The Collector Read Free Page B

the best of my knowledge. ‘It comes in useful now and again’, he’d said when I asked the reason for its presence. As no more information was forth coming I carried on with my careful dusting of the flower pot covered window sills.
    I had been cleaning for Max for almost four months. It wasn’t glamorous employment, but a much needed way to make extra cash whilst working on my degree. My friends had laughed when I took the job, but I didn’t care. It paid better than cleaning offices or working in a fast food shop and, apart from the mind-numbingly dull task of polishing the vast laminate floor every fortnight, it was neither time-consuming nor arduous.
    Then of course, there was the scenery. The paintings were, even to my uneducated eye, fantastic. Strong, bold strokes, which seemed to show nothing until you studied them closely. As you stared, the muted hues would run together to make images which somehow always managed to suit my mood. If I’m honest though, even if I had hated every picture I would have stayed. Even if the wages were halved and the work involved sweeping the floor with a toothbrush, I would have stayed. Max’s giant athletic frame was worth watching anytime. Just looking at his calm face, which despite the intensity of some of his work, never seemed to show any flicker of emotion, kept me coming back. I was mesmerised by him, like a rabbit trapped in a car’s headlights.
    His effect on me was quite alarming. One look and I could feel my face redden, and my nipples would quickly harden at the sound of his gentle Scottish burr. I found myself taking longer and longer to do the simplest of tasks just so I could stay in his presence and dream erotic fantasies about him; or more specifically, about us.
    I would go home each afternoon and get cross with myself for being so pathetic, before pleasuring myself across the foot of my bed, the image of his paint spattered torso burnt across my mind. Twice my age, twice divorced, he had no interest in me apart from my ability to clean his lavatory. I was making a fool of myself and it had to stop.
    Last week though, everything changed. Now I know exactly what the clothes rack is for.
It was time to polish the floor. I’d put it off all week, but there was no way I could avoid the back breaking work any longer. As the hot sun reflected through the studio’s huge light enhancing windows, I could see the smears of countless footprints made by Max’s bare feet as he strode purposely around.
I carefully moved all the canvases and easels to one side of the room, before resigning myself to the task, and lowered down onto my hands and knees with a cloth and a tub of wax. After about half an hour of polishing I could no longer feel my knees, and the sweat was beginning to run down my back. I felt sticky and uncomfortable in my tight t-shirt, and the headscarf, which swept my thick curls back out of my eyes, felt prickly in the heat. I straightened up and turned the ceiling fan onto a faster speed. It was so quiet. Max had gone out, looking ill at ease in a shirt and tie, on one of his hated and frequent trips to try and convince an art gallery to exhibit his work.
I was all alone and realised that there was absolutely no need to be so hot. Pulling off my yellow top made me feel so much better that I thought I should take off my jeans as well. After all, who would know? Throwing my discarded clothes onto an old, paint spattered, wooden chair, I cranked on the radio and went back to the floor. Soon I was absorbed in the music and working steadily across the wood. I didn’t hear the door open, and was unaware of the soft bare foot falls across the floor. I have no idea how long I was being watched as I knelt there. If I hadn’t had a sudden sensation of not being alone, then perhaps he would have just stood there until I’d finished.
My cheeks flushed scarlet as I confronted my unexpected audience, and I began to babble, ‘I was hot, I um, I just thought…’