The Women Behind the Painting

She held up the heavy fabric, bunching it in her fist, as she scuttled around his drawing room. Occasionally she would stop and scratch at the wig on her head. The sweat, bleeding down her face. He came over and dabbed at her forehead, the cloth softly grazing her skin.

The wall behind her was a musty green. If you squinted, it appeared to be a deep green wallpaper. Worn away after years and years. In a narrow corner, almost out of sight, was a spot of mould. Looking at it plainly, she always thought it looked like a picture of a plant gone wrong. The plant slowly growing, creeping into the walls like a parasite. On this occasion, he had managed to make the wall look presentable even somewhat nice. Scattered with Japanese fans he had hunted down. Some had fallen on the floor but he had refused when she asked if she should pick them up. "No, they belong there." He had said without even glancing up.

"Would you hold a fan for me my love?" His voice broke her thoughts. He passed her a fan and she took it delicately. She noticed the fan sported the colours of France and held it proudly.

He offered her a smile and walked over to the window to let some air in. His white smock was spattered with colour, his black slacks slouching on his legs. He stares at the canvas, his eyes furrowed, playing with his beard, twirling it in his fingers.

She averted her eyes and abruptly cleared her throat, "How would you like me to stand?" She asked.

He turned and then peered at her. "Stand on that box darling. Tip your head back for me." She did as she was told with a smile, "Hold that fan to your face."

Gripping her kimono, she heaved herself up on the stool. He rushed over to offer a hand and she smiled wide in return. She stabled herself, reaching an arm to grip his shoulder. He took her hand in his, caressing it for a moment and then without leaving her gaze, kissed it gently. He fluffed at the fabric around her, spreading it around her.

He went off to study sketches in preparation to paint. Scattered around his desk were several pictures of Japanese art, pages of an unrecognisable language, surrounding ink type drawings. He was always so interested in all things Japanese. Coming home so often showing her his newest finds. A porcelain vase, the numerous Japanese fans, several woodblock prints. One day he came home in a frenzy, with wrapping paper, sporting a Japanese print. The next day he had it framed. She never knew whether to share in his delight of discovering something new, or to scold him for spending more money. At that thought, her eyes flittered to the mould on the wall behind her.

He came home one day with a cherry red coat-like dress he called a kimono, she could not help but smile in delight. She didn't ask how much it cost, that would have ruined it for her, she knew. Instead she admired the intricate gold patterns that trailed from the sleeves all down to the bodice, to the skirt that swept the floor.

"I want you to wear it and pose for me." He asked. He pressed the kimono up to her, as if to imagine it there and pressed a kiss to her temple. How could she refuse him?

A knock on the room door, startled her out of her content daze. The door handled twisted, the door opened and she walked in. With a sultry smile and a cup of tea, she waltzed in as if invited.

"Claude?"

"Alice dear." A pleasant tone rang through in his voice.

"I don't mean to disturb, I just thought you'd like a cup of tea whilst you paint."

"Ever so thoughtful." He took the cup from her. They began to talk in hushed tones. She would let out a quiet laugh or put a hand to her mouth to stifle her stupid, girlish giggle. Alice had yet to look at her yet. Despite the fact that she was the brightest thing in the room. Her eyes only remained on Claude.

Suddenly the deep cherry red kimono, looked more like a blood red. The elegant gold threading looked kitschy. The wall, even with the fans no longer looked special. The room felt hotter even with the window was open. She couldn't keep the scowl off her face as they spoke. She looked away after several long moments. If she did not look away now the bile in her throat would continue to rise. She was sure if she looked, her veins would not be blue but red with anger.

"Thank you for the tea Alice but I must begin to paint,"

Claude turned to smile at her. For the first time since she had entered the room, Alice turned to look at her and, unsuccessfully, tried to hide her glare. She smiled triumphantly. It is the same air they breathe, the same house they share, the same painter even. But she would never be his model. It would always be her. Always her. Always her in his paintings. Trapped forever in eternity. Always.

Always me

Always

The scowl that appeared on Alice's face was an expression in itself. Alice cleared her throat and after a moment too long, cleared her face of any disdain. "Of course. I'll leave you to it." With the right side of her mouth slightly upturned, she turned and walked out of the room. The door closing behind her.

Claude turned to look at her. "You look beautiful." Walking over he trapped her mouth with his lips, kissing her firmly. His paintbrush in one hand and his other caressing her cheek. "My perfect model." She smiled in elation.

"My Camille."