by Annie Jocoby
She just kind of stood there, after I shook her hand, and looked around. “Well, I guess I have to disrobe for you. Where can I do that?”
I pointed wordlessly to the divider that I had set up in the middle of the room. She nodded and went behind it. I could hear her back there, humming a tune that I didn’t quite recognize. Her singing voice was melodic and sweet. It seemed higher-pitched than her speaking voice, which was low, throaty and sexy as hell. Her speaking voice fit her image, which was that of a classy lady who exuded intelligence and breeding. As Fitzgerald might have observed, her voice was full of money. Which made her even more out of my league, it that was even possible.
I gasped a little, trying to cover that up as well, when she emerged from behind the divider. She was completely nude, of course, and her body was sheer perfection. Creamy white skin. Perfectly round breasts. Tapered waist and gorgeous, well-toned legs. I tried very hard not to stare, and had to remind myself, over and over again, that I was a professional and she was just another model. Just another job to do. As difficult as that was to do, considering the fact that Dalilah was as physically perfect as anybody I had ever seen, let alone painted, I simply had to suck it up and pretend that she was like one of the zaftig women that I usually ended up portraying.
“Where do you want me?” she asked, obviously not shy or demure. Of course, this was just another job for her too. I had to remind myself of that fact.
I pointed to the fainting couch. “Right there would be cool,” I said.
“Oh, how nice. A fainting couch. I’ve always wanted to pose in one of these. So much nicer than the usual chair or hard surface.” At that, she laid down on the couch, and assumed a rather provocative pose. She had a long tendril of flaming-red hair draped over one of her breasts, and she cocked her head ever so slightly. “How is this?” she asked.
I suppressed a smile and said nothing. And then I got behind my canvas, and started to lightly sketch her outline. I would fill in with broad brush-strokes after I composed her basic form. That would be the easy part. More difficult would be the minute details. That is the part that would take months. And, to really get to her essence, which was important if the portrait was to accurately portray her, I would have to get to know her. Her passions, her thoughts, her feelings, her sense of humor. That would come with time, of course. For now, for this session, I wanted to get a quick assessment of her form, which would come from my sketching her and also shooting her with my camera.
She saw my camera, which was sitting on a table next to me. “Are you going to shoot me, too?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I try to get a quick sketching down first, though. I know, it seems ass-backwards, but that’s how I roll.”
“I know that I should have asked this of Nottingham when he called me this morning,” she said. “But I might assume that this is going to be an on-going project. How long will I have to be here, and for how many hours a day?”
“I would say around two hours a day, and the project is due in three months. I hope that isn’t a problem.”
“Not at all,” she said. “But, of course, I’m going to have to renegotiate my fee with Nottingham. He’s only paying me for today, I presume. But, then again, perhaps I am being presumptuous. At any rate, that isn’t your concern. Carry on.”
I smiled, and then started to concentrate on getting her form exactly correct. I had little self-doubt when it came to my artistic abilities. I knew that I was good. That was why it was so frustrating for me to have to struggle so much, while lesser talents managed to win commissions and showings. To think that I was thisclose to becoming a street artist. Not that being a street artist was necessarily a bad thing, but it was beneath me.
I sketched and brush stroked her broad form for about two hours, and I could tell that she was becoming a little bit uncomfortable. I expected that. Frankly, I couldn’t imagine having to lie still for hours on end. I think that I would get antsy after having to lie in the same position for a half hour.
“You look like you could use a break,” I said. “I’m sorry that I didn’t offer you this earlier, but would you like a bottled water?”
“I’m dying for one,” she said.
I went to the little fridge that I had for my bottled waters and pops. It was a mini-fridge, like one would have in a dorm room. I got a bottled water out and gave it to her. She sucked it down in record time and asked for another one.
“Looks like you’re thirsty,” I observed, stating the obvious.
“Dehydrated, actually,” she said, but didn’t elaborate on why she was dehydrated. “How much longer do you think you might need me?”
“About an hour more. When can you come back?” I hoped that I didn’t say that in an I really want you to come back because I’m dying to get to know you better way. In other words, I hoped that my tone did not belie my extreme eagerness to see her again, under any pretense possible.
“I’ll have to check my calendar and get back with you,” she said. “Let me get your card. I assume that your email address is on there?”
“You assume correctly.”
“Good. I’m ready to pose some more, if you’re ready.”
“Good to go,” I said, and sat down and painted some more. I wouldn’t start on the details until later. As I said, I had to get to know her, in order for her essence to imbue the work.
After about an hour, I stretched and let her know that I was done with my sketching and painting, so I needed to take some photographs of her.
I took about fifteen photographs in rapid fashion, and let her know that she could get dressed and leave if she would like.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll just get dressed and show myself out.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling like a jerk that I wasn’t going to be able to show her out myself. But I had to get everything packed up, and I didn’t want to keep her. She seemed rather eager to be on her way, and I assumed that she had something important to do. She appeared to be somebody who generally had important things on her agenda.
She got dressed and then came out from behind the dividers. “Well, it was good to meet you,” she said, holding out her delicate hand again.
I shook her hand and nodded. Felt like a jerk again. Truth be told, she might have thought me laconic, but I really was tongue-tied. I had never been around a woman who captivated me quite this much. I just hoped that she didn’t think that I was some kind of a quiet loser type.
She smiled and opened the door and disappeared through it.
And I sat down on the couch and put my head in my hands. I was finally able to acknowledge my pounding heart and butterflies that were dancing around my insides. I was going to have to pull it together if this project was going to be successful.
Pulling it together was going to be more difficult than I had originally thought.
Chapter Eight
Dalilah
Well, that was interesting. Luke was not quite what I was expecting. I mean, I didn’t really know exactly what I was expecting, but I guess that I wasn’t imagining a guy who would be so…young. He wasn’t much older than me. And he was really a cute guy. Loved the dimples, and the sandy blonde hair that didn’t quite behave. He tried hard to make it all lay down, but he still had a few tufts here and there that went every which way. Which was kind of adorable, really. He was tall and lean and had eyes that weren’t quite blue, or green, or hazel, but a combination of all three. Depending on how the light hit, they would change color, so I wasn’t quite sure how to describe them. Except to say that they were beautiful.
But I wasn’t quite sure how to take him. He was so quiet. I knew that was partially because he was concentrating, and he was a consummate professional. That was plain, even though his studio left much to be desired. Not that it was uncomfortable accommodations, but it was apparent that he was a squatter. The fainting couch was a nice touch, though. I wondered if he got that for himself¸ or Nottingham had sent it over. It seemed so out of place in the grungy surr
oundings. Like a Victorian lady in the middle of squalor.
I found myself feeling eager about actually seeing him again, which was unusual for me. I didn’t feel excited about much anymore, it seemed. My senses had been so dulled for so long that the feeling of anything other than utter boredom was an alien one for me.
Still, the feeling was still nascent, undefined. It wasn’t quite enough to make me feel excited and alive just yet.
Excited and alive…those were two words that I hadn’t used, in my head, to describe myself since I was young and idealistic and composing my cutting-edge art. I used to get the feeling that I couldn’t wait to get to my canvas, because there were so many ideas that were in my head, I just had to get them out. I was so prolific, I could complete three paintings in the span of a few weeks, sometimes days. I wanted to tackle different mediums, including sculpture. I also wanted to try some fusion, blending urban expressionism with some of the more traditional genres. I was so creative then that I felt like I had heightened senses. Everything around me was magnified, and I drew my inspiration from the most banal things.
I used my art as my voice, to show my sensibilities to the world. To make commentary about the injustices that I perceived, and about some of the dichotomies that were inherent in our society, yet were constantly ignored. I juxtaposed images that were related to poverty, and blended them with images that were representative of wealth. Images of living our comfortable existence, blended with the images of what made us comfortable – including slave labor and animals suffering. That sort of thing. I wanted to be provocative and make people think. That motivated me even more than the very feeling of putting the paint on the canvas, which was a high in and of itself.
Then, once the artistic inspiration ran dry, so did my very essence. I was really repressed. Perhaps I was even depressed. I didn’t really know. All that I knew was that I was on rote, and had been for a long, long time. For longer than I cared to remember.
Unfortunately, that kernel of a feeling didn’t last too long. I got home, and sat down in front of my canvas, hoping that something would spring forth. When nothing did, I got up in frustration, and did what was familiar for me by then.
I went to my usual watering hole.
Chapter Nine
I was on my fourth drink of the night, when I turned around and saw him. Nottingham. He was there in the bar, looking over at me with interest. There wasn’t a hair out of place, as usual, and he was perfectly clean-shaven. As usual. There was none of the casual insouciance of Luke in this man. He was very buttoned-up, and I could just tell that he was afraid of how others would perceive him. Unlike Luke, who dressed in tattered jeans and couldn’t control his hair, nor did he seem to want to.
I looked away, not wanting to engage him in conversation, but he was soon sitting next to me anyhow.
“Dalilah,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Yeah. Fancy,” I said, calling bullshit in my head. The guy was a stalker. That was all there was to it.
“How did it go today?”
“Fine. I have to email Luke later on and find out when he wants me again. In fact, I think I’ll do just that.” At that, I brought out my phone and prepared to text Luke. But Nottingham took the phone away from me.
“Text him later. I really would like your full attention.”
I raised an eyebrow, and put my hand out, palms up, wordlessly.
He just shook his head. “You’ll get this later, when you’ve earned it, Dalilah.”
Earned it? He did not just say that.
Still, I just let it slide. There wasn’t a point in getting upset about it. I was never one to be tied to my phone, anyhow.
“Whatever. Okay, you have my attention. What would like to say to me?”
He took a sip of his drink, which appeared to be some kind of whiskey, and peered at me with those cold blue eyes of his. They weren’t full of life like Luke’s were. Or my father’s. Or even my mother’s. There was clearly something wrong with him.
“Dalilah,” he said. “I’m rather taken with you. I’d like to see you on a more private basis.”
“Thanks, Mr. Nottingham, but, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather keep things between us professional. And I’m having a difficult time remembering how you first came to see me. I mean, you’ve obviously been following me, or something of the sort. But how you first encountered me…I’m sorry, but that escapes me.”
He looked quite hurt. “There was a party in the Hamptons. You were living with Nick O’Hara and his wife, Scotty. You were wearing a white sundress and sandals. I had never seen such a magnificent beauty in my entire life. I asked around the party about you, as casually as I could, as you were not yet 18 at the time. I was able to find out enough about you that I was able to….”
“Follow me,” I said, perplexed. And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to now know exactly how Nick found out about me and my drunken escapades and the random men that followed. My guess was that this weirdo had been in these bars all along, and I just didn’t notice him before because I hadn’t yet met him.
He said nothing, but took another sip of his drink. Thus confirming that he was, in fact, following me.
“So,” I said. “How do you know Nick and Scotty?”
“My company does business with his firm. O’Hara, White and Stroker has been my company’s architectural firm for years.”
“I see. And you’re on a first name basis with Nick, I gather?”
“I am.”
“And you have been reporting to Nick that I’ve not exactly been living a pristine life out here.”
“Well, my dear, it doesn’t suit you to leave with men you don’t know, after you have been over-served. I think that you know this. I was only trying to look out for your best interests.”
“My best interests will be determined by me. And nobody else. Because of you, my parents are going to move into the area to keep a close eye on me. So, thanks a lot. Thanks a fucking lot.”
“Language, Dalilah,” he said. “You’re a well-bred lady. It would do well for you to remember that.”
“Oh?” I said. “Huh. You know, I was being respectful today with Luke, and I covered up a tattoo I have on one my breasts. I covered it with my hair. I’m going to make sure that this tattoo makes it into the actual portrait now. Then you can always look upon me and remind yourself just how classy and well-bred I really am.”
He looked a little bit shocked, but only for a moment. Then he smiled, and reminded me of a jack-o-lantern in doing so. “Actually, I find that rather intriguing. I would really love to see that tattoo.”
I narrowed my eyes. Was this guy for real? One second, he’s lecturing me about not being lady-like. The next, he’s salivating over my tattoo.
“No offense, but I really don’t see that ever happening.”
Famous last words.
Chapter Ten
I ended up in Nottingham’s penthouse that night, after drinking a few too many whiskeys. He had left me to my own devices for awhile, as I drank one shot after another. Then, at the end of the evening, he guided me gently into his limo, and, before I knew it, I was laying down on his couch.
I was in rare form, too. My eyes were crossing, and everything was spinning and blurry. I vaguely wondered if the guy had slipped some GHB, because I was feeling very woozy, even moreso than usual.
“Dalilah,” he said to me. “Let me see your tattoo.”
I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that. Did he want me to show him, or did he want me to allow him to see it for himself? I wasn’t sure, so I just laid there, and I soon found that he was unbuttoning my shirt. I laid on his couch, feeling that I couldn’t move my limbs, and his hand was soon on my bra. He pulled it down, and then marveled at the little Pooh Bear tattoo that I had inked on my left breast.
“That’s an adorable tattoo,” he said. “Please display it in the portrait. I believe that would so capture your essence. Your sense of whimsy and playfulness.”<
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I wanted to tell him the real reason why I got a tattoo of the Pooh Bear. Besides the fact that the bear was always my mother’s favorite, I got the tattoo to represent the childhood that I never had. I skipped right over reading about Pooh Bear, in favor of reading more complicated books such as In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust, and Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Both of which were interesting, intriguing and involved, but, really, I would have liked to have been normal. So, getting the Pooh tattoo was my way of somewhat representing that which I had lost.
I didn’t tell him that, though. I just nodded my head dully, and laid on the couch while he continued to undress me.
“Oh, Dalilah, you’re such a beautiful woman. I don’t think that you realize what you do to men who encounter you.”
Oh, right. Yes, I supposed I was a quote unquote “beautiful woman.” One would think that being considered beautiful and desirable would be a good thing. One would be wrong. I couldn’t stand that I had so many stalkers in my life. I mean, if the right guy would stalk me, than that would be one thing. But 99.9% of the men who bugged me, and the boys, too, would fall into the category of the wrong guy. And I wasn’t flattered by the attention, either. I frankly wasn’t the kind of girl who would be flattered by such a thing. In other words, I didn’t consider myself to be vain. So, being considered beautiful did absolutely nothing for me. Zero.
Well, unless you considered the fact that I got jobs because of the way that I looked. And well-paying ones, too. That would be the only plus to being a thing that was desired. But even that was a bit humiliating for me, because I really wanted to be making a living through my art and creativity, and that was completely extinguished. No, not extinguished. Dormant. That was a better term. Dormant. God forbid that my art ability was gone. God forbid. I didn’t think that I could live for the rest of my life without it. It was bad enough living through these past 8 years without the muse guiding me.