Tina reeled from the unexpected olfactory assault that smacked her in the nose as soon as she walked in. Nasal passages seared and sensitised by the after burn, did their best to work out what it was. A pervading mustiness nearly swamped all traces of the solvents and thinners, but couldn't mask a pungent oily aroma. (Paints? Oil paints). The stale heavy air, somehow familiar, churned her stomach. Rising bile flooded her mouth with a nasty sour warmth. She swallowed - the taste stayed.

'Hello there, you must be Tina?'

An effusive welcome by someone that didn't look at all like the Daniel she'd imagined when they'd spoken on the phone.

'Hi...sorry I'm a bit late...trouble parking.'

'Oh no, you're fine...plenty of time. Nightmare in the summer it is...never any spaces.'

                                                                                                                                         
He clasped his large hands together in front of his chest in a conciliatory type of gesture, wobbled them momentarily, before enveloping her in a grand sweeping arc which deftly ushered her in while completely cutting off her escape route.

'So... you've done this sort of thing before then have you?'

He smiled, head cocked to one side like a foraging wren; monstrous huge eyes peering at her through the thick lenses of his outlandish spectacles.

'Oh yes.' Tina lied, her smile fixed, frozen. 'Only for friends though...not for a group or anything. But I'm...I'm sure I'll be ok.'
   
(Ok?...as if)

Her knees buckled and threatened to give way. She started to get palpitations – an uncomfortable pressure above her sternum amplifying her erratic, thumping heartbeat. The smell wasn't helping. Combined with the nerves, it made her feel even queasier. 

'Of course you will, of course. We're a friendly lot here...no need to worry.'

Only then did Tina take a good look around the room, or rather, studio. A dozen or so people nodded or waved a greeting from behind their easels to acknowledge her arrival. White-knuckled, she wrapped her arms around herself in a desperate attempt to hold it all Together – avoid doing an embarrassing runner, or worse, spill her guts there and then on the paint-splattered floor.

(Oh my god...what was I thinking? How could I possibly have imagined I could do this?)

  
All the psyching herself up to get this far, the positive motivational pep-talk evaporated like white spirits. Topless sunbathing on holiday in France didn't count. Nor did skinny dipping at parties after dark. Not even a brief period of employment in her pre-politicised youth at a sleazy bar, where the dress code meant wearing a sheer see-through blouse, could have prepared Tina for this.

Beads of perspiration began to emerge above her trembling top lip.

'You can get changed here behind this screen, then we'll be ready to start in a couple of minutes... if that’s alright?'

'Mmm...yeah, thanks...that'll be fine.'

(Great).

The easels encircled a stark dais-plain, beige ply nailed to form a low rectangular platform, probably 5ft by 3. Flashes of sacrificial alters, standing stones and druids sprung to Tina's mind, unbidden. Interspersed with images of expectant vultures, patiently waiting their turn to pick at the carrion, it was like watching some kind of torturous subliminal advertising where the product was her flesh. To the left-hand side, tucked against the corner, was the screen in question. As she snuck in behind its protective shield, the temptation to hide, stay right where she was and cower, was overwhelming.

(C'mon, c'mon...you can do it. Breathe).
  
Slowly, meticulously, she began to strip off  the layers. Her favourite car-boot find hoody; a bargain at 50p and lovingly mended where accidentally burnt. Next, an ordinary long-sleeved top, followed by one of her daughter's strappy vests. These were all, uncharacteristically, carefully folded and neatly placed onto a rickety old chair – no doubt put there for that exact purpose. Deliberately unlacing her boots, and inserting a sock in each, she slid these under the seat, taking great pains to ensure that the toes weren't protruding beyond the front line. Wriggling out of her hipster jeans – the one's her other daughter said she was too old for – Tina couldn't believe what she was about to do.

Knickers and bra joined the pile, there was nothing left for it now but to boldly  go...                                                                                                                                       

(Damn...need a pee...again! Too late now...bugger).

  
In the final few seconds before Tina stepped out, she suddenly realised that she'd no idea how to go about crossing the void; what the correct protocol was in these situations. Should she stroll over, nonchalant, like she did this sort of thing all the time? Or should she stride, purposefully and professionally, in all her biological glory – comfortable and at ease with her body's total nakedness, and making eye contact with everyone?

   
She felt like one of those cartoon character lambs who's just been shorn for the first time, blushing and contorting in a vain attempt to try and cover up their bits. A lamb to the slaughter's more like it, she thought.

  
(Deep breath in...exhale).

Her heart rate quadrupled; the pounding in her ears was almost deafening. Her vision blurred intermittently, throwing everything in and out of focus and making her head spin. A waft of cold sweat emanating from her armpits caught in the back of her throat. She nearly gagged.  Senses heightened, it was as if the bare pads of her feet were able to detect every tiny splinter, each individual wood grain. Nerve fibres were screaming at her to run. Flee.
 
But it was the lack of air that terrified her the most - the suffocating closeness in the room. The place was thick with dust. Untold years of it had accumulated on every conceivable surface. Zillions of dust particles hung suspended in mid-air. Shafts of light spilling through the two small, unopened windows, illuminated them like a souvenir snowstorm paperweight from Blackpool.

By the dais, a Calor gas heater radiated a fumy, soporific heat which together with the industrial paint smells and the palpable dust soup, seemed to have eradicated all of the available oxygen.

  
(Breathe...breathe).  
                                                                                                                                           
How she managed to physically walk out there into the middle of the room without fainting, passing out or being violently sick, Tina couldn’t understand. It was an ordeal she certainly wasn't planning on repeating any time soon.

'Oh...have you not got a robe or anything with you then? Never mind. We might as well make a start then shall we?'

  
(Shit, a robe...shit, shit...what a fool...why didn't I think to bring a dressing gown? All that agonising...the long walk of shame...bleeding amateur! Christ...the humiliation of it all!).

  
'So, this is Tina everyone. It's her first time with us today, so we'll promise to be gentle wont we?'

  
Tina cringed as Daniel quietly sniggered at his own joke, his shoulders juddering with the effort of trying to suppress his mirth. She took an instant dislike to his casual chequered shirt and brown corduroy trousers. Thankfully, nobody else seemed to be laughing.

  
'Thought we'd begin with a 10 minute standing pose...something quite natural... maybe with your weight on one leg...is that ok Tina? Is everyone ok with this one...yes? Excellent.'

  
Total exposure. Under intense scrutiny. Eyes boring into her from all directions. (They're not looking. They're not looking at me really. Not me as an individual, a person. I'm just a shape...a line...a form. I have become negative spaces...pure and simple. I am light and dark and all the shades in between. Marks on paper, nothing more. I have been liberated...body and soul...I am free. Shit... they'll see my cellulite).
 
With one hand resting on her hip, the other dangled, relaxed and limp by her side. Her right leg, slightly bent, transferred all the weight down through the left one, as per instructions. Finding her balance point, Tina now had to focus on being still. Statue still. Worried that the rise and fall of her chest, with its rapid, shallow movement might be too noticeable, she tried to regulate her breathing. Slow and controlled. Air in...and out.

She was glad of the distraction, something to stop her from thinking about the 'audience'  out there. All staring. At her.

The technique she used to remain stock-still was a simple one. Tension. Her back was rigid with the effort of immobility. What she hadn't anticipated, however, was the difficulty in sustaining such a level of intensity for any length of time. The minutes passed excruciatingly slowly.

At first, the only ambient background noise had been a gentle scritch-scratch of charcoal and pencil on paper. Thirty seconds in, a complaining creak of wood against wood as someone adjusted their easel, punctuated by the threading of a wing nut. The tinkly sloshing of a brush being rinsed in a jam jar rang out sweetly. From outside, the low drone of traffic, and piercing gull's cries, cut through the glass panes in a way that the breezes did not.

  
(Why can't they open a window? It's so stuffy in here).

  
An almost audible hum of inspired concentration permeated the studio. The walls that had contained countless thousands of artists during the School Of Painting's lifetime felt infused with creativity. Even the solid overhead beams, beneath their inch thick coating of dust, gave the impression of being saturated with this collective essence. It was as if the entire fabric of the building resonated art and expressive freedom. Tina, daren't move a millimetre.
 
Without warning, a CD player rudely interrupted the industrious silence. Bursts of staccato orchestration, a sort of new age-y flavour and a vaguely recognisable melody...

(Oh no...not Enya).

  
Unable to help herself, Tina was soon mentally singing along to the Orinoco Flow.

  
 (Sail away, sail away, sail away...).

It was around about this point that she realised she'd been clenching her teeth so hard as part of her keeping-utterly-still regimen, that her jawbone felt as if it had fused together. In fact, all of her body parts were beginning to object. Her neck muscles groaned under the strain of maintaining her head at a specific tilt – she'd looked in that direction to catch a glimpse of the sea, just visible through the far window, beyond the slate rooftops. Now she was in agony.

All her blood seemed to have pooled at her tingling feet. Too sluggish to travel back up flaccid veins, the lack of circulation had brought on the early stages of pins and needles. A grinding ache at the apex of her thrust up hip, bored through, and into her socket joint; begging for relief, clamouring for a change of pressure – a shift in weight.

  
(Can't move...mustn't move. Jesus...how much longer)?

 'A minute left now everybody.'

  
(Oh, thank god...nearly there...just grin and bear it. C'mon... you can do it).

 ' Thank you Tina. Just have a stretch now for a minute or two before we go into the next pose, ok? Something similar would be nice, but perhaps for a bit longer this time...say 15?

And maybe with a slight twist...is that ok?'

  
Tina nodded dumbly in answer, incapable of speech. She watched, horrified, as Daniel demonstrated the desired twisting element, feeling the wrench and discomfort in her torso before she'd even begun.

(Think about the children...just keep thinking about the kids... Gym fees... school camp... new shoes for Lucy... Uggh, that smell...what is that god awful smell? Got to do it ... for the kids. Jesus, need some air...can't breathe...fresh air. C'mon then, let's do it... only 2 hours and 20 minutes to go...).