Lessons in Art Page 5

  At first Nicola persevered in her attempts to goad Edward into reacting to her sexual advances. For example, she would deliberately rest her hand on his erection when she was climbing onto his lap. But in return he made her suffer by prolonging the spanking until her poor bottom was deep red, even before she had reached the bench.

  The time she came closest to provoking a sexual response from him occurred before her first whipping on the bench. Edward had just taken off his jacket and was rolling up his sleeves. Instead of standing still, as she had been instructed, she stood some feet away from the bench and bent forward from the waist with her arms out, so that her fingertips just touched it, and spread her legs. Following her spanking she felt sexy and playful. She was naked and she dropped her head to see what her pert breasts and prominent nipples looked like hanging in this position. For a moment Edward’s presence was forgotten as she narcissistically contemplated her own charms.

  Abruptly her head shot up at his touch. She felt him standing by her side, running his right hand down the plain of her back. With his left he cupped and fondled her breasts. She was shocked and aroused at the same time. Was it going to happen now, she wondered?

  ‘You remind me so much of Patricia,’ he murmured.

  She said nothing, but waited expectantly for his next move. His hands gently explored her upper body: her arms, her hair, her neck. Patricia had been her mother, but by now she was such a distant memory to her that it hardly seemed wrong to sleep with her old lover. Edward moved behind her. His fingertips caressed her bottom cheeks, the tops of her thighs and her sex.

  ‘I loved every inch of her. I miss her so much.’

  There was a crack in his voice. Nicola had never known Edward to cry, and she stood up, startled. He was not exactly crying but his eyes were moist. She held him to her.

  ‘I’m sorry I tempted you,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to bring back painful memories.’

  ‘You’re a sweet girl,’ he said, recovering his control and kissing her forehead. ‘But I’m still going to give you some painful memories of your own,’ he added, in a harder voice.

  Her initiation on the bench proceeded, and Nicola left the room an hour later suitably chastened.

  In the first couple of sessions in Room 101 the implements were restricted to strap and cane, but as she adjusted to the greater levels of pain Edward could move on.

  The following spring the most fearsome object arrived. Or rather they had to collect it. Edward showed her how to make a birch rod. He told her they came in different forms, but he was particular about the type he wanted to use on her. She was to make three new ones each spring. She had to take straight rods from the young trees in his garden; both birch and hazel were present and she should use both. Four twigs, or rather small branches, were bound together in each birch. She had to select branches about three feet long that tapered to half a centimetre in thickness. After clearing the leaves they were tied together with string and soaked to straighten them. Once they had dried a handle was made by using a strong rubber tape to bind them at one end.

  This year she made three more in the hope of finding someone to use them. No longer having access to Edward’s garden she spent a walking weekend in Scotland. In wild forests near Bonar Bridge she was able to find suitable trees far from prying eyes.

  Her first few strokes of the birch rod had seemed no worse than a severe caning, but its cumulative effect soon kicked in. The pain had a shattering intensity unlike anything else. The uneven wood left her skin scratched and speckled, although it soon healed. It was certainly the punishment she feared the most, but Edward had made sparing use of it. She was always bound to the bench to receive the birch, because it soon became evident that otherwise she would lose position with almost every stroke, and the extras would be endless.

  After her sessions she rubbed cream into her punished skin. Nicola would have liked Edward to rub the cream in for her, but he would never do that. She assumed that it had always been the immediate precursor to sex with her mother, and he wanted to keep that memory sacred to her.

  While the secret side of her life was exciting, her day to day work was not. Nicola had always preferred sports to academic pursuits. Physically she had always been able to push herself to new limits, but with deskwork she was lackadaisical. Edward often tried to boost her confidence by demonstrating how intelligent she really was, but she found it hard to keep her mind on the task in hand long enough to get very far. Later she discovered that a child’s ability to concentrate was determined in the very early years of life, so she knew that it was not Edward’s upbringing that had failed her in this way.

  The result was that she left school with poor A-levels, which meant the jobs for which she could apply were monotonous. Her timekeeping was atrocious, oversleeping after late nights out, and figured often in her sin list at confessions. It resulted in several office jobs being lost. Her saving grace was that she interviewed well and, of course, was highly attractive to male managers, so she usually landed a new job quickly enough.

  Once she had thought of proposing to an office manager that he use corporal punishment instead of sacking her, but it was not a practical idea. It was hard to keep secrets in large organisations, and the fall out could have brought embarrassing publicity. Besides, she knew that most men would view such a proposal as an invitation for sex, and she had no intention of becoming a slut.

  Nicola could see that her feckless career hurt Edward. Once he became ill, fretting for her future without him. Eventually he talked his friend, Sir James Hammond, into hiring her. James and Nicola had met a few times in Edward’s company. Although she liked his crinkly eyes and chiselled face, she had never tried to flirt with him. He had always been rather distant and she thought he might be a snob. At first she wasn’t keen on the idea of working for him, but she agreed to it for Edward’s sake.

  Perhaps because he wasn’t her parent, Nicola loved to spend time with Edward as a relaxation from her hectic and boozy social life. He was a civilised man with many friends. When they were in the company of others she would often make playful references to their secret. Inevitably she would refer to him as Edward the Confessor. At the tennis club, when they played on opposing sides in mixed doubles and she lost, she would tell the onlookers that he had given her a jolly good spanking. Edward’s sangfroid gave nothing away, but her sassiness was added to the list of the sins to be redressed at her next confession.

  When he died of pancreatic cancer she felt orphaned anew. But this time there was no second Edward to comfort and take her under his wing.

  Chapter 4

  They were cruising smoothly at eighty along the M40. A wintry sun shone on a landscape whitened by rime. Her side of James’ large saloon was as warm as toast, and a gentle heat from the cream leather seat soothed her convalescent bottom. On his side of the car the climate control was set much cooler, but Nicola could luxuriate in her own cosy space. James drove sensibly, but it was pretty clear that the Audi accelerated twice as quickly as the draughty sports car of which her ex had been so pathetically proud.

  She smiled to herself, recalling how James’ eyes had surreptitiously followed her around the study that morning as she filed away books and papers. Tuesday had found her energetic and businesslike. He, in contrast, had seemed a little lethargic, but fortunately a call from a dealer in London galvanised him. The dealer had acquired a rare painting which he thought James would like; he expected a lot of interest in the work and recommended James to come to the gallery as soon as possible to see it. So James decided to drive up that afternoon and stay overnight, rather than struggle home through the evening rush hour.

  He had asked Nicola to book him a suite at Claridge’s. If he was interested in the painting he said he would view it again the following morning before he left, so he might not be back until the afternoon. But as he was about to return to his study he stopped. She’d loo
ked up from her desk expecting further instructions, but James shyly asked her if she would like to accompany him, almost as if asking her for a date. He said she could take dictation in the car, so it would really save him some time. They could do a little sightseeing and then have dinner. Or if she preferred she could do some late night Christmas shopping on her own. Surprised, she had flushed and accepted like an excited schoolgirl.

  ‘Good. Well, book an extra room then. We’ll stop at your flat on the way for your overnight bag.’ Nicola was pleased. She knew that stuff about dictation was a fib. He had a dictaphone he used in his car often enough and she could have been doing work at the office as well. Not much time saving there, then.

  Anyway, a short stint at dictation was over and she could relax for the remainder of the journey. Rather sheepishly he said, ‘I’m glad you seem so well today. I wasn’t sure if we should go ahead tomorrow if you were...’

  ‘I feel great. No lasting damage.’ He looked so relieved she could have kissed him. ‘Would you like to see?’ she added cheekily, then laughed at this dry response.

  ‘Better keep my eyes on the road. Maybe later.’

  After this intimacy she felt able to push their relationship along a little. She looked across at the sensitive lines of his profile as he concentrated on the road ahead.

  ‘Could I call you James from now on?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘Sir James is a bit formal.’

  He seemed surprised but replied eagerly enough. ‘Of course, yes. You must.’

  ‘And my friends call me Nick,’ she went on, wondering if he would think her too forward, presuming on his friendship.

  ‘Is that because you’re a little devil, Nick?’

  ‘Perhaps. But you’re beating the devil out of me, aren’t you, James?’

  ‘Well, fortunately today’s a rest day, so the discreet hush of Claridge’s won’t be broken by the thwack of my strap hitting your lovely backside.’

  She regretted a little changing out of her miniskirt at the flat. A good show of leg now might have produced an interesting result. She knew James thought her clothes too skimpy at work; that was partly why she wore them. But she hadn’t wanted to embarrass him at a posh hotel. Like many older men he probably felt uncomfortable with girls who showed too much bare flesh in public, even though they liked it well enough behind closed doors. Still, she could see that she’d impressed him by changing into a dark grey skirt suit. The skirt came not too far above the knee but was still close-fitting and sexy. Beneath it she wore natural sheer tights.

  In her warm cocoon Nicola soon fell asleep and dreamt that she was proudly introducing James to her former boyfriends. One of them, Kevin, asked if James was her father and she slapped his face. Then James fenced against all the boys and she cheered him on. Instead of swords they used school canes. In her dream James was an expert fencer. She felt horny just watching him. He lopped the top of Kevin’s silly spiky haircut and left all their boyish faces with welts and bruises. They slunk off and left James kneeling over her, asking if she wanted him today.

  She awoke with a start as they turned off Park Lane onto Upper Brook Street. James was glancing down a little anxiously, repeating, ‘Are you okay?’ He said that she seemed to have been having a pretty wild dream. She was lying back in her seat, but straightened up with a horrified squeak when she found her skirt had ridden up. She had a worrying feeling, too, that her hand had been between her legs while she dreamed. What would he think? She blushed, fumbling at the side of the seat for the electric buttons which raised it upright. She barely had time to straighten her skirt and regain her composure before they were drawing up in front of the hotel and a top-hatted doorman was opening the car door for her.

  With his hand in the small of her back, James gently guided her through the main doors. Now she had recovered he seemed amused rather than annoyed with her.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘that may have been my fault. I put the seat right back to help you sleep more comfortably, and you just seemed to slide down and catch your skirt somehow. Can be very slippery, this leather.’

  ‘I’m sorry I dozed off at all while I was supposed to be working.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. Cold weather and a warm car always make me sleepy, too. That’s why I like to keep my side cool when I drive.’ He was being very nice about it, adding, ‘Wherever you were, I wish I could have joined you. It sounded like fun.’

  She didn’t have time to reflect on the meaning of this cryptic remark before they arrived at the reception desk, where James was treated like minor royalty. After the receptionist had checked them in the duty manager led them first to Nicola’s room. On the way he smiled politely at her, whilst asking James if his welcome return to the hotel was for business or pleasure. James said he expected it would be both, since staying at the hotel was always a pleasure. It seemed to be a big day for ambiguity.

  Half an hour later James came to collect her and they left for the gallery. Darkness had fallen and the late afternoon streets were filling, as the home time exodus began to spill out into crowds of Christmas shoppers. The gallery was just off New Bond Street, a few minutes’ walk from the hotel. Its plush, dimly lit interior could be seen from the street, somehow managing to be both inviting to those with money and forbidding to those without.

  The dealer greeted James unctuously and led them to a secluded alcove where a solitary picture hung on the wall. It was believed to be thirteenth century Italian, probably Florentine school, possibly by Cimabue. Apparently that was as exact as the dealer cared to be. Nicola had not heard of Cimabue, or of the Florentine school for that matter, and on this showing she didn’t regret it. The painting looked every one of its seven hundred years of age. Against a gold background Mary sat in a black robe. Nicola took the grimy, doll-like figure climbing on her lap to be the infant Jesus. What remained of two angels looked on demurely from the corners.

  Nicola could sense James was interested, so she left the two men to talk in serious undertones while she looked at the other paintings hanging in golden frames on the olive-green walls. The place had dark furnishings and an oppressive air.

  Eventually James concluded his business and they were back on the street.

  ‘Well, did you buy it?’ she asked with interest.

  ‘No. I said I’d think about it. I’m not happy about the attribution.’

  ‘How much was it?’

  ‘Likely to be twenty to twenty-five thousand.’

  ‘No! But it’s damaged!’ She couldn’t believe that he would even consider spending so much on that tatty piece of wood.

  ‘If it were in decent condition it would be in a major museum somewhere.’

  Another aspect of the money occurred to her. ‘That’s about the same as...’

  He didn’t reply, and after a moment she asked, ‘You didn’t not buy it because I lost you that money?’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Nick. And speak English.’

  She was being daft; from her work as his secretary she knew he had considerable wealth. But somehow she liked the familiar, casual way he reproached her. It made her feel less like an employee, more like a friend, or even a daughter.

  They walked in companionable silence in the direction of Piccadilly, passing the expensive jewellers and fashion shops of New Bond Street. The warm glitter of gold and diamonds was enticing in the dark winter afternoon.

  James hailed a black cab. ‘I can see you’re not impressed by Italian Primitives,’ he said. ‘It may be best to start with something more accessible.’ She had no idea what he meant, but as he climbed in the taxi after her he told the driver, ‘The National Gallery, please.’

  They entered the Gallery from Trafalgar Square and turned right into the East Wing. James walked quickly through the rooms with Nicola in his wake. One or two of the paintings they passed she recognised from greetings cards or posters, but James di
d not stop for them. As they passed Van Gogh’s Sunflowers at a brisk pace she was beginning to call out, ‘Oh, I’ve seen that one,’ but he was already past it and into the next room. It seemed he was more interested in the ones she hadn’t seen.

  At last he began to walk more slowly and stop in front of particular paintings. They would admire them together for a minute or two and then move on to another room. She realised he did not want to look vaguely at every picture in every room but specifically at a few he loved, for it was soon evident to her that he did love them; the intensity in his eyes and his straightforward but revealing comments told her that. She looked at these pictures with heightened curiosity because of it.

  Her work for James had brought Nicola into contact with small works of art, but here was something of a higher order. For a start, she hadn’t realised that many paintings were so enormous or in such vibrant colours. James did not say a great deal; the occasional comment about the artist’s life; the look he’d captured on his sitter’s face; the meaning of a small detail in the scene that Nicola might not have noticed. At some paintings he said nothing at all, leaving her to read the cards at the side and absorb them.