And yet today they were special. The way she tapped her heel drove me to distraction, its rhythm tapping its way inside my brain.
She had no idea what a forbidden fruit she was.
A peach. A pale, peach, promising the most exquisite sweet nectar. A dirty, vivacious girl, in an innocent and fragile shell.
“I like Monet,” she said. Her smile was natural and warm.
“Monet would like you.”
“You think?”
“I know.” I studied her interpretation of Woman in a Garden. She’d emulated the original with class and flair, but hers had an added layer. An originality. Helen’s woman in the garden was flirtatious. Her dress billowed in the breeze, and she wanted it to.
Helen fixed me in a stare, and for once there were no nerves in it. “I saw the signs asking for volunteers in the autumn break. Building the set for the Christmas pantomime…”
“Good, I’m glad they’ve gone up.”
“I want to help again this year,” she said. “I want to help you paint the set.”
“You have studying…” I began, but it trailed off.
It knocked the wind from her enthusiasm. “Please? I’ll still study.”
I smiled. “Of course, Helen. Be my guest. Your help would be very much appreciated. It always is.”
I stepped away from her, and I watched her exhale. Releasing a tension I hadn’t registered she was carrying.
Did I do that to her?
Had I always done that to her?
And what did she do to me?
My mouth was dry. Hands clammy at the thought of crossing some invisible line that hadn’t been in place until yesterday.
Why was one rainy afternoon in a car such a game changer?
“Mr Roberts,” she said.
“Yes, Helen.”
“Are you ok? You seem a little…”
“Headache,” I said. “Weekend calling.”
“Oh.”
I wondered if she’d thought of me as she lay in bed the night before. Wondered if she’d added to her sketchbook.
It stared at me from the tabletop, blocked from reach by more pencil cases this time. I fought the urge to push them aside and tear through those pages, the need for more of Helen Palmer’s dirty drawings clawing around my stomach in search of blood.
She looked around the room at her classmates, but they were busy gossiping, caring a lot less about Monet than they did about their Facebook timelines.
My mouth flapped as Helen reached for her private drawings, as though she’d infiltrated my mind and sucked the need right out of me, but she didn’t flip to the back of the pad or anywhere near.
She found a blank piece of paper near the front, and scrawled a note for me in burnt orange pencil.
Username. ArtyHelenPalmer.
“Will you watch?”
I nodded. “I said I would coach you, Helen.” My voice was low, barely more than a whisper. “My offer was sincere.”
She smiled, and a nervous bloom deepened her cheeks.
She had the finest dusting of freckles, barely dark enough to make out over the soft hue of her skin. I’d never noticed them before, not so vividly before my eyes.
“Good,” she whispered, and her breath caught my cheek. “There’s a video waiting for you.”
There was no meandering along country roads for me that evening. I drove the Jag straight as a bird, straight home. I dropped my art case and went straight on through to my bedroom, powering up my tablet.
Helen’s scrawled note was in my pocket.
I carefully put in her username, and the screen changed. Helen’s smile greeted me.
Profile private. Click to follow.
I clicked to follow and then registered a profile of my own. ArtGuy365. No picture. Full anonymity.
ArtyHelenPalmer has 1 new video. Click to play.
I clicked to play.
I listened to Helen Palmer’s video once through, and then I set it back to the beginning to take in her words all over again. I opened the comments box, typing as I listened.
No, I don’t believe transference would make any difference to how you felt.
Yes, emotions and feelings are real. They have life.
No, you couldn’t be the next Picasso. You don’t need to be.
You will be the first Helen Palmer.
I was checking there were no other comments to add before I closed out of the site, when I realised the video was still playing. I checked the length. Forty five minutes.
Helen’s hand came into view, clicked something and left the screen, but it hadn’t turned off.
A secret thrill zipped up my spine.
Forbidden.
Wrong.
Totally voyeuristic.
But she’d made this video for me. I was merely watching what she’d posted.
I wondered if she’d done this on purpose, but catching sight of her clumsy legs as she pulled off her socks ready for bed negated any suspicions whatsoever. She didn’t know.
The laptop was moved to another point in the room. It landed with a thunk. The light switched off after five more minutes, and instinctively my palm pressed against the length of my swelling cock.
Fuck. No. Please, no.
But yes.
The rustling of bedcovers. Helen’s little sigh of relaxation.
And then more, so much more.