CHAPTER ONE
In the dull, grey light of an ordinary late-winter morning, I duck beneath the plastic cover of the bus-stop and lean up against the curved Perspex frame, watching the faces of people scurrying past, chins tucked into scarves, already late for where they’re going. I’m shivering beneath the thin, black leather jacket I have on; it looked warmer from the bedroom window, and I wanted to make a good impression. Someone told me that the less you wear, the better idea they can get of your potential. The black skinny jeans, thin white t-shirt and jacket don’t seem worth it against the biting cold that is setting in. It’s only January after all, and I am dressed for spring.
The traffic disperses as rush hour comes to an end, my body starting to shiver as I fold my arms across my chest; a defensive stance I always seem to take, hiding myself. I look constantly at the small circular clock-face of the watch on my wrist, watching the hands move, nervously glancing up the empty road for the bus that isn’t coming; it’s half past nine and the bus is running late. My heart beats a little quicker, anxious.
It’s just starting to drizzle as the bus finally turns around the corner and pulls up to the stop, the first tiny droplets spattering the roof over my head.
I smile at the driver and pay the fare, awkwardly shifting my bag to get the coins out of my jeans pocket. The driver raises an eyebrow at me, bored already with the morning shift. The coins clatter onto the little counter, and the machine whirrs and spits out a ticket which I take gratefully, tearing it haphazardly as I turn my face away with a mumbled ‘thank you’ and dart towards the steps leading to the top deck. I am halfway up when the bus begins to move, and almost lose my balance; the heeled boots, it seems, were a bad idea too. Someone tuts behind me, but the driver doesn’t care. I stagger up the rest of the narrow staircase onto the top floor and move towards the back, sliding onto one of the old, red-vinyl seats, the rank yellow foam beneath poking out through ancient cracks and tiny craters where fingers had picked and scraped. Only then do I realise I have been holding my breath.
Nervous, I open my bag out on my lap and rummage around inside for the crumpled piece of paper I am looking for; it’s tricky to find, amongst the rest of the mess inside the belly of my bag, but I manage to pluck it out from beneath an uneaten granola bar I am saving for later. A treat for after the ordeal I am about to put myself through. On it, there is a name and an address; I have memorised both, and yet I am worried I’ll forget them. An arty black and white picture of a beautiful woman is on the front, beneath the gold, embossed words Schneider Photography. The eyes of the woman look out seductively, her arms framing her beautiful face; my own eyes are drawn to the delicate hands of the woman, expertly placed, the fingers long and elegant, and her mouth is slightly open in a way I know is deliberate, all perfectly constructed by the man behind the camera. I have yet to meet him, but I know he is one of the best in the business; I’ve heard girls in casting rooms talk about him, showing off their portfolios and the images he has taken of them. There is a distinct style in his work, and when the call had come, asking me to come in, I couldn’t say no, though now I wish I had.
It was only for my lips and my hands, that is what the email from his secretary had said; he was interested only in my mouth and my hands. Surely that won’t be too hard, I keep telling myself, though my stomach is doing butterflies at the very thought of standing in front of this man’s lens. I don’t feel worthy, as I look again at the stunning, otherworldly creature on his calling card. In the bus window, I catch sight of my reflection; pale and innocent-looking, wide-eyed and somewhat awkward. I am a world away from the girl in the picture.
Slowly, I open my own portfolio and flip absently through the pages. There aren’t many, as I am still building it up, but the ones that are there don’t seem too bad; some are full-length, the angles and long limbs of my body placed in edgy shapes and dimensions, my plain, fair hair coaxed into doing something to frame my peculiar face. There are profile images, in which my blue eyes stare out intensely from the print, my bitten-red lips shapely and almost seductive, though I wouldn’t know how to be sexy if I tried, and believe me I have tried. High cheekbones create shadows on my pale skin, and I look … interesting – certainly not beautiful, not like the models I have seen in the casting rooms; those white-walled, haughty boxes whose corners I have huddled in, afraid of being stared at. I know they know I don’t belong, and yet, somehow, I have been booked once or twice, and I have the images to prove it. Although, looking down, I’m still not sure of the girl staring back.
I close the book and place it back in my bag, leaning up against the bus window for the rest of the journey, as I watch the world flit past outside. It is gloomy and the sky is a darkening grey, as rain begins to spit more heavily from the skies.
The time gives me chance to worry about what is waiting for me on the other side. I huddle into myself, as I always do. Already, my stomach is tightening at the thought of being prodded and poked and arranged into all manner of poses and positions. I’m glad I didn’t eat breakfast. I know my limbs are going to shake as I try and take a nice picture, and this Mr Schneider and his assistants will all stare at me with their open disapproval at my weakness; my inability to sit still and do as I’m told, my woeful ineptitude at this job. Yet, I remember the number at the bottom of the email the secretary sent, and I know I have to focus on it – a £2500 buy-out for the images, should they be ‘of use to Mr Schneider’s work’. That is a big chunk to be able to put away into my college fund, and that is the beacon at the end of this gloomy, anxious day; the possibility of putting money away for my education.
My family aren’t rich; they can’t afford to send me to college, and I missed out on the scholarships, not being particularly good at sports, and not wanting to study mathematics or medicine. I want to be a zoologist; ever since I was little, it’s all I have wanted to be, and yet, when it came down to it, the money just wasn’t there. I worked hard, buckled down, got the grades, but it doesn’t matter; there’s no cash, so no future, not unless I can make it for myself. So, it’s up to me, and seeing that number, two-thousand-five-hundred, against the pittance I would be making at some dead-end waiting job, it makes sense. People have always had something to say about the way I look, so why not use it? So far, it seems to be working. I get stared at, looked at, talked about, but they book me anyway, and slowly the amount in my bank account will rack up, if I just keep at it. After all, this job isn’t hard; that is what I have to remember. This job isn’t hard. I could be up at five a.m. washing down the grime from last night’s service in some greasy dive on the highway, making minimum wage a day and maybe thirty dollars in tips, on a good day. Instead, I have an opportunity on a crinkled-up card in the bottom of my bag, and a hope, written in cold, hard black and white on a computer screen. It would go such a long way to providing the money I need to get out; to do something properly with my life.
I know my family wish I’d get a normal job; something stable and secure, something like the retail job my mother does, or the service job my dad does, but I can’t. I did it when I was younger, and have nothing to show for it. When something broke in our house, or I needed a new part for the dodgy car I’d bought second-hand with whatever I had scraped together already, that money I made went towards it, instead of my future. Then I saw what you could make from modelling and, though the thought of sitting in a stark studio with all eyes on me, camera lens clicking and glaring lights flashing, fills me with dread, I know it’s an easier way; it’s a quicker way to get to what I have been waiting for, all these years. I don’t have any more time to waste, and though it would be months and months to make a couple thousand, in one of those jobs my parents would prefer, I could make it in a day here. I might not have liked mathematics much at school, but I can do the sums for this one; it isn’t hard to decide.
I just have to remember; this job isn’t hard. All I have to do is do as I’m told, move my body as he tells me, be the girl they want to see, and that money will come in.
I can do that. I have to. This job is not hard, rinse and repeat.
CHAPTER TWO
‘This job is so hard!’ I hear his voice from inside the studio, as a girl comes running out the door, streaking past me to gather her things before running from the building, one hand brushing away what look like tears from her eyes. I watch in horror as she leaves, though my ear is caught by the tenor of the voice, still yelling behind the now-closed door of the studio. It shuts too quickly for me to get a good view of the man the voice belongs too, but my imagination fills in some of the gaps. The voice is rich and deep, with a firm authority to it; there is command and dignity in the pitch and delivery of his words, but there is also exasperation and frustration, borne from a place of passion. I know this from the pictures hanging in the waiting room; they are specific in their form and frame and structure. There is an intense attention to detail in the way hands have been moved and tiny alterations have been made; I pick up on them only as I have had plenty of time to observe and study the images, as I sit uncomfortably on the sleek, cream leather sofa, with only the tap of the secretary’s fingers on a keyboard and the low hum of classical music for company.
Despite the late arrival of the bus, I am both early and he is running late with the previous girls. The building in which the studio is housed is not exactly what I was expecting; it doesn’t look like much from the outside, just a plain, grey-painted warehouse with grim windows and a very pedestrian feel to it, as if it once housed a wool factory or something equally everyday. However, setting foot inside is a whole other story. It is exactly as I should have expected, with chic exposed brickwork and clean lines, darts and shocks of bright, rich colour coming in every now and again, unexpectedly on a shelf or a thin strip of wall. Even the light fixtures look as if they should be in an art gallery, all brass trimmings and moody amber glow. The reception is large and elegant, with enormous leather sofas backing up against more exposed brick and metalwork, a desk at the far end, manned by only one woman, who looks painfully fashionable with her hair pinned in an elaborate chignon, her dress designer and figure-hugging, her spectacles glamorous on her expertly painted face. However, when I talk to her to tell her who I am, and that I believe Mr Schneider is expecting me, she is polite and sweet, offering me a bottle of water and ushering me over to one of the expensive-looking sofas, which is where I am sitting as the poor girl before me comes running out in her precarious heels, looking crushed and humiliated.
However, before this, I sit awhile and look at the unframed pictures which line the walls; they are held up with miniature bulldog clips, and must be part of an ever-changing roster, I imagine. My eyes move from one to another, admiring the craftsmanship. I feel very much as if I am in a gallery and, once more, feel my inadequacies begin to set in. The bellow of this man’s voice does nothing to settle my nerves, nor does the sobbing model before me, far more beautiful and elegant and traditionally model-like than I can ever hope to be.
I think about leaving, my eyes on the door.
Inside the studio, behind the wooden door at the very end of the reception area, I can still hear the voice yelling about various inconsistencies and dislikes, the frustrations venting from him, instilling fear and a kind of admiration in me, as I listen.
‘Where are you getting these girls, Deborah? Is it so much to ask that at least one of them be right? I’ve seen fifty girls, Deb, fifty! And not one of them has done as I asked,’ he shouts, something slamming as he says it.
I can’t hear the reply of this ‘Deborah’, but whatever she says seems to incense him all the more, as I eavesdrop as best I can. The receptionist seems to be doing the same, as she stills her hands over the computer keyboard and tilts her head towards the door.
‘Look!’ he cries. ‘Look at these images, Deb. All of them are unusable! Utterly unusable. Every single frame, and her neck twitches – look! Tell me you don’t see that?’
Again, another indiscernible reply, and Mr Schneider’s ensuing fury.
‘Well that’s why my name is above the door! Look, every single time. I asked her not to, I sat her in different positions, asked her to sit in a way in which her neck was relaxed and yet she did it again and again. What else am I supposed to do? I will not tolerate inferior work. I will not simply print something that is ‘good enough’, because that is not art – if I wanted to do that, I’d get some cushy job at a catalogue, churning out images of models and pictures that are just ‘good enough’. I’m an artist, Deb. I won’t accept inferior art.’
‘She’s done Vogue, Martin,’ this time I hear the muted voice of the woman in there with him, Deb.
‘I don’t care what campaigns any of them have done, Deb – they’re not good enough. I asked you to find the best, and you’ve brought me a load of useless cattle. Is there anyone else?’ he asks.
I look again to the door, suddenly very panicked. Even the receptionist looks over at me with an apologetic concern, clearly seeing I am a hopelessly inappropriate choice. I get up quickly, clutching my bag to me, and make for the exit.
Before I can manage it, the door at the end of the waiting area bangs open and my name is called, in the same deep, rich, commanding voice I am not sure I wish to be on the receiving end of. I stop in my tracks and turn, stuck to the spot.
‘Zoey Miller?’ the voice calls again, more impatiently this time. He doesn’t step out of the doorway, and I am helpless to follow the call of my name as I make my way towards the studio, flashing a worried look at the receptionist as I pass.
As I enter the studio, I see nobody is there except the assistant, Deb. She looks frazzled, pushing sheet after sheet of useless prints through a shredder, as I stand there, unsure what to do. She looks me up and down with something akin to amusement, and points to another doorway at the back of the clean, sterile-seeming room. I scurry in the direction she is pointing, and knock feebly on the door, awaiting the voice who called my name and made that other girl cry.
‘Come in!’ the voice calls sharply.
I do so.
He is sitting behind a desk, holding a folder in his hands. The file shrouds his face from view, as I wait to be spoken to.
‘I am Zoey Miller,’ I explain, my own voice shaking, as I wait.
He lowers the folder, which has my name written on the side in thick, black marker pen. He is a little older than his voice would suggest, but undeniably handsome. His hair is a thick dark brown, casually styled, stubble ruggedly shaping a defined jawline that wouldn’t look amiss on any male model, his eyes a deep hazelnut colour, peering thoughtfully from beneath a brow furrowed in frustration. His lips are passionate, his bone structure angular and strong, giving him a masculine, commanding appearance; I can see how he has garnered his reputation. He certainly isn’t the type of man you look at once and forget about.
His focus is still elsewhere, and he looks furious. I can feel myself trembling, as his annoyance permeates the room, playing on my insecurities. He will not look at me, and I wonder why; has he seen something in my portfolio that he doesn’t like? Has he already decided I am no good? Questions race through my mind as I wait for him to acknowledge me.
Finally, after what seems like an hour, he lifts his gaze in my direction. The expression on his face begins aggressively, his anger still sitting amongst his handsome features but, slowly, as he observes me a little more, his features begin to soften; it is a minute gesture, a tiny relaxing of the muscles around his eyes and mouth, but enough to set me a touch more at ease. Not much more, but enough that I am not a bumbling wreck in his presence.
‘Zoey Miller?’ he asks, though he knows full-well.
I nod anxiously. ‘Yes, Mr Schneider,’ I manage to say.
‘You’ve not done much modelling,’ he says, a statement not a question. He doesn’t wait for me to answer. ‘I am looking for very specific things, Miss Miller. I am not in the habit of photographing novice and first-timers, do you understand?’ he continues, though his words do not fall as coldly as I imagine. He is merely telling me the truth, as brutal and harsh as it might seem.
I nod. ‘I understand, Mr Schneider. Your art requires the best – true beauty,’ I stammer.
He smiles ever so slightly at my response. ‘Exactly right, Miss Miller. So why should I even bother to photography you today? You have little experience, as far as I can see,’ he says, though again not coldly. He is genuinely interested, I think, and this makes me all the more nervous. I could handle his ambivalence, even his plain disapproval, but interest was something I was not anticipating and had not prepared for.
I shrug instead. ‘You emailed me,’ I reply.
His look tells me he is less impressed by this response, and I feel my insides clench. ‘Very well,’ he nods, closing the folder as he stands. He is dressed casually in a pale grey t-shirt and jeans, his feet bare. Beneath his clothes, I can make out a firm physique, his shoulders broad, his body toned, his stomach flat, his arms muscular as he extends his hand to me. ‘I am Martin Schneider, let’s see what we can do with you,’ he says softly, as I reach out to shake his outstretched palm. His grip is firm and masculine, his skin a touch rough and comfortingly warm.
I nod again. ‘Would you like to see my portfolio?’ I ask, my voice quavering.
He smiles, showing white teeth and an unexpected warmth. ‘No need – the camera will show what I need,’ he says, releasing my hand and gesturing through to the studio. ‘After you,’ he insists, as I head into the room awkwardly, still clutching my bag to my side.
I step into the almost familiar room and look around. It is like many studios I have seen, though a little barer than most, with exposed brick and metal pillars, the walls devoid of the images posted all over his office and on the white walls of the reception. It is clean and uncluttered, except for the photography equipment; the lights already set up, the camera ready, a small desk with a laptop and printer close by, Deb sitting there patiently. Everything is directed towards a pure white space; the wall white, the floor white, sapped of colour. There is a wooden stool set up in the centre of the white box of light.
I hover close to the edge of the room, waiting for instruction.
‘This is Deb, my assistant,’ Martin says, as he sifts through some sheets, looking for something.
I nod to her and she smiles half-heartedly; I guess I must be the millionth girl they have seen today, and the thought makes my stomach twist with nerves.
Near the door is a rack of clothes, but there is no stylist, no makeup artist; nobody except the two people already there. It is an unusual set-up, and I feel a touch exposed. I look down at the white t-shirt and black jeans I have on, and the creeping notion of being out of place slowly starts to build inside me. I am definitely not dressed for the occasion, having expected a dresser at the very least. I gulp, just as Martin looks up from what he is doing. He seems confused by me. I hope it is not disappointment already; I haven’t even managed to sit for him yet.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks.
I nod. ‘Yes.’
‘Then what are you doing?’ again, his voice isn’t cold, merely matter-of-fact, genuinely wanting to know what I’m doing.
I blush. ‘I don’t have anything to wear,’ I admit.
He nods. ‘Of course. Pick a dress from the rack, put it on and then we’ll get started. It’s just going to be a close-up study today – just your hands, maybe your lips or your eyes for now, but we might catch a glimpse of fabric, so pick something colourful,’ he instructs, chasing away some of the embarrassment I am feeling.
‘Thank you,’ I stammer, and it makes his lips curve up, ever so slightly, into a smile.
I put my bag down on the chair beside the clothes rail that is set up beside the far wall of the studio and begin to look through the garments hanging up, wondering who else has worn them. I picture the beautiful Vogue model in a slinky emerald-green number and immediately brush past it, knowing I won’t match up. None of them feel right, though they are all beautiful. The final dress on the rail is a silky, dark crimson cocktail dress, with thin straps and a luxurious feel between my fingertips, as I touch the fabric. Quickly, I change, peeling off boots, black jeans and t-shirt, and stacking them in a neat pile beside my bag, on the random chair leaning up against the wall. Almost as an afterthought, I unclip my bra and place it on top, knowing the straps will look ugly beneath the pretty dress. Though my back is turned, I can feel eyes on me, and my cheeks flush red with self-consciousness as I throw on the red dress as fast as humanly possible.
There is a mirror close at hand, and I catch a glimpse of myself as I turn to head back into the centre of the room. With my slim frame, it suits me; it is flattering in shape and texture, highlighting my narrow waist and slender limbs and, if it weren’t for my useless hair, hanging carelessly past my shoulders, I think I almost look beautiful – just for a moment.
‘Ready?’ Martin asks.
I nod. ‘Yes, Mr Schneider.’
‘Good. Nice choice,’ he remarks, not correcting me, or asking me to call him Martin, as he gestures towards the stool in the centre of the room.
I sit awkwardly and can feel my face growing hotter beneath the bright lights. I feel more exposed than ever, as he stalks about behind the spotlights, camera lifted to his face, checking monitors and exposition as he mutters things back to his assistant. I can only half make him out from where I am sitting, the lights obscuring his features, blinding me a little.
A short while later, he steps through the jungle of lamps and shades and firmly twists my hair up into a bun, on top of my head. He slides grips in to keep it there, not asking if any of it is okay to do, but I don’t mind; I want him to get his vision. He pulls a tube of lipstick from his pocket, lifts the slanted red edge to my lip, his fingers taking hold of my chin gently, but then he pauses, thinking twice about it as he twists the lipstick down again, replaces the cap and puts it back in his pocket. Stepping back slightly, he observes me for a moment or two, his brow furrowing; he seems to be taking stock of me, searching for flaws to smooth out and perfect. I guess he is pleased, as he leaves a second later, ducking back behind the lights to fetch his camera, before reappearing just in front of me.
‘Tilt your head back,’ he says, and I do it, though I can feel the nerves coming back as I look down at him crouched on the floor, peering at me through the viewfinder of his camera. My heart is pounding, and I can feel a trickle of sweat meandering between my shoulder-blades, as I watch Martin at work, trying to get the perfect shot. ‘Relax, Zoey,’ he adds, with a firm insistence that only makes my muscles tense more. ‘Try and pout your lips a bit for me, Zoey,’ he asks, as I try to do what he wants, but I can feel my top lip begin to twitch, under the pressure of doing as he asks. ‘Relax, Zoey,’ he keeps telling me, but I can’t. I try and I try but I can feel the tiny muscles around my mouth pulling and twitching, as I try to shape my mouth prettily, try to pout without looking like a wannabe Playboy bunny. My hands are the same; they seem to have taken on a mind of their own. He tells me to relax and my whole body clenches. My fingers keep trembling beneath his gaze, as I lay them elegantly across the crimson satin of my upper thigh, shivering uncontrollably, no matter how hard I try to control the nervous impulse. I want to do so well, and yet I know I am feeling. I can see it in the furrow of Martin’s brow; the way he keeps looking at me over the camera with a look of abject disappointment and frustration. It’s as if he can see potential, but can’t quite crack into it. With each tremble and shiver of my anxious muscles, I see him get more and more agitated. He checks each picture on the laptop and on the digital display at the back of his camera, and each time his mood grows darker. The smile is gone, and the former softness in his voice takes on a harder edge, a firmer quality, as he begins to bark instructions; over and over again he tells me to relax, and every time I simply can’t. I ruin each picture with the tremble of my lip or the movement of my finger or wrist, and I know he sees it, in the way he scrutinises the images closely, a heavy sigh escaping his lips after each observation. I am letting him down and I am letting myself down – I know I am. I can feel it, in each stupid twitch of my unruly muscles.
‘I need you to relax your mouth, Zoey,’ he asks, coming closer to me.
‘I’m trying,’ I whisper, tears rushing to the corners of my eyes where I haul them back, begging them not to fall.
‘Are you?’
I nod rapidly. ‘Yes, Mr Schneider. I really am – I’m just so nervous, and when I’m nervous everything seems to tighten up. I’m really trying, Mr Schneider,’ I plead, hearing the desperation in my voice. I can’t lose the money; I picture the numbers in my bank account, and the college enrolment, and I know I have to do whatever it takes to make him see that I am simply nervous, that I can, potentially, be good at this. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Schneider, I know I’m screwing up – I’ve never been so nervous,’ I admit sheepishly, bowing my head and biting my lip anxiously as I address him.
He sighs deeply. ‘I just need you to relax, Zoey,’ he says softly. ‘Relax your mouth, your hands – I need to see their beauty, Zoey,’ he pleads, his own voice carrying a peculiar layer of desperation, as if he is somehow rooting for me.
I nod. ‘I’ll do better, just give me a chance,’ I all but beg.
‘Very well. Try to relax – these are the last few I will take,’ he explains, stepping back as I shake out my shoulders and bend my neck from side to side in a juvenile display of stretching, in the hopes of getting my hands and face to cooperate this time. ‘Make those beautiful lips full for me, Zoey,’ he asks, as I do. ‘Relax those exquisite hands,’ he demands, and I do. I can feel it in my nerves that, this time, I have taken a decent shot. He looks up from the viewfinder and checks the display, a small smile playing across his mouth as he observes the image.
‘Stunning,’ is all he says, as he returns to snapping away. I have one good picture in there at least, I think, as I try to relax again.
After about ten minutes, he places the camera down and tells me we are done. He points towards the clothes rail and tells me to get back into my normal clothes, and to come through to his office when I am done.
‘Of course,’ I say with a shaky smile, as he turns to speak with Deb, before disappearing off into the secret solitude of his office.
I feel utterly bemused as I wander unsteadily over to the clothes rail, my knees unlocking from being in one position too long, stretching out my long arms to unfurl the anxiously tightened muscles that had been folded elegantly for so long. I was sure he would send me packing with tears in my eyes, humiliated and embarrassed, wondering why on earth I was doing this, but instead he was asking me into his office to talk. Perhaps I did a good job; I hardly even dare to think it as I slip out of the red dress, the silk pooling, blood-like, at my feet. It is a truly gorgeous dress, and I pick it up lovingly, placing it back on the rail, before pulling on my jeans and t-shirt, stuffing my bra into my bag as I zip up my boots and head over to the office door. I knock gently, waiting for him to call me in.
‘Come in,’ his voice beckons.
I turn the handle and walk into the room, settling down in the seat opposite him as he gestures for me to sit. He doesn’t speak, his mind elsewhere, the sound of images printing the only noise between us as he waits for sheet upon sheet to print from the machine beside him on the desk. I wait patiently, as I have done all day, it seems. It looks to be his way, keeping people waiting. I thought I’d be annoyed by it, but I find myself in a strange sort of awe of it; his work is first, everything else second, in the pursuit of art and beauty.
So, as I wait, I take in my surroundings a little more. I look at this man, those steady, passionate hazelnut eyes watching the images printing with a sincere intensity, his strong hands running through his thick hair every so often, as he, too, waits patiently for his art. My eyes are drawn to the walls of the office; it is impossible for them not to be. I am surrounded by photos of beautiful women, painstakingly placed on spare spaces that catch the eye; where they will be seen the most often. Exquisite beauties flank him day in, day out, and yet he never once looks at them, to the point where I can’t pin him down. He sent a woman far more lovely than me running from the place; her beauty didn’t seem to be what he is searching for, and yet that is hard to pin down too. The women on the walls behind him, and to every side of him, are all as different as you could ever imagine; there is every sort of woman, every sort of feature, every sort of beauty, in every shape, colour, creed and form you could ever wish for, hung up there for all the world to see. The biggest variety I have ever seen.
However, the mystery of him deepens, as my gaze picks out a large series of masks, pinned to the wall, above the pictures of half-naked women, contorted into impossible shapes; the blank eyes of the masks seem to watch me as I look around the room. I feel the fiery heat of his gaze resting on me from time to time, but I pretend not to notice as I look more closely at the masks, in all their ornate detail, hanging delicately from the wall, between the frames of stunning women.
I know he certainly isn’t trying to be the nice, kind, friendly type. There is a mystery about him, in the hazel eyes that watch me intently from across the room. After all this time waiting for the images to finish printing, and waiting for him to make the first foray into conversation, it seems he is waiting for me to speak, but my tongue is frozen. I am shaking, and I don’t know what to say.
For some reason, despite that one shining moment where he uttered the word ‘stunning’, I can tell he is displeased with me and my performance in front of the camera; the pictures must be awful. I don’t know what happened, and I’m not sure I want to. For the tenth time today, I want to run from the room and leave this silly idea behind me.
I fold my arms across my chest, anxious at the intensity of his gaze, but also realizing that the curve and shape of my breasts are more than obvious beneath the flimsy white fabric of my t-shirt. I curse silently at the bra, burning a hole in my bag. I fold my arms tighter, but this seems to make his brow furrow even more, as if I have managed to displease him further. Cheeks flushing pink, I put my arms by my sides, and he seems to tilt his head with something close to approval. I feel exposed in front of him, those eyes bearing down on me with such intensity, and yet I can’t figure out the meaning behind his gaze.
I wait for him to speak instead.
‘What is it?’ he says, finally.
I look up, shrugging my shoulder slightly. ‘What do you mean?’ I answer, shyly, my voice barely louder than a whisper.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, without much sympathy; it is a matter-of-fact statement.
‘Nothing,’ I mutter.
‘Don’t lie to me,’ he says firmly, moving closer to me until he is perched on the edge of the desk before me, my eyes level with the last few buttons of his shirt.
‘I’m not,’ I shake my head, turning away. I feel his fingers beneath my chin, lifting my face up, my eyes meeting his.
‘Do not lie to me,’ he repeats, more forcefully.
I nod. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks again, waiting, his fingers still beneath my chin.
‘I feel as if I have done a terrible job, today,’ I say, after a few moments of uncomfortable silence beneath the intensity of his gaze. ‘I know those pictures must be horrible, and I feel awful for wasting your time. I feel awkward and uncomfortable here,’ I add, the words tumbling from my mouth before I can put a check on them.
He raises an eyebrow a fraction, interested. ‘You feel awkward and uncomfortable?’
I nod again. ‘I don’t feel as if I belong here,’ I explain, folding my arms across my chest again.
‘Why is that?’ he asks, his tone almost bemused.
I shrug. ‘I feel silly. I feel self-conscious next to these beautiful women,’ I say, pointing up at the semi-nudes on the wall. ‘I’m a nervous, awkward wreck,’ I gush, wishing I hadn’t.
His brow furrows all the more, the displeasure returning, and yet it carries a very different tone, as he addresses me, leaning closer. ‘Zoey, you are a beautiful woman,’ he states; it is not a point for discussion.
I shake my head – a natural instinct, borne from years of teasing and never quite fitting in. I could feel the ghost of that girl creeping back through my veins; the memories haunting me in the mirror each day, and each time I thought to myself I was not good enough.