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EROTICA | CHEATING | DIVORCEE | OLDER WOMAN | ARTIST STUDIO | SEDUCTION | FORBIDDEN TOUCH

Posing Nude for the Sculptor’s Intense Private Session — 3

The quiet in her expensive apartment felt heavier every Tuesday until she found herself standing in front of an unmarked blue door, drawn inside by a silver-haired woman whose hands were covered in clay and whose gaze made something long dormant stir inside her.

PART 2

The key made a sound like a period at the end of a sentence when it was inserted into the lock.

The silence had settled around Claire's shoulders, and the house she was standing in didn't feel like home anymore.

The divorce papers had been signed for six months.

Alimony checks came in on a regular basis like a metronome.

Yet each Tuesday at two-fifteen, she was here, wondering what a forty-two-year-old woman was supposed to do with an afternoon that stretched out before her like a deserted highway.

Marcus had taken over the house in Brentwood.

The city pied-à-terre was hers—a consolation prize in the form of exposed brick and stainless steel appliances that she never used.

Two bedrooms, one and a half baths, and a park that other people jog in.

She would sometimes observe them, women in their Lululemon leggings and ponytails, purposefully going from point A to point B.

It had been 2019 since Claire had felt a sense of purpose.

She placed her purse on the marble console table, which she had selected during the marriage, and looked at herself in the mirror above it.

Blonde hair, salon-maintained.

Her dermatologist described her skin as "remarkable for her age.

A blouse of cream silk that rustled softly as she walked.

She appeared to be a woman who had it all.

That was the issue, in a nutshell.

She was so convincing that she had believed it for years.

Her cell phone rang against the marble.

A text from Janine: Drinks Thursday? New place in the Meatpacking District.

Claire replied with a thumbs up emoji, which was a lie, and then she put the phone face down.

The quiet in the flat was like velvet and nonchalant.

She had attempted to stuff it with objects.

A book club that became a place for women her age to sip Chardonnay and gripe about their housekeepers.

A potter class at a community center where she had never smoked a cigarette in her life and made an ashtray.

A quick, unwise dalliance with hot yoga, which had resulted in a pulled hamstring and a profound distrust of any word that did not include the prefix "journey" followed by the suffix "without irony.

None of it had taken.

Until time killed her, none of it had made her feel anything but a woman killing time.

She went to the kitchen, took a glass of wine she didn't need and went into the second bedroom.

The space Janine had proposed she make into a home office.

The room her mother had recommended she make into a nursery, when a nursery still seemed like a possibility.

It was bare except for a few boxes she had not unpacked and an easel she had impulsively purchased six weeks ago.

The easel was in the corner, as if it were an accusation.

Art was Marcus's thing.

He had amassed—he was a man who was aggressive in everything he did—pieces that needed spot lighting and insurance riders, and filled their Brentwood home with them.

Claire had been granted the luxury of admiring.

To throw dinner parties for other collectors who would nod approvingly at the Basquiat in the hallway.

But making art, the real thing, making it, that had always been something else, done by other people, people who were talented and trained and, crucially, allowed to make art.

She'd bought the easel three days after the divorce was finalized.

It came in a flat pack box and the instructions were in six languages, none of which she had read.

She had put it together incorrectly, the crossbar was on the wrong side, she was pretty sure, and she had stood in front of it for 15 minutes, a blank canvas on the ledge, a brush in her hand, and nothing in her head.

The brush was put back in the drawer.

The canvas was now in the package.

And Claire had returned to her wine and her window and her watching of others' lives.

However, she didn't throw the easel away.

The following morning, she was strolling down a street she had never seen before.

That's what it was about New York: you could live here for twenty years and still find whole blocks that seemed like they had sprung out of the ground, like a foreign land in your own city.

This one was in Chelsea, between a gallery that seemed to be hosting only string installations and a café that was selling 17 dollar avocado toast.

The building was brick, old, and the door was painted blue jay wing.

Next to the door was a small brass plaque that read THE ATELIER — PRIVATE STUDIOS.

MEMBERSHIP INQUIRIES ONLY.

Claire stopped walking.

She didn't know why she didn't.

Nothing in the building should have caught her eye.

It was unremarkable, like a lot of things that are meant to be unremarkable, in the sense that you walked past it a hundred times without noticing it, unless you were supposed to notice it.

For the first time in longer than she could remember, Claire felt seen, standing there in the October sunlight, wearing a cashmere sweater and jeans that cost more than her first car.

She was about to speak herself out of it when the door opened.

In the doorway, a woman, perhaps sixty, stood with her silver hair cut in a geometric bob and eyes the colour of wet slate.

She wore a linen tunic over wide-legged pants, and her hands were covered in something gray and powdery—clay, Claire realized,or plaster.

She studied Claire as a collector might study a painting that they hadn't yet purchased.

The woman said, "You're early.

"I'm sorry?"

A pause.

The woman's eyes narrowed slightly and then relaxed.

You're not my two o'clock.

"No.

I was just— Claire gestured vaguely at the street, the city, her own inexplicable presence.

Walking.

I was walking.

"Were you."

It wasn't a question.

The woman rubbed her hands on a cloth that was in her waistband and leaned against the door frame.

"I'm Margot.

This is my studio.

Well, one of them.

PART 4

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