I felt excited.
My heart hammered as I passed through the school gates and made my way to the main hall. I was early but the doors were unlocked, and as I headed down the corridor, past the empty canteen, I could hear signs of movement.
Mr Roberts was dragging canvas frames across tarpaulin, positioning them ready for the painting to commence. He looked as though he’d been there a while already; the sleeves of his shirt were rolled to the elbow, and today there was no tie, just an old blue shirt over faded black jeans. He tucked his hair behind his ears and surveyed his finished arrangement. And then he saw me, and he smiled.
“Helen. Morning.”
“Morning, Mr Roberts.” I dropped my bag at the side of the main stage and discarded my jacket and scarf. He was watching me, I could feel it and it made me burn. “Just us?”
“For the moment.” He pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket and handed it over. I scanned the names, ten in total, mine included. I smiled inside as I realised there was just me from sixth form, the other volunteers were younger, mainly year eights and nines.
I handed it back. “We should have a few hands on deck, then.”
“Let’s see how many actually show for us.”
For us.
He showed me the stage plans, and the outlines, and we laid out paints and rollers and brushes. We talked ideas and responsibilities and how we were going to split the volunteers, and he spoke to me like a colleague, a friend, a peer. He spoke to me like I was an adult.
And sometimes, when our eyes met, he looked at me like I was an adult, too.
I was slightly sad to hear voices approach, but only six of the volunteers arrived in total, and they were all youngsters. It made me feel older. It made me look older. And I liked it, I really liked it. Mr Roberts gathered them round for a group discussion, and we threw around ideas which he and I sketched onto the canvases. By lunchtime we’d split into subgroups and finalised our designs, and in the afternoon we were away; a mini whirlwind of creativity, with splodges of paint covering the tarpaulins and loud, high-pitched voices jabbering across the hall. I was in charge of a team of four, and those little guys were amazing.
Helen, can I use purple here? Helen, what do you think of this? Helen, have I done this right? Helen, can you help me mix yellow gold? Helen, Helen, Helen. Does this look good, Helen?
And throughout it all I’d steal glances at Mr Roberts, and I’m sure I felt him stealing glances back at me. Whenever we’d lock eyes he’d smile, and I’d blush, and I’d feel those hot flutters in my belly at the memory of his hands on me and I’d wonder if he felt it, too. Wonder if he felt anything. His shirt was loose, and he had the top few buttons undone, and when he bent down to roller the bottom section of his canvas it would ride up enough to display the cut of the denim around his ass. He had a nice ass. A great ass.
He had nice arms, too. A proper man’s arms — lean and toned, and dark with hair. I wanted to touch them, wanted to feel his skin under my fingertips, and pluck at the rest of those buttons until he was bare-chested and exposed for me.
And then I’d put my mouth on him, the way he’d put his mouth on me.
It was five in the afternoon before I knew it, and the volunteers dispersed, leaving the two of us alone in the hall. He came to my side and surveyed my market scene with his hands on his hips. “Great job, Helen. Excellent in fact.”
I gestured to some overeager brush-strokes but smiled. “Nothing a bit of touching up won’t fix. I’m pleased with it.”
“You handled the group well, too. They were eating out of your hand.”
I laughed. “It’s only because you were here. They’d eat me alive if I was alone, I’m sure.”
“I don’t think so. You have a great manner. Encouraging and enthusiastic, but calm and controlled.” He met my eyes. “And the most important quality of all.”
“What’s that?”
“You listen to people’s ideas and input with a genuinely open mind. That’s a rarer quality than you may realise, Helen, believe me. It gives them validation and confidence.”
And I couldn’t help myself. I fluttered and smiled. “I must have learned that from you…”
“That kind of quality isn’t one that’s learned.” His eyes were so kind. “But, thank you.”
He pulled his cigarettes from his pocket and gestured to the door, and I followed like an eager little lamb, staring up at him like he was my saviour in paint-stained jeans. He took a seat on the low wall outside, and I sat alongside, and as I lowered myself he turned in my direction, enough that my eyes caught the V at his collar and the hint of dark hair underneath, and I felt hollow inside, as though I’d been waiting for him to fill me my whole life. He lit up and took a couple of drags before passing me the cigarette without asking, and I puffed away quite contentedly with a proud chest after my proud day.