left foot in it and reaches out as I stand up, launching her onto the plinth. My attempts to climb are altogether clumsier. After three tries at hoisting myself up, a middle-aged tourist takes pity and lends a hand, until I finally reach the base of the lion. Allegra has already climbed astride it. Waving me over, she pats the space in front of her, and we sit together, overlooking London.
“This is Aslan,” she tells me. “I’m Lucy and you’re Susan and we’re going to fight the White Witch.”
I stroke his metal back. “What a good lion.”
“Lucy was sent away from her mum, too,” Allegra says. “I wonder why.”
“It was wartime. They were evacuated.”
“What’s that?”
“There were bombs raining down on London; it wasn’t safe for kids. They were sent to the countryside to live with strangers.”
“In homes?” Her brow pulls down, thread-wrinkles lining her forehead.
“Not group homes like yours. But they had to live with families they did
n’t know.”
Understanding softens her frown. “Like foster parents you mean?”
“Pretty similar, I suppose. Except some families didn’t want them at all, and some of the kids had a terrible time. Maybe we should go to the War Museum next Saturday, there’s bound to be some exhibitions there.”
It’s become a regular thing, our weekend trip out. At first we stuck to her local area, to leafy-green parks and Happy Meal lunches, but in the last couple of weeks we’ve spread our wings. A journey on a bus or the Tube, followed by a visit to a museum or gallery. After lunch we’ll go into the National Portrait Gallery and hang around the Holbeins, maybe visit the Van Goghs. Allegra likes to make up stories about the paintings and I love to listen to them.
She’s such a funny, wry little girl.