Girl in a gallery

The following day the new art was being hung; but no Rebecca. The girl pondered her absence: Rebecca's favourite time, her chance to command, control and flirt with the ruggedly handsome installers. The men's machismo juxtaposed with their delicate handling of the art works intoxicated Rebecca;   surely she wouldn't miss her fix. The phone interrupted her thinking.

It was Rebecca, flustered and flappy, "Darling I shan't be in today, feeling a little bit liverish, need to rest in readiness for Friday. The installers have been fully briefed, so there should be no hanging issues. Please ensure they don't leave a mark, SPOTLESS sweetheart. I'm relying on you, you're in charge. And, If any of them use the toilet, please check the bowl for poop marks."

The installers worked tirelessly hanging the mammoth works. As they were leaving one of them picked up a press release designed to inform the media of the young artists genius. He read intently, his expression changing from interest to distaste. He looked back at the art with disdain before shouting to one of his colleagues, "Ere Mattie, it sez ere that this geyser uses camel shit in his paintings!" Mattie came back in, looked at the art, then his hands and exclaimed loudly, "CAMEL SHIT!" The artists unusual choice of medium was communicated to the rest of the installers and all ten of them marched into the toilet exchanging profanities – "Camel shit – THE DIRTY BASTARD!"

Wednesday came, but Rebecca didn't. Two days before the private view and she had not yet seen the works, nor had she phoned to ask how things were. Something was amiss thought the girl.

Thursday morning, still no Rebecca. The Champagne arrived. The caterers delivered the utensils. The phone rang: Mr Latchkey's P.A. confirming his attendance. 5.pm, Rebecca still hadn't made contact. The girl was emphatically told to only ever phone Rebecca in an emergency. She wondered if this was one.

6.10 pm, Rebecca called, "Darling, I've had an unfortunate allergic reaction to some shell fish I ate at J.Sheeky's. My face may be a little puffy tomorrow. Now sweetheart, you need to do something for me, with the utmost urgency – call  Calm models – they're due to send one of their scouts round to the private view to meet me. CANCEL her darling, I'll re-arrange another date, rather she saw me at my best." 

When Rebecca arrived the girl told her what she wanted to hear – that she couldn't notice anything untoward about her face. This sent Rebecca into a delirious spin of deluded delight. She cooed and fawned over the art hanging in HER Gallery. In truth the girl thought her face resembled a stingray. As the afternoon wore on the girl became convinced Rebecca's face was getting worse.

The gallery was a hive of activity, with an excited, expectant charge in the air. Rebecca fanned around administering orders. When not lauding it over people, she waltzed around the gallery practicing her greetings, reading the names aloud from the guest list, ensuring her pronunciation of the more exotic monikers was pitch perfect. Her greeting for Gnarls Latchkey was rehearsed with great gusto. 

With Rebecca lost in her pre-private view theatrics, the girl noticed her face beginning to look alarmingly cartoonish.

Handsome waiters stood like sentry's, balancing bubbling flutes of champagne on solid silver trays. Rebecca surveyed the scene, ensuring all was present and correct to receive her viewers. The girl sat at the desk with the guest list, ready to tick them off as they arrived so that Rebecca could keep her vengeful inventory: i.e. those that didn't turn up would never be invited again. As Rebecca did one final review of the artworks the girl looked furtively at her from beneath her fringe. The skin on her right cheek seemed to be stretched and straining.

The first guest arrived, a young, funky looking lady. Rebecca immediately switched herself on, offering her hand, "Rebecca Crandle. Welcome to the private view. And your name sweeheart?" The young lady helped herself to a glass of champagne and said, "Lovely to meet you Rebecca, I'm Charlotte Roche." The girl couldn't find her on the guest list.

Charlotte began looking at the paintings while Rebecca looked at the girl, expecting her affirmative nod that she was on the guest list. When the girl spun a worried 'no' Rebecca switched to imperious mode, "Do excuse me Charlotte,  there seems to be a problem, it's invitation only and you don't appear to be on the guest list." Charlotte smiled, "Oh, I do apologise – I should explain, I'm from Calm models, one of their model scouts. Your assistant did call to cancel. It's just that I've heard a lot about this artist and thought It OK to come along anyway. I hope it's not a problem?" Rebecca flew into an apologetic flap while trying to show Charlotte her best side – unfortunately she didn't have one on this evening.

The guests began to arrive thick and fast. Rebecca worked the room enthusiastically, paying particular attention to Charlotte, ensuring she saw her height and figure in all its gracious glory. 

The girl noted the Rolls Royce arrive and informed Rebecca of Mr Latchkeys' arrival. 

The girl caught Charlotte's eye; staring, scouting her – surely not, she thought.

Rebecca swanned towards the door to meet her star guest, while Charlotte walked determinedly towards the girl.

A young boy accompanied Mr Latchkey. Rebecca greeted them with a contrived mix: awe, respect, mutual interest. She steered him towards the desk where she had noted Charlotte talking with the girl. This wasn't on, the girl wasn't employed to socialise. She would assert her authority in front of Mr Latchkey, impress him with her no-nonsense attitude to slacking staff, show him what a tough cookie Rebecca Crandle was – a serious player in the ruthless world of Art.

Rebecca heard Charlotte say to the girl, "You're absolutely what we're looking for, such a natural and..." Rebecca cut the scout off with a firm finger, "Darling, Mr Latchkey has arrived; can you ensure he's accounted for and get back to work please..." The boy pointed at Rebecca and asked his Father, "Daddy, what's wrong with her face?" All eyes followed the boys pointing finger, finally focussing on Rebecca's pulsating cheek.

Her skin split and spat an angry green stream of smegma, which landed with an alarming force onto Gnarles Latchkey's crisp white collar. He glanced down, then back up, in time for another shot of poison to splatter his forehead. The snottish slime, slid viscously towards his aghast open mouth. As it entered his oral cavity, he gagged, spluttered – his face contorted in revulsion.

The sorry thing was, Rebecca looked on bemused. She had no idea that her synthetically enhanced cheek had exploded over Gnarls Latchkey. She looked around her gallery searching for the source of this disgusting attack. All eyes were on her; assuming they were admiring glances, she began to take advantage of her audience by attending to the unfortunate Mr Latchkey.

"Get this woman away from me!" he screamed. The girl handed Gnarls Latchkey a tissue and guided him sympathetically towards the toilet. Her heart sank. She hadn't done what Rebecca had asked. She hadn't checked the toilet bowl for poop. She recalled the installers had used it frequently. She opened the door and hoped for the best – but it wasn't to be.

Incensed – Mr Latchkey flew back into the gallery – shouting, "Rebecca Crandle, your toilet is full of SHIT! Your walls are full of SHIT! And it's quite evident that your face was full of SHIT!" And with that Mr Gnarls Latchkey and son were gone.

One week later

Her real beauty had been discovered. She sat in the sumptuous offices of Calm Models, ready to sign the contract so coveted by Rebecca. She would be one of the global faces of  'Nature's Intent' a high-end skin care range aimed at all women of a certain age, whose looks were un-tampered by invasive procedures. She sipped champagne; for the day was a double celebration. It was her birthday; she had turned 45. More importantly, she had become a confident woman. Nobody would stunt her growth or treat her like an underling again. 

She reflected on the irony of her years working for Rebecca: Whilst she secretly self-harmed to release her hurt, Rebecca turned to secret invasive cosmetic procedures to maintain her shallow values. The resultant harm she bestowed on herself meant that Rebecca became the reluctant poster woman for, The Adverse Event: a warning to women everywhere to approach the procedures being peddled to them by the cosmetics industry with caution. Conversely, the woman who once worked in a Gallery was about to become an empowering face for the mature woman. Where age had gifted her with wisdom and affirmation of her natural beauty, it had cursed Rebecca with self-hatred and public humiliation.

She was ready to flourish and fly into the world: naturally, beautifully, 45 and proud.