Flightsend by Linda Newbery

the model, drawing
quickly. I'd rather draw him, she thought. His pose
was attractive: sitting forward in his seat, his face in
profile, concentrated. There was a gracefulness about
his movements and she knew she could draw the folds
in his shirt and the way the light defined his shoulders.
She felt it in her fingers, the urge to work, to commit
what she saw to paper. She turned a page and began
sketching rapidly: not a portrait but the whole figure.
This was easier, much more satisfying. The proportions
came out just right, as she knew they would;
she had caught the pose.
    Then Oliver stood up and went to the person
nearest him, making a comment. Charlie went back to
her inadequate portrait and tried to sketch in the
glasses, her obstacle. Doubt was making her pencil
strokes hesitant. She was muffling, and she knew that
was no way to draw.
    'You're having trouble getting started, aren't you?'
Oliver spoke close behind her. 'It's an awkward angle
you've got. I haven't helped you much by sitting you
here.'
    'It's the glasses,' Charlie explained.
    She was disappointed that he'd seen how useless she
was.
    'Here, let me show you.' For a second his hand
curved over hers. He took the pencil, and before she
realized it he'd turned the page and was looking at the
drawing of himself.
    'Oh, I – got side-tracked.' Charlie felt a rush of heat
to her face.
    But Oliver only laughed, and studied the drawing
carefully. 'Now that's better. That's more like your real
work. It's got all the freedom and confidence that's
lacking so far in the portrait. Here, try it like this.' In
a corner of the sheet, he deftly sketched in the
model's forehead, the eyebrows, the glasses. 'Look at
the way the glasses rest on the bridge of the nose. The
way the sides of the glasses come out beyond the
brow-bone. The angle of the lenses. That's what you're
not getting yet.'
    He moved on, and Charlie tried again, finding it
easier. Listening to him talk about the brow-bone , the nose , she felt less embarrassed about the impromptu
sketch. To an art teacher, bodies and faces were just
objects occupying space, shapes with curves and
planes and textures. She worked more steadily now.
Next time he came to look, he just nodded approvingly
and went on. After a while there was a break for
the model, and do-it-yourself coffee made from an urn
on the trestle table. People looked at each other's
drawings, and one of the women complimented
Charlie on hers.
    'Oh, you're good . Are you an art student?'
    Charlie had thought she might go home at
lunchtime, but Oliver clearly expected her to stay all
day. When they broke for lunch – just sandwiches and
fruit laid out buffet-style in the dining-room – he told
her, 'I've brought a book for you. Philip Wilson Steer.
Come over to the Well House with me on the way back
and I'll get it for you.'
    The Well House was a tiny cottage, close to the Long
Barn, usually used for accommodation for one of the
tutors; the other had a small flat above the stables.
Charlie was curious about the Well House, which was
tiny and octagonal, like a garden summerhouse.
If there'd ever been a well, there wasn't one now.
    'I like it here,' Oliver said, as they walked down the
narrow path. 'It's well away from everyone. I always ask
for the Well House.'
    'Why don't you go home at night?' Charlie asked.
'You must live fairly close?' She wondered if he were
married, or living with someone.
    Oliver pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked
the green front door. 'It's only temporary, where I'm
living. I'm in the middle of what you might call an
upheaval. That's why I'm here so much just now. Fay
and Dan are good friends, and I like helping them
out.'
    'Are you married?' Charlie asked.
    He looked at her. 'Not any more.'
    He stood back for her to go in first. She was disconcerted
to find herself in his bedroom; not that she
shouldn't have known, as it was obvious from the outside
that the Well House had only one main room.
There was a bed, a desk, flowered