Atelier Dreams

It took twenty minutes more of frustration and increasingly angry guessing before I gave up and threw the phone back into the tent. Above, it had got dark without me even noticing. Dark and cold, all around me. Huh. Solar cycles, weird shit, man. That called for more wine. I leaned back and fumbled around in the tent for my fleece. Fuckin' homeostasis is important, innit? It was really, properly dark now. Nothing like what I was used to, in the city. Were there always this many stars? It was overwhelming. Where was I meant to fit in, amongst all those points of light? I had to master the situation somehow—impose order and gain an understanding, (more wine), so I started trying to count them, but I kept losing count after a few dozen, and I forgot whether I should be counting their reflections in the lake as well as the ones in the sky.

What was I going to do? First, another drink—only I discovered I'd ran out of wine. But that didn't matter. Everything in the universe was going to end up harmonised, one way or another. The stars were twinkling away happily, minding their own business. As I fell asleep, my last vaguely coherent thought was that it was well enough that the stars could be all isolated and sitting pretty, but us humans had to make things work down here on our planet; failing that, bring on the heat death of the universe.

A galactic alignment of the morning sun, an improperly-closed tent flap, a bumper headache and acute pressure in my bladder woke me up. I crawled out of the tent and fumbled my trousers down, squatted down and went right there on the open hillside; it was the best piss I'd taken in forever and the relief was unbelievably divine. It almost made me forget about the hangover. Almost.

Standing back up frame-dragged my headache into white agony; it was so intense that I almost sat right back down, but moving any more would only make it worse, I knew. Should've brought another bottle of wine, I thought. That would've sorted this hangover right out. That was entirely true and precisely why I had only taken the one.

My stomach tried to protest—I fought back and kept it down. Fucking hell. These weren't this bad before, I'm sure of it. I felt like absolute death and just wanted to curl back up in my sleeping bag and never wake up again, but I was up now for the day, like it or not.

I remembered. I had been remembering since I'd left. I remembered parts of how we had first met and how she'd guided me home in one piece. I remembered our second first meeting the morning after, when the neurotransmitters in my hippocampus weren't being scrambled. I remembered the first time she'd painted me, and then exhibiting it publicly. I remembered all the times she took care of me—after I broke my arm, that time I was sick on her and she didn't even care, or whenever something had gone wrong and I needed someone bigger and stronger than me to hold me. I remembered the words I'd said when I'd put the collar on.

I remembered the surprises she'd prepare, some nice in themselves and some delightfully not-nice. I remembered how she loved me no matter who I was trying to be—a big scary dyke (success rate there: one out of those three descriptors), a fluttery aesthete, and all the things in between. I remembered the corners she'd got me out of, and the corners she'd backed me into. I remembered how she wouldn't let me do anything stupid—at least, not without making sure she had a ringside seat and a lifebuoy ready to throw.

I remembered that I had loved her.

It was Tuesday afternoon, overcast and cool, while I was driving around the shore of Windermere, when the remembering stopped and I realised that I did, in fact, love her. The sudden certainty of it staggered me—how could I still love her after she'd cut me loose like that? I didn't know how I could be in love with someone smoking two packs a day, but I was. I had to go back to her. I bashed the steering wheel, uselessly blaring out the horn at the hills and lakes. And as for whether she would have me back...

I didn't even know what to call her. She couldn't be 'Mistress', not with my collar lying at the bottom of a lake and our contract reduced to ashes and probably chucked into the bin unceremoniously. I could hardly call her by her name, not after six years of wearing her collar—it'd be as weird as calling my mam or da by their proper names—even if I did have to keep up appearances in public anyway. (She'd never had that problem—she'd explain in her perfect home counties accent that 'pet' was dialectical Geordie, which was a wholly satisfying non-explanation for anyone who asked. I don't think being out of the closet would've bothered her a bit anyway.) I hit the wheel and sounded the horn again, and again, and again.

There were a hundred things that would have to be sorted out, and any one of them could go wrong and wreck everything again. I knew I wasn't guaranteed to be able to go back to her just like that, but I didn't have a choice. My mind had been made up.

I was, in short, thoroughly fucked up, and I didn't know what to do about it—except go home to her.

It was six months after that first exhibition, on another Sunday in spring that wasn't so different to the day I'd first sat for her. I came up to the studio with sandwiches and tea for us to share. As usual, she had her easel set up and a covered surface laid out for me to sit on; the makeshift ashtray by her side was full of fag ends, one fresh and still smoking. The loft space was warm; she'd thoughtfully had the space heater on so I wouldn't get cold. Mistress was always so considerate.

"Don't forget, I've got to go to the thing with the magazine people afterwards, so don't get yourself too excited because I won't be able to sort you out afterwards," she said as I was undressing. "We'll keep it tasteful for once." She grinned and lit up a fresh cigarette.

Every day lately, her black hair looked lanker and duller, she smoked more cigarettes and she was spending longer and longer painting up in the converted-loft studio. I didn't really know how much she was sleeping; I felt guilty that she kept spending time on me, instead of taking care of herself—she'd actually fallen asleep while making love last month, so I'd tucked her in and gave her a chaste goodnight kiss.

I reclined, trying to look classical and classy. Looking up, I couldn't help noticing the smoky fug lurking in the eaves. "Not a commission this time, Mistress?" These modelling sessions had become a bit of a fixture; she'd picked up a small but bankable reputation as an erotic artist, painting single female nudes to order.

"This one just said he wanted something 'nice'." She was relaxed, not taking it too seriously. That was a qualified good signal. Maybe. These paintings really were just a side-line for her: something to do to keep solvent and pay for her supplies. Her 'true art' consisted of fantastic dreamscapes of unreal, vivid colours, populated by Greek goddesses, maidens and knights, and characters from fairy tales—"Symbolism on speed" she'd called it once—where the unfamiliar lurked in every scene, ready to be stumbled upon by an intrepid explorer. Except, lately, she'd had to spend at least half her time on this side-line, and I don't think she was happy about creating so many almost throwaway pieces.

"Mistress?"

She wasn't at all 'in the zone'—the silent, special place she got into when inspiration bit her. She looked up and bored right into me with her incising green eyes—the dark bags underneath them didn't make them any less intimidating. "Yes, pet?"

"You know that, if you're only painting these because of... um, commercial constraints..."

Setting down her brush, she sighed. "No. We went over this before, didn't we? A Mistress looks after and provides for her pet. It's not the other way around. I don't care how good the salary you managed to negotiate yourself onto is—well done, by the way—or if it doesn't matter because I paid for the house; that's the way it is."

"But if we set up a shared—"

"No. No 'but's. It's bad enough that you're paying the bills. I've got my dignity as your owner, haven't I? I'm not going to fuck around with that."

"But, Mistress—"

"I said no 'but's. Look, I know you know what I think about artistic integrity and purity and doing things for the right reasons and all that shit, right, but what about personal integrity? I'm not going to do a worse job as your Mistress just to get some creative moral high ground. That's a better reason than anything to do with art."

I didn't carry on the argument. I was a good pet; a decision from Mistress never brooked questioning. She continued, a lecture now instead of a discussion.

"Besides, I want to do this right. No short cuts to any place worth going." She picked up the brush and started painting again, sizing me up. "And besides that, don't think I don't know that my pet likes modelling for her Mistress." She snickered to herself and gave me an iniquitous smirk as a blush spread across my face; she knew that would hit the mark before she'd even said it.

"See? I see you blushing there. I bet you've been keeping count of exactly how many of these paintings there are." I had. It gave me a shiver to think about how many people had pictures of me—me naked, masturbating, pissing, mid-orgasm, flashing, bathing, everything—hanging on their walls. They were all great—well, except one, which I absolutely hated. Mistress had put a little dab of toothpaste on the end of my nose and told me to stare at it; I ended up with a headache and a cross-eyed portrait that made me look absolutely gormless. Instead of a glob of toothpaste, she'd painted me glaring at a butterfly sat right on the tip of my nose. She'd loved it and kept it for herself; just as well. since I didn't want anyone else seeing it. She'd even painted in my freckles—of course I was going to hate the sight of it. Squinty, ditzy and dopey tickled her cute bone—who knew?

"God, I'm sorry I have to go out tonight to beg for some fucking attention from the bloody critics. You're getting yourself excited there at the idea of people looking at you and I'd much rather stay here and sort you out. Or, maybe, watch you sort yourself out. You'll probably do that anyway, you little minx." My blush deepened, because she was exactly right and she grinned triumphantly; the delicious humiliation just made my position more awkward.

I squirmed and tried to maintain my pose for Mistress and avoid a criticality accident. If I got too distracted by runaway daydreams, I'd be left high and definitely not dry. I could be a good model for her at least, even if I could do—was allowed to do—nothing else.

Mistress was too proud to let me help with money, even if I could spare it and wanted to spare it. We'd been together for coming on seven years now and she was still too proud for that; too proud even if I tried to put it as a cashflow thing, borrowing against future success and inheritance. A different idea began to form in my head: What if I could help direct her towards being less self-destructive generally? Start small; that's how you eat an elephant—one bite at a time. It was an appealing thought. Yes. Piece by piece. Start with the smoking, perhaps...

She set down the brush again, stared at the painting and sighed. "You know what? This is fucking shit." Before I could say anything to her, she skulked downstairs. I got up and looked at the painting: it looked okay to me. Sure, the proportions weren't perfectly life-like, but that was part of the charm, I thought, and I didn't think the patron would be disappointed. Mistress was just too hard on herself. I began planning.

It was late by the time I got back. From the street, I couldn't see the light on in the studio, but I was sure that she would be up there burning the night oil. I kept my keys in my bag and rang the doorbell.

There was a fresh cigarette hole on her smock and a fresh cigarette dangling out of her mouth when she answered the door. Her tired eyes didn't react to seeing me there; I didn't say anything either. She turned and went back upstairs; I carried in my bags and followed her up to the atelier. It was dark in the loft space: the only source of light was coming from one little desk lamp set to shine on the canvas.

I sat comfortably far behind her and watched her paint. Maidens in white dancing in a field under a cold blue sky, with the trees showing the first hints of buds—an allegory for spring. Her fag burnt down to the filter and she stubbed it out in an old paint-streaked bowl. The whole room stank of stale smoke and stale breath.

Time passed; I don't know how long went by. She took a step back to distance herself from the painting and stared hard at it. It clearly wasn't done yet: the figures lacked detail and had a stilted, artificial staticity to them. She walked to the back of the studio—towards me—but went to the sheet-covered table, to her packet of fags, and pulled out another one.

I stood up and went to her as she lit it, still not saying anything. Not a flicker showed on her face and she didn't miss a beat, presenting me with a cigarette too. Despite my many and varied youthful rebellions against my parents, religion, style, good sense and life in general, I'd never tried smoking before, but she didn't give me any chance to make a mistake. As soon as the cigarette was in my mouth, she'd held the lighter to it and lit it for me. A combined olive branch, burnt offering and mortification of the flesh.

The two of us sat down on the floor, leaning against the table legs. I tried inhaling: the smoke was foul and burning hot, and I gagged indelicately.

"These," I said, coughing, "are fucking disgusting." I locked my eyes on the ashen end of the cigarette, told myself it was just a thing—I'm not going to let myself be beaten by some thing—and took another stab at it, a little more successfully.

She grinned: the first time her impassive mask had shown a crack all evening. "Yeah. They really are."

We both took another drag. I coughed awkwardly again, then we sat in contemplative silence, staring up at the lazy blue wisps of smoke between us and the studio's skylight. At some point, Wednesday had become Thursday, but time lost its meaning while we sat in the semi-darkness. It would always be Wednesday for me. I re-focussed my eyes and looked further up, past the glass and up to the stars; London's sickly orange glow obscured them all, but I knew they were there—I'd seen them, bright and clear, from up in the fells.

"Okay," she said at last, when our cigarettes had almost burnt down to the filter.

"Okay?"

"C'mon, get up. Go and grab the kitchen scissors. I'll see you in the bathroom."

We split up the job, making short work of cutting up and flushing the cigarettes. Neither of us spoke, preferring to keep our eyes down and pretend that we needed to concentrate on the easy task. I caught myself thinking that it was a waste to be destroying unopened packs—couldn't we give them away or something?—but then I remembered that they were cigarettes and no use to anyone; destroying the things really was the best plan. I was still a little nauseous from the one I'd smoked.

She broke the silence again. "So..." We'd been sat idle on the edge of the bathtub for a good five minutes.

I gave it a moment before replying, letting it hang in the air. "So."

We fell into another quiet détente.

"What now?"

I still didn't have a good answer to that. "I'm here, aren't I?"

She pondered that for a few moments. "Things aren't the same now."

Entirely right. I could only nod.

"God. I already want another fag." She shook her head and snorted, maybe in amusement and maybe in self-condescension at her predicament.

We wrapped ourselves in our own thoughts again.

"I want to come back." All my subtlety had got lost somewhere up a hill so I had to be blunt. "If you'll have me." I had to hedge, too—I'd never had any self-confidence. Not sober, anyway.

She turned and looked at me properly, for the first time in the entire night. I stayed sat on the edge of the bath with my shoulders hunched and my gaze locked on the floor tiles and the bathmat.

And then, she did the most ridiculous, the worst, and the utterly best thing she could possibly have done: she started laughing. Quietly at first, but it quickly blossomed into wild, riotous, unconstrained laughter. Wheels in my brain span to comprehend what was so funny; I tried to say that she could have just told me that I wasn't welcome and that she didn't have to laugh at me for asking, but when I opened my mouth I was laughing as well.

She, still in her painter's smock, leant on me and I, still in my jacket, leant on her, and we laughed so hard there were tears in our eyes. The entire thing was too surreal—had we really, seriously, reached for the big guns over such a petty argument? Didn't we know how to negotiate and compromise? Were we such failures as adults that we couldn't have a proper, serious rapprochement? And then we were laughing that we were laughing so hard at something so utterly stupid, and I forgot if I was meant to be laughing or crying and she must have too, but it didn't matter much because things had stopped making sense a while ago and I could nestle up against her shoulder for comfort and surety.

I snuffled long and satisfyingly and sat up; my hand cupped her cheek—wet—and lifted her face so that I could look into her eyes—tired, bloodshot, with those dark bags underneath them. My other arm I draped over her shoulder and stroked the back of her neck with. It really was striking how fragile and insubstantial she felt—but if she was weak, I wanted to help her be strong again. First, I had to clear the air.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm sorry for pestering you and I'm sorry for not being a good pet." She didn't immediately acknowledge me. The silence grew and grew and began to crush me; I was scared she was going to tell me that all was not forgiven and then I'd be thrown out and have no place to come back to this time. "Do you want me on my knees saying it, and begging for mercy?"

"No. That wouldn't be right, not right now. The contract's gone so you don't need to kneel. I should be the one down on my fucking knees, anyway." She squeezed me and gave me a melancholy smile; my apology had been accepted. "I'm sorry too, for saying things to try and hurt you. I really wasn't being a good owner."

"You're forgiven." I squeezed her back, then took a deep breath and mustered up all the confidence I could. "I'll be yours, if you'll have me."

She nodded, holding my gaze and leaning in a little closer. "You'll be mine. I'll have you." Her hand ran through my hair, making it all stand up; I didn't care about that—she could style me however she wanted, like a doll of hers. We kissed, soft and gentle and tender, then came up for air. Cuddled against my cheek, she whispered, "We're going to fuck everything up again some day, aren't we?"

I nodded, and she messed up my hair even more. "Magnificently and totally. But I love you and I will still, no matter what. There's not a soul I'd rather fuck up with." She set off in silent laughter—come on, I hadn't been that cheesy—but managed to contain the outburst before it could take us over again.

I shrugged off my jacket and she pulled off her smock, then we kissed again, not soft and not gentle and not tender, while our arms greedily pulled each other in to a close embrace. I could taste the ash in her mouth—but then she could probably taste it in mine, too—and I was suddenly conscious that I hadn't showered since this morning, hours ago and miles away. As always, she was a step ahead of me: blindly, she reached behind herself for the shower controls and turned it on, and we were both suddenly dripping wet on one side. I kicked my trainers off and managed to pry off her slippers with my feet, then ran one foot up the back of her calf, bunching up the leg of her tracksuit bottoms.