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Beautifulby
Fleur Bradley
The hand appeared out of nowhere: lean, strong fingers with shiny nails, dark hairs at the wrist. And Shirley took it, of course, who wouldn’t? Her left hand, which she knew to be rough and dry, with chewed nails and raw cuticles, looked dainty in his. Beautiful.“Let me rescue you from this rain,” he said. A voice, deep like an avalanche. “Careful, there’s a puddle there.” He helped her out of her car, a dented hatchback (you are what you drive). They huddled under his black umbrella while Shirley locked her car, fat raindrops splashing into puddles like bullets. He was tall, gallant almost, with that movie star rugged beauty - the stubble, large dimples, bright eyes. Shirley imagined him naked, for just a second, then blushed as he wrapped his arm around her waist. Like they belonged together.
“I’m Shirley,” she said. Brushed her brown wool coat.
“I know.” He smiled, luminous white teeth like black light at a seedy nightclub. Paused. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
Shirley shook her head. She was always honest - with her horrible complexion and generally disappointing appearance, there wasn’t any point in lying. Everyone saw you for who you were anyway, right?
“I’m hurt.” The man touched his heart in feigned pain. Smiled. “We met at your office. I’m a client?”
The law firm, of course. “Sorry,” she said.
“I remember you.”
“My office is the other way,” she said, too soft. Shirley Baker, filing assistant. The one with the bad skin - Lord, who didn’t notice that skin! Red, lumpy, seemingly oozing something at all times. It wasn’t unusual for people to give her business cards of dermatologists, newspaper clippings, advertising creams, skin peels, clinics in California. Her father: How do you expect to catch a man this way? Her mother, always in rebuttal: Shirley doesn’t need a man, she's fine on her own, but later, when mother and daughter were alone in the kitchen: You could dress a little nicer, make an effort.
“Work can wait a while, can’t it?” He brushed her hair back. “You have beautiful bone structure.”
Shirley blushed.
“I’m a photographer, I know these things.” He touched her cheek. “I would love to do a shoot with you.”
“I’m no model.” But Shirley straightened a little, smiled. A girl from the office had taken her to one of those department store make-up counters once, during lunch, for a ‘consultation’. The lady behind the counter had winced as she smeared on the concealer, foundation, powder until her face was just a bumpy, creamy surface, like cake batter. A whole new you. But then the hives started spreading on her neck. The itching! The swelling! Make-up on her fingers, under her nails (that was, where she hadn’t bitten them completely) as she scratched, scratched, scratched.
But look at Shirley now, alongside this God. His strong, beautiful hand tight at her waist as they walked the streets of Winnipeg, rainy and dark, lights in the windows of the shops that were still closed this early in the morning. Commuters walking past, men in suits, umbrellas, women in pencil skirts. Did they see her? Shirley Baker. Volcano Girl the boys called her in high school, all those zits. Grey hair sprouting already at her temples –and she was only twenty-five. Her mother: You can color that, you know. Make an effort. This handsome man, he didn’t seem to notice.
“Where are we going?” she asked. Not that Shirley really cared. What was his name again? Had he given it? She couldn’t remember.
“This way,” he said and pulled her closer.
They ventured into side streets, past smaller shops, a bar, closed in the window, the smell of beer and piss. Shirley glanced at her reflection in the dark windows. He had made her beautiful! No zits, no grey hair, no too-early wrinkles. Just this beautiful woman with a beautiful man, hands clasped around the umbrella. Lovers, perhaps? Her soft fingers, groomed nails. If only her mother could see her beautiful hands now. You shouldn’t bite your nails like that. It repulses people.
Of course, it would be her mother who would identify Shirley later, with the blood under her fingernails, skin the whitest white only seen in death. Mud from the river bank (where she was found, dressed in a bright blue sequined evening gown) caked in her long brown hair. Her father would cry, moan: noooo. Her mother: I don’t remember our Shirley this way. So… beautiful.
“I have a studio a few miles from here,” he said, his lips so close to her ear, his breath gave her goose bumps. “My car is this way.” Strong fingers, poking just a little too hard this time, into her fleshy side.
His right hand tightened over hers, trapping her around the umbrella’s shiny stem.
TO COMMENT ON THIS STORY CLICK HERE© Bradley, 2006
Fleur Bradley is originally from the Netherlands and moved to the U.S. in 1997.
Her short mysteries have appeared in publications such as The Storyteller, Futures, FAME and Flashshot, and is upcoming in various anthologies and Hoodz.
She’s recently completed her first suspense novel, ‘Roots Don’t Lie’ and is now working on the second book in the series, ‘Bedroom Lies’.