A Work of Art
Chapter 2 (of 4)
By S. Faith, © 2010
Words: 20,595 (This chapter: 4,810)
Rating: T / PG-13
See Chapter 1 for details.
Chapter 2
It was a valid concern, Bridget's boredom; while she was no child in need of continual entertainment, he could well see her overtaken by cabin fever sooner rather than later in the country, a setting with far fewer social opportunities. She had her introverted moments, but she was much more of a social creature than he had ever been.
"So what do you want to do today?" he asked, raising a brow.
"I haven't decided yet," she said, cupping her mug in both hands, bringing her knees up. "Maybe we can take a walk. Have a picnic. I can read and you can paint."
He had to admit it didn't sound half bad. "Hm," he said noncommittally.
"Or," she offered, "we could finish breakfast and see what appeals."
He smiled. "I like the sound of that too."
They finished their toast and coffee, showered together and dressed, then struck out for a walk along the lane leading towards the heart of the town. Although the sun was shining the air was a cool, and the walk was quite enjoyable. They stopped at the pub for a bit of lunch, then walked back, hand in hand, taking a slightly different route.
"Oof," she said. "All this fresh air and exercise… I think I need a bit of a lie down."
He thought it a marvellous idea and joined her, though simply lounging in bed curled up with her was in some ways even better than sleeping. The cuddling led to kissing, tender caresses and happy sighs.
"Suppose we ought to think of dinner at some point," he murmured into her ear; he was spooned up against her back.
"Mm," she said drowsily. "Sometimes the need to eat is very inconvenient."
He laughed low in his throat, tightened his arm around her.
"Wish they had those meal-in-a-pill things like we were promised as children would exist in the future," she went on.
"And flying cars," he added.
"Yes, flying cars," she said somewhat indignantly. "I feel cheated."
"You would miss the taste of pizza though," he said, "and chocolate, and chicken pasty…"
"Stop it," she said. "You're making me hungry."
He continued, "And there's nothing at all appealing or romantic about taking one's flying car for a couple of food capsules."
"You have a point," she said with a sigh, then turned over, her guileless blue eyes meeting his. "I don't honestly know what I did without you."
It seemed such a grave statement given their light-hearted conversation of a moment ago. "You had fantasies of food capsules and flying cars," he countered, kissing the tip of her nose.
"I'm being serious," she said.
"I know," he said, "and I don't know why it matters, because you have me now."
She offered a small smile. "That I do," she said, reaching forward to kiss him fully.
Dinner could wait a little longer.
After dozing a bit, he rose from the bed, casting a glance back to where she reclined. He wasn't being biased, he was convinced of this; her body, bare and half-covered with the bed linens, really was beautiful. He took in the way the late summer sun flitted across her skin with a golden hue, the concave curve of her back, the convex bend of her backside as she slept with her arms around the pillow.
He regarded her for a few moments before she opened her eyes and caught him looking appreciatively at her. She smirked, but pulled the sheet to cover herself.
"That is just silly," he said. "My hands are intimately acquainted with every inch my eyes now get to enjoy. Why deny them the pleasure?"
Shyly she pushed the sheets back to where they were before, and then some, propping up on her elbows to further accentuate the sensuality of her position. "How's this?"
He did not answer with words, only a long and loving gaze in her direction. In all honesty it was something he could have stood to feast his eyes on for all time, the sun picking up flecks of gold in her hair and making her skin look warm and glowing. He sat on the edge of the mattress. "I have a question for you," he began quietly.
"Oh?"
"How would you feel," he asked slowly, "about capturing a moment like this in paint?"
A burst of laughter was not the reaction he was expecting. Her expression grew sombre, though, when she realised he was perfectly serious.
"Paint me?" she asked, flabbergasted. "In the nude? I'm not worth painting."
"I beg to differ."
She pursed her lips. "Mark, I would be mortified if anyone ever saw it."
"It would be for me. It's just… that was a lovely moment I don't think even a camera could capture."
She regarded him warily.
"It would be tasteful," he added. "I would never want to do anything that would humiliate you."
"Of course you wouldn't," she said softly.
"You can think about it," he said, reaching to run the flat of his hand against the soft skin on her back.
"Okay," she said.
The sound of his stomach rumbling with hunger snapped them out of the slightly serious moment, making them both chuckle.
"I think dinner is going to need to happen sooner rather than later," he advised.
…
As they prepared supper—a light pasta dish—Bridget contemplated what Mark had proposed to her. The thought of posing for a painting in the nude would have, under most circumstances, caused her to break out into a cold sweat. But it's Mark we're talking about, she thought, a man who has never treated me with anything but love and respect. If anyone could do her justice, particularly with his eye for texture and light in watercolour, it would be him.
Wryly she regretted her encouragement in pursuing this artistic endeavour. You have no one to blame for this but yourself, she chided mentally.
They watched a film on DVD together, snuggled on the sofa, then sat on the back patio and enjoyed the late sunset. As they prepared for bed that night she decided to tell him she'd made up her mind.
"You can paint me," she said, meeting his eyes by the proxy of the mirror.
He offered a small smile. "You're sure?"
"I'm reasonably sure you're not going to make a fool of me," she said light-heartedly.
"I'm glad you have such confidence in me," he said teasingly, slipping an arm around her shoulder and pecking her on the temple. "We can start tomorrow, if you like."
"Okay."
She tossed and turned that night thinking about what sort of pose he would have her strike for this painting; thought about her squishy stomach and hips; considered how terrifying her breasts might look without something to contain them, such that by the time morning came around, she had barely had any sleep at all.
"Morning, love," he said, his hand racing along the back of her leg and waking her as she slept on her stomach.
"Ugh," she said. "I feel hungover without the benefit of having been pissed last night."
"What's wrong?"
"Terrible time sleeping last night," she said. "I was thinking about your painting. I don't know if I can do it."
"Darling, it would just be you and me," he said.
"Yes, you committing my naked likeness to paper for anyone to see. You're practically the first man I've ever been intimate with that I didn't back out of the room to keep from seeing my bare bottom."
She heard him laugh under his breath. "Ultimately, darling, it's up to you," he said quietly, "but I had no intention of having you pose like a Playboy centrefold." His fingertips grazed along her shoulder.
"How would you know which poses a Playboy centrefold would even strike, hm?" she asked teasingly, closing her eyes.
"You know what I mean," he said. His caresses were putting her back to sleep. She tightened her arms around her pillow. "If you could just see what I'm seeing right now," he murmured. "The sunlight on your skin… it is to me one of the more perfect views this universe has to offer, and the one I'd most like to capture."
"So you want to paint the one thing I tried so hard to keep hidden," she said drowsily. "I don't know." She had to admit that the prospect of not being portrayed in a completely vulnerable frontal pose allayed her trepidation somewhat.
"I hope you change your mind," he said; then she felt him kiss her shoulder. "Go back to sleep for a while if you need to. I'll head downstairs and make some coffee."
"Okay," she said.
…
He watched as she fell back to sleep, watched as her breathing evened out to the slow and steady rhythm of slumber, before pushing the sheets back and rising from the bed. He slipped into his robe, paused at the door to take in the scene again… and realised that the palette of colours he had in his childhood paint set was insufficient for what he wanted to capture on paper.
Ideally an art store in London would have offered the best options for selection, but he was not about to drive all the way back just for paint. He thought perhaps a nearby town might have had a decently stocked art store. He dug up the telephone directory and began making enquiries. He had success; there was in fact an art store in Kettering with what they claimed was a wide selection of high quality watercolours.
He thought if he popped out he could be back before she awoke, so he finished his coffee, went upstairs to put some clothes on, wrote a quick note to say he'd gone out in case she woke while he was gone, and was on the road within twenty minutes of his telephone call.
When he got to the art store in Kettering, however, he was mightily disappointed. The paints there looked like they had been in stock since some time in the seventies, and were not what he considered of high quality. With a polite smile he retreated from the store, not saying a word, not wanting the little grey-haired granny behind the counter to know he'd been the one to call.
There was only one thing to be done.
Halfway back to London his mobile rang. He glanced down and saw that it was Bridget. He knew he shouldn't have answered while driving, but didn't want her to worry.
"Darling, I'm sorry, I thought you'd be sleeping longer."
"Where are you?" she said. "Your note said you were only going to Kettering."
"Sadly, Kettering did not have what I wanted."
She was quiet for a moment. "What is your errand, Mark?"
"I needed… something."
"Mark."
"I wanted a bit more… range."
"Stop dodging the question," she said. "Range of what?"
"Colours."
"Please tell me," she said, "you aren't driving all the way back to London for paint."
"No," he said defensively. "Maybe a few more brushes too."
She didn't say anything.
"And a bigger paper block, I think."
"Mark," she said again.
"I want to get it right," he said.
After a moment, she started speaking again, but instead of more chastisement, it was to advise him from where she had purchased his smaller block. "They came highly recommended to me from every artsy type I asked," she said.
He was, in all honestly, pleased and surprised. "Thank you, love. I'll be home as soon as I'm finished."
"If I didn't know better," she said, "I'd say you were obsessed."
"I'm not," he said. "I'm simply dedicated to seeing this project through."
She laughed. "I'm a project, am I?"
"You know what I mean."
Through her residual chuckling, she said, "I think you owe me a special treat for such an insult."
"Yes, love. I'll see you when I get back."
He disconnected, then concentrated on the road.
…
As the time approached five o'clock, he still wasn't back from his jaunt to town; it wasn't that she was not capable of spending time on her own, but in a house the size of the Darcys, she felt a bit tiny rattling around. There had already been two false alarms; once when the gardener came to do the lawn, and another when the housekeeper came by to tidy up (whose presence really startled Bridget, as she had just emerged from the bedroom after having showered and dressed).
She had just about decided to phone his mobile again when she heard wheels on the drive outside. She went to the window. It was Mark's car. She went to the door to greet him, throwing it wide.
"I was just about to put the constables on your trail—" she began, but stopped short upon seeing him unloading a paper block at least a half-metre in width from the back seat of his vehicle. "Please tell me you don't intend on making my arse life-sized."
He chuckled. "Darling, it'll just allow more subtle detail, that's all. Come here. I need your help carrying things in." As she got closer, she realised she smelled something delicious.
"You didn't get my favourite pizza for supper," she said. "Did you?"
"And dessert," he said. "Chocolate cake with ganache icing."
"Oh my. Well, you'll need a bigger paper block for sure, after all of this."
She took the pizza and patisserie boxes in (intending on heading for the kitchen) while he put the paper block under one arm and slung a carrier bag from the art store over the other.
When he joined her in the kitchen, she put her arms around him and gave him a big kiss. "I missed you," she said.
He chuckled. "You only saw me this morning."
"I still missed you," she said, pouting.
He stroked her cheek. "I love you," he said.
"I should hope so," she teased, "if I'm going to let you paint me naked."
He raised his brow.
"What?" she asked.
"The sometimes inexactness of the English language, that's all," he said. "For a moment there I thought you meant you expected me to be naked while I painted."
"Oooh," she thought, a broad grin overtaking her features. "Now there's an idea."
"Or perhaps you meant," he said, "I could actually paint your naked body."
"No, no, I like your idea better."
That night after supper, he laid out the paints and brought the easel and the paper into their bedroom.
"Are you starting tonight?"
"Oh, no," he said. "It's the wrong sort of light. We need the morning light coming through the eastern window, not the more indirect light of the southerly one."
"But that's the light that inspired you."
"No, the evening light only reminded me how lovely you look in the morning."
"How early in the morning?"
"As early as it takes," he said.
She groaned and flopped down onto the bed. "Well, at least I'll have something nice to look at."
"Hm?" He stood upright.
He should well have realised that once the seed had been planted, thought Bridget, she was not likely to forget about it. "You'll be naked, too."
"Oh, I don't think so, Bridget," he said.
She pouted again. "Be a sport, Mark," she said. "It's the least you can do."
He pursed his lips. "I'm not making any promises."
"If I have to lie here motionless," she said, turning over to look at him, "you do realise you will have to keep me entertained."
"And do you realise," he countered, "that it is extremely and dangerously distracting for a man like me to paint a beautiful, naked woman like you while naked himself?"
She fought a laugh, understanding at last. "How about a compromise?"
"What's that?"
"Shirtless."
He offered a reluctant smile. "Maybe." He joined her on the bed. "We'll see."
"So you said."
As they laid side by side, propped up and facing one another, he reached and cupped her face with his hand. "I found the most perfect shade of pale rosy peach to match your skin," he murmured.
"Change the subject, why don't you?" she said as he leaned in to kiss her.
"Gladly," he said just before he did.
It was not enough, however, to distract her from what she wanted, and when morning arrived and he brought them coffee far earlier than she was pleased with, she insisted he remain shirtless.
"Honestly," he said. "We're not newlyweds. You've seen me enough times."
"Tell that to the bed," she said. "It's seen more action in three days than in all the rest of its life. Besides, you've seen me enough times, and I'm letting you paint me… while. I. Am. Nude." She stressed every one of those words.
"Point taken," he sighed.
After having breakfast, the sun had shifted, and she watched as Mark, in his pyjama bottoms and tank top, went to fill up the paint's reservoir with water. "If you have to loo, now would be a great time to do it," he said. "And take off your nightie. The light's not going to stay this way for very long, so we should get started as soon as possible."
She did as told, hating the brusque way he'd told her to disrobe, but when she came back she stared at him pointedly.
"You're not still going on about my being shirtless, are you?"
"It's such a small thing," she said, fluttering her lashes almost comically, which made him laugh.
"All right, fine," he conceded at last, pulling the tank up and over his head. Now, if you can just lie down across the bed on your stomach…" He helped to get her in the position he thought would be best for the way the light was coming in, and once he had her exactly the way he wanted her, he smiled so broadly it made her blush. "Perfect."
He got behind the easel, and for what felt like forever he simply stood there and regarded her. The next step was for him to take the biggest brush he had—two finger-widths wide—and start to put down broad strokes.
It was not long before she felt a little bored, since he was not inclined to speak and she had not thought to prop a book up before her. "Maybe I should have had you put on some music," she said ruefully.
"Tomorrow," he said, then carried on with painting.
…
She was on her stomach, her feet pointed towards the pillows but her toes pointed up in the air with ankles crossed; her arms embraced around a decorative satin pillow and the bed covers were mussed around her. She might have been nude, but her backside was somewhat obscured by her head, and the pillow's placement only revealed the side curve of her breast. The expanse of her gold-lit skin, however, was proving to be a challenge to capture.
He sighed a bit in frustration, working to layer on slightly deeper hues until the light had shifted so much he could no longer justify painting anymore. He was pleased overall with the results, but it was not near to being finished by any means. He rinsed off the brush, then set it down.
"Okay," he said. "You can move."
"Don't actually know that I can," she said, dropping down to lie flat on the bed, her arms extending out to her sides. "My shoulders ache and I don't think I can feel my feet any more."
"Poor darling. Well. At least I didn't paint any longer. I'd really wanted to."
"It's already been three hours," she said grumpily.
Astounded, he looked to the clock and saw she was right. "Oh, love, you should have said something. We could have had a break."
"I did," she said grouchily. "You told me to shush."
"I did at least let you put your feet down when I wasn't actively painting them."
"Thank goodness for small mercies. They might have started to shrivel up by now."
"I am sorry," he said, "but you're being a bit melodramatic."
"You try lying perfectly still for three hours in silence with nothing to do and a decidedly non-conversational spouse and see how you feel."
He sat beside her and began to rub her feet. "How about we take a nice hot bath? I'll rub your shoulders."
He felt the bed shift. "I like the sound of that." She pulled her feet from his grasp to roll over just as he turned to face her. "Can I look?"
"I'd rather you didn't until it's closer to being done." He stretched beside her. "You were a wonderful model," he said, "and an absolutely perfect subject for this painting."
She lowered her eyes demurely. "You're biased," she said.
"None of that," he said. "If I can't accuse you of bias for my paintings, you can't accuse me of bias towards my subject."
He saw a smile flit over her features. "Fine," she said, meeting his gaze again. "Now what about this bath?"
With a grin he reached forward and pecked a kiss on her lips. "Just be thankful I didn't want this for a pose," he said, his hand running over her hip; she was reclined, one knee bent, arms stretched over her head, her breasts pert and lovely.
"This view you will need to commit to memory if you want to reflect on it," she warned teasingly, bringing a hand down to playfully smack down on the one on her hip.
He kissed her again then rose from the bed, lest he be tempted further by her. "Let me run that bath for you."
"And then lunch," she called.
"Yes, love," he called back.
As he started running the water, adding a moisturising bubble bath into the water, he could only think in his mind of the process he'd been through that morning. Perhaps he should have done more of a quick comprehensive sketch instead of trying to get everything so perfect, then used that sketch to build the final painting along with her posing live. He was so deep in thought that the feel of her hand upon his shoulder startled him.
"I think it's plenty full," she said.
She was quite right. The bubbles were encroaching the top edge of the bathtub. He got to his feet and helped her to lower herself into the large bathtub before dropping his pyjama bottoms and joining her.
"What were you in a trance about?" she asked.
"Oh, nothing," he said casually. "Was just thinking about… well, the painting. Wonder if I might not have done more of a sketch today."
"I'm sure whatever you've done is wonderful," she said.
"You just don't want to have to pose any longer than you need to," he joked.
"I admit that is part of it," she said, "but mostly you should not second-guess your choices. You rarely do in anything else."
"Point taken, darling," he said, and she was right; he was not displeased with the results, so he should not be questioning how he got there. With that, he bade her turn around so that he could work on rubbing her shoulders, digging his thumbs into the knotted muscles. She made little sounds that told him he was hitting the right spot and that it hurt, but in a good way.
"Much better," she said, relaxing back into him. "And we're supposed to rise and be productive human beings now?"
He chuckled. "Well, as productive as two people on holiday are likely to be."
She turned over in the water and pecked a kiss on his lips. "I can stand that kind of productive."
As they rose from the tub, as he patted her down with a cotton towel, he found himself studying, almost memorising, her back and bottom. He would have to send her to bed early, he realised. It would not do to miss the light or for her to look tired.
"What?" she said with a hint of suspicion in her voice.
"Just planning our day a little in my head," he replied. It was, after all, not untrue.
…
"Mark," she said. "It's not even dark yet."
"But if we're going to get up with the sunlight," he said, "we ought to go to bed accordingly early."
She fought a yawn with all of her might, which would have only served to make his point. "But Mark. Really. Eight-thirty?"
"I didn't say we would march right upstairs and fall to sleep," he said. "We could read a bit, or talk, or cuddle a little…"
"Oh," she said. "We can discuss what to add so that I'm not bored rigid."
"Being bored rigid might help the process," he teased.
"If we don't schedule at least one ciggie break, I—" She stopped dead, forgetting for a moment that he thought she'd given up.
He only raised a brow. "Now what would my wife want with a ciggie break when she's told me again and again that she's quit?"
"Oh, but I have," she said smoothly, getting up onto her toes to give him a kiss. "I was just speaking hypothetically."
He tried not to laugh, but failed at hiding his efforts. He wrapped his arms around her, looking down at her through his lashes. "You're a terrible liar," he said. Leaning forward, he kissed her on the forehead. "And I'm rather glad for it." He stepped back. "Come on, love. You'll be glad to have turned in early when the alarm goes off."
A cold foreboding settled into her stomach. "What time is the alarm set for?"
"Five-thirty."
"Mark," she said, horrified. "I don't even get up that early when I'm working!"
"You're missing a whole other world," he said, strolling toward the stairs to the second floor.
"I've created a monster," she muttered to herself.
She knew the alarm would be sounding whether she went to bed at nine or at midnight, so rather than sabotage herself she retired when he did. She fell to sleep surprisingly quickly watching him read by the bedside lamp.
It did not mean she welcomed the buzz of the alarm when it began bleating as early as it did.
After a moment of coming down from the shock and adrenaline rush, she wondered why he had not hit the button to stop it. When she turned over, she realised that Mark still snored away softly.
Smirking, she was half-tempted to switch it off completely, turn over and go back to sleep, but the temptation to wake him and be smug about it was greater. She reached over him—he still did not wake, which was concerning—and slapped the snooze bar.
"Mark," she said in a slight hush, then realised the point was to wake him, so repeated herself at full volume, "Mark!"
Blearily he began to blink, slowly turning his head towards her. "Yes, Bridget, what is it?"
"Time to wake up, Mr Early Bird," she teased. It surprised her how awake she felt despite the hour and the lack of coffee.
"What? But I didn't hear—" He turned towards the clock and saw the time. "Oh, I guess you must have gotten it."
"Yes," she said, drawing out the word. "Rise and shine. Time to paint."
"Had a terrible time falling asleep," he said. She thought maybe she'd won, but to her surprise he kicked back the sheets. "Nothing to be done about it. I'll just go make some coffee."
"But Mark," she said. "Aren't you sure you don't want to sleep a little longer?"
"No," he said. "What kept me up was thinking about painting." He got to his feet, went over and put on his robe. "You can stay up here if you like—I can bring it to you."
"No way," she said quickly, then amended, "I mean, no, no, I'll join you."
Pushing herself up out of bed, she reached for her robe and followed him downstairs where they made some coffee and had breakfast. As she ate and sipped her coffee she was determined to be the perfect painting model.
Unfortunately, the coffee had other ideas.
"Mark?" she asked about forty-five minutes into their session.
"Mm," he said, which she supposed was his way of asking what she wanted.
"I have to use the ladies."
He did not respond.
"Mark," she said again with a little more emphasis. "I am having a real issue here."
He looked up to her. "I'm sorry, did you say something?"
"Yes," she said. "I have to go."
"Go where?"
She sighed. "To the loo."
"Oh, sorry." He set the brush down and went over to help her stand.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Didn't think the coffee would go through me that fast."
"You know what they say. You can only rent coffee."
She giggled, then padded over to the loo and closed the door.