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Authors: Tabitha McGowan
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recently, there was no easy place to land. With a shiver that I hoped was more to do with the chill of the morning, I realised it would also be one hell of a place to try to leave.
*****
By seven I was washed and changed into my working uniform of tracksuit bottoms and paint-spattered t-shirt and sitting alone in the palatial dining room, toying with the remains of a bowl of muesli. The silence was deafening.
Henry reappeared to refill my green tea. ‘Is everything to your liking?’
I considered the polite response, then went for the truth. ‘No, not really. I feel like I’m rattling around in here and I’ve got a severe case of MP3 withdrawal. I don’t suppose there’s anywhere a little less imposing to eat, is there?’
Henry bit his bottom lip. ‘Um, Lady Albermarle usually insists that guests are served here. It’s part of the service we provide -’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. I assume you know my story?’
‘I’m afraid I’m an avid reader of those awful celeb magazines, so yes.’‘Right. Then you’ll know I had all this. Had it, hated it, never wanted to do this shit again. So, is there anywhere else?’
‘Well there’s always the kitchen, I suppose. It’s nothing too grand – staff only, you see – but it’s where Finn and I…Oops.’ Henry chewed at his lip again. ‘Not that Finn’s staff, or anything. Can you imagine? No, it’s just that he tends to keep rather irregular hours – not a good sleeper at all, that boy; I’m up by five, and Finn’s often still awake then – and Lady Albermarle prefers to take breakfast in her – I mean their – quarters just up the stairs there. So all in all it makes sense that he eats with me.’
I decided to put him out of his misery. ‘I see. Look, the kitchen would make me far happier, Henry. Honestly.’
‘Well, we do like our guests to be content. From tomorrow then.’ Henry whisked my bowl off to his staff-only kitchen.
*****
By half past seven I was exploring the huge south-facing room that Blaine had given me as my studio. The worn, antique desk that had been pushed to one corner was piled high with all the materials I kept in my studio in Santa Marita, accurate to the very brands I bought. Sketch pads and rows of pencils vied for space with oils and gouache and brushes, and by the window a vast canvas rested on a top-of-the-range easel. Blaine Albermarle had carried out some extremely thorough research of her own.
By nine o’clock, The Lady of the Manor was taking a seat for her very first sitting. She wore black jeans and a white cotton shirt that probably cost as much as my car. ‘Do you mind if I talk?’ was the first thing she asked.
‘At this stage, no. To be honest I encourage it. It lets me see how you move, gesture, what your individual nuances might be. It’s impressions I’m after, not detail.’
‘So. I know this must sound like a dreadful cliché, but how do you want me?’
I had heard that question asked in a hundred different ways. Much of the time it was a forced, jocular query, asked by nervous clients who suddenly realised that their designer couture was about to have no meaning at all, or who expected me to tell them to drop their pants the moment they walked into my studio. With Blaine however, it was said as a challenge. Such was her confidence that I knew she would have stripped in the doorway if I’d asked.
‘Well, clothed, initially. Just grab a seat and make yourself comfortable. We can decide on the final pose and the degree of exposure a little later on.’
‘Wonderful.’ She was happy enough with this. ‘Do you always work barefoot?’
‘Yes. Although it’s a little more comfortable in Santa Marita. I didn’t think frostbite would be an occupational hazard.’
‘I’ll make sure Henry lights the fire in here as his first job of the morning. Is it some artist’s ritual?’
‘Hell, no. Entirely
*****
By seven I was washed and changed into my working uniform of tracksuit bottoms and paint-spattered t-shirt and sitting alone in the palatial dining room, toying with the remains of a bowl of muesli. The silence was deafening.
Henry reappeared to refill my green tea. ‘Is everything to your liking?’
I considered the polite response, then went for the truth. ‘No, not really. I feel like I’m rattling around in here and I’ve got a severe case of MP3 withdrawal. I don’t suppose there’s anywhere a little less imposing to eat, is there?’
Henry bit his bottom lip. ‘Um, Lady Albermarle usually insists that guests are served here. It’s part of the service we provide -’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. I assume you know my story?’
‘I’m afraid I’m an avid reader of those awful celeb magazines, so yes.’‘Right. Then you’ll know I had all this. Had it, hated it, never wanted to do this shit again. So, is there anywhere else?’
‘Well there’s always the kitchen, I suppose. It’s nothing too grand – staff only, you see – but it’s where Finn and I…Oops.’ Henry chewed at his lip again. ‘Not that Finn’s staff, or anything. Can you imagine? No, it’s just that he tends to keep rather irregular hours – not a good sleeper at all, that boy; I’m up by five, and Finn’s often still awake then – and Lady Albermarle prefers to take breakfast in her – I mean their – quarters just up the stairs there. So all in all it makes sense that he eats with me.’
I decided to put him out of his misery. ‘I see. Look, the kitchen would make me far happier, Henry. Honestly.’
‘Well, we do like our guests to be content. From tomorrow then.’ Henry whisked my bowl off to his staff-only kitchen.
*****
By half past seven I was exploring the huge south-facing room that Blaine had given me as my studio. The worn, antique desk that had been pushed to one corner was piled high with all the materials I kept in my studio in Santa Marita, accurate to the very brands I bought. Sketch pads and rows of pencils vied for space with oils and gouache and brushes, and by the window a vast canvas rested on a top-of-the-range easel. Blaine Albermarle had carried out some extremely thorough research of her own.
By nine o’clock, The Lady of the Manor was taking a seat for her very first sitting. She wore black jeans and a white cotton shirt that probably cost as much as my car. ‘Do you mind if I talk?’ was the first thing she asked.
‘At this stage, no. To be honest I encourage it. It lets me see how you move, gesture, what your individual nuances might be. It’s impressions I’m after, not detail.’
‘So. I know this must sound like a dreadful cliché, but how do you want me?’
I had heard that question asked in a hundred different ways. Much of the time it was a forced, jocular query, asked by nervous clients who suddenly realised that their designer couture was about to have no meaning at all, or who expected me to tell them to drop their pants the moment they walked into my studio. With Blaine however, it was said as a challenge. Such was her confidence that I knew she would have stripped in the doorway if I’d asked.
‘Well, clothed, initially. Just grab a seat and make yourself comfortable. We can decide on the final pose and the degree of exposure a little later on.’
‘Wonderful.’ She was happy enough with this. ‘Do you always work barefoot?’
‘Yes. Although it’s a little more comfortable in Santa Marita. I didn’t think frostbite would be an occupational hazard.’
‘I’ll make sure Henry lights the fire in here as his first job of the morning. Is it some artist’s ritual?’
‘Hell, no. Entirely
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