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‘Breasts.’
Then they were both laughing. He looked at her for a moment, then back at the artwork before taking her hand. ‘Let me show you something.’
Benedict guided her through to the second room, away from the daylight coming in from the street, away from the outside world. She didn’t like him holding her hand, but she thought it would be rude to snatch it away. He led her over to a mirror and positioned her in front of it. Audrey averted her eyes, instantly feeling tense in the windowless room.
‘Please indulge me. Is it such a chore for you to look at your own face?’ She stood still as he leaned over to a large panel of switches on the wall next to the mirror. He turned off the gallery lights, leaving only a single spotlight above the mirror shining down on her. She shivered, uncomfortable under such an intense spotlight, in an otherwise dark room with Benedict so close behind her.
‘Look, here,’ he said. He took her handbag from her shoulder and placed it on the floor, then pointed over her shoulder at her clavicle. ‘You have a very pronounced bone here, so elegant, just like your mother’s. Have you noticed?’
She froze. ‘I don’t want to do this.’ She tried to turn away, but he held her arms in place by her sides, pinning her there with no effort at all.
‘You should look. You’re a beautiful girl, Audrey, but you lack the posture and the confidence of a woman. You slouch when you walk, you hide your chest. The way you hold yourself, it’s like watching a Ferrari being driven by a learner, it genuinely hurts my eyes.’
She must have rolled her eyes because he clicked his tongue at her.
‘That too. You have the mannerisms of a twelve-year-old. If you want to own your femininity, you need to stop making these childish facial expressions.’
Withered by his words, she stood, frozen, unsure of what to do. He reached around and lifted her chin, his eyes on her reflection the entire time. Then he pushed his hand gently into the base of her spine, forcing her hips down and her breasts out. She didn’t want his hands on her, but she was paralysed, her inner voice muffled and mute. She found herself clay beneath a sculptor’s hands, being moulded to his purpose.
‘There, look. So much better,’ he said, proudly inspecting his adjustments in the mirror. As she looked, part of her conceded he was right, she did look more grown up, more assured, in her body at least. She momentarily forgot Benedict’s presence behind her until she felt his hand skim her neck and heard the smallest sigh of appreciation. She flinched.
‘Please don’t do that,’ she said, her voice high and childlike in her throat.
He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Audrey, I see women as angles of bone and skin, it is my job. You mustn’t always make things so personal.’
‘I am more than bones and skin and I’d like to go now,’ she said, reaching out for the panel of lights, to escape this intense spotlight, but as she pressed the panel, she only managed to turn the spotlight off, plunging them into darkness. He laughed at her mistake, and she felt adrenaline and fear course through her veins. She felt like a rabbit, cornered by a fox in its den.
‘Wrong switch, I think,’ he said, his tone light and cheerful. ‘Let me get it for you.’ Then he reached up his hand, and she felt it brush against her breast, pausing just a moment before continuing up to find the light switch. She didn’t even move from under his hand, she just let it sit there, her body entirely disconnected from what her head was telling it to do. Could it have been an accident, a mistake in the dark? A chill spread across every inch of her skin. Before she could process what had happened, all the lights were back on and Benedict’s jolly smile suggested nothing untoward had taken place.
‘Well then,’ he said. ‘Thank you for letting me show you my work.’ He sauntered towards the gallery door, and Audrey followed him in a daze. ‘I can see you have an artist’s eye. I knew you would understand me and my foibles a little better if you saw my pieces.’
Audrey stared at him in bemusement.
‘Oh, your bag?’ he said, ‘You left it in the other room.’
It was back by the mirror. She swallowed, not daring to show externally the panic she felt inside. Light on her feet, she ran, lifting her bag hastily from the floor, spilling the tin of peaches she had at the top, the ones she had bought on her way to the gallery as a gift for Fred. She watched the tin roll across the floor into a dark corner. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw Benedict had followed her in here. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself bending down to retrieve the peaches, his hands reaching for her hips as she crouched. She abandoned the can, swinging quickly back around with her bag and running past him, back to the safety of daylight and the gallery door.
‘In such a hurry. Are you sure you have everything?’ Benedict asked, his voice all friendly confusion.
She nodded, mute, her heart pounding against her chest, telling her to go, to get out, to escape. ‘I have certainly enjoyed our little chat,’ he said, reaching out to adjust the bag strap on her shoulder. She wanted to slap him away, but she didn’t. ‘And remember to walk a little taller, shoulders back, chin up, my little Ferrari.’ And then he made a growling sound, like an engine revving.
She thanked him. She thanked him. Then marvelled at the fact that her manners were so deeply ingrained. In the street, as soon as she was far enough away, she stopped, leaned against a lamp post, and gasped for air.
