Teach Me Dirty(34)

“Yes. Yes you will.”

“Goodnight, Helen.”

“Goodnight, Mr Roberts.”

“It’s Mark,” he said.

Little wings fluttered around my ribcage.

And then he was gone.





Helen



I owed Lizzie big time, dragging her away from sexy time with Scottie Davis for virtually the entire weekend while we went through every item of clothing I owned, once, twice, three times. She’d tried to dress me up like I was going out on the pull, trying tirelessly to convince me of the practicality of wearing four-inch heels through a week’s worth of painting. Overruled. We’d called a truce over a cute little pair of ankle boots I hadn’t worn since last winter, and a loose turquoise dress shirt over jeans. The frilly underwear was uncomfortable, and I felt all trussed up and ruffly on my way to school. I just hoped it would be worth it.

I’d gone with makeup, but only a little. A dab of lip-gloss and the faintest dusting of silver shimmer eyeshadow to make my eyes sparkle. I was still freckly, skinny little Helen, even if I was wearing fancy undies, and that would have to do. Today it didn’t actually feel so bad. I felt good. I felt alive.

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…”