Making An Exhibition Of Myself

I step through the heavy wooden doors and the familiar scent hits me; reminding me of something from my past. That peculiar blend of dust and varnish. My school days, that's it--an old Victorian building with its endless corridors and teachers' shoes that clicked like a warning on the hard polished floors.

The building looms around me, all high ceilings, narrow hallways and sturdy floor. The walls have a faded, yellowish tinge, like they've absorbed too many decades of chatter, scoldings, and laughter. I'm not sure if it's the cold or something else, but I shiver as I stand there, looking around, trying to get my bearings.

A figure approaches from the side, and I'm almost startled. It's a man in a grey work jacket, pushing a trolley stacked with cleaning supplies. His movements are slow, almost lazy, like he's got all the time in the world.

"Hi," I manage, and my voice comes out quieter than I intended. "I'm, um... I'm Lily. I'm um...I believe I'm expected?" I try to sound more certain than I feel.

He looks at me, blinking slowly like I've asked him for directions to Mars. For a second, I wonder if I've got the wrong place.

"I'm Maurice...the caretaker...expected by whom?" he says, dragging the words out, clearly confused. "not by me."

"Oh, no...obviously." I pause, realizing he probably wasn't the person I spoke to on the phone. "Right, sorry. I'm Lily...I said that, yes...I'm here for the art class. They are expecting me."

He shrugs. "Oh, the art class? No, they don't let me in to the art class." He looks around conspiratorially, then lowers his voice "they have nude people in them classes you know? Men and woman. Not a stitch on!"

"I know" I say, offering him a small, polite smile, though my stomach is doing somersaults.

As I turn to go, he says, "You an artist, then?"

"No" I reply with a shake of my head and coy smile. It seems to take a while for the penny to drop, and as his facial expression changes, I point up the corridor, "this way, is it?"

His eyes widen, and without a word, he nods. Pointing to the room at the end of the corridor.

The hall stretches ahead of me, lit by the dim glow of old-fashioned lamps mounted on the walls. The air feels thicker here, somehow. Each step I take echoes, just slightly louder than it should be. There's a faint chill too, the kind you only get in places that haven't been properly aired out in years.

As I approach the door, I can hear muffled voices from the other side. I hover there for a second, my hand just shy of the brass doorknob, and then I think to myself...what am I doing?...How did I get here...I haven't shaved...and what if my arse isn't clean?

It had been not two hours ago I was contemplating my day over my mid-morning coffee. It was one of those cool, crisp mornings where the air has a bite but the café is warm, and I was content to lose myself in the hum of the city. I always loved watching people, imagining their lives, their stories. It's easy to get lost in the rhythm of London like that--one minute you're in your own world, the next something pulls you out of it.

And that's exactly what happened.

I saw it just across the street, propped outside that old building that always looked out of place amongst the modern coffee shops, trendy bars and restaurants that greeted the masses outside Waterloo train station. I'd passed a thousand times without really noticing: an A-board sign with neat, hand-painted letters that read, "Live Art Class -- Nude Models Wanted", followed by a phone number in thick black marker.

I blinked, reading the sign twice. I think I'd seen it before; maybe it's always there but I hadn't paid it much mind. I mean, it's London--random things like that are everywhere. But then I felt something stir inside of me...a familiar feeling. Sometimes very welcome, sometimes not, but I knew I was going to act upon it. The sign kept catching my eye as I sipped my latte. Something about it... I don't know. It sparked something in me and before I knew it, I'd grabbed my phone and dialled the number.

The ringing in my ear made my heart race--what was I even doing? But it was too late to hang up. A deep, and strangely familiar voice answered. "Hello?"

"Uh, hi," I stammered, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "I saw your sign... about the live art models?"

"Ah, the A-board works. Yes, that's right. We're looking for people who'd like to model for our life drawing classes. It's all very professional, tasteful, and of course, you get paid for your time."

I sat there, twirling my coffee cup in my hands, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves tangling up inside me. "So, I'd just... you know...erm...what do I have to do?"

"Well, not much really, just hold a pose for a while, then we break for coffee, then hold the same pose for a while longer. We do all the work and you can relax, enjoy the experience and hopefully appreciate the results."

He didn't mention anything about me being nude; I suppose that's kind of taken for granted. I didn't want to sound stupid so I said "that sounds ok".

Sensing my nervousness, he followed up with, "The artists are there to capture the human form, not judge it. They're more focused on the lines and shadows than on you as a person. We pride ourselves on being very respectful of our models. It's all about the art." His voice was calm, like he'd had this conversation a thousand times before, and yet, I recognised it. Like someone from my past.

It helped, a little.

I'd asked a bunch of questions then--how it worked, how long the sessions were, whether they provided a robe (they did), and of course, how much I'd be paid. It wasn't a lot, but the way he talked about the class, about the art, made it feel like it wasn't really about the money. He didn't care what I looked like, didn't even ask for a description or photo. It was... refreshing. In a city where everything seems to be about appearance, here was someone who didn't seem to care. Not that I had any hang-ups about my appearance. I am slim and curvy in equal measures. Long and flowing beautiful red hair and my striking blue eyes are often the subject of compliments from men and woman alike.

By the time I hung up, I was buzzing. I was booked in for Monday, a week away. Enough time to think it over. Too much time, really. I ordered another coffee, staring out the window again, but now my mind was somewhere else entirely. The idea of it--the thrill of doing something so completely out of character, so spontaneous--was exciting. But I knew myself too well. Five days was plenty of time for me to overthink, to chicken out.

But life doesn't always wait for you to decide. I was halfway through my second latte when my phone buzzed on the table. I glanced down at the screen, and it was him again--the man from the art class. My heart did this weird little flip, a mix of dread and curiosity.

I answered.

"Hi, it's me again, we spoke earlier" he said, a bit more urgently this time. "Listen, we've had a cancellation. I appreciate it's short notice, but is there any chance you could be free today?"

I froze, coffee halfway to my lips. Today? No time to think, to mull it over, to slowly build up the courage only to knock it down again.

"Uh..." I looked around the café like the answer might be scribbled on the walls. "You'd really be helping me out" he continued "I have a class arriving in an hour and no model...I can pay you double the going rate."

My first instinct was to say no, to retreat. But then something inside me shifted, that restless part of me itching to leap. Before I knew it, I heard my own voice say, "Yeah. I can be there."

"Great! You've saved my life." he replied. "I'll send you the details. See you soon, Lily."

I hung up, my hand shaking slightly.

And that was it. I finished my coffee in a daze, my mind racing, heart pounding. I had maybe forty minutes to get myself together and go to this art class, where I'd be the one standing in front of strangers with nothing but my skin on. No time to talk myself out of it, no time for second thoughts. Just... go.

I stop just outside the door, my hand hovering above the wood. For a moment, I consider turning around, walking straight out of this place and pretending like none of this ever happened. But my hand moves before I can talk myself out of it, and I knock--softly, as if I'm hoping no one will hear.

But they do.

The door creaks open, and I step inside, the faint scent of paints hanging in the air, mixing with that same old-school mustiness from the hallway. The room is brightly lit, more welcoming than I expected. Wide windows stretch across one wall, letting in a wash of pale, watery London light that glances off the easels and casting long shadows on the hard wooden floor.

There are Six of them. Six strangers already busy setting up their supplies--easels tilted at various angles, charcoal sticks in hand, sketchpads ready. Four men, two women. And in a few minutes, they'll all be looking at me, not just looking, but drawing every inch of me. Naked.

I swallow hard, trying not to focus on the tight knot forming in my stomach.

No one looks up when I enter. They barely glance in my direction, like I'm just another piece of furniture, something to be moved around and worked with. Or maybe they're avoiding me on purpose--sparing me, or maybe themselves, from the awkwardness. It's hard to tell. One of the men--a tall, wiry figure with wire-framed glasses and the thickest lenses I'd ever seen--is adjusting the light on his easel with almost obsessive focus, his brow furrowed in concentration. Another, slightly younger, with salt-and-pepper hair, is sharpening a pencil, over and over, as if the pencil is more interesting than whatever is about to happen in this room.

Are they really uninterested? Or are they embarrassed too? Avoiding my gaze because they know what's coming and they don't want to make it weirder than it already is?

I can't tell. My mind is running too fast to figure it out.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a woman looking at me. She's in her late 30's, maybe. Dark hair, curly and full of vibrant life, with a warm softness about her--she's a little overweight, but in a comfortable, healthy way. She looks like the kind of woman who would bake for you if you were having a bad day. She reminded me a little of the award-winning actress Olivia Coleman. Her eyes meet mine, and unlike the others, she doesn't avoid me. Instead, she smiles--gently, kindly.

"Hello," she says, her voice soft, as if to put me at ease. She gives a small nod, like she understands that I'm nervous, that this is awkward for everyone but somehow, we'll all get through it.

I nod back, trying to smile, but it feels stiff, unnatural. My body feels too big and too small at the same time. Every breath I take seems loud in this quiet room, and I can feel my pulse ticking in my throat. Just breathe, I tell myself. In. Out. It helps a little.

I stand there, unsure what to do, my hands fidgeting with the strap of my bag. No one's told me where to go or what the procedure is, and the longer I stand there, the more out of place I feel. Should I undress here? In front of them? Should I wait for someone to give me instructions? My legs feel wobbly, like they might give out from under me at any second.

Just when I'm on the verge of full-on panic, the door behind me swings open, and in walks the teacher.

The man I spoke to on the phone.

I knew, I knew that voice.

Mr. Pritchard.

For a split second, my mind struggles to connect the pieces. He's older now, of course--his hair greyer, his face a little more lined--but there's no mistaking him. The same dark, thoughtful eyes, the same soft, expressive mouth that never quite smiled fully, just enough to hint at it. My old art teacher from high school. The man who taught me how to draw a still life, who showed me how to mix colors on a palette until they matched the image in my mind. The man whose voice had seemed so familiar. Well here's why.

He stops dead when he sees me.

For a moment, his expression flickers with something--shock, maybe. Recognition. His eyes widen just a little, and there's this small, almost imperceptible intake of breath. But then, just as quickly, it's gone. His face smooths over into something neutral, professional, like a curtain dropping over a stage.

But I saw it. That split second of recognition.

"Lily?" he says, his voice carefully measured, but I can hear the surprise beneath it. Or, is it surprise?

I stand there, frozen, not sure what to do with my hands, my feet, or any part of myself. I nod, barely able to speak. "Mr. Pritchard."

His eyes search my face, and for a second, I wonder if he's as thrown by this as I am. But then, something in his posture shifts, relaxing almost too smoothly. He steps further into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. "Well, what a surprise. Thanks again for coming in at short notice and...wow, Lily. So nice to see you again, and looking so well."

There it is again--his words say one thing, but his face... his face says something else. Like maybe he knew all along. Like maybe, when I called earlier, he did recognized my voice and didn't say anything. And now I'm standing in front of him, about to take my clothes off, and I can't shake the feeling that none of this is as accidental as I'd thought.

"Thanks..." I manage to say, my voice thin and breathy. "My pleasure, and you're looking well too."

Did I really just say that to Mr Pritchard?

For a moment, we just stand there, the room thick with tension.

I don't know whether to laugh or run. And I'm not sure what's worse--that he's shocked, or that he's pretending not to be.

"Right, well..." He clears his throat, his voice professional again. He looks around the room, avoiding my eyes now, addressing the other artists. "Shall we get started, then?"

And just like that, it's happening. No time to question whether this is all just a weird coincidence or whether there really was a cancellation. No time to figure out if he knew it was me all along. All I know is that I'm about to step onto that platform, and Mr. Pritchard--my old art teacher--will be watching.

My throat tightens as I stand there, my old art teacher's eyes flickering with recognition before he smooths his expression into something neutral. But I know him too well. The calm, professional mask he's wearing doesn't fool me. It's Mr. Pritchard, after all--Pitch-Hard, as we used to call him back at school.

I try to keep my breathing steady, but the memories are rushing back too fast.

He was always a smooth talker, Mr. Pritchard. Too smooth. The kind of teacher who lingered just a little too long at your desk when he was giving feedback, standing just a little too close, close enough that you'd feel his breath on your neck. And it wasn't just me. He had this way about him with all the girls--always complimenting our drawings or the way we'd styled our hair that day, saying it in this almost innocent way, like he was just being nice. But none of us were naïve enough to miss the way his eyes lingered, the way he always seemed to choose a seat where he had the best view of us, or the fact that he'd adjust his trousers when he thought no one was looking.

We used to laugh about it behind his back. The rumors, the glances. The nickname, Pitch-Hard, was a joke that caught on fast--because we'd all noticed it, the bulge in his trousers when he got too close. None of us ever said anything, though. It was the kind of thing you could joke about with your friends but would never dare bring up with a teacher. Besides, he was too smart for that. No one ever caught him doing anything inappropriate, not really. He never crossed the line--not that anyone knew of, anyway.

But there were always whispers. Girls would talk in the locker rooms, speculate about whether he'd ever had a fling with any of the older students. I never believed it--not fully, at least--but now, standing here in this room, with his eyes trying hard not to look surprised, I wonder if there was more truth to those rumors than any of us realized.

"Lily," he says again, softer this time, his voice dipping just enough to feel like he's already stepping too close to the line. I wonder if the others in the room notice the way he says my name.

I force myself to stand still, even though every part of me wants to shrink back. I give a stiff nod in response, but I can't quite bring myself to speak.

"I didn't expect to see you here," he says, though his tone is too measured. Too practiced. Like he's playing a role he's rehearsed.

"Yeah...I didn't either." I reply, wondering why he is saying that again. Hadn't that been already established?

There's a pause, a brief flicker of something unreadable in his expression before he turns to face the other artists again. "Shall we get started, then?" he asks, as if nothing's out of the ordinary, like I'm just another model walking through the door.

I glance around the room again--at the easels and sketchpads, the strangers busying themselves with their pencils and brushes. They don't seem interested in me, but now I can't shake the feeling that someone in this room should be worried about what's about to happen. It's not just the vulnerability of standing naked in front of strangers anymore; it's the thought of Mr. Pritchard watching me, studying me. And remembering.

There's something about the way he's trying too hard to look calm. I don't believe for a second that he's as surprised as he wants me to think. He recognized me the moment I walked in, I'm sure of it now. And if he knew it was me all along... was there really a cancellation?

My stomach flips again, the weight of what I'm about to do pressing down on me. I'm going to take my clothes off in front of Mr. Pritchard. My old art teacher. The man who used to linger by my desk, whose voice I recognize too well, whose reputation was whispered about in the locker rooms.

I wonder if he's thinking about that now, too. If he remembers the way he used to brush too close, if those memories are running through his mind the way they're running through mine. His expression is smooth, professional, but his eyes--those same dark, calculating eyes from years ago--flick toward me again. He looks away just as quickly, but I saw it. The brief flicker of something beneath the surface.

The room feels too warm all of a sudden, and my pulse pounds in my ears. I try to focus on the others--on the woman who smiled at me, on the older man scribbling in his sketchpad--but my eyes keep drifting back to him. To Mr. Pritchard.

He moves to the front of the room, adjusting a light with his back to me, giving instructions to the class. His voice is even, steady, like he's done this a thousand times before.

Am I really going to do this?

Am I really about to stand naked in front of my old art teacher, a man who always watched just a little too closely? A man whose nick-name was Pitch-hard?!

For a moment, I think about running, about grabbing my bag and bolting for the door, pretending like this never happened. But my feet feel glued to the floor. The room around me seems to blur, the other artists moving in the background, their faces fading into the light as all I can focus on is him.

I take a breath.

Mr. Pritchard claps his hands in the same manner he always did, to get the class's attention. The gentle murmur of conversation fades as seven pairs of eyes turn toward him, though I keep my gaze fixed somewhere between the floor and the sketchpads scattered across the room.

"Alright, everyone," he begins, his voice smooth and familiar, commanding the room with that quiet authority he always had. "This is Lily, and she'll be our model for today's session. Some of you may already know how this works, but for those of you who are new--let's keep things respectful, professional, and, as always, focused on the art."