Forget to Remember

into the open loft and over to Sean. “I forgot to tell you about my scar.”
    “Let’s see it.”
    She had to open the robe. Now was the time to quit. Something stiffened her spine. She would make him fire her. Then she’d be off the hook with her conscience. She couldn’t be accused of being a quitter. She timidly showed him the scar.
    Sean took a quick look and went back to setting up. “I just won’t paint it. Not a problem.”
    Surprised, Carol knew she couldn’t quit now. She was committed.
    ***
    Lord Binghamton had been correct. Once Carol had been posing for about an hour, her lack of clothing ceased to bother her. She was much more concerned about holding her pose. She was supposed to be looking out the window and waving to somebody outside. She could lean against the window frame for support—Sean had made it quite sturdy—but the hand she was waving with was up in the air. Every few minutes she had to lower her arm.
    She could only see Sean in her peripheral vision because she wasn’t directly facing him. She wondered whether he had posed her like this on purpose, so she wouldn’t freak out watching him work, wondering what part of her he was painting.
    The heater radiated warmth, but she was still chilly. Sean had promised her a break after an hour, so she could put on the robe for a bit. She hoped he couldn’t see her goose bumps.
    He didn’t talk while he painted. That was all right with her. She spent the time wondering about the relationship between Sean and Lord Binghamton. Lord B must be Sean’s patron—wasn’t that what they used to call them?—buying his paintings, subsidizing his rent. Well, if he could afford it, why not?
    Carol heard the door to the loft open, but it was out of her field of vision. She panicked and became very aware of her lack of clothes. Who was it? The only thing that kept her from grabbing the robe was Sean’s calmness when he spoke.
    “Melanie. What a surprise. I thought you were working at the shop today.”
    “I have a client nearby I have to talk to, so I thought I’d pop in for a moment and see how you’re getting along with your new model.”
    “Somehow I thought you might just do that. Take a break, Carol, and we’ll have some tea. Melanie, this is Carol. Carol, this is Melanie. Melanie is an art dealer.”
    They said hello from a distance. Carol was happy to put on the robe, not only to warm up but because she was self-conscious in front of Melanie, even though she was a woman—or perhaps because she was a woman. Melanie was the quintessential English blond with blue eyes. She didn’t have anything to fear from Carol. Carol, in fact, was surprised, thinking the girlfriend of an artist would be more laid back than to worry about his models.
    Melanie had evidently gotten a good look at her, because she said to Sean, “She’s got the combination of beauty and sex appeal Lord B likes. But that scar on her abdomen…”
    Sean spoke gruffly. “I’m not going to paint the scar.”
    “You’re going to have to add some pubic hair, however, because he’s a traditionalist.”
    Sean’s voice became gruffer. “I’ll take care of it. I know what I’m doing.”
    Carol hoped Melanie was through picking at her. At least she didn’t ask how Carol got the scar.
    Melanie heated water and got the tea things ready while Sean cleaned up a little and covered the canvas, explaining it was off limits until the painting was finished. Carol went over to see if she could help Melanie, who started asking her questions.
    “I understand you live across the pond in the colonies. What part?”
    Carol gave the simplest answer. “California. Los Angeles.”
    “Near Hollywood?”
    “Sure.”
    “What brings you to swinging London?”
    Carol explained about looking for Cynthia. While she was talking, she had an idea. “You’re an art dealer. Did you know Jacques, the painter who lived here two years ago?”
    “Jacques. The bloke who was killed in the accident? I did know him. Pity. He had good technique.”
    “He painted a portrait of a girl I’m sure is Cynthia. Lord Binghamton owns it. I was wondering if you ever met Cynthia. She looks something like me.”
    Melanie studied Carol. “I don’t remember any Cynthia, but I do remember a model who looked like you. She had a Japanese name—Iko or something like that.”
    Carol was startled. “Could it possibly have been Aiko (ah-ee-ko)—spelled A-i-k-o?”
    “Sounds right.”
    What was going on here?