Mark
Helen had a nervy little spring in her step, but she was on form in class next day. Her brushwork was impeccable, her fingers working magic on the canvas. She listened enthusiastically to a talk on Monet, and applied everything we’d discussed, as if she’d soaked my words through her skin and they’d come out through her fingers.
She was my pride in the classroom. She was my muse outside of it.
Helen Palmer was no longer the only one with a private sketchpad.
A moment of frivolous fantasy after my canvas amendments, and I’d caught her so perfectly. The misted window with tracks of rain. Her nervous eyes as she prepared to confess all. Her delicate fingers twisting in her lap, the way the pleats in her skirt had ridden up, and blessed me with more of her creamy white thighs than I should have seen. The way her mouth parted as she listened to my words. The way she gulped and flustered. The way her eyes wanted me. The reverence in her expression.
She was beautiful on paper.
But not nearly so beautiful as in real life.
I kept my eyes on her as I wove around the other year thirteens. She was propped in her usual spot, her heel tapping the bar of the stool she was sitting on. Her lip was pinched at the side, gripped between her teeth, her eyes narrowed in concentration.
I recalled what she’d smelled like, so close to me in the car, like cherry and jasmine, fruity and oriental. Sweet and girly yet refined.
Her hair was soft, with just the slightest bounce in it. Her blazer nipped in at the waist and accentuated the gentle slope of her body.
Uniform was never designed to look as good as it did on that girl.
Helen wore black socks, not tights or trousers like so many of the other girls. Her socks showed off her ankles, and I’d never been much of a foot fetishist, but that girl’s ankles were obscenely erotic. They disappeared into black leather shoes, just an average design, with a buckle and strap instead of laces. Nothing special.
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.
Short breaths. Little hitched moans. Rustling. Fuck. God, no. No.
But I could hear her. I could hear her excitement. Her soft little murmurs as she played with herself. My cock twitched and pulsed. My fingers were at my belt.
I was there, in my head. Watching her, listening to her gasps in the quiet, working my cock as she played with her sweet, sweet little pussy.
The rustling grew more agitated in line with her breathing, and I worked my cock. Close, so close.
So fucking wrong.
She came in beautiful little gasps, and I came too. A violent orgasm. I came so hard my ears rang, muffling my grunts with the back of my hand.
I was splattered with my own spunk, and so was the tablet. In desperation I smeared it with the cuff of my shirt, and the screen turned to standby.
My own dark reflection stared back at me through the filthy glaze, and I looked filthy, too. A filthy, dirty man who should know better.
I knew better than this.
I should be better than this.
I was losing my fucking mind.
***
Helen
I dropped my cutlery onto my plate with a clatter. “But I thought Katie was going to School’s Out club over the holidays?
She always goes to School’s Out club over the autumn break.”
Dad stared at me from across the table, expression teetering on the edge of exasperation. I knew the look well. “Yes, she is going to School’s Out club, the same way she goes to School’s Out club every autumn holiday, but I won’t be around to pick her up at two every afternoon. We’ve got a new driver starting, I’ve got to show him the ropes. It’s just a couple of hours, that’s all. Until your mum gets in.”
My stomach dropped through the floor. “But I’ll be busy until five… We never finish up until five.”
He put down his fork. “Christ, Helen, you’re a couple of months from your exams, you must have a million more useful things to be doing than flouncing around painting some silly panto set.”
“It’s not flouncing, I’m helping out… I like helping out.” I met his eyes. “I like painting the set, Dad, it’s important to me.” “Work is important, Helen. Actual work. What do you expect me to do? Shirk my responsibilities and book time off so you
can go paint Aladdin’s bloody Cave in the holidays?”
Mum placed a hand on Dad’s arm. “Don’t worry, George, I’m sure I can arrange something with Claire. Brittainy’s in School’s Out, too, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind having Katie for a few hours afterwards.”
“Yay! Brittainy’s!” Katie shrieked. Thank God for that. Everyone’s a winner. But no.
Dad shook Mum off. “That’s not the point. We all know what this is really about.”
Now it was Mum’s turn to drop her cutlery. “George!” She shook her head. “Don’t start.”
“Well, someone’s got to say it.” His eyes fixed straight back on mine. “It’s about that bloody teacher again, isn’t it? Every year the same, every single holiday. Set painting, open days, art juniors club, it’s always something, some excuse. It’s got to stop, Helen. You’re at uni in a few months, you have to get your feet on the bloody ground and start preparing.”
As if I needed reminding. “I am preparing. And it’s not about Mr Roberts. It’s about art.”
“Then you won’t mind missing it this time, will you? You can do your pretty pictures at home, I’m sure there are plenty of other people to help with the panto.”
My heart pounded. “No, there aren’t. I’m one of the main painters! And it’s only next week! They won’t have time to replace me!”
He scowled at me. “Well, they’re going to have to cope one way or another, aren’t they? You aren’t even going to be here next panto. You’ve done more than your fair share.”
“But Dad…” I struggled for the words. “… it’s my last time…” “George,” Mum said. “I can ask Claire, at least let me ask her.”
He shook his head. “No, Angela, we’ve asked Helen to do one thing and help out in the holidays. She’s got all morning to do her art, it’s not unreasonable.”
I looked at Mum. “But I already told Mr Roberts I was helping…”
She looked sad, but Dad didn’t. “Well, you’ll just have to untell him you’ll be helping, won’t you? I’m sure he’ll understand.” He picked up his cutlery, resumed shovelling mashed potato into his mouth. “He’ll probably be grateful of the break.”
My eyes flew wide. “What did you say?”
“I said he’ll probably be glad of the break from his little shadow. Following him around all the bloody time like a little stalker. He’ll probably be relieved when this year’s bloody done.”
“George!” Mum snapped. “Stop it!”
“It’s not like that…” I began, but what was the point? His words cut deep. Knocked me right in the gut. Katie laughed. “Helen and Mr Roberts sitting in a tree… K. I. S. S. I. N. G.”
“It’s probably embarrassing for him,” Dad sniped. “He’s a grown man, he doesn’t need to be fending off silly crushes from teenage girls left, right, and centre.”
“It’s not a crush…” I said. “I really, really like him. As a person. I respect him. We’re… close. As artists. As friends…”
And Dad laughed. He laughed at me. “Artists? Friends? He’s your bloody teacher, Helen, and next year he won’t be. Pass me the salt, Angela.” Mum passed him the salt. “I’ll be glad when you meet someone your own age and stop it with all this nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense!”
“It’s nonsense!” He slammed the salt shaker on the table, and Katie slapped her hand over her mouth to stop from laughing. “You’ve got to let this craziness go, for your own sake. It’s not… healthy. Understand?”
But I didn’t understand, and even if I had, his question was rhetorical. He turned his attention to sweet little Katie and her tales of primary school and how she came top at the spelling test, and then gabbled onto Mum about the new driver he’d had starting.
And me? I was invisible. An invisible weirdo with a stupid unhealthy crush.
But he was wrong, about Mr Roberts and me. We were friends now. Real friends.
He’d watched my video, just like he said he would. He’d watched, and he’d commented. He’d commented on it, coaching, just like he said.
And I’d told him I loved him. I’d told him that. He knew, and he was still my friend, still wanted to be my friend. Still wanted to know me. I felt that. I felt him.
How could that be anywhere near unhealthy? I excused myself from the table.
***