Her beauty was beyond doubt. She sat at a stark metal desk, in the middle of a white concrete room, sticking addressed labels onto a never-ending mound of envelopes. She worked swiftly, elegantly, but above all nervously. A viewer had said something earlier in the day which she feared Rebecca, the gallery's proud owner, may have heard. A complete set of mailers ready to wing their way to affluent addresses in London may soften the blow. She had done nothing to elicit the comment, but she'd be blamed for it.
The Couple were middle aged and smiley. She'd greeted them as instructed and continued with her task – she must never distract viewers from the stars on show, the art. It hung from pristine walls: proud, resplendent, expensive. She listened to their whispered critiques, deducing they were browsers not buyers. They didn't stay long, browsers rarely did. As the woman pulled the door open to leave, she looked back at the girl, smiled and said to the man, "My gosh, look David, the paintings are framing HER, she's so beautiful." The girl winced and bowed her head. Her thick auburn hair fell forward, obscuring her face. The force of the compliment hit her like a bullet in the bowl of her stomach. There would be repercussions – because nothing must deflect from Rebecca's art.
Rebecca enthused with her usual exaggerated gesticulations, "Sweetheart, you've been a busy bee today." The girl thought her strategy may have worked. The mountain of mailers that would deliver samples of Rebecca's art to wealthy homes were ready to go. "We're sure to get an influx of enquiry's once they receive these enticing nuggets." The girl had made Rebecca happy; for a fleeting moment she felt accomplished, clever, useful. But those feelings didn't last long, not when Rebecca was around.
Rebecca's tone changed, she'd heard the compliment: "Sweetheart, please don't take this the wrong way, but I would rather you toned down your eye make-up next week, particularly the mascara. You tend to be a bit heavy handed. It makes you look cheap. At the end of the day we have an image to portray – we're a classy cookie, not a tacky tart. "
The girl lived alone in a Brixton bed-sit, far removed from the gilded glamour of Rebecca's Mayfair manor. On her way home she popped into Boots and purchased the remnants of their lunch-time meal deal for supper. In the communal bathroom she scrubbed off her make-up, checked her bare face, but didn't linger – she didn't like mirrors.
The room was her refuge; the place to do the thing that made her feel good. She couldn't resist the compulsion. Removing her jeans, she placed a disposable razor blade inside her right thigh, pressed and pulled downwards. The searing heat of sliced flesh gave way to warm rivulets of slow flowing blood, giving her the feeling of release she so craved.
She ate the prawn sandwich, drank her orange juice and set aside the oblong of carrot cake: breakfast.
She wore no make-up on Monday morning, to make Rebecca happy. After all, she'd come a long way from her small village in Romania. Rebecca would say: "walking the streets of Mayfair's a blessing, let alone working in one of its most reputable viewing spaces," as she handed the girl her small salary.
The mailing worked; the phone trilled constantly and she filled the diary with viewing dates. Rebecca scanned the girl's hand written insertions looking for wealthy names, when two Mayfair doyennes entered the gallery. Their appearance gladdened the girl – a distraction. Rebecca pounced, guiding them towards her latest piece. She began her sales pitch.
Rebecca didn't notice the old man sidle in; she never bothered with old people. She punctuated her wordy pitch with a long silent comma, designed for dramatic effect, when the roar of human gas, forced from a loose old anus, ripped through the space, ricocheting off the walls, its unmistakable sound amplified by the gallery's sparse acoustics. Rebecca, divertingly continued her sell – until the insidious smell reached their nostrils: wretched, old, eggy, with an underlying hint of boiled ham. Overwhelmed, the doyennes launched themselves towards the door, followed by a furiously flapping Rebecca, "You stay there!" she barked at the girl.
