Unbroken (2 page)
Authors: Lynne Connolly
He’d chosen various reclining nudes, from the
Rokeby
Venus
, with her delectable back to the onlooker and her face reflected by a mirror held by a cherub, to Titian’s
Venus of
Urbino
. The Venus stared provocatively out at the viewer, her hand curled delicately around her pubes, drawing attention to them rather than hiding them.
Then
Manet’s
Olympe
, painted two centuries later, the same pose, but such a different attitude, staring defiantly out of the painting with a come-and-get-me-if-you-dare expression.
“Okay, which one
do
you like best?”
She answered without thought.
“The last one, the
Manet
.”
“Why?”
“Because she doesn’t care who knows what she is. She’s a prostitute, and doing very well at her job.”
He
laughed,
a deep, rich sound that thrilled her right down to her core.
“And the others?”
She wanted more of that laugh—couldn’t go there—but she’d be lying if she said she didn’t want to hear it again. “They’re displaying themselves for other people’s delectation, getting off on it.
Olympe
just accepts it. If you want it, she can do it.”
He gazed at her and she gazed back. She wished he’d look away, but he lifted a hand and stroked her face with the back of one finger. Just from her cheekbone to her jaw, but it was the most intimate contact she’d had in years.
Ever.
“Do you feel like that? That you’re prostituting yourself?”
She jerked back. “Yes. You got any problems with that?”
“No. Just that we’re much the same.
Performing puppets for the public.”
Now it was her turn to laugh. “You don’t mean that. You give them exactly what you want to.”
He didn’t deny it. “Isn’t that what you do?”
“What I
did
.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her tone and was mildly surprised to hear it. She thought she’d recovered from that. She had enough money, a life to call her own, and she’d never enjoyed modelling, or so she’d thought.
“Until this.”
He gestured at her scars, but didn’t touch.
An artist shouldn’t touch his model, she knew that, but she wouldn’t have minded. No, that was a lie. She hungered for it.
Only medics had handled her in the last year or so, with an impersonal contact that took away a little of her humanity every time.
A touch on her body would have been easier to bear than that intimate contact with her face, when he really seemed to be seeing her,
Vashti
Balcer
, not
Vashti
, the symbol of so many products.
“Until this.”
She didn’t take her gaze away from his face. “I can have most of the scars removed, and photographers can airbrush them out. The only thing I can’t do anymore is catwalk work, and I never enjoyed that very much, anyway.”
His attention dropped to her leg. “They’ll fade nicely in time. This is the worst one, isn’t it?”
He indicated the puckered scar on her calf with a wave of his hand and
goosebumps
rose on her skin, as if he’d come into contact with it. But he hadn’t, and she wanted him to.
In the worst way.
These days
Vashti
was always honest with herself. She longed for him as she hadn’t longed for a man for over a year. In her mind’s eye she could see him, his muscles bunching as he drove his cock into her.
No! Distraction!
Every time interest turned to her injury, she diverted herself, other people’s minds.
Time to face it dead-on.
“Did you enjoy the other work?” he asked her.
She meant to lie to him, but something in his eyes told her he would know. That clear green said he’d understand if she lied, but he wouldn’t invite any more conversation. And she was so enjoying this, being treated like a human being. She didn’t want it to stop. So she spoke the truth.
“Not in the last four years. Up until then, it was exciting. I was climbing the career ladder and making lots of money, but when I turned twenty, I wanted something else. My mother persuaded me to give it another five years. No doubt after that, she’d have asked me for another five. And I’d have probably done it.”
“I read about the accident. You couldn’t get out.”
It had taken her therapist six months to get her to remember. It had taken him half an hour. “Yes. My leg was trapped under my seat. The collision crushed the front of our car in, and compressed us against the dashboard. The airbag didn’t stop the rib that broke and punctured my mother’s lung.” The tears that came every time she thought of that day sprang to her eyes and she let them fall.
Her tears usually stopped most people, and led to sympathy, but it didn’t stop him.
“And you feel guilty, don’t you?”
“What about?”
She’d faced the truth a few months ago, but that remained between her and her therapist.
“You feel guilty that you can’t be sorry for your mother’s death.”
Indignation swept through her in a hot
tide, that
he’d seen the truth…that he knew and he still sat next to her. How had he seen it, when the press, the photographers, even her friends had not? How did he know?
She took a moment,
then
responded in the expected way. She couldn’t think of any other method to counter him. “What kind of person do you think I am?”
“A hurting one.
An honest one.”
He paused, watching her closely.
Vashti
met his scrutiny. To look away would be cowardly and she wasn’t about to start that now.
“So I’ll be honest in return. I want you as my model for this sculpture for more than your looks.” He stopped, waited.
His admission intrigued her. She sat still, not daring to reveal her feelings by moving, shifting away.
She lifted her chin. “I know my looks are unique. That’s what my whole career is based on. So what else is there?”
His eyes snared hers, trapped her. “Before the accident, you were strikingly beautiful.
The perfect clothes-horse, with flawless golden skin and those amazing eyes.
Gorgeous, but like the Titian rather than the
Manet
. All
surface
, giving away nothing. I don’t want that. When I saw pictures of you when you were leaving the hospital, most were you stoically facing the press, your mask firmly in place. But once, just once, you let go.”
He put his finger in the book and flipped the pages to show her two pictures. One image was of her facing the press after leaving the hospital, printed in the centre of a large piece of photographic paper. The top picture was in colour, and she remembered how carefully she’d prepared for it, choosing her dress and make-up herself, without that constant voice behind her. She could still hear it.
Do you think that liner is quite right? I’m not sure that shade of blusher suits you.
If anything about her mother haunted her, it was that voice.
The lower picture was a candid snap. Used to the paparazzi,
Vashti
kept her public face on while she knew they were about, but this one was taken by a camera phone, when she’d been leaving the hospital on a less publicized visit. She wore a simple T-shirt and no make-up and the photographer had captured the haunting loss in her eyes.
He stared at the picture rather than her. “I recognised that look. I felt that way when my father died. He was a hard man, constantly critical. He died when I was fifteen, and I felt nothing but relief when we lost him. I couldn’t tell anyone because they were all officially devastated by his death. My mother never recovered, but he’d never showed me anything other than criticism. I was the son. I had to do what sons did. Not become an artist, nothing like that. He equated artists with gays and he equated gays with effeminacy. Neither of which is true.”
Inspired by his brutal honesty, she decided to ask her own question. And get him away from her. “Are you gay?” Sure, she’d seen him with women, but only in public and she knew how well people could hide secrets.
But his laughter held no shadows. “No. When I look at you, gay is the last thing I am. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
She followed his gaze down to his lap. When he moved the book and laid it to one side, she saw what he meant. His well-worn, soft jeans did nothing to hide his hard-on.
Despite her good intentions, she couldn’t help
smiling,
loving that she’d had that effect on him. Warmth flooded her when she realised that someone would see her scars and still want her, but she knew that for the superficial affirmation she needed. Her scars weren’t too bad, wouldn’t deter the average male, only the picky perfectionists she used to work for. Except that she still limped when she didn’t concentrate.
“I’ve noticed now. Don’t you know anything about model-artist etiquette?”
He shook his head.
“Nothing.
You’re my first live model since
art college
. I decided to move over to representative art this year. I’ve worked in abstracts until now.”
He slanted
her a
glance full of mischief, and like his smile, it transformed him. He enchanted her. That was it. He cast a spell that caught her completely. When he was solemn, he was completely solemn, but his smile had no boundaries to it.
Volatile, concentrated and entirely his own person.
She wanted it. She wanted whatever he had that made him so alive, so vital.
And so honest.
His honesty made her long for more. All her adult life—no, make that all her life—she’d assumed that lying, dissimulation and game-playing was the norm. Now, this man told her the truth and seemed to assume that she would tell him the truth in return.
“So why are you changing your style?”
He took her hand and stared at the palm.
“Because I want to.
I have two big shows coming up, at the Hayward here in London, and at the Guggenheim. Huge kudos, great boost to my career, or so my agent tells me. But they’re retrospectives.
At my age, retrospectives!”
He gave her a glance she would have almost called shy, his gaze flicking away from hers as if he were ashamed to admit it. “I’m twenty-eight. It’s ludicrous.”
She was twenty-four and her career could well be over. She didn’t see it as ludicrous in the least. But she didn’t say so.
“I thought I’d use the shows to indicate a new direction. I saw you and I had thoughts, ideas.
Got excited.”
“Me? Why?”
He glanced at the book. “That photograph. It intrigued me. Then I looked into your life and that intrigued me more.”
Vashti
wondered if she should reach for the robe lying on a stool at the side of the chaise and decided against it. Being naked was almost a natural state for her. Wearing a flimsy robe could, she knew from experience, be more titillating, draw more attention to her body, not less. So she sat still and listened. At least this studio was pleasantly warm.
“You’ve worked as a model since you were small. The public has known your face since you were five years old. You’ve sold washing powder, cars, dolls, chocolate, and most recently high fashion and cosmetics. And yet you still have a core of integrity. I wanted to know if it was you, or your remarkable looks.”
Honest, yes.
Flattering, no.
But she held on, revelled in this new exchange. “My looks I inherited from my grandmothers. One was Indian, one was Chinese. That makes for an interesting combination. But it’s nothing to do with me. I was brought up American.
Perhaps having a heritage that has nothing to do with the way I looked, helped.
Or maybe being independent from an early age.”
She could trust him with this. Anyone reading about her could guess this much. “My father died when I was young. So it was just mom and me. We weren’t rich, but we did okay, well enough not to have to worry about where the next penny was coming from. When I did my first ad, it was because my mother had taken me around to the agencies. But it’s hard work, so I learnt early to be self-reliant. And to look on my appearance as an asset, not connected with me except accidentally.”
He watched her with a strange, fascinated look on his face.
“Exactly.
You and your body are two separate things. Have you ever felt at one with it?”
She frowned. “I’m comfortable in my skin, sure.”
“But have you ever done something and not worried about how you look?”
She almost said yes, but then she had to think again. She frowned and forced herself to be open and honest. “I don’t know.” Even when on her own she habitually checked herself in mirrors, dressed well, wore make-up. Not because of any vanity, she didn’t know a single model
who
had any illusions about her looks, but because, ever since the age of five, she’d been in the public eye, trained to look and behave in a certain way.
Her gaze flew to his, and she found concern there. She hadn’t expected that.
Honesty, curiosity, yes, but not concern.