Page 27 of The English Professor

I nod my head. I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t even want to be here. He’s the reason I’m not going to nude model anymore. I had walked the tightrope and got too close to falling off.

‘Would you consider modelling on a private basis? Obviously, I would pay you. Generously.’ His eyes drill into me, creating little rivets in my façade.

My instinct is to shake my head and get out of here as fast as I can and I don’t know why I don’t. There’s just something about the way he’s asked me that has me hesitating. There’s no way he knows who I am. If he knew, he’d never ask me something so... intimate. Or would he?

‘I have a place over on Albert Street and I have an art studio on the top floor.’

Still, I say nothing, considering. Considering what? This would be wrong on so many levels. What am I doing? I can’t be considering this and yet, here I am, still standing here.

‘I could give you references if that’s a concern.’ He’s sensing my hesitation, yet he has no idea why I’m not answering. I have no idea why I’m not just saying no. It certainly has nothing to do with references. The thought of being naked in Professor Jack Stanhope’s house should send me running for the hills. Instead, I ask quietly, ‘When?’

He looks slightly taken aback, like he wasn’t expecting me to agree. But then his eyes darken, like when I see him teasing me at the office, and his face softens. ‘Next week, same time?’

I nod.

He grabs a scrap piece of paper and a pen from his bag. He writes down his street address and his email and hands it to me. The scent of his cologne wafts over me as he hands me his details. It’s the same one I smell every day at the office and I’m reminded of pine and musk—so utterly male. It’s fucking delicious.

I’ve been standing with my arms crossed, defensive. But I stretch out one arm to take the paper, keeping the other arm still wrapped across my stomach. I’m scared to talk, worried that if I say too much, he’ll figure out who I am. If he doesn’t already know. It feels ridiculous, but this is my only defence. I can only keep up this charade if I can convince myself that I’m still anonymous.

I take the paper from him, acknowledging with a curt nod and walk away.

What have I just done? Is this a game I want to play?

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IENTER MY FLAT ANDlean back against the front door. What did Robert Burns say, the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry? I went into that final sitting with a clear plan—it was going to be my last session. I had discussed it with Karinna. I had made peace with it. It was done and dusted.

Only that’s not how it turned out at all.

I’ve never been caught in the corridor, never seen a soul when I’m leaving that place. But there he was, like he knew I was going to be there. I didn’t have to say yes. There was nothing compelling me to do so. I certainly would never have agreed if it had been a stranger. But there was something in the way he asked me, something I can’t describe. It sparked a flicker of fire inside of me and I wanted nothing more than to feel that flame catch fire, to feel the intensity of the blaze. Because that’s always how I feel around him. He sets off something inside of me that makes me want to do and say crazy things.

I walk into the spare room of the flat that I rent. It’s nowhere near Jack’s place or the university. Rents are far too high there. I live in a decent but cheap two-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of an old coal-mining village. It doesn’t have mould and it doesn’t have bugs so that’s a win.

I flick on the light switch and stare at the reason I’m doing any of this. To call this a spare bedroom would be completely wrong. It is a storage room, a museum of sorts. The beginnings of a proto-art gallery.

There are paintings of every shape and size and style.

I started collecting properly when I started uni. Right around the time I met Candace. We shared a flat together back then and it used to drive her crazy because I’d have paintings all over the apartment. And I’d find them everywhere—charity shops, car boot sales, student gatherings. Sometimes I’d get other art students to paint something for me. I would laugh and tell them I would make them famous one day. I can’t believe anyone ever listened to me. I only ever collected pieces that spoke to me or that made me feel something. And because I was taking art history, I knew a little something about technique and style. I felt I could spot a good painting when I saw one.

I stand in the centre of that spare room now and stare at it all. There are paintings everywhere, in piles, stacked, on the walls. I lovingly think of them as my foster paintings. I simply need to find each and every one of them a home—but not before I will display them so that others can appreciate their beauty too, even if it is for a short period of time.

And that, I convince myself, is why I have agreed to Professor Stanhope’s ludicrous proposition. It is why, in a week’s time, I am going to find myself sitting naked in his house.

Yes, I tell myself, it is for the art—nothing else.

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