12. Rome, September #3
“Good.” He flicked a piece of paper straight in his hand and studied it.
“Well, thank all of you for coming. Lots of familiar faces,” he said, speaking quickly.
“And for those who haven’t done this before, I may as well tell you now, the process is a tad odd.
We used to ask models to submit a headshot, but it’s better for the students to see you in person before deciding whether you’re right for them.
It’s a big investment of time on their part, so don’t get offended if no one wants to use you.
We’ll pay you for your time today, anyway.
Then there’s always next term and next term and next term, et cetera.
We’ve been here for over a hundred years.
” He gestured toward the idle students and gave a theatrically camp sigh.
“And, as you can see, no one’s going anywhere.
Allora . Let’s get to it, shall we? You students know the drill by now.
When I call your name out, it’ll be your turn to choose. Simple enough.”
Without waiting for a response, Lawrence began reading out the names of the students who, in turn, pointed at the model they wanted to work with.
Many of them seemed to know the first names of the models already, while others had to point at or specify their sitter by calling out prominent features like “red hair, tall.” I pressed my weight down into the plastic chair, smiling faintly as those who stood or sat close to me were selected. Inwardly, I was horrified.
I glanced from Mary, across to Decca, then back to the twins.
Mary hadn’t selected yet but nor had she given any reassurance that I would eventually be chosen.
I wavered, wondering if it was too late to try to leave the room.
One by one, they chose models who weren’t me.
It was hurtful, the way they scrutinized our faces and whispered to each other.
Decca bagged the best-looking young man early on, in what appeared to be a prearranged transaction; the twins chose an older Italian couple whom they also seemed friendly with. Suddenly, I didn’t want to be chosen. I folded my arms against myself as last night’s hangover squeezed at my insides.
Mary still hadn’t had her turn yet. Now and again, I saw her glancing over.
Eventually, there were just two of us left: a neat-looking woman with a polished dark bob haircut, and me.
The woman sat with her legs crossed, a self-assured smile pasted across her face.
My throat began to feel very dry; the back of my neck heated, as if someone had taken a match to it.
I leaned over my knees and stared at the ground.
“Mary?” Lawrence called, repeating himself more loudly so she could hear over her headphones. She looked over sulkily, clearly annoyed that she’d come last on his list. Again, he asked her to choose.
Mary removed one earphone and squinted between me and the older woman. I smiled hopefully, aware of a pulse in my stomach.
“I’ll go with Gussie,” she said quietly. Lawrence looked confused. One of the twins turned and muttered something to her, so Mary sat up and spoke a little more loudly. “I’ll have Augusta, please.”
Lawrence turned stiffly. “Have you sat before?” he barked.
I gestured to the chair I was sitting on. “Does this count?”
The students laughed. The other woman, my alternative, beamed between Mary and me, her gaze falling briefly on my tote bag, which she seemed to recognize.
I felt awful for being chosen over her, but, at the same time, I also admired the crisp dignity of her outfit: a white button-down shirt, tucked into her denim trousers; a red handbag, which she gripped; the stacks of blue and green statement rings made from colored glass.
I smiled back over at her to reassure her there were no hard feelings.
Lawrence addressed Mary. “No one wants a repeat of last term. You held everyone back. You’re better off going with someone a bit more experienced, Mary. I believe our other volunteer has sat before?” The woman nodded. “She’ll be more straightforward. ”
Again, that burning sensation appeared at the back of my neck. But Mary shrugged adamantly.
“It’s my choice,” she said flatly. “She’s my choice. I would like to paint her.”
The room quieted. Mary kept staring at Lawrence, daring him, it seemed, to quash her.
I thought back to the article I had read on the way over about Lawrence’s teaching style.
This exchange seemed harsher than that. Personal and pointed.
It was obvious that their friction had existed before this morning, and I couldn’t help enjoying my part in it.
Lawrence shifted on his heels and looked again helplessly at the other woman, before clearing his throat and pointing at my feet.
“Next time,” he said, “shoes off.”
The smile I gave Mary next was probably too grateful, but she returned it, half-triumphant, tongue in teeth.
When Lawrence left the room, trailing behind the other woman, Decca grinned at me, raising Frida up above her head so that she resembled a flying pig.
As the dog grunted and looked around the room with wet, worried eyes, Decca waggled its paw in my direction.
I waved back, unsure if it was a greeting or some joke at my expense.
A few of the students laughed. Mary sauntered over.