The Model

There is a room. It’s painted white as ice and there is a beautiful woman in the middle of the room, smiling.
Flash. Flash.
A camera clicks away, and the harsh glow of the flash bathes the woman’s features.
Flash. Flash.
The model poses for the camera, her back arched and her eyes wide. She is smiling. It’s a smug smile, revealing to all those who see it that she knows exactly how beautiful she is. She knows exactly how much she is envied.
Flash. Flash.
The cold, white light fills the room, the photographer yells in rage or ecstasy; it’s hard to tell which.
Flash. Flash.
The model recedes into her head. She is the best in her trade and nothing the photographer says can change that. She knows that she is stunning beyond belief and that every pose she makes has the power to make men all over the world fall to their knees.
Flash. Flash.
She stares lustfully at the camera, her lips pouting in a red curve. The camera keeps flashing.
Flash. Flash.
And suddenly it all stops. Everyone in the room freezes. There are whispers all over the room, like wind in the leaves. The door opens with a clang. A woman enters the white room, walking like she owns the place. The tawny eyes deeply set in an ivory face search the room, and finally rest on the model.
“Dahling!” she squeals, “You look beautiful!”
The model smiles back, her face a mask of sincerity. She has long since learned not to let her true feelings show in this world.
“Tatiana! How are you?” she exclaims. Unsaid words hang in the air.
Don’t I always look beautiful Tatiana? More than you. More than any woman.
Tatiana’s light laughter crushes the hanging words. “As well as always, my dear! I came to pull you away from these horrible cameras for a little bit. I have someone you simply must meet!”
The model walks slowly towards Tatiana. Her hips swing from side to side. One hand rests on a scantily clad waist. The other holds a fan. A designer catches her eye for a brief moment, meeting the mild expression. Immediately, the designer looks away as if he had been burned.
“Oh yes,” the model says calmly, and then to the designer, “I’ll wear these clothes out, shall I dear?” The designer who had been addressed nods his head hurriedly. The model’s radiant smile seems to light the whole room.
The women walk out the door. Outside, there is a harsh wind whipping at everything. Tatiana pulls her coat closer towards her, but the model shows no sign of cold. She pulls a pack of cigarettes out of an imperceptible pocket and holds one out for a light.
They stand outside the building. The trees lining the path thrash in the wind. There are benches, but no one is sitting in such cold weather. After a few minutes, the lamps lining the path flicker alive.
There is an air of tension, as if two forces are battling for power, but when passers-by look at the two women, they see nothing but calm amiability. Finally, there is a figure of a young man walking down the path. His paint-stained coat flaps in the wind and he has a hat on that he is holding on his head with one hand.
He reaches the women, nods to Tatiana, and holds out a hand to the model.
“Hello my Lady. It is a pleasure to finally see you again,” he says.
The model smiles. It was the smile that, had she been born several hundred years ago, would have launched a thousand ships. She pointedly ignores the hand.
“And who exactly are you?” she says in cold patronizing tones.
The young man’s eyes are already glazed with lust. The model can tell he is mentally undressing her. She coughs lightly, and the young man’s hand jerks involuntarily. He shakes his head sharply. “James,” he says, “And I’ve been waiting a lifetime to see you again.”
The model stares into deep eyes, full of sorrow and remorse. She knows who is talking to now. She has known him all her life. And she is already falling into a deep pit that she cannot dig herself out of this time. She’s already spiralling down the path of remembrance. Already hanging on the edge of an abyss of lost emotions.
…
It had all gone wrong. They thought that having each other would always be enough, but they had been so wrong. In the end, she had no choice but to run. So she ran.
She ran for so long, it was hard to remember the time when there was no running. This time, she stayed in shadows, always cold, always hungry. She didn’t stop. She ran for so long she forgot who she was. She forgot everything but the darkness, and the cold, and the hunger. And there was one day when the running was just too much. So she gave in. Darkness was everywhere, surrounding her on all sides, and finally, she fell to her knees, and let the darkness in. There was only icy, cold blackness.
And then there was a light. It was warm and comforting, and slowly she let it surround her like the darkness had before. There were people too, kind people who kept her fed, and safe, and full of light. That was a good time.
And as always, the good time came to an end. Some pictures were taken. Eventually, there were more people. There was more light, but it wasn’t the same as before. It was a cold light, and the people were cold, too. She got used to it. She became accustomed to the daily, bitter, cold. It never stopped. But at least there was a sort of light, and for that she was grateful. There was no dark, and no hunger, and best of all there was no rage, red and hot as blood pouring from a wound.
...
There was a room once. It’s painted red as lust, with colourful paintings on every wall. A young woman lounges on a couch, looking around with a smug smile. Her long, tapered fingers hold the stem of a wine glass. As she takes a sip, a man dips his paintbrush into some red paint.
Drip.
The man holds his paintbrush in the air, running his eyes over the woman’s form. His eyes linger on her hips, her legs, her toes. His paintbrush touches the canvas.
Drip.
The paintbrush caresses the canvas lovingly. The colours fill the canvas slowly, whirling and dancing for the artist.
Drip.
The woman flutters her eyelashes beguilingly. She swings her legs gracefully off the couch and walks towards the man. He doesn’t seem to notice, all his attention directed to the canvas, his eyes open wide in awe.
Drip.
When she’s close enough, she leans forward and whispers “Are you done yet? Only, I can think of better things to do.”
The man freezes. His hand jerks spastically across the painting. It leaves a long red streak across an exquisitely painted face.
Laughing softly, the woman pulls the paintbrush out of his hand and runs her fingers softly across his face. For a moment, there is a flicker of gentle softness over the hard, polished veneer of her face. She tugs on his hand, expecting him to follow her instantly, but finds resistance. Puzzled, the woman turns around to face the man again. She gasps.
His face is a horrible picture of anger. Slowly, he turns around to her, hatred splayed across his face. Scared, the woman takes a few involuntary steps backwards. “James?” she asks.
The man pulls his lips back from his teeth in a grimace of anger and pain. “Red,” he hisses through his teeth, “You ruined my Lady, and now she is red…”
He advances, each step falling to the floor with a thud.
The woman walks slowly backwards, her eyes riveted on the man’s terrible grimace. She steps back again, her hands scrabbling in the air, searching for something. “James, take your mind off the painting, please,” she begs. Finally, her fingers brush something – the doorknob.
“How could you,” the man hisses.
Twisting the doorknob behind her, the woman sighs. “What do you mean, James? What are you talking about?” Click. The door opens.
“You killed my Lady,” the man murmurs, “My Lady.”
He looks at the woman in the now open doorway with a puzzled expression. There is a flicker of recognition in his handsome features. “But – “
The woman pushes the door open all the way now, and with a quick, lithe movement, steps out of the little room. She slams the door shut, and with one last, longing glance, runs down the alleyway.
The man is still standing in front of the closed door.
“My Lady?” he asks the air, “My Lady?”
His eyes open wide. He runs to the closed door, pounding it with all his strength. “My Lady!” he screams, “Come back! Come back.”
He turns from the door. Tears are running down his face. Slowly, he slides down the wall, covering it with his hands.
…
They ran. But it was okay, because they were running away together. They always had each other, and they promised that they would always run, always together. The first few years were good. There was always food, shelter, happiness, and always, always, they had each other. But then came the time with no money. There was no more happiness. There was no more food and no more shelter. And there were no more choices.
They couldn’t go back home – all that waited for them there was anger. She was a maid’s daughter and he was as rich as royalty. They would be torn apart. All they had left now was each other.
So they stayed together.
He bought canvases and paintbrushes, and paint. Red, red paint. Red as rage, red as blood pouring from a broken heart. He said that he would support them. He declared that his paintings would sell, and they would have all that they desired – forgetting that they had once said that all they desired was each other. That was a bad time.
The paintings didn’t sell. There was no happiness, no food, only each other. He fell into his rage. Rage at the paintings, rage at the food. Rage at each other. He fell so hard, he forgot the real world. He knew there was togetherness, still. But it was buried under the rage, red and hot as blood pouring from broken heart.
...
There was a room. It’s painted light green. One painting hangs on the wall over the small, simple bed. It is of a girl, a girl in her teens. She is sitting on a couch, beautiful pink dress spread around her. The door opens, and it’s as if the painting had come to life - the girl from the picture runs in, pulling a boy in behind her. Their laughs echo around the small room. A bird chirps outside the window.
Chirp. Chirp.
The window is open, and a breeze floats in. It’s cool and fresh, and smells of possibilities and youth and the fever of spring. Green leaves rustle outside the window.
Chirp. Chirp.
The girl says something, whispering in the boy’s ear. They laugh hysterically, and the boy slings his arm casually around the girl’s shoulder.
Chirp. Chirp.
Suddenly, the laughing stops. The girl and the boy look at each other. There is a feeling in the air, of soft emotion, hanging between them. The girl breaks eye contact first. She stands gracefully up on the bed, her back to the boy.
Chirp. Chirp.
She walks to the painting over the bed and runs her hand over it softly. She lingers on the face, and then runs her hand to the bottom. She traces the signature with a gentle look on her face.
Chirp. Chirp.
The boy stands up. Hesitantly, he walks towards the girl, and puts his hand on her shoulder.
Chirp. Chirp.
The girl turns around suddenly, smiling. She catches the boy’s hand in hers and jumps off the bed. The boy is pulled toward her, and suddenly they’re up against a wall. The girl draws in a deep breath.
“James, I -” she begins, but he covers her mouth with his hand. She smiles wider. Gently, she takes his hand away from her mouth and moves it to her cheek. As if waiting for this sign, the boy pulls her face towards him and kisses her.
It is a first kiss; short and chaste. It is the kind of kiss you would expect to see between two so young.
And yet, it’s so much more. Every emotion of longing, wanting, desperation was poured into that kiss. They had been waiting for it for so long.
They pull away from each other.
The girl catches her breath. She puts her hand to her mouth, hesitantly. She touches the boys’ lips. And finally, she looks up into his eyes.
She looks in his eyes as if drinking in every detail, every line of the face, every slight change of colour. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but closes it again. She shakes her head, smiles again, and says, “It’s a beautiful painting. You’re a beautiful painter.”
The boy runs his hands over the girls’ face, tracing her jaw, her cheeks, her mouth. Then he puts his hands on either side of her face and pulls her towards him again. As they get closer, he whispers two words – “My Lady.”
And they kiss .
…
There was a great time. There was no running, just the pure, innocent happiness of childhood. There was love, as between best friends. They grew up side by side, as equals. But one day, they were torn apart. She was taken to the kitchens to work. He was taken to his tutors to study. Often they thought of each other.
They grew up apart, far apart, she as a maid and he as a young man of nobility. She became a beautiful young woman, kind, soft spoken, and gentle. He became a handsome young man, thoughtful, compassionate, and considerate. They learned their places in life. And they thought less and less of each other as the years went by.
Then there was the day when they saw each other in the garden. It was the start of a great time. Every evening, every morning, and every afternoon was spent together. Every spare thought, they thought of each other. Every look they shared, every touch, and every smile was treasured. There was love, as between two who were meant for each other. And there was a great cloud of happiness, pink, huge, and overpowering.
...
There was a room. It’s painted white as innocence. There are two cradles in the middle of the room. Nothing is on the walls except for one window. The soft glow of sunlight seeps through it. And babies gurgle.
Gurgle.
A young woman peeks into the room. She is dressed in a sensible blouse and skirt, and her hair is tied up in a bun.
Gurgle.
She walks slowly to the cradle, peeking in them. She smiles. And finally she stops.
Gurgle.
This cradle has a baby girl in it. The one next to it has a slightly older boy.
Gurgle.
The boy has crayons in his cradle, and is drawing. It’s impossible to tell what it is, but he cranes over the edge of his cradle to look at the girl and the young woman watching understands.
Gurgle.
The young woman picks up the boy lightly in her arms and shows him the girl.
Gurgle.
She whispers in the little boy’s ear, “Yes, she’s my daughter. But she will be great one day.”
The boy nods knowingly. And the woman laughs.
“You know, James,” she says, “We still don’t have a name for her.”
The boy reaches his hand out. His fingers gently touch the baby’s face. They trace every line, every shadow.
“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” The young woman asks, seeing the gentle look on the boy’s face.
The boy nods again.
The baby girl opens her eyes, and the boy gasps. He looks up at the woman holding him, then back down at the baby. He looks at the identical, ice blue eyes.
He’s smiling.
“She’s a Lady,” he says, “My Lady.”