Perfect Imperfections (Moments Book 1)

by J Wells

  Josh pulled his suitcase along the tarmac to the entrance of the airport. I had his hand luggage, and also his hand held very tightly in mine. I never thought I’d be that soppy woman who, when their man walks through into the departure lounge, shouts and runs after him for that one final kiss, but there I was, doing just that. Tearing through people and suitcases just to hold him and look into his eyes one more time.

  I shake myself from the memory. Still glancing at my face, I hardly realised I was crying; my cheeks and my nose are red, and my foundation has run. Clicking open the clasp on my bag, I grab my make-up sponge and even out my skin tone. I don’t want to be here, but if I’ve got to have these portraits done I want them to be the best they can be, and I want to look out of this world for Josh when I present them to him on our wedding day.

  I step out of my Mercedes and lock the door. Taking small breaths, I try to relax and attempt to breathe out, pulling at the coarse cotton material at my waist. I should never have worn this bloody dress; maybe a few months ago I would have got away with it, but Angela’s helpings at dinner have put paid to that. I picked this little black number from my wardrobe, as it is one of Josh’s favourites, and being black I thought it would be a nice contrast against my light blonde hair, which I have straightened especially.

  I usually spend five to ten minutes making myself up, a dab of foundation here and there. I prefer to look natural, not like a painted doll, but not this morning; I spent a good hour in front of the mirror applying my professional cosmetics rather than my much cheaper high-street products. I suppose in one way it’ll be nice, thirty years from now when I want my children to feel proud when they look up at my portrait, the same way I do when I look at Mum’s. A tear wells in my eyes, and I blink hard. I still can’t stand false lashes, bloody spider legs hanging from my eyelids. Mad really, considering this is what I do for a job. I love working on other people’s faces, evening out skin tones, concealing, highlighting, painting on those monster brows that everyone seems to be raving about at the moment. Beauty is an art and I love seeing the finished product. But when I make myself up and look at my reflection, all I see staring back is that four-year-old little girl, screaming inside whilst being forced into those wretched beauty pageants.

  For ten minutes I stand staring at the narrow footpath that leads to his door. Pull yourself together, Tash, stop stalling.

  One, two, three… I count my steps up to the porch. There’s no knocker and no bell, but a yellow sticky label attached to one of the many panes of glass. It reads: Round the back.

  Leaning slightly back, I look around the extensive lawn. All I can see is a bunch of overgrown conifers, a lilac bush and a large laburnum tree. The pointed heels of my stilettos sink into the sundried earth, and I do my best to amble round the perimeter of the front lawn.

  Set back and well hidden in the dense greenery is a weathered gate, flakes of chipped green paint trying their best to cling on. I free the rusty bolt and undo the latch. I look at my fingers; they’re orange from the rust, so I wipe them down the front of my dress. My best bloody dress; well, that’s fantastic. Puffing, I push the wooden gate. Admittedly I’m no gym buff, but where’s my strength gone today? The wood is only thin, yet it’s surprisingly heavy, so heavy that I have to use my shoulder to open it.

  “Hello!” I shout, not wanting to appear rude.

  There’s no reply, so I poke my head around the side. I quickly realise it’s not the gate that’s heavy but what lies beyond as I’m attacked by an army of unruly weeds that seem to be doing their best to force their way out and escape.

  I step inside and take a look around; the back garden is immense. The grass certainly isn’t shy; taking liberties, it reaches up past the hemline of my dress and tickles my thighs. I imagine its long intrusive blades to be Josh’s fingers, which I slap away with my hand. He’s only been away a few days and already I’m missing him like mad. Daft as it may sound, it feels like with him away that part of me is missing.

  My eyes wander past long grass and weeds, up two paved steps to a large glass-fronted conservatory whose doors stand open. I can’t make out anything inside, as cream blinds have been pulled down at each of the windows. Now what? I stand for a second, chewing my fingernails. I can’t just walk in to some strange man’s house unannounced, and I’m really tempted to turn round and go home.

  I decide to give it one more go, so shout a little louder this time.

  “Hello!”

  The figure of a man appears in the doorway.

  “Miss Smith.”

  He beckons me towards him, then reels round and disappears back inside. My steps to join him are tentative; I still can’t get my head round being painted by a man I’ve never met before. I mean, what are we going to talk about? I know nothing whatsoever about art, and he knows nothing whatsoever about me. I suppose I’m used to talking to clients, but they’re female and it makes a big difference; there’s always boys, make-up and nights out to discuss.

  Twisting the ends of my hair between my fingers, I hover in the doorway.

  “Gabriel? Mr Owens…”

  “Yes, yes, come in, I don’t bite.”

  He’s bent over, adjusting a wooden easel. He lifts his head and I frown; with those blinds there’s no sun getting in here, yet he’s wearing a pair of dark sunglasses. How’s he going to paint me wearing those?

  He smiles and straightens up. I’m surprised how tall he is; he’s got a good few inches on Josh. Gabriel is a lot easier on the eye than I’d imagined he would be; being an artist, I thought he’d be some old fart with a foreign accent and potbelly, but he’s quite the opposite. I’d guess early thirties, naturally bronzed. I glance at his abs; although masked by a tight grey T-shirt, I can tell he’s well worked-out.

  “Do you mind shutting the door?” His voice is deep, yet smooth. I know that southern twang; it’s London way. “I want to let Mr Pooch out of the dining room.”

  Oh crap, I’m standing here with my mouth open; for the love of God I hope he doesn’t think I’m checking him out.

  “Of co…course,” I stammer, immediately closing the door. “Love dogs; got a fat pug at home.”

  He slides open the patio doors leading into the house. I peer past a mahogany dining table and four chairs. There’s no sign of a dog, so I guess he’ll come when he’s ready. I can’t help wonder the breed; there’s no way he’s a poodle or some kind of girlie dog. I shoot a gaze at Gabriel; I can imagine Mr Pooch to be a real man’s dog, perhaps an Alsatian or a St Bernard. I suck in my lips; a Doberman, that’s the perfect breed for him. If he’s anything like Larry, he’ll be curled up asleep on the bed, or maybe not. With an owner like Gabriel I can’t imagine Mr Pooch to be a couch potato. No, Gabriel looks the sort of guy who cycles for miles with the dog’s lead fastened to the handlebars or who takes hour-long walks around the park. I notice there’s no ring or tan line on his wedding finger. I roll my eyes. A typical ladies’ man, I bet his dog is the perfect introduction. I smile to myself; it’s not very often I’m wrong, and summing up people is a skill of mine. I think I’ve weighed Gabriel up pretty well—a big-headed guy with an eye for the ladies.

  “Can I get you a drink before we get started?”

  I’d love a cup of milky tea, but a glass of water will be quicker, and the quicker I get out of here the better.

  “Water with ice, please.”

  “Sit down, back in a sec.”

  I check my phone; Josh had text and said he’d Skype me at six, the same time he did yesterday, so I guess that gives me a few hours. We spent all of last night talking about our big day. It’s taken me a year and a half to not only come to terms with it, but to actually look forward to our wedding.

  My dress, my beautiful ivory dress, with its soft crushed taffeta, is out of this world. Adrianna was waiting with Mum and Angela outside the changing room when I came out, and Mum blubbered, which was expected, but even Adrianna shed a few tears. Then it was the bridesmaid fitting, but my cousin Darcy h
ad to give it a miss, as she came down with food poisoning. Her boyfriend said she’d got the squits and was unable to leave the bathroom; eating sushi the night before had done it. She could never stomach fish as a kid, so God knows what she was thinking. Anyway, I said we could pop down the shop for her fitting next week.

  Mum and Angela walked up the road for a coffee, leaving just me and my sis; it was nice to be honest, us having a bit of quality time. Adrianna looked amazing; it made such a nice change to see her in a dress, rather than hidden away under those baggy T-shirts. I sat for a moment and looked her up and down; even halfway through her pregnancy she’s still managed to hold on to her figure.

  Lost in thought, a hand appears in front of my eyes. I take the tall glass and thank him.

  “The occasion…” he mutters, taking a step away from me. “Wedding, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” I nod. My body rocks with me, and I glance down as the ice and a slice of lemon bob up and down in the water.

  He picks up a leather pouch lying next to his easel, unties two brown laces surrounding it and rolls the case open. I can count at least twenty paintbrushes of different sizes, and further along a handful of pencils. I realise it’s very similar to the case in which I keep my make-up brushes; maybe that’s what we need to break the ice, since we both paint faces, just in different ways.

  His fingers are long and slim, the way I imagine an artist’s fingers to be. He removes a pencil and tucks it behind his right ear; it sits horizontally in line with the arm of his sunglasses.

  “I don’t know if your mother’s told you…”

  My gaze lifts.

  “I’ve been instructed to paint you in three separate poses.”

  I have to reel my left eyebrow in as it shoots above my right. I swallow hard.

  “How long’s that going to take?”

  “Not long, only a few weeks.”

  I gulp, almost choking on my water.

  “A few weeks? You kidding? Thought I was here for one sitting, a couple of hours.”

  “Unfortunately, you can’t rush art.” He rubs his hands together.

  I’m listening for a crack in his voice, a touch of humour, some kind of human trait, but there’s none of that. All I hear is the monosyllabic tone of a professional doing his job. I get called to make up some right stuck-up bitches and prima donnas, but one thing I always do is make an effort; no matter how difficult or how hard work they may be, I do my very best to make them feel at ease. Unfortunately, this is one art Gabriel is yet to master. I sit with rigid legs on the edge of my seat and try my best to relax my face.

  “Hope you don’t mind if I call you Natasha.”

  “Yeah, fine,” I utter. I hate my name. I’m Tash or Tasha, but I don’t know him well enough to correct him.

  “Get comfortable, head up, flick your hair over your shoulders… You ready?”

  Ready? I frown.

  “Guess so.”

  He doesn’t head towards his easel but towards me. I must be in the wrong position, so I pout my lips and tilt my head at a slightly different angle.

  “That any better?”

  He doesn’t answer, biting down on his bottom lip as he walks into my personal space. Guess I still haven’t got it right, so I relax my shoulders slightly, waiting for his hands to lift my chin to place my face in a more flattering position. But he doesn’t move my head and I don’t feel his fingers under my chin; instead, he’s running them very gently across my cheekbones. I jolt my head away from his touch. What the fuck’s he doing? I’m here for a portrait, not for some weirdo to touch me up.

  “Get off!” I push him away.

  My glass jolts, water jumping out and running between my breasts, soaking the front of my dress.

  “What’s your problem?”

  “I didn’t come here to be touched up. I’m going home!”

  “Touched up? Are you for real? How am I expected to see?” he quizzes, throwing out his hands. “How am I expected to paint you?”

  “Like any other artist; use your bloody eyes,” I snap, folding my arms over my chest.

  “Surely your mother told you?”

  “Told me? Told me what?”

  “I’m partially sighted.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. I don’t see things as clearly as you, so I have to fill in the gaps and use my other senses to see what my eyes are unable to.”

  He backs away, leaving an awkward silence.

  “Look, if you don’t believe me…” He reaches into his trouser pocket and passes me his phone. “Here, go on, check for yourself; ring your mother.”

  I push it back between his fingers.

  “I’ve got my own, thank you.”

  I walk out of the conservatory, leaving him standing at the side of my chair. I press Mum’s number and wait for her to answer. I jump in before giving her chance to say hello.

  “You were supposed to be booking me in to sit for an artist, not some pervert. Within seconds he had his hands all over me.”

  “All over you?” I can hear the concern in her voice.

  “Well, all over my face.”

  “Natasha, what did you expect? I did explain about his sight.” The tone of her voice changes.

  “You didn’t.”

  “Yes, I did, the other night over dinner. It must have slipped your mind, with all the excitement about America and Josh’s new job. Give Gabriel a chance, you won’t be disappointed. I’ve seen his work and believe me, it’s amazing.”

  It isn’t the heat of the conservatory that reddens my cheeks but my self-made embarrassment. I shut the conservatory door behind me, feeling like a total idiot.

  “Spoke to your mother then?”

  I nod. What am I doing? Bet he can’t see past the end of his nose.

  “Yes,” I mutter sheepishly, sidling my way back towards the chair. I don’t know why, but I turn and wave my hand.

  Surprisingly, he waves right back.

  “I’m partially sighted, not blind.”

  I can’t help but pick up on the sharp edge to his voice; my intention wasn’t to come across as patronising.

  He clears his throat. “So, are you okay with this?”

  The soles of his shoes squeak on the white tiled floor. Hitching up his trousers, he crouches in front of me, giving me the chance to take a more in-depth look at his features, and it’s nice knowing he can’t see me doing so. His dark hair is cropped quite short and has blonde-coppery streaks running throughout, which I guess are natural. He doesn’t strike me as a guy who’d sit for hours in foils. It’s hard to make out his face, as his sunglasses hide the majority. I wet my lips and look at his; they are fuller than mine and Josh’s, though they are hemmed in by dense stubble.

  “Well?”

  “Yes, fine,” I add, snapped from my analysis.

  I hold my breath, sitting perfectly still while his hands go to work on my face.

  “I don’t understand; how can you paint when you struggle to see?”

  “You’d be surprised. I touch and my fingers work as my eyes.”

  I sit with a smirk on my face. Bullshit.

  “Well, your sight can’t be that bad, you saw when I waved.”

  He lets out an unsavoury grunt. “You’re right, I can see, just not the detail.”

  “Okay, enlighten me then. When you touch my face, tell me what you see.”

  I almost go cross-eyed as his index finger sweeps down the length of my nose. I take in a short breath and feel my face scrunch.

  “Sorry, it’s a terrible habit, I’m trying to quit.”

  “I didn’t say...”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  The scent on his skin isn’t fresh or fragrant, but holds the strong smell of stale tobacco. His fingers move on, rising and falling as they pass over my lips, then seem to pause as they come to rest on my chin. I look up, catching my reflection in his large-rimmed sunglasses.

  “Natasha, this is what I see...”

&n
bsp; I sit up straighter in anticipation of his words.

  “Your face is the shape of a soft heart.”

  I smile. So far, so good.

  “You have long cat-like eyes; the colour I can’t be sure.”

  “They’re brown.”

  “Whatever their shade, they will look beautiful in oils. Oh, mentioning colours, that reminds me.”

  He pulls a piece of folded paper from the back pocket of his jeans.

  “A chart,” he says, slipping it into my hand. “Take it home. I want you to look over it and pick the nearest colour to match your complexion, and then turn over to the back and do the same for your cheeks, lips and eyes. When you’ve decided, can you circle your choices with a black marker pen? I want your paintings to be as lifelike as I can possibly make them.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “Your nose,” he continues, “is in perfect proportion for your face, though is not perfect.”

  I puff out a breath. Charming.

  “Either an old piercing or scar is the only imperfection I can find.”

  He presses, then rolls his finger over my chin.

  “It’s unfortunate what they say about dimples.”

  “Yeah, yeah, devil within.” I feign a laugh. Bloody hell, he’s actually cracked a joke.

  “Well, you have a very small one, I would say hardly visible to the human eye. You’re a very pretty lady, Natasha. I’m more than happy with what I have seen, and can’t wait to get to work.”

  I feel kind of embarrassed; he paid me a compliment, yet it makes me feel uneasy.

  Releasing my face, he stands, rubbing his fingers together.

  “I hate the feel of foundation.”

  Shaking his head, he rubs his hand down the front of his grey T-shirt, leaving an orange smudge in its path.