Free Offcomer by Jo Baker Page A

home.”

FOUR
 
    Alan soon came to look back on that moment with nostalgia. The shade of a naked, candlelit, silent Claire reclining on his sofa haunted the whole of the relationship for him. The memory carried with it the scent of childhood Christmas Eves, the presents under the tree still in their glossy, shiny wrappings, still mysterious and exciting. The rest of the relationship was, Alan had come to think, really just one long disappointing Christmas Day. Even when you got what you wanted, it was never as good as you thought it was going to be. The shiny wrappings were soon torn and shredded all over the Axminster, you were tired and ratty from lack of sleep, and your Evel Knievel motorbike was in bits. Alan, twenty-five years old, experienced the kind of deflation that he had not felt since Christmas morning, 1982, when he had gleefully peeled the reindeer-wrapping off a big flat box expecting to find a Scalextrics,only to see the cool blue and white lettering of a chemistry set.
    But, briefly, things had been perfect. He had felt warm with wine and lust. And as she had opened the door and walked naked into the room he had, briefly, been unable to breathe. Candlelit, she was smooth and slender and seemingly flawless. Her breasts had shaken slightly as she came towards him. He saw her buttocks fold and crease against her thighs in turn as she passed him to get to the sofa. He became aware of a reassuring tumescence in his underpants. He might not, he realised solidly, ever need to visit Northgate Hall again.
    He had taken time over the picture. There was no point, he thought, in rushing things. He had settled the drawing board more comfortably in his lap, and, not looking up, he had marked her down on the paper. He drew confidently, easily. Sketching out the shapes and shadows of a female body. Thick dark lines and scratchy shading. Oblivious, he had dragged his fists across the picture as he drew, smudging and blurring. He had put down his charcoal, rubbed his smutty hands together, smiled, satisfied.
    “How’s it coming on?” she asked.
    “Fine,” he said. “Finished, in fact.”
    He leaned forward uncomfortably, passed her the picture. She propped herself up on one elbow and the candlelight caught the underside of her breasts. There was, Alan noticed as he handed over the A3 sheet, a mole on her left nipple. His erection pushed and twitched against his jeans. He sat back, shuffled around, unable to get comfortable.
    “What do you think?” he said.
    She shook the paper straight, did not reply. Alan felt the first hiss of deflation. He should not have shown her.
    “Not that bad?” he asked.
    Still she didn’t say anything, just lay there looking at the picture. There were goosepimples puckering her skin. Her silence now seemed critical, no longer simple and welcome. And who was she to judge. She had said herself that she couldn’t draw. That she was useless. After what seemed to Alan far too long, she opened her mouth and said, slowly,
    “Is that what I’m like?”
    “Pretty much.” He leaned forward. The head of his penis had slipped out of his pants. It chafed against his jeans. Uncomfortable and annoyed, he snatched the picture off her.
    “It’s very good,” she said, shifting round, sitting up. Her bare feet hit the floor with a gentle slap. “It’s just it’s strange to see it.” He heard the springs creak as she got up. She came and stood behind him, looking over his shoulder. Alan, still offended, did not look up.
    “It makes sense,” she said. Which didn’t make much sense to him. He wasn’t sure if it was an apology or not. His eyes flickered up towards her, his head didn’t move. Her mole-marked breast was close to his face. Angry, he laid the picture carefully down on the floor.
    He realised afterwards that he should have known all along that nothing would ever be quite as good as her silent, still nakedness, and that it would be better to let it go, not to touch. But he did touch