I nod. ‘I understand, Mr Schneider. Your art requires the best – true beauty,’ I stammer.
He smiles ever so slightly at my response. ‘Exactly right, Miss Miller. So why should I even bother to photography you today? You have little experience, as far as I can see,’ he says, though again not coldly. He is genuinely interested, I think, and this makes me all the more nervous. I could handle his ambivalence, even his plain disapproval, but interest was something I was not anticipating and had not prepared for.
I shrug instead. ‘You emailed me,’ I reply.
His look tells me he is less impressed by this response, and I feel my insides clench. ‘Very well,’ he nods, closing the folder as he stands. He is dressed casually in a pale grey t-shirt and jeans, his feet bare. Beneath his clothes, I can make out a firm physique, his shoulders broad, his body toned, his stomach flat, his arms muscular as he extends his hand to me. ‘I am Martin Schneider, let’s see what we can do with you,’ he says softly, as I reach out to shake his outstretched palm. His grip is firm and masculine, his skin a touch rough and comfortingly warm.
I nod again. ‘Would you like to see my portfolio?’ I ask, my voice quavering.
He smiles, showing white teeth and an unexpected warmth. ‘No need – the camera will show what I need,’ he says, releasing my hand and gesturing through to the studio. ‘After you,’ he insists, as I head into the room awkwardly, still clutching my bag to my side.
I step into the almost familiar room and look around. It is like many studios I have seen, though a little barer than most, with exposed brick and metal pillars, the walls devoid of the images posted all over his office and on the white walls of the reception. It is clean and uncluttered, except for the photography equipment; the lights already set up, the camera ready, a small desk with a laptop and printer close by, Deb sitting there patiently. Everything is directed towards a pure white space; the wall white, the floor white, sapped of colour. There is a wooden stool set up in the centre of the white box of light.
I hover close to the edge of the room, waiting for instruction.
‘This is Deb, my assistant,’ Martin says, as he sifts through some sheets, looking for something.
I nod to her and she smiles half-heartedly; I guess I must be the millionth girl they have seen today, and the thought makes my stomach twist with nerves.
Near the door is a rack of clothes, but there is no stylist, no makeup artist; nobody except the two people already there. It is an unusual set-up, and I feel a touch exposed. I look down at the white t-shirt and black jeans I have on, and the creeping notion of being out of place slowly starts to build inside me. I am definitely not dressed for the occasion, having expected a dresser at the very least. I gulp, just as Martin looks up from what he is doing. He seems confused by me. I hope it is not disappointment already; I haven’t even managed to sit for him yet.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks.
I nod. ‘Yes.’
‘Then what are you doing?’ again, his voice isn’t cold, merely matter-of-fact, genuinely wanting to know what I’m doing.
I blush. ‘I don’t have anything to wear,’ I admit.
He nods. ‘Of course. Pick a dress from the rack, put it on and then we’ll get started. It’s just going to be a close-up study today – just your hands, maybe your lips or your eyes for now, but we might catch a glimpse of fabric, so pick something colourful,’ he instructs, chasing away some of the embarrassment I am feeling.
‘Thank you,’ I stammer, and it makes his lips curve up, ever so slightly, into a smile.
I put my bag down on the chair beside the clothes rail that is set up beside the far wall of the studio and begin to look through the garments hanging up, wondering who else has worn them. I picture the beautiful Vogue model in a slinky emerald-green number and immediately brush past it, knowing I won’t match up. None of them feel right, though they are all beautiful. The final dress on the rail is a silky, dark crimson cocktail dress, with thin straps and a luxurious feel between my fingertips, as I touch the fabric. Quickly, I change, peeling off boots, black jeans and t-shirt, and stacking them in a neat pile beside my bag, on the random chair leaning up against the wall. Almost as an afterthought, I unclip my bra and place it on top, knowing the straps will look ugly beneath the pretty dress. Though my back is turned, I can feel eyes on me, and my cheeks flush red with self-consciousness as I throw on the red dress as fast as humanly possible.
There is a mirror close at hand, and I catch a glimpse of myself as I turn to head back into the centre of the room. With my slim frame, it suits me; it is flattering in shape and texture, highlighting my narrow waist and slender limbs and, if it weren’t for my useless hair, hanging carelessly past my shoulders, I think I almost look beautiful – just for a moment.
‘Ready?’ Martin asks.
I nod. ‘Yes, Mr Schneider.’
‘Good. Nice choice,’ he remarks, not correcting me, or asking me to call him Martin, as he gestures towards the stool in the centre of the room.
I sit awkwardly and can feel my face growing hotter beneath the bright lights. I feel more exposed than ever, as he stalks about behind the spotlights, camera lifted to his face, checking monitors and exposition as he mutters things back to his assistant. I can only half make him out from where I am sitting, the lights obscuring his features, blinding me a little.
A short while later, he steps through the jungle of lamps and shades and firmly twists my hair up into a bun, on top of my head. He slides grips in to keep it there, not asking if any of it is okay to do, but I don’t mind; I want him to get his vision. He pulls a tube of lipstick from his pocket, lifts the slanted red edge to my lip, his fingers taking hold of my chin gently, but then he pauses, thinking twice about it as he twists the lipstick down again, replaces the cap and puts it back in his pocket. Stepping back slightly, he observes me for a moment or two, his brow furrowing; he seems to be taking stock of me, searching for flaws to smooth out and perfect. I guess he is pleased, as he leaves a second later, ducking back behind the lights to fetch his camera, before reappearing just in front of me.
‘Tilt your head back,’ he says, and I do it, though I can feel the nerves coming back as I look down at him crouched on the floor, peering at me through the viewfinder of his camera. My heart is pounding, and I can feel a trickle of sweat meandering between my shoulder-blades, as I watch Martin at work, trying to get the perfect shot. ‘Relax, Zoey,’ he adds, with a firm insistence that only makes my muscles tense more. ‘Try and pout your lips a bit for me, Zoey,’ he asks, as I try to do what he wants, but I can feel my top lip begin to twitch, under the pressure of doing as he asks. ‘Relax, Zoey,’ he keeps telling me, but I can’t. I try and I try but I can feel the tiny muscles around my mouth pulling and twitching, as I try to shape my mouth prettily, try to pout without looking like a wannabe Playboy bunny. My hands are the same; they seem to have taken on a mind of their own. He tells me to relax and my whole body clenches. My fingers keep trembling beneath his gaze, as I lay them elegantly across the crimson satin of my upper thigh, shivering uncontrollably, no matter how hard I try to control the nervous impulse. I want to do so well, and yet I know I am feeling. I can see it in the furrow of Martin’s brow; the way he keeps looking at me over the camera with a look of abject disappointment and frustration. It’s as if he can see potential, but can’t quite crack into it. With each tremble and shiver of my anxious muscles, I see him get more and more agitated. He checks each picture on the laptop and on the digital display at the back of his camera, and each time his mood grows darker. The smile is gone, and the former softness in his voice takes on a harder edge, a firmer quality, as he begins to bark instructions; over and over again he tells me to relax, and every time I simply can’t. I ruin each picture with the tremble of my lip or the movement of my finger or wrist, and I know he sees it, in the way he scrutinises the images closely, a heavy sigh escaping his lips after each observation. I am letting him down and I am letting myself down –
I know I am. I can feel it, in each stupid twitch of my unruly muscles.
‘I need you to relax your mouth, Zoey,’ he asks, coming closer to me.
‘I’m trying,’ I whisper, tears rushing to the corners of my eyes where I haul them back, begging them not to fall.
‘Are you?’
I nod rapidly. ‘Yes, Mr Schneider. I really am – I’m just so nervous, and when I’m nervous everything seems to tighten up. I’m really trying, Mr Schneider,’ I plead, hearing the desperation in my voice. I can’t lose the money; I picture the numbers in my bank account, and the college enrolment, and I know I have to do whatever it takes to make him see that I am simply nervous, that I can, potentially, be good at this. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Schneider, I know I’m screwing up – I’ve never been so nervous,’ I admit sheepishly, bowing my head and biting my lip anxiously as I address him.
He sighs deeply. ‘I just need you to relax, Zoey,’ he says softly. ‘Relax your mouth, your hands – I need to see their beauty, Zoey,’ he pleads, his own voice carrying a peculiar layer of desperation, as if he is somehow rooting for me.
I nod. ‘I’ll do better, just give me a chance,’ I all but beg.
‘Very well. Try to relax – these are the last few I will take,’ he explains, stepping back as I shake out my shoulders and bend my neck from side to side in a juvenile display of stretching, in the hopes of getting my hands and face to cooperate this time. ‘Make those beautiful lips full for me, Zoey,’ he asks, as I do. ‘Relax those exquisite hands,’ he demands, and I do. I can feel it in my nerves that, this time, I have taken a decent shot. He looks up from the viewfinder and checks the display, a small smile playing across his mouth as he observes the image.
‘Stunning,’ is all he says, as he returns to snapping away. I have one good picture in there at least, I think, as I try to relax again.
After about ten minutes, he places the camera down and tells me we are done. He points towards the clothes rail and tells me to get back into my normal clothes, and to come through to his office when I am done.
‘Of course,’ I say with a shaky smile, as he turns to speak with Deb, before disappearing off into the secret solitude of his office.
I feel utterly bemused as I wander unsteadily over to the clothes rail, my knees unlocking from being in one position too long, stretching out my long arms to unfurl the anxiously tightened muscles that had been folded elegantly for so long. I was sure he would send me packing with tears in my eyes, humiliated and embarrassed, wondering why on earth I was doing this, but instead he was asking me into his office to talk. Perhaps I did a good job; I hardly even dare to think it as I slip out of the red dress, the silk pooling, blood-like, at my feet. It is a truly gorgeous dress, and I pick it up lovingly, placing it back on the rail, before pulling on my jeans and t-shirt, stuffing my bra into my bag as I zip up my boots and head over to the office door. I knock gently, waiting for him to call me in.
‘Come in,’ his voice beckons.
I turn the handle and walk into the room, settling down in the seat opposite him as he gestures for me to sit. He doesn’t speak, his mind elsewhere, the sound of images printing the only noise between us as he waits for sheet upon sheet to print from the machine beside him on the desk. I wait patiently, as I have done all day, it seems. It looks to be his way, keeping people waiting. I thought I’d be annoyed by it, but I find myself in a strange sort of awe of it; his work is first, everything else second, in the pursuit of art and beauty.
So, as I wait, I take in my surroundings a little more. I look at this man, those steady, passionate hazelnut eyes watching the images printing with a sincere intensity, his strong hands running through his thick hair every so often, as he, too, waits patiently for his art. My eyes are drawn to the walls of the office; it is impossible for them not to be. I am surrounded by photos of beautiful women, painstakingly placed on spare spaces that catch the eye; where they will be seen the most often. Exquisite beauties flank him day in, day out, and yet he never once looks at them, to the point where I can’t pin him down. He sent a woman far more lovely than me running from the place; her beauty didn’t seem to be what he is searching for, and yet that is hard to pin down too. The women on the walls behind him, and to every side of him, are all as different as you could ever imagine; there is every sort of woman, every sort of feature, every sort of beauty, in every shape, colour, creed and form you could ever wish for, hung up there for all the world to see. The biggest variety I have ever seen.
However, the mystery of him deepens, as my gaze picks out a large series of masks, pinned to the wall, above the pictures of half-naked women, contorted into impossible shapes; the blank eyes of the masks seem to watch me as I look around the room. I feel the fiery heat of his gaze resting on me from time to time, but I pretend not to notice as I look more closely at the masks, in all their ornate detail, hanging delicately from the wall, between the frames of stunning women.
I know he certainly isn’t trying to be the nice, kind, friendly type. There is a mystery about him, in the hazel eyes that watch me intently from across the room. After all this time waiting for the images to finish printing, and waiting for him to make the first foray into conversation, it seems he is waiting for me to speak, but my tongue is frozen. I am shaking, and I don’t know what to say.
For some reason, despite that one shining moment where he uttered the word ‘stunning’, I can tell he is displeased with me and my performance in front of the camera; the pictures must be awful. I don’t know what happened, and I’m not sure I want to. For the tenth time today, I want to run from the room and leave this silly idea behind me.
I fold my arms across my chest, anxious at the intensity of his gaze, but also realizing that the curve and shape of my breasts are more than obvious beneath the flimsy white fabric of my t-shirt. I curse silently at the bra, burning a hole in my bag. I fold my arms tighter, but this seems to make his brow furrow even more, as if I have managed to displease him further. Cheeks flushing pink, I put my arms by my sides, and he seems to tilt his head with something close to approval. I feel exposed in front of him, those eyes bearing down on me with such intensity, and yet I can’t figure out the meaning behind his gaze.
I wait for him to speak instead.
‘What is it?’ he says, finally.
I look up, shrugging my shoulder slightly. ‘What do you mean?’ I answer, shyly, my voice barely louder than a whisper.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, without much sympathy; it is a matter-of-fact statement.
‘Nothing,’ I mutter.
‘Don’t lie to me,’ he says firmly, moving closer to me until he is perched on the edge of the desk before me, my eyes level with the last few buttons of his shirt.
‘I’m not,’ I shake my head, turning away. I feel his fingers beneath my chin, lifting my face up, my eyes meeting his.
‘Do not lie to me,’ he repeats, more forcefully.
I nod. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks again, waiting, his fingers still beneath my chin.
‘I feel as if I have done a terrible job, today,’ I say, after a few moments of uncomfortable silence beneath the intensity of his gaze. ‘I know those pictures must be horrible, and I feel awful for wasting your time. I feel awkward and uncomfortable here,’ I add, the words tumbling from my mouth before I can put a check on them.
He raises an eyebrow a fraction, interested. ‘You feel awkward and uncomfortable?’
I nod again. ‘I don’t feel as if I belong here,’ I explain, folding my arms across my chest again.
‘Why is that?’ he asks, his tone almost bemused.
I shrug. ‘I feel silly. I feel self-conscious next to these beautiful women,’ I say, pointing up at the semi-nudes on the wall. ‘I’m a nervous, awkward wreck,’ I gush, wishing I hadn’t.
His brow furrows all the more, the displeasure returning, and yet it carries a very different tone, as he addresses me, leaning closer. ‘Zoey, you are a beautiful
woman,’ he states; it is not a point for discussion.
I shake my head – a natural instinct, borne from years of teasing and never quite fitting in. I could feel the ghost of that girl creeping back through my veins; the memories haunting me in the mirror each day, and each time I thought to myself I was not good enough.
CHAPTER THREE
You see, I was never the beauty queen; the girl who got asked out on dates, a different boyfriend each week, always sought after, her name written on the back of exercise books, encircled in a Biro heart. I sat in solitude, barely noticed except for a cruel word passed my way in the school hallway. I was tall and skinny, all angles and limbs that didn’t quite fit. Whilst other girls were growing curves in all the right places, I stayed the same boyish, small-breasted, super-slim shape.
In the useless bra my mother had bought, in the hopes of me being merely a late-bloomer, I would stuff toilet tissue; anything to increase the barely-there buds of my breasts. When it fell out during gym class, the other girls laughed. They pointed and sneered, backing me into a corner with their chants and taunts. They were all beautiful, curvaceous creatures, and I envied them so much. I wanted to be those girls, and they mocked me for it. At every turn, they’d shout mean things, calling me ‘pancake’ and making jokes:
‘What do Zoey and a shipwreck have in common?’, they’d cackle.
‘What?’ would come the inevitable chorus.
‘Sunken chest!’ they’d shriek, their laughter following me down the hallway as I ran from them, tears streaming down my face. I never let them see me cry, but it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
At home in the mirror, I’d stand and look at myself in the reflection. I wanted to see a beautiful girl staring back at me, but I never did. I saw pale skin, hair like straw, watery blue eyes staring wide-eyed and scared, everything too slim, nothing shapely. My mother was a beauty, and I could see the disappointment in her eyes when she looked at me; when she saw the girl she had had such high hopes for. Where my mother’s hair was full and golden and shiny with health, mine fell limply past my shoulders, devoid of volume, unable to hold a curl, as useless as I was. Where her figure was full and shapely, with a narrow waist, wide hips and an enviable bust, I was flat and square and thin. Where her complexion was olive and glowing, cheeks plump and rosy, mine was pale and dull, my cheeks angular and somewhat savage. The only thing I had of hers was her lips; full and inviting, with a deep cupid’s bow and an unnatural, seductive redness, yet it was not enough on me to entice anyone.
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