AllFreeNovel
Share Us
She closes the office door behind her. The latex gloves have come in handy. This morning she used a pair to remove Peter’s little stash from its hiding place, tip it into a tiny travel shampoo bottle and replace it with washing powder. The shampoo bottle is in her handbag, where it will stay until she needs it. Now she pulls on a new pair as she slips the plastic bag out of her pocket and winkles it to the back of the top right-hand drawer of his desk. Shuffles various pens, articles and official-looking letters in front and, satisfied that he won’t see it, at least not today, closes the drawer. That’s all she has to do for now.
She takes off the gloves and wanders over to Peter’s bookshelf. As at home, the books are in alphabetical order. At the Gs, she stops, a title catching her eye:Artemisia Gentileschi: Images of Female Power. She pulls the book out. The cover shows a painting at once familiar and unfamiliar – she’s pretty sure it’s Judith beheading Holofernes. It looks very like the image Peter showed in that first lecture. But this is not Caravaggio’s painting, she’s almost convinced; there is something even more shocking about this one.
She takes the book to Peter’s desk and sits down. Flips through, and yes, she was right, here is the Caravaggio picture, for comparison. Beneath, she reads: Judith Beheading Holofernes, Caravaggio,c.1598–9. Intrigued, she finds the cover version on the next page with, beneath it: Judith Slaying Holofernes, Gentileschi,c.1614–20.
She skim-reads, flipping back and forth between the two images. Gentileschi was younger than Caravaggio – her painting came later. She was ten when she first met him, and Caravaggio’s version is believed to be the main influence on her later work. But in the Caravaggio, the murder appears almost effortless. The image is still bloody, of course, but Judith looks unsure, worried perhaps, standing at arm’s length from her victim, her servant almost cowering behind her. Gentileschi, by contrast, has both her women bearing down, working as a team, the physical effort much more obvious in their poses, their faces determined, focused. It has taken two women to overpower this guy, whoever he is. And from the expression on his face, he knows they will not stop until his head has been severed. This is the better painting, Samantha thinks. Why has she not heard of this woman?
She reads on, willing Peter to be late while she finds out more. Gentileschi’s work was a protest against the abuse she suffered at the hands of men. Rape, repression, injustice. She used her own face in the painting. Just as Caravaggio was his own Medusa, Gentileschi is Judith. Holofernes … Holofernes is someone called Agostino Tassi. Samantha’s eyes scour the page, find the name once again, lower down. Tassi, she reads, was Artemisia’s rapist.
‘Whoa,’ she whispers.
Of course Gentileschi’s work is more violent than Caravaggio’s. This woman was working from a place of deep visceral fury. She was exacting her revenge.
The door flies open. It’s a little after one forty-five. Peter’s face is flushed, his hairline damp with sweat. He has clearly run through the campus and, judging by the look on his face, is surprised to see her there. But he soon rearranges his features.
‘You’re early,’ he says and smiles, almost shyly. She wonders why he has felt the need to run. Perhaps he wanted to take something before she got here, get himself in the mood. Who knows? Who knows how much, how often he takes this stuff? He might simply have rushed so as to see her all the sooner. That’s the problem with a loss of trust: everything that comes after is loaded with suspicion; the ninety-nine per cent trust becomes one. The one per cent doubt becomes the ninety-nine.
And so here they are.
Peter stands on the other side of the desk, as if he is the student and she the tutor. For a moment neither of them says a word. She wonders if either of them will be able to go through with what they have planned without embarrassment. But then she remembers the play. This might, she thinks, be Act Two.
‘I’m here about my thesis,’ she says. She lays down the book, picks up one of Peter’s biros and taps it against her teeth.
‘I … I read it.’ He looks stressed.
She puts her feet on his desk, crosses her ankles. ‘Oh yes? And what did you think?’
He blows at his ridiculous acrylic-like hair and comes to sit on the edge of the desk. She lifts her leg, repositions it so that she has a foot either side of him. For the first and, she suspects, last time in her life, she is wearing stockings and suspenders. Peter has told her so often that he doesn’t objectify women. But that was bullshit and this is role play.
‘Christ,’ he whispers, runs his hands up the inside of her leg.
She whips her feet from the desk and leans forward, unzips his fly.
He stays her hand.
‘Wait,’ he says. He looks about him, seems to be searching for something.
‘I hope there aren’t too many corrections,’ she insists, pushing her hand inside the loose opening of his boxers.
‘Not too many.’ His voice has thinned. He bends forward and kisses her hard on the mouth. ‘Just a few things we need to go over.’
She almost loses it. The whole thing is so cheesy, like an old film, or even porn, not that she’s seen more than a few minutes of that stuff. But he’s into it, the evidence is hard in her hand, and she knows she can’t bottle out now.
But despite the early encouraging signs, Peter struggles to keep up the necessary enthusiasm. She does what she can, but he fades in her grip like a week-old balloon. She wonders at his initial reticence, right at the start. Is it possible that he’s so drug-dependent now that he can’t enjoy anything unless he’s taken something? Or has he felt the power shift already?
‘Sorry,’ he says, sitting back from her. ‘We’ll have to try again later.’
‘That’s OK. Don’t worry about it.’
He zips up his fly with an apologetic grimace, opens the deep bottom drawer of his desk. It is a filing section, she can see the steel runners, but inside are not files but bottles, five or so, housed in a cardboard wine carrier. Something about this makes her feel sad, so sad it almost makes her question what she’s doing. Peter is not bad, not really, just pathetic. He pulls out a bottle and waves it at her.
‘Maybe if we have a drop of this, we can try again?’ he says.
She wrinkles her nose. ‘Let’s just get to the restaurant, shall we? It’s booked for two thirty. It’s Mexican; we can have margaritas. I’m in charge today, remember. This is your surprise.’
He puts the bottle back without argument. She can’t decide if he’s disappointed or relieved, but it feels weird to have him do what she says.
They head towards Fitzrovia. In the restaurant, she orders margaritas – virgin for her; she’s still breastfeeding, she reminds him, and a cocktail might be too strong. They arrive crusted with glittering salt. Peter excuses himself to go to the bathroom. While he’s in there, she takes out the shampoo miniature and pours a little of his magic powder into his drink. It is astonishingly easy, as easy as taking a painkiller, in the bustle of the busy restaurant. And she has practised. The sprinkles hit the cloudy duck-egg-blue drink and just as quickly dissolve. She knew she’d have the opportunity to do this because the thing about Peter is that he needs the loo alot,much more than boys her age. Not surprising, not anymore. Goodbye, grumpy Peter; hello, nice Peter.
