French Silk(83)

Josh's breathing was almost as labored as hers. The latent violence that had unexpectedly erupted frightened him. "He did this to us," he said in a slow, rasping voice. "He's still doing it to us. It's like the bastard isn't even dead."

Again he reached for Ariel and turned her around. With his hand splayed over the back of her head, he pushed her face to within inches of the mirror. "Look! Look at yourself. You look like a ghoul. He's doing this to you, and you're letting him. He's the reason you're starving yourself to death. Now tell me who's crazy."

Disgusted with himself as much as with her, he left her staring at her skeletal image in the mirror.

* * *

After lunch, the crew set up on Rosesharon's screened back porch. As a prop, they were using an antique hand-crank ice cream freezer that someone had come across in the Monteiths' detached garage. The blue paint on the wooden tub was chipped and pealing. The rusty metal strips holding the vertical slats together had stained the exposed wood. The freezer was no longer usable, but everyone agreed that it made a terrific prop.

The model, Liz, was seated on a milking stool, wearing a long white batiste nightgown that had a row of tiny buttons extending from the scooped neckline to the deep flounce at midcalf. The first several buttons were undone, and the skirt was bunched in her lap, well above her thighs, which were parted to accommodate the ice cream freezer. The impression Claire wanted to convey was that Liz was laboring over the freezer while Kurt reclined in the white macramé hammock in the background.

"It's sexist," Yasmine said.

"Not if it looks like she's enjoying it," Claire argued.

"It looks like doo-doo," Leon whined petulantly, as he adjusted the focus rings of his camera. "It's not hot enough."

"It's the only damn thing that isn't." Rue coughed and lit a cigarette. "Jesus, how do human beings survive down here? Have they ever even seen autumn leaves?"

"Maybe Liz needs some perspiration," the makeup lady ventured shyly.

"And I can spritz her hair with water," the stylist offered. "Make it look sweaty."

"Let's try it."

"For God's sake, hurry. I'm positively melting," Leon said.

"It would help if you took off that godawful shirt," Yasmine told him snidely. He was wearing a long-sleeved flamingo-pink silk shirt.

"But this is one of my best colors."

"The color gives 'putrid' a bad name."

"You bitch. You wouldn't know fashion if it—"

"Please, you two," Claire said wearily. "Let's try to get this shot done."

"I'm going to have these impressions on my buns for life," Kurt complained as he shifted uncomfortably in the hammock.

It had been decided several minutes earlier that he should appear as an indistinct form in the hammock, with only one strong, tanned leg dangling over the side. He was naked, save for his lap, which was covered with a towel that would be removed when they began taking pictures.

"Bear with us, Kurt."

"Did you mean that as a pun?" Rue asked.

Liz's hair had been lightly misted and was now clinging to her neck and chest in damp, spiraling tendrils. "I like that much better," Claire told the hair stylist. "Thanks."

The makeup artist was misting Liz's face and upper body to simulate a healthy sheen of perspiration. "Hmm," Liz sighed. "That feels good."

"Yes, yes, this is much improved," Leon cried. "This is looking great. Oh, yes. I'm feeling it now."

"Give us a glimpse of cleavage, Liz," Yasmine said. The model leaned forward as though applying herself to the hand crank of the ice cream freezer. "Oooh! Perfect!" Leon squealed.

"Wait," Claire ordered. "We've got nipples." The cool misting of water had caused the model's nipples to peak beneath the fabric of the gown.

"So what?" Theatrically Leon lowered his camera, annoyed by the interruption.

"I don't want them projecting," Claire said. "Give them time to relax."

"You show nipples all the time."

"Under the bras, they're relaxed."

"We've had projecting nipples before," Yasmine said. "She's right. You have," Leon said. "I should know. I took the goddamn pictures."

"Under opaque fabrics, jutting nipples are fine," Claire explained calmly. "But this looks vulgar. I can detect outline and color, and I don't like it. I don't want it to look like we photographed a wet T-shirt contest."

"You've got a naked man there!" Leon protested in a shrill voice that threatened to shatter the Monteith family crystal.

"But he's only an illusion. He's suggestive without being lewd." Claire kept her voice carefully controlled. "This argument is over."

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Leon muttered. "When did you turn into Miss Goody Two-Shoes?"

"Since Jackson Wilde," Yasmine said drolly.

Claire whipped around, confronting her friend with astonishment and anger. "What a ridiculous thing to say, Yasmine! Wilde was never the barometer by which I gauged what was tasteful and what wasn't. He certainly wasn't my conscience. You know that."