Alex rang one of his friends and begged him to lend him his studio on Cheyne Walk for the evening.
‘I’m impressed,’ Lara said when she turned up at the address and found the lights and backdrop all set up, along with a box of cigarettes and a plate of biscuits.
In the past six months, Lara had been courted by several photographers, but none whose work had especially impressed her and none of the big ones. Chevrons was developing a name as a cool underground hang-out spot for some of the photographers and their models, and although she knew them in her capacity as hostess there, she was still not established enough on the scene to approach any of them about photographing her work. In any case, ambitious Lara was learning that in sixties’ London asking wasn’t cool. Blowing your own trumpet was considered crass and uncool. The polite thing was to wait to be discovered. Lara had been hoping Penelope would do that for her. When that fell through, this unknown press photographer was a pretty poor, but possible, second bite at Podmore’s fashion page. He had taken some knockout shots of Annie so the least she could do was give him a break – and hope she might get a break out of it too.
When Annie sat down in front of the photographic studio’s dressing room mirror, with a dozen bulbs illuminating every crevice of her being, she regretted her decision.
‘God – you are so beautiful,’ Lara said, putting her small makeup bag down in front of her.
Dorian used those exact words to Annie before he defiled her. The memory made her feel sick.
She looked at herself. She was beautiful. Even she could not deny it. Nonetheless, with her perfect skin and her high cheekbones and her large, soft green eyes and doleful expression, Annie hated the beautiful girl in the mirror. Her extraordinary, ethereal face had led her into years of abuse and finally driven her to murder. That face was her enemy. Annie rarely looked in a mirror and now, here she was, staring at her vulnerable self under a dozen spotlights and inviting other people to do the same.
Sensing her despair, Lara grimaced and said, ‘Ugh – everyone looks bad under these lights,’ and spun Annie’s chair around so that she was facing away. Spilling out her small bag of cosmetics, she started applying makeup. Lara patted the Max Factor panstick onto Annie’s cheeks in thick, beige stripes then began to gently blend it into her skin, covering the smattering of light freckles on her otherwise perfect, pale skin. With her eyes closed, Lara’s gentle, feminine touch reminded Annie of her mother and her nerves began to recede.
As she worked Lara thought, not for the first time, what an unusual girl Annie was. Secretive and unworldly, she didn’t even know how to apply makeup properly. It was not common for any woman, certainly not a model, to allow other women to do their makeup for them. Every woman, even the plainest girl, knew how to make the best of themselves. Applying makeup to another woman’s face felt like a strange intrusion, but as Annie closed her eyes and yielded to the touch of the brushes and sponges, Lara decided to use the beautiful bare face as an artist’s canvas, to create a modern masterpiece.
When she was finished Lara spun Annie around to look at her reflection in the mirror. Her long red curls were flattened down under a hair net and her face seemed like a shocking, exaggerated version of itself. Her skin was mask-like pale and her eyes were contoured in black and white with long spiky lashes, looking enormous and staring back at her, blankly. Annie’s lips were powdered and painted, pouted in a seductive way that a good, Catholic girl could never have intended them. She was just taking in the strangeness of this new self when Lara, securing her grip by pinching the middle of her forehead, slid a short blonde wig over Annie’s head. Wig on, Annie stared at the reflection in awe. She could not see any part of herself looking back. Who was this blonde, seductive, confidently modern girl? Not her. Not Hanna.
‘Annie? Are you ready?’
Every trace of Hanna was gone now. Not just in her name but in her face too.
Annie Austen had finally arrived. She was blonde, mod and brand new. She was That Girl! Vulnerable, abused Hanna was gone. Hidden so far under this new disguise, that Annie could not find her. She was free.
‘I’m ready,’ she said.
A sheet of thick white paper hung from a scaffold and rolled onto the floor in a carpet. As she stepped onto the pristine background Annie willed herself to enter this new life.
She moved, this way and that, showing off the cut of the A-line minidress Lara had picked out for her.
Alex spoke in a stream of instructions. ‘Now you’re working. Good girl. Move forward. Come on. That’s it. Now – hand on hip, right side to camera.’ Encouragements and chides came flowing out of him, filling the awkward space between camera and model. Disguising the intrusion of capturing a human moment by assuming ongoing permission.
As Annie moved in front of the camera, the movements began to feel natural to her. She became aware of how these new, painted-on features might look to the camera, how the most minuscule flick of an eyebrow or curve of the lip would alter the mood of her face. ‘Centre it up a little now sweetheart – perfect! To the left? Loving it – loving it. Good girl – there you are. Look at me. Over here. Look to your right, now. Lovely. Eyes wide. No blinking, naughty girl…’ She was aware of her tall, slim body making shapes.
‘Wardrobe! Wig!’ With every fresh outfit she projected through her facial expressions and the placement of limbs a new story, a new mood. She altered the light in her eyes, acting out the part of the girl she wanted to be. The girls she read about in books, sewing magazines. Pretty, carefree girls, free without burdens. The girl she might have been before she knew pain. The girl her father would have loved if he had stayed alive. The girl that her parents wanted her to be. The girl her mother thought she would create with the help of a loving stepfather.
In front of the camera Annie was no longer a prisoner of the beauty that had inspired the savage love of a dangerous man. This was a new beauty, defined by Alex’s camera and her kind friend’s skilful makeup. This was a beauty that she was in control of. Annie would dictate the effect that her looks had on the world around her, not the other way around.
She modelled as if her life depended on it. In that moment, it felt as if it did.
Alex and Lara watched as the transformation came over shy, reticent Annie. From mousy beauty to powerful supermodel.
They knew they were watching something extraordinary. The special quality that Alex had seen in the earliest photographs, with her reluctant moves and her barely made-up face, were hugely exaggerated, not just with Lara’s clothes and wigs and makeup, but, more importantly, in Annie’s willingness to be there. Her hunger for the camera was insatiable as she moved, in small, confidant flicks of limb and hand. Placing her body in awkward, interesting shapes, throwing Alex sly side-glances one minute, then shocked seductive looks the next. He started off by guiding her, but after a few minutes, Annie was in charge and she was loving every moment.
After two hours Alex called it a day. Annie threw herself down on a large, round plastic chair, legs akimbo. She was utterly exhausted and, yet, felt calmer and happier than she had felt in a long time. If she had to put a word to it she would have said she felt – reborn.
Lara and Alex stood and looked at each other for a short moment. They both suspected they had unearthed something extraordinary, but neither felt able to put words to it. Certainly not until the pictures were developed. Alex went straight into his friend’s darkroom and began processing. Lara, saying nothing, went across and peeled the wig from Annie’s head then began to massage Ponds cold cream into her skin, removing it, and the makeup, with tissues. Annie’s face yielded to her friend’s touch and she smiled gently in a kind of peaceful reverie. It felt right to be pampering her in this way. Annie had cast herself in the role of house servant to Lara since they had met, and Lara had not objected as much as she should have. In the past few hours something changed. It was as if Annie herself knew she was a star.
The half hour that they spent waiting for the photographs to develop was the longest of Lara’s life.
Eventually, when Alex emerged from the darkroom, he looked more shocked than happy as he handed the printed sheets over to Lara.
She had been expecting a set of great pictures but nothing like this. She had never seen such breathtakingly beautiful images. Comparable to Shrimpton but with an even wilder, untamed energy. Alex looked at Lara’s face as she studied the pictures. He could see from her eyes, eagerly scanning the images, that he had been right. She saw what he saw. Annie was not simply beautiful or different – she was extraordinary. They had, in their hands, a revolutionary new look.
The naming of Lara’s clothes line had been a random idea, but Annie brought it to life. She was That Girl. Not just a dress, a handbag or a cute short plastic mac – but a live woman. A way of life. Penelope Podmore was now, they knew, merely a given. Alex and Lara had a Harper’s cover girl on their hands.
In the meantime, Annie had not joined them. She lay snoozing peacefully in the big yellow chair. Sated. Happy. Deep in the dreamless sleep of the innocent.