We sat on the swinging couch, the three of us, with me between my mother and a man I knew to be my father. Daddy was rocking us back and forth with a foot on the wooden boards and my little trainers flew over them. I laughed and looked up at him adoringly. His dark face was handsome and the glasses made him look cutely brainy. Mummy was happy too, her blonde hair blowing in the breeze.

 

Then when I looked up at Daddy again his face had changed. He was no longer my daddy. I screamed and ran down the steps, past the car, and towards the footpath down to the lake.

 

"Linda!" I heard an unfamiliar man's voice shout, but I ran on and on, not daring to look back. The sound of a man's panting breaths told me I was being pursued. I tripped, fell and saw a figure in silhouette bear down on me until everything went black and I could hear nothing but my own screams. But my screams were silent and my jaw was locked tight. I was in bed with Christine and the old, familiar nightmare faded quickly.

 

As her snoring had kept me awake after going to bed, so it now prevented me from falling back to sleep. Though I had remembered to close the blind I could see by the golden light around the edges that the weather was beautiful again. The alarm soon went and immediately Christine threw the sheet off us both violently, then reached across for a sip of water, her arms and breasts leaving sweaty patches on me. I looked up at her as she lay on her side and drank. Small-eyed and flushed, she looked to me looked all of her forty-one years. The sunburn from Sunday had faded a little.

 

I had initially felt shaken by the dream, but remembering yesterday made me feel better. I rose from the bed and pulled the blind up, allowing the glorious light to burst in and ignoring Christine's protestations. I counted just three little, fluffy, white islands in an ocean of blue sky and this instantly drove from me any residual sadness caused by the dream. I stood for a while cupping my tits and enjoying the heat on my body, then turned and saw her gazing at me from under heavy-lidded eyes.

 

I crawled up to her and hung my breasts over her, teasing her a little. I straddled her, squeezed my nipples and expressed a trickle of white into her open mouth. I sucked some myself, then squeezed some more from the other nipple, dribbling it into her eyes and around her face before finding her mouth. Then I rubbed the hard nub around her lips, coating them with milk. I bent to kiss her tenderly, drawing her tongue upwards into my mouth and tasting my own creaminess. We moaned and breathed into each other's mouths. I smelled her milky breath and loved the way her throat reflexively gave incoherent voice to her lust. Then I kissed down over her neck, tonguing lightly the hills and valleys of her chest and belly. I stroked her thighs and parted her legs. She kept her eyes on the ceiling, apparently studying a patch of damp there. I drew the tip of my tongue up the lips of her pussy, nudged her clitty with my nose, then fluttered up and down her labia, drawing out her scent and her juices. Her sighs told me she was enjoying it, and after a while I changed to using my fingers. I gently inserted the tip of my middle finger, just up to the first joint, and rubbed around her small, soft rim, feeling her open up more and more. I proceeded to softly flick my other middle finger across her clitty while she squeezed me between her legs. As I bent over her, smiling down at her, she closed her eyes, frowning, concentrating on her pleasure, seemingly in another world. Then suddenly she turned to the clock on the table.

 

"Oh, my God, look at the time!" she declared, raised herself and ran to the bathroom, leaving me alone in a square of hot sunshine with tired hands and arms, wondering what it was I was just not doing right.

 

We both prepared for the day and I put aside my concerns, taking time showering, then making myself up at the bedroom dresser, spending far longer than I would normally. I chose a deep, brick red for my lips and a light blush. While applying the eyeliner, Christine paused while dressing and regarded me steadily in the mirror. We exchanged a long look, then silently continued. I prepared a new canvas and set myself up on the veranda in readiness. When she appeared dressed in her skirt and mauve blouse I was already mixing paints. As she looked at me for a few moments I suddenly felt guilty, like she could read my mind. I was wearing a minidress, blue with yellow flowers, which I normally saved for nights out.

 

She came over, kissed me and said, "It's great to see you so eager. Have a great day, honey."

 

I heard her heels tap down the steps, then crunch across the drive to the car. I saw her pause and look back over her shoulder. I waved and the slightly sad look remained on her face until she turned the car and vanished into the road. I checked my brushes were all clean, put them in order and sat back. Then I remembered I had not tidied and combed the dolls as I usually did and so returned to the bedroom. I took my time, wondering how long I could stretch out this activity before I could think of something else to do. And then I heard the ting of a small bell and rushed back to the front door.

 

Stevie was leaning her bike against the same gate she had the previous day, so I called out, "Bring your bike over, Stevie!"

 

As she took Bailey down from the basket she called back, "OK!" I helped her haul the bike up the steps and we left it leaning against the wall beneath two hanging baskets currently home to beautiful, blue explosions of lobelias. "Thanks," she said in her androgynously low voice and she stood, smiling with her feet together, looking expectant. "Your dress is pretty," she said in her typically disarming way.

 

"Thank you," I said, and gave a little twirl.

 

Today she was dressed in a short, pale cream dress with a thin, black belt. A black silk ribbon tied in a bow ran around her neck beneath a wide, white collar. She wore matching black shoes with a low heel and frilly, lacy, white ankle socks which complimented the same lace gloves she had worn the day before. The straw hat she had been wearing hung down her back from a ribbon. Impossibly, she was even more adorable than before and she resembled a larger version of a doll I had owned as a child.

 

After a while I said, "Did you have breakfast?"

 

She gave her confident, emphatic nod, an, "Mm-hm," and then said, "Eggs and bacon." The nod had sent her gold tresses shaking at her shoulders and I noticed for the first time, that her hair had been curled with a big barrelled wand, making her look even more doll-like.

 

"Oh," I said, slightly surprised that such a delicate-looking creature could breakfast so heartily. "Would you like some tea?"

 

"I'd love a cuppa."

 

We shared a gentle laugh and, taking the hat, I led her inside to the living room where I sat her down by a window looking across the valley. I left the hat on the stand that was home to other hats, raincoats and umbrellas.

 

"I hope you don't mind me bringing Bailey?" Stevie called through to the kitchen while I made the tea.

 

"No, I think Bailey's lovely," and I meant it, Though I don't know how Honey's going feel about it, I thought. Although I was unused to dogs, Bailey was well-behaved and had already been most affectionate with me.

 

"You obviously care for him well. He has a beautiful coat."

 

"He's high maintenance, but he's worth it."

 

"I'll set a bowl of water down for him."

"That's so kind of you, Linda. By the way, you've got me all day today. My four o'clock cancelled."

 

I piled some biscuits on a plate and took them into the dining room with the tea.

 

"Shall I be mother?" she said, and poured.

 

Over the tea I noticed she was still wearing the gold necklace and this time the pendant, a cross of what looked like gold, was visible, resting against the black ribbon.

 

"Your pendant's pretty," I said.

 

Stevie fingered it a little self-consciously and said, "It was given to me by my mother."

 

"Do you believe?" I asked, curious. I often found herself asking this if I saw someone with a cross or crucifix, and usually received a vague reply that it was just decorative, but again came the confident nod.

 

"Yes, though I wouldn't say I'm evangelical about it."

 

"That's a relief," I smiled.

 

"You're not religious?"

 

I shook my head.

 

"Were you raised to believe?" she asked.

 

"No, but I sometimes wish I was."

 

"I was," she said, looking back down at her cup. "Me and my sisters were raised pretty strictly, and I didn't like it then, but I never stopped believing."

 

"You never rebelled?"

 

"Oh, yes!" she said, laughed, then shook her head. She had apparently wanted to say more, but had then stopped herself. "You wish you had a faith?"

 

"Yes, if only for something to rebel against."

 

"It was always more than that for me." She drained her cup. "I wouldn't have made it through my teens without my faith." She replaced the cup in the saucer and flashed me a bright smile, again revealing the cute little gap in the corner of her mouth. Today her lips were lilac which complimented her milky complexion beautifully. To dispel the little awkward air that had descended, I asked if she'd like to see the rest of the house, such as it was, to which she replied that she'd be delighted to.

 

"How old is it?" she asked, as she strolled behind me from room to room.

 

"It used to be the shack of a gamekeeper employed by the people at Oakleigh Hall," I said, with a slight laugh. "Then it fell into disrepair and was done up with someone for a mania for such things, then abandoned again. You wouldn't believe how little it cost us."

 

She appraised everything quietly, then said, "It's a lovely place you have."

 

"Thank you."

 

In the bedroom she did a little double take when she saw the little framed photo of Christine.

 

"My partner," I said, shyly.

 

She merely smiled and nodded. She took an interest in the dolls and, feeling slightly foolish, I introduced her to each of them. Maybe she was just being kind, but she did not seem to find these, nor the little collection of toys and children's books, remotely surprising, for which I was grateful. We then arrived in the studio. I had saved this for last due to its lack of glamour. I was slightly ashamed of the bare floor, the crumbling plaster and the peeling wallpaper of faded, red roses. Spots of color decorated everything in constellations of blue and white, streaks of yellow and murderous pools of red. She coolly sat in the old chaise-longue against the wall, placed her red purse beside her and stared around at the pictures hanging on, some leaning against, the walls. Some were nudes of Christine, including one resting beside the chaise, a photorealistic one, of Chris' pudenda, displaying the folds and curves of her labia in precise detail. Stevie picked up this small picture and studied it for a few minutes in silence. I felt completely exposed.

 

Then, raising her eyes to look around her, she said, "You like children very much, I can see," and I followed her eyes around the room.

 

Indeed almost every other picture here, apart from the ones of Christine and some landscapes, were portraits of young children. Some were from life that I had made while at college and some were from photographs. These were the pictures that had comprised my recent exhibition, save the few that had been sold. Soft, round faces with small mouths and big eyes stared innocently from every angle, some dark-skinned, some pale as alabaster, but all in slightly old-fashioned clothes which I had either dressed the children in or imagined. I had often been compared to Margaret Keane, though I thought my children looked happier than hers.

 

"So sweet," Stevie whispered, looking so much like an adorable child herself with her hands clasped demurely in her lap and her ankles crossed.

 

"Thanks," I said. I was probably a lousy judge of my own work and was always gratified to receive praise, especially as, in this case, it came from a valued source. "Do you paint at all?"

 

"Only my face," she said, chuckling, then rose and perused the pictures more closely, slowly pacing from one picture to the other. Then, after studying each one in turn, she turned to me and said, "Could you paint me as a child?"

 

I was a little dumbfounded, but she had said this with as much assertion with which she seemed to say everything that I found myself agreeing, despite thinking the request odd. I hardly ever painted or drew adults and perhaps this was the approach I had been needing, the inspiration that had eluded me yesterday and prevented me from capturing the beauty of my subject. In a moment, she had passed from the room and she returned with Lorelei, holding her gently as she would a baby. In spite of her candid, disarming manner and charming smile, for a moment I felt a little indignant that she had not only touched but picked up one of my precious dolls.

 

"Paint me with her," she said, as wide-eyed as the doll, then walked through the hall, out onto the veranda. I followed, relenting, still a little uncomfortable by her forwardness, yet liking her for it, as I found myself liking everything about her.

 

Outside she chose the small, green cushioned, high backed arm chair that sat in a corner with its back to the valley. I sat opposite her on the couch and drew up my easel. She took off her shoes and tucked her prettily socked feet up beside her, hugged the doll and leaned back. Despite the chair's small size she sat on it comfortably and it seemed as though there were two dolls before me, one bigger than the other. She leaned her head back until her yellow curls were squeezed against her cheek and she gazed into the distance. With one arm around the doll, her hand resting across the tiny, pink silk dress, she let her other hand hang loosely over the arm of the chair. Then, as I was just beginning to sketch out her form, she raised this hand to her face, curled her fingers into her small palm, with the thumb still free, drew the hand to her face and placed the tip of the thumb between her glossed, lilac lips. I could not help gaping as the girl drew the thumb further into her mouth until her index finger rested against it gently. She squeezed her eyelids together in pleasure and shifted a little in the chair. I would have laughed had the visual effect this act produced not been so utterly innocent and beguiling. Bailey soon fell asleep beside his mistress and everything became quiet and still, save the intermittent humming of bees amongst the lobelias and the roses that lined the veranda.

 

It was normal for me to forget the time when absorbed in painting, but I was still surprised when the sun suddenly poked out from under the roof and its rays suddenly stabbed into my eyes. I put my brush down and wiped the worst of the paint from my fingers with a cloth.

 

"I hate to disturb you," I said quietly, "with you looking so peaceful, but I'd be a lousy host if I didn't offer you lunch."

 

Stevie slowly stirred as if from a trance, took her thumb from her mouth and turned to smile at me. She stretched out her legs, arched her back, stiffened her slender arms, made her hands into fists, closed her eyes and yawned widely, showing me her pink tongue. It was like watching a cat awaken from a long siesta. The doll began to slip from her lap, but she caught it easily, then smiled.

 

"What would you like?" I asked. "I often have an omelette at this time, but after your breakfast, I don't think that would be good for you."

 

"Mm, I bet you make a lovely omelette," she lilted. "Maybe just a sandwich with ham or something?" she said, sitting back.

 

"Sure?"

 

She nodded.

 

I made lunch with Bailey panting around me and I gave him a little of the ham. After the sandwiches I offered Stevie fruit. She chose an apple and I a banana. While I ate I noticed her looking at me, smiling a little secretive smile, a Mona Lisa smile. I liked her looking at me this way, though it made me a little self-conscious. I considered my painting and asked her for an opinion.

 

"Is it finished?" she asked.

 

The thought hadn't occurred to me, but I realised, on reflection, that it could be. Despite the beautiful backdrop, I had concentrated purely on my model, to the extent that even the chair and the dog were little more than vague impressions. In the hot air the paint had already dried.

 

"Are you pleased with it?" she inquired.

 

"It's better than yesterday's efforts," I conceded.

 

Despite not diminishing her scale or the length of her limbs, the impression the picture created was of a young girl, barely past puberty. It could even sit alongside the child portraits and not look out of place. I was amazed at how quickly I had worked, but realised that I was only just starting to learn how to delineate Stevie's elusive loveliness.

 

"Bailey needs a walk," she said around a chunk of apple. "Maybe we could go round the lake? I've not been all around it."

 

I was finding it hard to refuse her anything, and I did feel a little stiff from sitting all morning. I grabbed my sketch book and a couple of pencils and we set off down the hill. She took some gum from her purse and began chewing, then took out a little biscuit and tossed it to Bailey who caught it easily, leaping into the air. He barked and wagged his bushy tail as we walked behind him down to the water. She offered some gum to me and, though I disliked chewing gum, I accepted it.

 

Again the water reflected the surrounding trees and the clear sky like a mirror. We made our way around to the far side, close to the village, where there would usually be a little crowd at this time of the year. Today was no exception and the immediate area was full of young children scampering across the grass or splashing in the water. I watched them all fondly, loving their happy laughter, their beautiful, smiling, cherubic faces, their wet, bare feet gathering mud as they ran. In the lake they cast arcs of water at each other and I loved their bubbling giggles and hitch-pitched squeals. From a little stall I bought ice creams for Stevie, myself and for a little boy who had been standing nearby looking sad.

 

"Let's take a boat out," said Stevie excitedly, noticing a hut with 'Boat hire' painted across it. I loved her childlike enthusiasm for everything and again was unable to refuse.

 

All the rowing boats were new, wooden and reassuringly sturdy-looking. I had often been out on the lake with Christine, but had so far not managed bring her down here this summer.

 

"Can you row?" I asked Stevie.

 

"How hard can it be?"

 

We sat facing each other and she took the oars in her gloved hands. The attending man, an elderly semi-retired gentleman I knew called George, gently pushed us out and tipped his hat at us. Stevie stuck the wooden blades into the water and promptly fell on her back in a silently laughing heap, her skirt riding up to reveal a glimpse of her navy knickers. I laughed too and eventually got her to exchange places. I pulled and had soon taken us out into the middle of the water, safely away from the splashing children. There were about a dozen other boats in the water, but I managed not to bump into any. She lay back before me with her smooth legs crossed, removed a glove and hung her hand over the side, letting her fingers draw a line through the water. Behind her sunglasses I could tell she was gazing at me.

 

"Don't you get bored living out here, though?" she said presently.

 

"No," I replied, not completely truthfully. "I like the peace and quiet," which was more truthful. "Have you always lived in town?"

 

"Mm-hm."

 

"Which school did you go to?"

 

She paused for a moment, then answered eventually, "I went to a private secondary school, not round here. Before that I was at St Benedict's in Uppingford."

 

"Oh, wow!" I exclaimed, delighted that we had something in common. "I went there."

 

She merely chewed her gum.

 

"I don't remember you, though," I said, surprised. Even though she must have been in the year below me, I thought, I should have remembered her.

 

"So does your partner like living here?" she asked, clearly preferring to change the subject.

 

I pulled on the oars a little to violently, making her head lurch back a little.

 

"She prefers the city," I conceded, then we lapsed into silence for a while. I stopped the boat beneath the shade of a willow, drew out my sketchbook and pencils and asked her if she minded being sketched for a while.

 

"Not at all," she said, and removed her sunglasses, but her smile was still obscured by her constant chewing and only visible in little creases beside her eyes. Then she took off her shoes and socks and hung them over the side, splashing a little. As I drew, we heard a boat pass, in which a child was laughing. I looked up, but could only see the branches which arched over us and hung in the water around the boat.

 

"You do love children," Stevie observed again and I felt suddenly naked before her, as if it was myself being drawn and studied, not her.

 

"Yes," I said, concentrating hard on each line and trying to ignore the encroaching sadness. "I'd like to have children," I continued, finding her disarming manner irresistible. "But it's not possible."

 

"Why not?"

 

I looked at her wide eyes for a straight minute before continuing.

 

"'Cause," I sighed, "none of the options work for us."

 

"How come?"

 

"Well, neither of us want IVF. She doesn't want it 'cause the thought of being pregnant makes her stomach turn over. I don't want it 'cause, well, I have my reasons for that. I'm not comfortable with it. Neither of us want to adopt 'cause it wouldn't be our child. So you see what I mean? We're kind of stuck."

 

"But what's wrong with IVF?"

 

I continued to draw in silence for while, taking comfort in my growing familiarity with Stevie's form, the particularly small-boned kind of beauty. When I began talking again I found I was dangerously close to tears.

 

"My mother had IVF. I never knew my real father. All I have is the vague information Mummy gave me, just the scant details that he had given the clinic. All I know is he was from Zimbabwe, and a graduate. I begged her for years to find out more. All my life it's been like a huge hole inside me. I'd never wish it on anyone."

 

"Couldn't you have a donor that you know?"

 

I squeezed my eyelids shut to stop the tears, but they leaked down over my cheeks.

 

"It wouldn't be right."

 

"Whyever not?"

 

"Because the child wouldn't be born of love!" I cried, lifting my wet eyes. She regarded me sadly. When I turned back to my work I saw there were droplets of water smearing some of the lines. "The child would be unhappy," I said and took a ragged breath. "Like me."

 

Then I saw fingers poke over the edge of my sketch, press the pad to my lap and take my hand. I marked the elegance of the small, dainty, ungloved hand as it stroked me with a slim, almost pointed thumb. I was being touched by the soft, pink hand of Bouguereau's 'Psyche'. I looked up into her pale eyes, saw deep compassion and wondered what I had done to deserve such concern from someone I hardly knew. I squeezed her hand back and managed a brave smile. She took her feet from the water and hugged me as we listened to the distant cries of happy children.

 

When we finally parted I sensed that she wanted to say more, but could not find words. So I drew her for a little longer, concentrating on the shape of the sensuous mouth with its slightly swollen bottom lip, like that of an orchid. Then I sketched her bare feet that were placed between mine on the wooden boards. Resting together, with their damp soles kissing each other like lovers, they looked so young and tender, with small toes curled slightly inwards. Again I lost track of time and for a while it seemed as if the little boat and its surrounding water was a bubble removed from the world, and it was only the hoarse voice of George calling all the boats that revived me. I rowed us back and George, very gallantly, took our hands to help us alight.

 

We continued our walk so that, by late afternoon, we had almost made a circuit of the lake. Stevie carried her shoes and socks for a while to let her feet dry and I enjoyed watching the way she tripped so prettily over daisies and buttercups. As we were about to turn a corner, the same two men we had seen boating the day before approached on foot, kicking a ball between them. We kept together and Stevie even took my hand for a minute while the men passed. The ball bumped into her feet and she kicked it back to them, laughing. The men said nothing, but both looked over their shoulders once we had passed. She had evidently been right about their shyness.

 

"Do you think they might be gay?" she whispered to me, glancing back.

 

"I don't know," I replied, looking down.

 

Stevie looked up at me.

 

"You're not interested in men at all?" she asked, sounding merely curious.

 

I shook my head.

 

Back at the house she danced a little across the veranda and it was clear she had studied a little ballet, so poised was she on her bare feet. Honey had returned and had already eaten what had been put out for her, so I forked some more meat out from a tin. To my surprise the cat did not, at first, run when she saw Bailey and the dog merely barked and wagged his tail in a friendly way, but when he took some cautious steps towards her she backed away, then ran off.

 

Stevie and me had a little more to eat, then I began another painting with her standing with one foot on a low stool, the heel raised, one hand on her knee, the other on her hip and her gaze directed straight at me, her Mona Lisa smile playing across her lilac lips. We listened to the radio and she would occasionally wiggle her slender hips unconsciously to the rhythms, then stop and apologise, giggling, when I stared a little too much. As the sun drew lower over the valley its light shone between her legs, through her skirt and turned her into an enigmatic silhouette against the deepening blue and again making a halo of her lovely hair.

 

Suddenly, the crunching of gravel made me freeze, despite the warm air of the evening. The BMW approached slowly and drew to a stop at the foot of the steps.

 

"Shit!" I breathed, wondering unhappily what I might be in for.

 

"Should I go now?" whispered Stevie hurriedly.

 

"Yes, but no, but," I stammered and plonked my brush down carelessly. "Don't worry," I told her, ridden with anxiety. "You don't have to hold the pose now."

 

She stepped over to where she'd dropped her shoes and socks and demonstrated her beautiful ability to balance while she drew them on without even wobbling. Christine was ascending the steps, looking neither left nor right.

 

"Hi, Christine," I said faintly. She passed into the house silently.

 

"I should go now," said Stevie, grabbing her purse, ushering Bailey before her, then taking the handles of her bicycle. "I'm sorry I stayed so late."

 

I shook my head and said, "It's my fault. I forgot the time."

 

"So did I," she said with the hint of a smile.

 

"You'll come tomorrow?" I asked, hopefully.

 

The skin on her forehead just above the bridge of her nose momentarily developed a little crease.

 

"You sure?"

 

"Stevie, look at this," and I held up that afternoon's canvas. "This is the best work I've done in ages."

 

She regarded the picture for a long moment, her big eyes staring solemnly. Then she drew on her gloves and nodded.

 

"I'll be here tomorrow, darling."

 

And with a wave and a bark from Bailey, she was quickly up on the road and gliding across the hedgerow back to town. I went inside and found Christine undressing in the bedroom. I looked at her small body, the girlish breasts, her bottom with the drooping cheeks, the thick thighs. Her face looked careworn and betrayed exhaustion.

 

"I'm sorry, Christine," I said, sitting on the bed.

 

"What for?" she asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

 

"I didn't tell you I'd have someone here."

 

She bent down to kiss me and told me, "Don't be a putz."

 

And I realised then she was right and that I was being a putz, but somehow I still felt guilty. I went to the kitchen to make something to eat and we spent another evening in front of the TV with her slowly falling into a hole of inebriation. Whenever I tried to explain to her that Stevie was just someone who'd appeared and who I had asked to pose for some pictures, each time Christine found an excuse to shush me, either straining to listen to something on the news or taking her phone out to check for texts, so I eventually gave up.

 

Later, I spent almost an hour admiring the day's paintings, childishly thrilled that I was beginning, though only just, to capture the appearance of my muse.

 

Copyright © Irma Cerrutti 2015