CHAPTER THREE
You see, I was never the beauty queen; the girl who got asked out on dates, a different boyfriend each week, always sought after, her name written on the back of exercise books, encircled in a Biro heart. I sat in solitude, barely noticed except for a cruel word passed my way in the school hallway. I was tall and skinny, all angles and limbs that didn’t quite fit. Whilst other girls were growing curves in all the right places, I stayed the same boyish, small-breasted, super-slim shape.
In the useless bra my mother had bought, in the hopes of me being merely a late-bloomer, I would stuff toilet tissue; anything to increase the barely-there buds of my breasts. When it fell out during gym class, the other girls laughed. They pointed and sneered, backing me into a corner with their chants and taunts. They were all beautiful, curvaceous creatures, and I envied them so much. I wanted to be those girls, and they mocked me for it. At every turn, they’d shout mean things, calling me ‘pancake’ and making jokes:
‘What do Zoey and a shipwreck have in common?’, they’d cackle.
‘What?’ would come the inevitable chorus.
‘Sunken chest!’ they’d shriek, their laughter following me down the hallway as I ran from them, tears streaming down my face. I never let them see me cry, but it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
At home in the mirror, I’d stand and look at myself in the reflection. I wanted to see a beautiful girl staring back at me, but I never did. I saw pale skin, hair like straw, watery blue eyes staring wide-eyed and scared, everything too slim, nothing shapely. My mother was a beauty, and I could see the disappointment in her eyes when she looked at me; when she saw the girl she had had such high hopes for. Where my mother’s hair was full and golden and shiny with health, mine fell limply past my shoulders, devoid of volume, unable to hold a curl, as useless as I was. Where her figure was full and shapely, with a narrow waist, wide hips and an enviable bust, I was flat and square and thin. Where her complexion was olive and glowing, cheeks plump and rosy, mine was pale and dull, my cheeks angular and somewhat savage. The only thing I had of hers was her lips; full and inviting, with a deep cupid’s bow and an unnatural, seductive redness, yet it was not enough on me to entice anyone.
My sparse handful of friends soon found themselves boyfriends, as they grew daily more beautiful, coming out of their ungainly teenage phases, transitioning smoothly into womanhood, leaving me behind. I would hang out, always the spare part, the third wheel, the gooseberry, as they pressed one another into corners, forever draped across each other, permanently attached to the other’s lips. I had never even so much as kissed a boy, and I felt the jealous tug in the pit of my stomach as I watched their sexual awakening; I was sick with envy, and though they tried to comfort me with words of encouragement, ‘it’ll be your turn soon’, ‘you’ll find a man’, ‘the right one will come along any day’, I couldn’t get at what they had. It was always too far out of reach. Occasionally, one of the boyfriends’ single friends would get dragged along as my date, where he would sit sullenly next to me, barely speaking, until it was time to get driven home again. I knew my friends were trying to help, but it made me feel even worse, with each disdainful look, each rebuttal, each eye roll when I tried to make small talk.
I had a crush on a few boys, but they were never interested in the odd-looking girl; they all loved the athletic beauties and cheerleaders, the girls who had comfortable smiles, pretty faces and breasts they wanted to bury their faces in. I told one or two how I felt about them, but the resulting humiliation was enough to stay my tongue. David Summers laughed at me, his face mere centimetres from my own, his spit flying onto my skin as he howled with cruel amusement. ‘You fancy me?!’ he screeched, his eyes wide and glittering with the cold gift I had given him. He punched the arm of the friend next to him and pointed at me, jabbing his finger so close to my eyes, ‘hey, the freak fancies me!’ he laughed, his voice twisted with malice. I ran again, as people turned to stare, following me down the corridor as I burst into the girl’s bathroom, locking myself into one of the stalls until I felt as if I could face the hallways again. A few girls came in giggling, and I couldn’t help but feel they were laughing at me. That day, I felt as if everyone were laughing at me. I never looked David’s way again; never dared make eye contact after that.
There was another, called Sam, who was kind enough to let me down gently when I drunkenly told him how I felt, my stomach full of cheap vodka somebody had brought to the party we were all at. I hadn’t been invited, per se, but my friends had been, and so I tagged along, as ever. Sam smiled when I told him, rubbing my back as he told me the usual spiel you use to rebuff somebody in the kindest way, ‘I think you’re a great girl, but I’m just not looking for anything. You need somebody who feels the same; somebody who deserves you. I’m sorry, Zoey. I really do think you’re a sweet girl,’ he said. I don’t remember what I said in return; all I remember is waking in the morning with a banging headache and the taste of stale vomit in my mouth, but I will always remember how kind he was. He didn’t even avoid me, he just never brought it up; letting my humiliation disappear in secret. After that, I never told anyone how I felt, if a crush happened upon me; I just kept quiet, envying those whose crushes led to stolen kisses behind the bike-sheds and daring first fumbles in darkened rooms at weekend parties.
I longed to be the girl beneath the muscular, youthful young men, their lips on my skin, their mouths on my mouth, their hands exploring my body for the first time, their breath coming quick and fast in my ear, sending shivers up my spine. Only I never was. I walked into one of the bedrooms at Misty Davidson’s Halloween party, mistaking it for the bathroom, only to find two entwined, writhing bodies on the double bed, half-lit by the lamp in the corner. They didn’t notice me, they were too intensely involved in one another, their kisses desperate and passionate, the eager motion of his backside moving up and down beneath the covers as he thrust inside her. I felt strange watching them, listening to the impassioned sighs of their love-making as I stood there; I wanted to be her. I wanted to feel a hard cock inside me, enjoy those awkward first fumbles, to talk about in later life, and experience it like everyone else seemed to be doing.
Part of me wanted to stay and watch a little longer, but I wasn’t the weirdo everyone had me down as, and yet the sight of them stayed with me. It was what I wanted more than anything, to experience what she experienced, and what all of my friends seemed to be experiencing. One lost their virginity and boasted about it one lunchtime, proudly claiming it didn’t hurt a bit, and she wasn’t sure what all the fuss was about; I don’t know if she was lying, but I was in awe of her at the time. I wanted so much to have a story to tell – a first time tale. Then, after her, the rest of my friends and peers swiftly followed, like dominoes, leaving me behind again. In the middle of the night, I’d wake in a sweat, after dreaming of those bodies entwined beneath the sheets, the sound and vision of their pleasure thrilling my subconscious as I sat up, embarrassed and aroused in equal measure.
I’d touch myself, closing my eyes, trying to picture the firm hands of a man in place of my slender ones, as they touched all the places that made me feel good. They would, obviously, know exactly where to pleasure me, I thought, trying to envision my dream man as he brought me to orgasm with only his fingers. I’d open my eyes, my body shaking, alone again, feeling embarrassed and a little dirty, hoping nobody in the house had heard me. The man in my mind never truly had a discernible face; he was just a blurred interpretation of something real – an amalgamation of all the hot boys and movie stars I fancied at the time.
Then, Joshua Brakes joined the high school. He was intelligent and handsome, with an easy smile and keen brown eyes which made you feel as if you were special somehow. He sat next to me in History, throwing his bag down on the table and holding out his hand to me. I remember the shock and the quickening of my pulse as I took it, listening to his name as he spoke it, an anxious smile breaking out on my trembling lips as I told him mine. The grin he gave me made my heart melt, as he pulled his chair closer and asked which page we were up to. I told him, and he thanked me, offering up the text-book for us to share. He was sitting close enough for me to catch the scent of his aftershave, masculine and grown-up. That was him all over – more mature than any of the silly, hurtful boys at the school. He was different, and I fell hard for him. Every lesson we shared, he’d flash me that devilish grin and plonk down next to me; he’d wink at me in the hall, and call out a ‘hello’ to me if he passed. Without fail, my heart would skip a beat. He was kind and everybody liked him. All the girls fancied him, myself included, and yet he never shouted a ‘hello’ to any of them; he saved that solely for me.
So, when I threw myself at him at a school dance, a little tipsy on spiked punch, I thought he was a sure bet. In my navy satin cocktail dress, I looked as close to traditionally beautiful as I ever had, my hair miraculously holding a curl, my face done up with powder and painstakingly applied eyeshadow, my full lips brushed with a deep plum lipstick that I hoped made me look sultry. He asked me to dance, and I fell gratefully into his arms as a slow tune played over the PA. His hand on my waist felt good, the fingers of his other hand interlaced with my own, as I leaned in close to him, smelling that spicy, masculine scent of him. I smiled to see the jealous glares of the other girls, who were not held in his arms. For a moment, I felt on top of the world.
‘Josh,’ I said.
‘Mhmm,’ he mumbled, close to my ear.
‘I really like you,’ I told him, my voice trembling.
He looked down at me. ‘And I like you,’ he smiled.
I was dumbfounded. ‘You do?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘I think you’re great,’ he said.
My heart sank. ‘No, I mean I like you,’ I repeated.
He nodded again. ‘I know you do. I like you too,’ he grinned that grin which had made my heart skip. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ he whispered, taking my hand in his as he led me across the dancefloor, flying down the hallway and out into the cold night air. I ran with him, following him around the back of the school where he pressed me up against the wall, the bricks cold against my bare shoulders.
Brushing his thumb against my cheek, his arm resting over my head, his body pressed close to mine, he leaned down to kiss me firmly on the lips. I let him, feeling the electricity surge through me as our mouths met. Soft at first, he began to kiss me harder, pulling my hips towards his with rough hands as I tried to slow him down, pulling away as his tongue forced its way into my mouth.
‘Hey, slow down,’ I whispered, trying to reach up to kiss him again, more passionately, more sensually, like I’d seen the others do, in their very-public sessions. Only he wasn’t in the mood for slow. His hands raked at my body, pulling at the bandeau of my dress, trying to get at my breasts, his mouth almost painful on my neck as he sucked, trying to leave his mark. I reached up to pull the dress back up, not wanting him to see, not feeling ready for it, suddenly wanting him away from my fragile flesh. He shrugged, slipping his hand up my thigh instead, squeezing tightly at my skin as he tried to get beneath the black cotton of my knickers. Shoving his hand away on impulse, fear overcame me. It was all wrong. His mouth tasted of stale alcohol, his eyes were blurry and unfocussed, his hands grabbing at what they could.
‘Stop!’ I shouted.
He shoved me hard against the brickwork. ‘What do you mean ‘stop’?’ he slurred, grabbing my face in his hands as he kissed me viciously on the lips, the hard cock beneath his suit pants rubbing against the satin of my beautiful dress, pressed between my thighs.
‘I don’t want this,’ I gasped, pushing him away. ‘You’re drunk!’ I yelled, wiping the wet of his greedy mouth from my lips.
‘Of course you do,’ he leered, grabbing my hips, pushing his cock against me.
‘Not like this,’ I whimpered, trying to slip out from beneath him. He grabbed my wrist, spinning me around as I tried to get away.
‘You think anyone will fuck you sober?’ he chuckled, his eyes darkening with a cruelty I never could have expected from him. ‘Do you know how lucky you’d be to have my cock in you?’ he sneered. ‘I took pity on you, Zoey. Maybe I should just make you give me a blowjob, to say sorry for dicking me about,’ he sighed.
‘I’m not going to do that,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘You’ll do as you’re fucking told,’ he snapped, grabbing my hair and pulling my face closer to his, as he attempted clumsily to undo his belt buckle with his free hand.
‘No!’ I screamed, twisting out from his grasp, knocking him off balance enough for him to let me go. I sprinted off, heels ungainly on the concrete, the thud of his footsteps following swiftly behind me as I rounded the corner, back up to the main entrance to the school. Just then, a teacher came out, searching for stragglers. Josh slowed to a walk as if nothing had happened, a friendly smile on his face as he greeted the teacher, telling them that he had simply brought me out because I needed some fresh air. Wide-eyed, I couldn’t get the words out to tell the teacher what he’d tried to do, simply taking the admonishment as they led us both back inside. I left shortly afterwards, phoning my mum from the girl’s bathroom to come pick me up. When she asked if I’d had a nice time, I smiled and nodded, and tried to forget it had ever happened.
He didn’t speak to me again after that, nor did I want him to. The space beside me in History remained empty, him taking up a different spot with some of the football team. Every so often he’d whisper and point, and they’d laugh, but I was used to that.
Nobody was interested after that. I knew he’d probably spread rumours about me, to cover his own back, and I didn’t care. I was just glad to have got out of there when I did. I didn’t care what he said about me; I knew what he was like. I knew the real him, beside the nice, kind, friendly façade.
Still, his cruel words and whispered stories permeated through my school days; no boy took an interest after that, and those curves that I craved never really came along. I was still pale and a little otherworldly looking, with the long hair and slender limbs, the small breasts and big eyes, the reddened mouth which always looked just-bitten. I knew there was something about me, but it wasn’t something the school boys ever found intriguing. I simply wasn’t on their radar.
It was only when I was stopped in the street and asked to model that I knew I could use my less-than-ordinary features for something good, something that could further the dreams I had of being a zoologist, working with animals, living the dream I had always had; I could use that cursed face, which made boys stare and whisper, and make sure I did what was best for me. I knew I would use my peculiar beauty to rise above it all, and when that first paycheck from that first random job came through, I knew it was something I could do too; it was a reality.
CHAPTER FOUR
So, sitting in Martin’s office, I am holding back all those years of pain and torment; too much to give him a simple answer of why I don’t think I belong, why I don’t think I’m beautiful, why I don’t think I am good enough.
The shake of my head seems to annoy him. ‘Zoey, you are not listening to me. I am the artist, the photography, the proverbial eye of the beholder, and I am telling you, you are beautiful. One of the most beautiful, in fact. I knew it the moment I saw your picture come through email – Deb was skimming past and you caught my eye. I knew you were something special, the moment I glimpsed you,’ he says, saying more than I have heard him speak. I try so hard not to shake my head, ingrained from years of disbelief at anyone uttering the word ‘beautiful’ in my direction.
‘I can’t believe you,’ Zoey whispers.
‘Yes, your hands and your lips twitched in those images and, yes, ninety-nine percent of them are unusable, but look at this one,’ he asserts, pulling an image from the pile. It is one of my hands folded elegantly across my thigh; the ripple of the gleaming fabric, deep and dark and almost macabre in its crimson beauty, beside the pale, smooth, porcelain skin of my hands, each finger almost as if it had been placed by an architect, creating the perfect balance. It looks stunning, just has he had said, almost as if a painter had painted the image; everything seems so deliberate and yet so relaxed, the arch of each hand elegant and graceful, balletic almost.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I admit, my breath taken away by the sumptuous image.
‘Your hands are so delicate and expressive; they are like a dancer’s hands. And your lips – I am so frustrated by those lips,’ he almost sighs on the word. ‘I couldn’t capture them and yet I know their power. There is such beauty in them, Zoey, but your nerves ruined the shots; there is a tautness, a tremble in them that I cannot put to print.’
I must look crestfallen, as he softens his voice, changing tack. ‘Do not mistake me, Zoey – I am only angry because I couldn’t capture the essence I wanted, but it does not take away from their present beauty. I am not mad at you, only that I could not get you to relax – to express their true delicacy,’ he remarks, drawing his thumb across his own lips, as if to demonstrate his frustrations in not being able to catch the elusive image.
‘Thank you,’ I breathe, barely able to take in the overwhelming feeling coursing through me, at the sound of this man’s compliments. This man is one of the finest artists in the world, and he is calling me beautiful. I can hardly believe it.
‘You still don’t believe me?’ he says.
I shrug awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry – I only see myself as this small, insignificant, strange looking girl. Beside these beauties, who wouldn’t?’ I admit, hearing him sigh again with frustration.
‘Were you not invited here to work?’ he asks.
I nod. ‘I believe it was a test – a trial, yes.’
He shakes his head. ‘The offer was a full-time one, Zoey. I saw your lips, your hands, your eyes, your body, your beauty, and I wanted to use you for all manner of projects – I could visualise you in so many studies I had in mind. From one small image on a computer screen, glimpsed by accident, I thought you might be a muse to me – I thought I might have found another exceptional, extraordinary creature to add to this menagerie of exquisite beauties, and yet you don’t believe it. Acceptance is the first stage, Zoey. You are beautiful. You are an exceptional beauty, and anyone who has ever said different is either an idiot, is blind, or simply isn’t looking. Not everyone can see beauty the way I do, Zoey, and it radiates from you with such power, if only you would see it,’ he sighs.
I feel tears pricking my eyes, wishing I could see myself the way he does.
‘You have the kind of allure that makes any man drop to his knees in a moment; you could enrapture the world, if only you knew how to take the reins of your power. Your skin is all I can envision, so smooth and virginal that I want to bite it, your lips impossibly kissable; those hands are hands I want to be touched by, and feel between my own. I want you to feel that power – to become the confident, sensual, exceptional woman I know is in there,’ he ventures, a look flashing across his hazel eyes at the admission, as if he’s not quite sure he was ready to express such honesty.
I must look shocked, because neither of us speak for a long while. In truth, I am shocked; stunned by his admission and by the passion with which he spoke it. I can’t help but think of his teeth grazing my skin, his lips on mine, his hands against me, fingers entwined with my own; it’s impossible not to visualise it, once it is out of his mouth and into my mind. I don’t know what to say; he has stolen any words I might have had straight from my tongue. I know I should say something, anything, but I can’t.
It is Mr. Schneider who speaks next, as I have lost the ability. I can’t even utter a heartfelt thank-you – the exact gratitude I desperately feel, as the revelation of his passion sinks in.
‘Anyway, I’ll take some time to look through the images we have taken today. I’ll see if any of the others are usable for my exhibition. Your lips and hands are exquisite, after all, and I’d hate to lose out on them. We’ll phone when we’d next like you in, though I’m not sure when that’ll be – if you can make sure you get details from Isabelle at reception, so you can invoice us for your time,’ he is all business again, the passionate drive in his voice dissipated.
I feel a little dejected, as he gestures towards the door. I sense that this is over, and it makes my chest ache. I want to say something, but the words are still lost on my tongue.
‘Thank you, Martin,’ is all I can manage, as I pick up my bag and head out of the office, throwing on my leather jacket so my breasts aren’t exposed on the long journey home. At least I have the money, I think, as I push through the second door and out into the reception room, trying desperately not to let the tears flow. I wish I had the strength to run back through and give him my gratitude, and yet I do not; I hear again the dismissal in his words and know I have messed up.
I gather the details I need from Isabelle, who smiles apologetically from the front desk as she writes it all down for me, and head back out into the grey, dismal world, feeling like an utter failure. I know I took one good image, but one good image does not a viable career make.
At home, I don’t bother telling them how it went, or even where I have been. I lie and say I swung by a café to see if they had any waiting-on jobs, and my mother looks thrilled, as if I have finally come to my senses. I tell her I’ll have to go to college the year after, maybe even the year after that, and she claps her hands together in pleasure, professing how wonderful it will be to have me around for another couple of years to keep her company. It pains me to hear the joy in her voice at my potential misery; at the idea of me not achieving the goal I have always had, since I was tiny. I know she is worried I’ll leave and never come back, but still, I know I deserve more.
I could have been a good model, I am sure of it, if only I’d had the courage not to mess it up. I wait for the phone to ring, but it doesn’t, and I hate myself for it.