Colliers Wood was probably like every other town in London on a Sunday morning. Everybody was walking their dogs, rubbing their bleary eyes from the night before. I stopped at a cafe and looked out of the window as I sipped a cup of tea. I idled with no real intent in the retail park. I wandered along the canal, always on the lookout for a new place to park my boat. I crossed the gigantic roundabout and found myself in the market.
It was busy with people of all creeds and generations, all mingling happily together, all looking to fill a free morning away from the sofa. An enticing aroma of food filled the air. I browsed the covers of paperbacks in the bookshop. I wondered whether an ornament of an elephant would look good above the sink on the boat, then realised I'd need to get a new sink first before anything looked good above it. And then I wandered out into the main yard; it was there that I first laid eyes on Erica.
Perched on a stool, naked legs pressed high to her chest, her dark angled hair flowed effortlessly over her thighs. She looked so at ease, perched on a stool in the middle of a market, that I just stared at her, fascinated. She looked back at me, her perfectly oval eyes seemingly evaluating me.
“See something you like?”
My eyes followed her tongue as she spoke. “I was only looking,” I mumbled. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologise,” she said, unrolling her body from the stool. “That’s what I am here for. I want you to look, to like what you see, and then sweet talk you into taking things further. Which one takes your fancy?”
I’m sure I stood with my hands on my hips and my mouth open for quite a few seconds. She must have noticed, for she pulled back her head and started laughing. “I’m Erica,” she said, holding out her hand. Her wrists were covered in bracelets, and she had a ring on every finger.
“Marcus.”
“Now, Marcus,” she said, twisting her body at her hips and opening out her hands, “can I interest you in any of my creations?”
I hadn’t even noticed the paintings at her feet. It didn’t cross my mind that she was sat on the stool for any other purpose than to entertain me. I gazed at the paintings and smiled. I didn’t know whether they were any good or not – not really – but I was fascinated by the array of colours and the personality that shone through. And there was such variety, from landscapes to portraits to abstract. I told her that I was intrigued by the painting of a mature lady with her grey hair in rollers, lips curling at the corners; a slightly more energised Mona Lisa.
“That is my good friend, Moira,” Erica said. “Can you see that her face is void of make-up? That the fine lines by her eyes are very clear?”
I pushed my neck forward and nodded my head.
“Moira, bless her, wanted me to paint her as she really is, with no pretence or cover. That is how she views her true self.”
“But didn’t she want to keep the painting?”
I regretted asking the question, for it crossed my mind that maybe Moira - bless her - didn’t like the painting. Erica smiled, displaying childlike, slanted teeth.
“Moira said that she sees the face in the mirror every morning, and that is enough for any one person. She wanted somebody else to enjoy my creation. Or, at least, that is what she told me.”
And so I purchased a painting of an unattractive, elderly lady I'd never met before, went home and hung it on the wall in my boat, even though there was scarcely room to swat a fly.
I returned to the market every Sunday that summer. I no longer spun a coin. Fate had chosen the direction for me. Within no time at all I'd acquired three paintings. I had to slide one under my bed. Erica was wise to my game. She knew she was the attraction, not her paintings. We went for coffee one week; the next we walked along the canal.
“I want to paint you,” Erica said. It wasn’t a question, just a statement.
I visited her house on a scorching Saturday afternoon. Erica lived on a long street of terraced houses just a stone's throw away from the market. She opened the door wearing an apron, hair tied back, paintbrush already in her hand. Mouth free of lipstick, eyes absent of liner, she looked devastatingly sexy.
“So, do you feel yourself?” Erica asked.
I considered a smart remark, but instead decided to be honest. I told her I wasn’t really sure who my true self was, but I felt most comfortable when I lazed around in my shorts and sandals on my deckchair with a glass in my hand.
So that was how she painted me.
Or at least, that is how she started painting me. After about half an hour, Erica put down her paintbrush and sat on the edge of my deckchair. She parted my feet just a few inches to make some space.
“Marcus, is this truly how you look when you are most at ease?”
“I think so,” I said. “Yes.”
She let that reply linger in the air for a while before saying, “So what would you wear if there was nobody in the world to judge you? That is what you seek, isn't it? Complete freedom from the chains of society? So what would you wear if you were on a deserted island? If it is this then
