imagine any red-blooded male would be only too glad to sleep with a woman who looked like that. I’m sure she makes a big profit from all of her artists (present company excepted) and can treat herself to that sort of lifestyle. And why not? I think I might do exactly the same if I was her.
I start to wonder what it would be like; being pretty wealthy and having a bunch of handsome young studs at your beck and call. You’re sitting at home, you’re feeling horny and all you have to do is pick up the phone. It’s either deeply fulfilling and supremely sexually satisfying or lonely and depressing. I don’t think there’s an inbetween bit with that sort of carry-on.
I finally take a look at my alarm clock to see what time it is. It’s 7.15, so I have a big stretch and get up, feeling very refreshed after another good night’s sleep. Maybe I sleep better on my own. I can’t remember what time Rhoda said she was popping over. I think she just said ‘morning’, though what her interpretation of morning is is anybody’s guess. She refers to getting into her office at 10 a.m. as ‘the crack of dawn’ or ‘the middle of the night’.
I purposely avoid looking at the paintings, which are still leaning malevolently against the hall wall.
I don’t feel as angry at Mark as I did yesterday. It could be that I got it all out of my system with yesterday evening’s frenzied painting sesh. Kristin and Mrs Goddard certainly whipped up some angry, resentful feelings between them, though. I know they were only trying to help, but still.
This morning, my thoughts are more like ‘Well, it’s only a week. This time next year we’ll be having a laugh about it.’
Maybe it’ll turn out to be a disaster. Maybe Danny Crump isn’t as much fun as he used to be. Maybe he’s an alcoholic. I don’t know him at all, but I could imagine he’s the type of boorish mega-nerd who would leave Mark on his own if by some miracle he got lucky with some near-sighted, intoxicated girl he met on the beach. But what if she had a friend? Danny is also the sort, I suspect, to try and impress his mates by getting them ‘fixed up’ with some bikinied beauty, so they’d be in his debt forever.
If Danny left Mark alone, Mark could wind up being the only company for the two girls, whose names I’ve already forgotten. Was one of them Margaret? Margot? Yes, Margot. That was it. And the other one? It’s gone completely. Margot was pretty attractive, though.
I realise that I’m clenching my teeth together and pursing my lips angrily as I think about this. Damn it! I just can’t stop thinking about Mark on this fucking holiday! No matter what I think or do, I just can’t put it out of my mind. I can’t stop it putting me in a bad mood. Damn you, Mark. You are ruining my week. In fact, I can’t remember a worse week since I started going out with him.
I remember the effect that the two paintings had on me last night when I put them next to each other. Often, when you get that sort of feeling from your own work, you take a look at them the next day and all the power you thought you’d achieved has gone. It was all in your mind and the painting just looks at you, mentally transmitting a message like ‘Ha! You thought we were really good, didn’t you! Now look at us, you deluded, talentless bitch!’
With a little fear in my heart, I turn the hall lights on and take a look. The paint has dried a little, so it doesn’t look exactly the same as last night, but the impact is still there. I now get the familiar ‘is it good or is it bad’ feeling rising up, so I turn the hall lights off and go back into the kitchen to make another coffee.
Just as I’m sitting down and thumbing through an eight month old copy of Vogue, the doorbell rings. I look at my watch – it’s only 8.17! Who the hell…?
I spill my coffee as I get up. Surely it can’t be Rhoda this early? Is it Mark? Has he come back after a couple of days because he couldn’t stand it and missed me terribly? Will he be out there with his bags,