denying it’s a ridiculous sensation. It’s like being swept away in a boat and, when I shut my eyes as an experiment, I’m asleep in seconds.
It’s dark in the room when I wake up and for a moment I have absolutely no idea where I am. I jolt upright, the waterbed lurching beneath me, and I yelp in shock.
I roll over cautiously and turn on the china lamp on the bedside table and yawn. A soft glow falls over the room and I get up and stretch and, as I do so, my stomach growls.
‘Hello,’ I call, as I retrace my steps along the dark corridor.
Ignoring Gundred’s instruction, I get to the staircase, peering over. The bottom floor below me is in darkness.
‘Hello?’ I call again. My voice echoes in the stairwell.
I can’t possibly be here alone, can I?
I run fast down the stairs and press all the lights on the panel at the bottom of the stairs. Now there’s light, I feel slightly better, but it’s still a bit freaky.
‘Hello?’ I call again. ‘Anyone? Anyone here?’
I stare down the corridor towards the kitchens. It’s dark beneath the doors. The silence is thick and conspiratorial.
I notice now that a row of uplighters has come on around the edge of the gallery room on my right, illuminating the walls. As I walk towards it, the glass door slides open and I walk inside.
Since I was here on my tour earlier, one of the large paintings that I saw being delivered has been hung on the wall. I realize, as I walk towards it, that it’s the one I saw on the tiny thumbprint picture on the Internet. It is of Marnie Parker.
The splodgy oil painting dominates the whole wall. It must be at least five or six yards wide and as many high. Marnie Parker is naked and lying on her side, her hand on the gentle swell of her belly. It’s an incredible painting – made more so by its sheer size. The oil paint is thick, like it has been trowelled on, but despite that, the more I look at it, the more detail I can see, like how the light falls on the upturn of her breast and nipple. I cock my head and gawp at it, but after a moment it feels illicit, like I’m prying. Her semi-closed eyes seem to stare right at me, challenging me. I look at the dark patch between her legs, then flush and deliberately turn away.
What kind of person poses for a painting like that, I wonder? Someone with a whole bucket-load of self-confidence, that’s for sure. Will Marnie Parker be an intimidating boss? What will it be like to meet her, now that I’ve already seen her nude? Will she be embarrassed, or will I?
Me probably. She’s had the painting hung on her wall, I remind myself. She obviously doesn’t care who sees it. Not even the removal men. Let alone her young boys.
The parquet floor shines ahead of me. There must be fifty feet or more of clear space. There’s not a blemish on it. The lighting in the room makes it intimate – despite its size. It’s like a stage.
I remember earlier on, when I first saw this room, I wanted to do a sock-slide across it. I put my hand on my shoulder and rotate my arm. It clicks. I need to move my body.
I take off my pumps and, glancing around me to check that I really am alone, I tiptoe back over to the corner of the room, where I came in. I glance into the corridor. Nobody is there.
I haven’t really planned this, but somehow I can’t help it. It’s just feels rude not to. With a quick run-up sprint, I cartwheel across the diagonal of the room. It feels astonishing – at once thrilling and shocking. I’m so out of practice that I’m panting by the time I come to a stop. But God, it’s fun. I laugh out loud.
Revelling in the sheer space, I do a few twirls back the other way, a couple of arabesques, and all at once my dancing days come flooding back and I’m like a kid in class again. I wonder if I can still
jeté
, I think, rucking up my jeans onto my thighs.
I run back to the corner and check again that I’m still alone. Remembering how I used to pretend I was Darcey Bussell, I focus
It’s dark in the room when I wake up and for a moment I have absolutely no idea where I am. I jolt upright, the waterbed lurching beneath me, and I yelp in shock.
I roll over cautiously and turn on the china lamp on the bedside table and yawn. A soft glow falls over the room and I get up and stretch and, as I do so, my stomach growls.
‘Hello,’ I call, as I retrace my steps along the dark corridor.
Ignoring Gundred’s instruction, I get to the staircase, peering over. The bottom floor below me is in darkness.
‘Hello?’ I call again. My voice echoes in the stairwell.
I can’t possibly be here alone, can I?
I run fast down the stairs and press all the lights on the panel at the bottom of the stairs. Now there’s light, I feel slightly better, but it’s still a bit freaky.
‘Hello?’ I call again. ‘Anyone? Anyone here?’
I stare down the corridor towards the kitchens. It’s dark beneath the doors. The silence is thick and conspiratorial.
I notice now that a row of uplighters has come on around the edge of the gallery room on my right, illuminating the walls. As I walk towards it, the glass door slides open and I walk inside.
Since I was here on my tour earlier, one of the large paintings that I saw being delivered has been hung on the wall. I realize, as I walk towards it, that it’s the one I saw on the tiny thumbprint picture on the Internet. It is of Marnie Parker.
The splodgy oil painting dominates the whole wall. It must be at least five or six yards wide and as many high. Marnie Parker is naked and lying on her side, her hand on the gentle swell of her belly. It’s an incredible painting – made more so by its sheer size. The oil paint is thick, like it has been trowelled on, but despite that, the more I look at it, the more detail I can see, like how the light falls on the upturn of her breast and nipple. I cock my head and gawp at it, but after a moment it feels illicit, like I’m prying. Her semi-closed eyes seem to stare right at me, challenging me. I look at the dark patch between her legs, then flush and deliberately turn away.
What kind of person poses for a painting like that, I wonder? Someone with a whole bucket-load of self-confidence, that’s for sure. Will Marnie Parker be an intimidating boss? What will it be like to meet her, now that I’ve already seen her nude? Will she be embarrassed, or will I?
Me probably. She’s had the painting hung on her wall, I remind myself. She obviously doesn’t care who sees it. Not even the removal men. Let alone her young boys.
The parquet floor shines ahead of me. There must be fifty feet or more of clear space. There’s not a blemish on it. The lighting in the room makes it intimate – despite its size. It’s like a stage.
I remember earlier on, when I first saw this room, I wanted to do a sock-slide across it. I put my hand on my shoulder and rotate my arm. It clicks. I need to move my body.
I take off my pumps and, glancing around me to check that I really am alone, I tiptoe back over to the corner of the room, where I came in. I glance into the corridor. Nobody is there.
I haven’t really planned this, but somehow I can’t help it. It’s just feels rude not to. With a quick run-up sprint, I cartwheel across the diagonal of the room. It feels astonishing – at once thrilling and shocking. I’m so out of practice that I’m panting by the time I come to a stop. But God, it’s fun. I laugh out loud.
Revelling in the sheer space, I do a few twirls back the other way, a couple of arabesques, and all at once my dancing days come flooding back and I’m like a kid in class again. I wonder if I can still
jeté
, I think, rucking up my jeans onto my thighs.
I run back to the corner and check again that I’m still alone. Remembering how I used to pretend I was Darcey Bussell, I focus
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