Mouse Trap

Worship

As soon as Harry heard the doorbell go, she dumped the lump of clay she had been handling and, wiping her hands on her apron and then ripping the insanely grubby item off of her slightly more presentable overalls, dashed across her open-plan flat to the front door. She knew who was at the door, at last, Mariam; it had been almost a week since they had sent Tubby packing and, much to Harry's consternation, James and Jane had been the consummate, consoling hosts and offered Mariam a longer stay on the estate in order to recover from the shock of Tubby's thievery. It had not been an invitation Mariam could refuse and Harry had returned to London with only a promise to keep her going. So, all week she had been trying to distract herself by diving into her art, more and more as the hour of her would-be lover's arrival drew near.

Harry flung open the door, grabbed for the body on the other side, found a wrist and pulled. Harry hadn't stopped to check her visitor was Mariam, but the squeak of surprise was more than enough recognition and, slamming the door behind them, Harry pushed the girl up against the wall and crushed their lips together. Mariam took only a second to catch up with Harry and then Harry smiled into the kiss as she felt hands snake up her back. She dallied in the feel of Mariam's slender frame against her own curves and ran her fingers into Mariam's smooth bangs, pushing away the cloche that had been covering them.She had been dreaming about this moment every time she closed her eyes, but reality was much, much better. Yet, it wasn't just Mariam's touch Harry had been longing for, and she drew back eventually to look into the deep brown eyes of her nymph.

Mariam gazed back, face lit up with a joyous smile. Her hat was only still on her head because the felt was caught between her skull and the wall and Harry had done a very good job of ruffling the boyish bob into something far more cherubic.

"I've missed you," Harry breathed earnestly.

Mariam started a laugh, but when Harry glanced self-consciously over at the studio area and Mariam's attention followed, the sound died in her throat. Harry felt her face heat up as Mariam gasped and pushed her away. She really had been missing Mariam awfully and, mouth open, the object of her desire took a few steps towards the result of that absence. Harry had abandoned her investigation of Art Deco in favour of pure expression and she had recreated her growing obsession in as many ways as she knew how.She had started with charcoal, a dozen sketches were lying all over the studio in various stages of completion; then paint on canvas, taking some of those ideas into colour; finally, she had moved into the more tactile medium of clay and in the centre of her workroom lay the nude figure of her darling nymph, reclining in glimpses of a woodland glade. It was in front of this four foot display that Mariam stopped and glanced over her shoulder at Harry. Harry couldn't read the look she was being given, and suddenly embarrassed by it all, crossed the space between them.

"I had to guess at your body," she stammered, not really sure of the mix of emotion that was coming through, and then confessed, "I couldn't stop."

"I can see that," Mariam replied, still regarding the whole collection with quiet separation.

Harry held her breath when the girl stepped right up to the clay figure. When one finger pressed gently against the dark, wet material of the shoulder, Harry wasn't sure what to think and then she felt a second rush of embarrassment when Mariam ran that finger down the arm to wrist and over a half-formed manacle. Harry had been trying to capture her emotions around the close call with the law that Tubby had orchestrated, but right then she didn't have the words to express that. Her throat went dry when, hand still resting on her work, Mariam turned to her, expression still unreadable.

"Do you like it?" she had to ask.

Harry didn't doubt Mariam would be honest, she was that type of girl, and that made her very nervous. She wasn't a good artist, she knew it, her work was clichéd and ordinary, but she didn't know if she could take direct criticism from her subject.