Girl in a gallery

Outside they gulped great mouthfuls of  un-sulphurous Mayfair air. The old man hobbled slowly towards the exit, pausing at the desk, he turned towards the girl and said with a wide yellow smile, "Was it something I said dear?"

As the girl journeyed home that evening something extremely good happened. At Green Park underground station she doubled up and began to cry;  uncontrollable tears of laughter. As her laughter subsided into intermittent giggles, she experienced the overwhelming feeling of release previously only achieved by her razor. Release without pain. It was possible. Progress. 

Who'd have thought that healing and insight could come from an old mans fart; she laughed un-self consciously for the whole tube ride home. The girl was becoming stronger.

Nobody knew Rebecca's age. What they did know is the pride with which she coveted her youthful looks. A full length portrait of her, painted by an art school peer, hung majestically in the upstairs gallery. She would stand by it and smugly ask her audience to compare her painted visage with the real thing,  "Can you believe it, I was 24 years old when George painted this, all those years ago – and  I've hardly altered, even if I do say so myself." Then came the conspiratorial whisper and girly giggle, "Poor dear George, he honestly looks like he could be my father now." She would finish with her all important advice to the fawning women within the group, "Sun block ladies. Factor 50, everyday without fail. The sun sucks away youth; arm yourselves ladies, it's never to late for sun block!" Then came her trump card, "That's why Calm Models are considering me to be the face of a beauty brand for the mature lady – how exciting!"

But recently, the girl had noticed something, a pattern in Rebecca's routine. As the next private view neared, the girl began to look for signs.

A sign – "I'm just popping out for a while darling."  The timing was spot on, a week before the private view. The girl noted she always proffered a non-committal, 'Popping out,' a week before a big one. Rebecca was showing a new artist of whom there was talk of Turner Prize nomination, this was huge.

Two hours later Rebecca scurried back into the office, head bowed – another sign. This time though, the girl had good reason to speak with her, and more importantly, look at her. 

The renowned artaholic Gnarls Latchkey had been invited to this private view. Everyday Rebecca asked if King Latchkey had RSVPd. He had. She had been instructed not to open anything that looked like it could be from him, so she dutifully knocked on the door and entered Rebecca's domain with the enticing piece of communication. As soon as she heard the words 'Mr Latchkey' her head shot up and her hand reached out hungrily. The girl delayed handing over her booty for a second, enough time to see a tiny needle prick on Rebecca's right cheek. Rebecca ripped the envelope from her hand and tore it violently open. As she jumped from her desk and whooped, "Gnarles Latchkey is coming to MY gallery!" the girl noted the same invasive marks on her left cheek. 

The girl had started to look at herself again. When she felt the urge to self-harm, she would stare at her face in the mirror and look deep inside herself until the need for painful release passed. When it did, she would smile triumphantly and say, "Salut frumoasa mea."

The gallery was stripped naked in readiness to be dressed by the artists work. 

Rebecca raced through the door, scanning the walls for imperfections. The girl  noted the raised  angle of her cheekbone. The concealer Rebecca had liberally applied to disguise her secret augmentation was losing its battle, bruising broke through. Rebecca  caught the girls eye wandering suspiciously  along the man-made contours of her face,  "What are you looking at sweetheart, what is it? A little careless knock against my kitchen cupboard door, it'll be gone by Friday. It's not that noticeable is it sweetheart?" The girl noted the shift – Rebecca, seeking reassurance from her.