The Truth About Beauty

Chapter Seven

SORRY IT'S TAKEN SO LONG!

I was working on the new story that I've just posted up.

But anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter, I loved writing it, but I haven't edited it so sorry for any typos. 

I'll let you read now ;)

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I avoided Peter and Victoria for the rest of the week, though it hadn’t stopped Ray finding ways to sneer at me in the Alcoholics meetings, something I tried to ignore at the insisting of Dr Ali – it hadn’t always worked. Emily had taken my sudden patience to mean that I was respecting her desire to not appear too easy; the simple truth was, the more I got to know her, the less attractive she became. It hadn’t halted her advances, of course, and I’d accepted them graciously, even if the talking did do my head in.

By Friday, I’d managed to successfully withhold conversation from Peter and Victoria for three whole days, and rehab was a time that blossomed into one of painful boredom. The only saving grace was my time with Dr Ali, and even that didn’t last long enough to prevent the swell of angst and loneliness that was beginning to grapple with my mind. It was torture.

“Either you must make up with these two, or find a hobby,” my therapist had said, his accent one that I found to add a soothing quality to our talks. Neither options were particularly appealing, but I refused to even consider befriending the others again. Like adding oxygen to a flame, my whole life would overturn if I continued to explore the odd emotions Victoria brought out. It was already too fragile.

“What kind of hobby can I develop here?” I’d retorted, sceptically.

The doctor had given me a look of exasperated tolerance. “Everyone has an interest, Austin, even you. Expand on that.”

With all the time I had to myself, I considered what that could be.

The only thing I was good at was getting drunk and looking pretty, but neither of these talents could be considered as something I necessarily enjoyed. The drink was to forget and the looking pretty part was something I didn’t even need to think about. Maybe I needed to integrate the two for a starting point.

My thoughts reverted back to what the woman, Cara or Carla or whatever, had said in the first Alcoholics meeting I’d attended. Her passion was photography, which fits naturally enough with modelling, and she’d said herself that when reality became too much of a burden, she’d gone to her camera to help escape the pain.

When the desperation became too much, I’d resolved on asking her for lessons, her therapist permitting, of course.

“Of course I’ll help you,” she’d replied, eyes betraying all of the wariness in her mind. “I’d love to get involved in photography again, but I left all of my equipment at home.”

“That won’t be a problem,” I told her, aware that a simple phone call to Barry explaining this new found passion would persuade him to invest a couple hundred dollars, or pounds as it was in this country, into it.

Carla had smiled at me, withered face turning youthful. “Well then I’d be happy to show you the ropes.”

Against my control, I’d replied with a smile to equal the delight in her expression. She’d looked so relieved and thankful, I couldn’t help but grin back, shocked but oddly delighted that I hadn’t entirely lost my ability to cause at least a little happiness. I thought that had died with my mother.

That evening, I went into the drug’s session with relative ease, begrudgingly happy that I had at least a little something to look forward to now that photography lessons were being set up with Carla.