Unbind (Sub Rosa Series Book 1)

by Lynch, Sarah Michelle

  “Bizarre,” I agreed, suddenly seeing his point of view. “Anyway, you know… something clicked in my mind whilst we were in that meeting and I want to put my thoughts past you.”

  “Yeah…?” He seemed fascinated to know.

  “I want to write my story.”

  “Okay…” Now he was worried.

  “Anonymously… artistically. Using some of your techniques. So I won’t be recognisable…?”

  It clicked for him, too. “Aah, yeah, I see.”

  “You could make it visually powerful, some pictographic story to accompany the words.”

  “I’m following.” His eyes darted, his mind worked fast.

  “She’s there, Cai. Now you’ve told me… I can see her. She’s easy to spot when you know how. I know Claudia’s there. We can try to bring her back, can’t we? We can always try.”

  “What do you mean?” He kissed my shoulder and rested his cheek there.

  “The power of words and stories… and your pictures, of course.”

  “I’m frightened, Chloe. Of what might happen if she does come back.”

  “I know. I would be terrified if it were me. I hardly know how you’re holding it together.”

  “I’ve never known anything different.”

  I reached my hand back and stroked my fingers through his hair. “Jennifer will never bless what we have, but Claudia might.”

  He sighed. “I don’t know which is which, you know. She’s been living with this so long, who knows which is the real Claudia? Or Jennifer for that matter.”

  My brain starting to hurt, I turned my head slightly and moved into his kiss.

  Chapter 50

  THE NEXT DAY I called Carl and said I was working from home. He seemed excited, asking whether I was working on ‘the project’… and when I said yes he almost peed himself.

  While Cai spent the morning shopping and then setting up a space in the studio for us to do a shoot, I jotted down some ideas for the article and knew what I wanted to write. I just needed to see what he had in mind before I could put everything down.

  When he called to let me know he was ready, I felt a touch of uncertainty even though essentially, we were in our home and he had seen everything before.

  He hadn’t told me much about the theme or sequence of this shoot. He didn’t want me to have any expectations. For this to work, I had to be relaxed. It was imperative and central to what he was trying to achieve with our shots.

  I walked through the studio door and spotted a pale grey, buttoned chaise longue he seemed to have acquired from somewhere.

  Oh my goodness, and then I saw the sheet. My alleged outfit.

  “Cheap, much?” I blurted.

  “It’s not just any old sheet.”

  He chuckled while I muttered obscenities. I heard him unwinding his tripod and getting all the other equipment ready, like I was still going ahead with this. Was I honestly meant to don that? Did he really think that about me?

  “Trust me, Chloe. Trust, remember? I know what I’m doing.”

  “You dirty little voyeur, you.”

  He laughed loudly. “If I am the voyeur, what does that make you?”

  “Your bitch, it seems. If you expect me to wear a fucking sheet.”

  He warned me, “Do my shots really need a red ass in them? Or are you gonna behave?”

  “Perv,” I spat out. “You don’t get a piece of this when you’re making me wear a sheet.”

  “Take your time tigress, I’m busy doing adult things this side.”

  “Pah,” I exclaimed, “says my toy boy.”

  I used one of the dividers of his gallery section to hide myself behind as I undressed, feeling awkward. Then I wrapped myself gingerly in the sheet.

  He glanced my way while arranging his stuff. “Nice. In the black and white exposure, the ivory won’t seem too harsh or white against your flesh and the background.”

  “So, this is what it’s like working as your bitch? You compliment the sheet more than me.”

  He growled and choked on laughter. “I’m dying over here… so for god’s sake stop flashing your eyes like that otherwise we’ll never get this done.”

  I couldn’t stop flirting, not when he was around. His shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, my focus was on his big hands and muscled forearms.

  “Oop, okay.” He flicked his long lashes over my body, his gaze lustful. He was still fiddling with the overhead lights and the camera when I demanded, “Where do you want me?”

  “Gimme a sec. Just while I finish up. You’ll need me to help you down for what I have in mind.”

  “Huh. Are you going to tell me what is going on here?” I asked impatiently, ever more nervous.

  “Trust me… you’ll be amazed.” He was serious then, and I became serious in return. This was important to him.

  I softened, “Okay, Cai.”

  “This soft focus lens is your best friend, say hello to your new best friend, Chloe,” he asked, holding it up in the air, “I wanna see you making love with this baby.”

  “Oh, I bet you say that to all the girls,” I pouted, making eyes with the lens. Ha! I could hardly keep a straight face while he screwed the thing on.

  He cut the harsh, unnatural gallery lights and switched on the equipment he seemed to carry with him to shoots—two portable overhead beams, which would be shining right on me. Shit. He fiddled with the dimmers until the lighting was softer and got out his meter again, seeming happier with what he had achieved doing that.

  “This room may seem clinical… one thing my mother taught me was that the eye can be easily tricked… and see only what you tell it to.”

  “You wanna ditch this sheet and bone me?” I beckoned, so hot for him and his artistic aura, his domineering presence in this setting.

  “You’re only wearing it so I don’t jump your bones and rumple you before we get started… so, right now I need you to drop it, leave it pooled at the floor… and lay on the chaise, your back to me.”

  I tensed slightly but he assured me, “It’s just me, remember? This is you and me. Get comfortable.”

  The chaise had already been positioned so I had to lie on my left-hand side.

  “Great, just great. You’re perfect. Straighten your knees just a little so you’re stretched out. It already looks great through the viewer and we haven’t even dressed you yet.”

  “I wouldn’t do this for anyone else, you voyeur.”

  “Keep calling me that and we’ll see how much gets done here, honey.”

  I knew we’d never get a thing done if I didn’t behave myself better. “Okay, okay. I’ll be good.”

  “Okay,” he breathed deeply, righting himself. “I’m gonna arrange you, then drape the sheet over you. I need you to be well-behaved now, Chlo.”

  “Me? Modicum of professional, I am.” I fought the urge to laugh. We had to get serious.

  He walked to me and asked, “Lift your head slightly.”

  On a shoot like this, there would normally be dressers, hair and make-up stylists, all that.

  He began playing with my hair, seeing what he could do with it. Not much given it was wild and I hadn’t straightened it over the holidays.

  “Your things, Chlo?”

  “I put them on your desk, sweetheart.”

  He came back with a hairbrush.

  “You could Photoshop me, couldn’t you?” I said, feeling worried.

  “I could. However, trained eyes would know it had been edited. I want this to be real… that’s if we even make this public. For now, this is just you and me, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” I responded, still in the zone. Just you and me. I looked briefly over my shoulder to see his reassuring smile. He dropped a gentle kiss on my shoulder before smoothing the brush through my locks.

  “Say something foul. I need not to be this aroused right now.”

  Yes, well, he hadn’t yet arranged the sheet on me.

  I giggled quietly. “Klaus Häuser.”

&nb
sp; “Thanks, god that guy fucks me off.”

  “You’ll never get on, then?”

  “Not as far as I can see although I’m short sighted. Right now all I’m seeing is you.”

  “Time changes people, you know.”

  “Perhaps.”

  He arranged my hair so it draped over the curl of the chaise longue at the top. “I’ve had to improvise on a lot of sets. Some stylists turn up drunk or high, sometimes… it can get tricky.”

  “You’ve had to do the odd bit of hair and make-up? Weird.”

  “More than once! This job isn’t glamorous, most of the time.”

  “This will be though, huh?”

  “Oh yeah. Listen… when I thought about this arrangement, I decided to give this a filmic quality so I’m gonna video shoot this like a movie. I’ll let you know how to perform when we’ve got you comfy here.”

  Little by little, he let me know what was expected of me.

  “Perform. Wow.”

  “You look fucking beautiful right now. I’m lucky to be breathing the same air as you. People are gonna love this… and you. They will love you.”

  “Even though they won’t know it is me?”

  “Even more so. Now, the sheet.” He tried not to sound orderly but I knew he couldn’t help it. He picked it up from the floor and shook it out.

  That was when he began to tell me the story…

  “Chloe, you’re a leading lady from the Fifties…” I loved that era, and he knew it, “…you’re waking from a quick nap. You don’t do real beds. They’re for pussies. You sleep exaggeratedly, never normal. You’re aware of your image and how you appear. You don’t even use the toilet. You’re too important for that. You have servants to minister to you.”

  We sniggered.

  “We’re in character. Remember? Right, you’re the star. There’s nothing about this shoot remotely tragic or sad or winsome. You’re just too wonderful, too amazing for mere mortals to understand you. Understand?”

  “Yes. I’ll need some diamonds, now,” I said in a sultry voice.

  “You will. It’s good I came prepared.”

  Frame often borrowed pieces from jewellers. It was a good selling point for all, as long as we mentioned the generous donation in the captions of course. I could already see it now: ‘Anonymous model wearing only diamonds, from…’

  “First, may I drape this silk sheet on you?”

  “Is it real silk?”

  “One hundred per cent.”

  “Okay,” I said softly.

  He tipped it over my body, the whole mass crinkled since it had lain on the floor a little while. That one piece of fabric became a tangled mass over a world-weary body, tired of the minions intent on patronising her non-stop.

  He dressed me in some huge diamond earrings, the drop kind that fell to your shoulders. He also placed a chunky diamond cuff on my wrist, the two matching perfectly.

  “You’re becoming her, this character. You’re made for this.”

  “I need champagne now.”

  “Already one step ahead. I’ll get some initial shots of you waking to the world and it shall be your first tipple of the day.”

  I didn’t dare turn to look at him. His expression might have ruined it for me. “Oh… so this is a sequence of coming alive, waking, in the morning?”

  “You wake whenever you want, it doesn’t have to be in the morning.”

  I giggled churlishly. “Of course. I’d like to indulge in sleeping in ’til three p.m. I imagine.”

  “Good, that’s how it goes.”

  “Cai?”

  “Yes?”

  “Where is my Chanel?”

  He raided a bag, or something, and brought out a whopping, extra-large bottle that would no doubt feature in the shoot.

  “Here, Miss. It’s here.”

  “Good, I don’t use anything else… begin spraying the room. In fact, this sheet needs a freshening.”

  He began ‘looking after me’: spritzing my air, arranging my body, combing and painting—generally fawning all over me. All those disgustingly wonderful things a woman expects when she’s playing the muse.

  “Before we really get started, I just want to say… you make me feel wonderful.”

  “Not as wonderful as you make me feel,” he replied.

  WHILE I got dressed, he busied himself staring at the shots we’d gotten. To say I felt nervous about them was an understatement. I’d become relaxed throughout the shoot but now, afterward, I felt terrified.

  “It’s a total success, Chlo. I can already see the strongest shots… they easily stand out… so we’re good here.”

  That didn’t make me feel any better. Was he talking about the bits where my ass and tits looked bigger? Or what? I was beginning to imagine all sorts! I was used to getting papped all over Manhattan—the gossip mags loved to catch me in my latest outfit, or better still, with Cai on my arm. Yet having my bits and pieces on display… different ballgame!

  I knew I had played the part well, from waking from a calm sleep, to stretching, to drinking my first sip of champagne, rising from a horizontal position to sitting with the sheet draped around my body. Playing someone else was always easier.

  “I’m buzzed about getting these loaded up. The iPad only shows so much.”

  I mirrored his excitement but I was also still worried about the shots. I heard the click-click-clicking of his finger flicking through them on the iPad screen. My anticipation was overflowing. Let’s just say, coupled with what I had in mind to write, we’d the power to create an interesting angle to work with.

  “Seriously, Chlo. You have curves and lines and a presence that I’ve never shot before. You’re woman personified, bursting with love.”

  “Hey, please can I get a look? I’m frightened now.”

  He walked to me, his hands reaching for my shoulders. “You have to trust me—what I got today was special. Okay? No way would it be right to show you anything, not until I feel happy with the story. I need to get these onto a screen before you see the overall effect and it’s that you need to approve more than the singular shots, okay?”

  I nodded reluctantly, still a bit scared. He did however seem pretty pleased, which cajoled me. He kissed me deeply, pulling me tight against his body, telling me how proud he was.

  He powered down his Leica camera and tucked it into its case, safely stowing his backup storage in a separate pocket.

  “I’m sure you’ll make it look wonderful, with some air brushing and whatever.”

  He ignored my negativity with a loud tut and it made me laugh. “I said trust me… just wait for the results, that’s all I have to say on the subject for now.”

  “I can tell you’re dying to start work already,” I whispered in his ear seductively.

  He smirked, still avoiding full-on eye contact. That’d be the breaking of him. Behind his eyes I could see he was desperate to ravage me.

  “Food, we need food because I’m starved,” he ordered. “Anyway you ought to write the article without seeing the pictures, focus on the words, on what you felt today rather than how you think it’ll look. Besides it’ll take me a couple days to get this right and I’m not doing this with you lurking round corners. I want this to be perfect.”

  I reluctantly let him have his pictures for now and helped him tidy away the sheet, champagne flutes, bottle and used lipsticks. Getting that right for every sequence of snaps had been interesting—just me and my jewels, the champagne—my lips flirting with the flute.

  Chapter 51

  MIND OVER BODY

  by Anonymous

  WE HAVE ALL admired actresses in the dazzling black and white movies of a certain era during which Hollywood became synonymous with ‘starlets’ and their male antagonists. Growing up, Sunday afternoon films on the small TV in my bedroom took me to other places, other worlds. I’m talking Hedren, Leigh, Kelly, Hepburn and the blonde bombshell epitomised, Marilyn Monroe. All of whom remain style icons, whose looks are still redone t
o this day, both in ordinary women’s wardrobes and more stylised versions perpetuated in glossy editions such as this. Why is it that we continue to look to vintage icons for guidance or inspiration? So many decades on?

  I thought I had the answers until I did this shoot. It was the genius of the photographer who made me see a few simple truths that the rest of us often overlook. The story in the accompanying pictures here is familiar: I am asked to imagine that I have such elevated star status, I don’t act like other mere mortals, nor should I be treated as such. Placing myself in the mind of any one of those aforementioned style icons, or even a classic designer such as Coco Chanel, I became somebody not of myself. I realised that frame of mind is responsible for so much. It is important to elaborate here…

  Champagne for breakfast is something not all of us do and indeed, it isn’t a habit our doctors prescribe if they want us to outlive our fifties and sixties. The actress is immortal, infallible and otherworldly—captured forever on screen. She doesn’t have the same hang-ups as the rest of us, not in this medium anyway. She perpetuates the myth that only women with broken souls or tragic pasts know pain and misery, drawing enough from that to fuel their creativity and/or drive. In reality, plenty of success stories originate with the humble girl/boy from a nice family who just so happened to have a talent they pursued, stuck with, and it paid off (in financial terms, at least).

  The starlet obviously lingers in the heart with her sad story, beauty, mystery unsolved—her potential wasted or lost, for some reason. The femme fatale on the other hand we admire, but pity. Sometimes, we even applaud her. During this shoot, I felt uninhibited. Not only because I know and trust the photographer, but for other reasons too. I knew the audience wouldn’t know me, my name, my face. In the shots, you only see my body, portions of which are draped in silk sheets. In the images, do you see an ordinary woman draped in diamonds? Or do you see the hair, the lips, the facial expressions caught only in aspect? The glacial movement of her figure in repose—then does your mind immediately register a woman or an image? An icon? A face? Or a pose you might have seen a thousand times before and wouldn’t think out of place in this high-brow glossy?