Model in Paris

by carolethecatlover

Synopsis: A beautiful girl walks by and feels the 'buzz' as Duncan is near, he sees her and feels her and walks up to her and introduces himself to her. She does not know she is an immoral and a confusing at cross purposes conversation ensues. He does not tell her outright, but tries to get her to go to dinner with him. She thinks he is too old. She jokingly sets him up.

MY HIGHLANDER STORY.

Synopsis: A beautiful girl walks by and feels the 'buzz' as Duncan is near, he sees her and feels her and walks up to her and introduces himself to her.

She does not know she is an immoral and a confusing at cross purposes conversation ensues. He does not tell her outright, but tries to get her to go to dinner with him. She thinks he is too old. She jokingly sets him up with her aunt who is 'more his age'. The aunt persuades her to take the date, and she will sit at another table. The aunt suggests that older men are worth cultivating and listening to, in terms of an education, including sexual. The beautiful girl, whose name is 'Marie-Claire' does not want sex as she thinks she is still 14. Her backstory is that at 14 she was in a serious accident and she nearly died, and spent a year in a coma. When the life support was cut off, she died. However a 'miracle' occurred and she lived, quickly recovered (leading to induced comas). Her mother was killed in the crash (she feels guilt because she was arguing with her mother) and she came under the guardianship of her aunt who took her to Paris when she was fully recovered, where she was scouted as a model, and for the last 2 years she was modeling in Paris, with her aunt as her guardian. Occasionally, she has felt the 'presence' of someone without understanding it was another immortal. She thinks her aunt is setting her up to 'lose her virginity' with Macleod, and does not want to be alone with him, after all, she feels and thinks she is 14. Running from Macleod, she is hit by a car and 'dies'. Macleod picks her up and she comes to on his barge. He sits and tells her the story of Immortality while she is dazed. She is convinced. She agrees to learn to sword fight with him. End is that her aunt thinks that she is going off t with Macleod, while nothing of the sort is happening, end scene, she is stripping to gym clothes and polishing a sword, they do sword play, not fore play.

(I have not written a 'play' and do not know the format, so will write this as a novella).

Point of view?

1st person? 3rd Person?

The villain in this piece is (from Marie-Claire's point of view) is Macleod.

Do I need another immortal? Or 2, friend AND foe.

14 forever:

MODEL IN PARIS.

The day was gray and drizzling, typical of Paris. Marie Claire sighed. She missed Sydney, sunshine, and surf. Ok, French parents and relatives don't make you French. But France was where the money was. A Look See in an hour, plenty of time. A buzz, a tingle suffused her whole body, not for the first time. Her doctor had said it must be the nerves repairing, re-arranging themselves, mending. 3 years on and still healing. It was the 3rd , no, 4th time in the past 2 years she had felt this feeling. It came again and more intense, and suddenly fizzled out. She sat on the kerb, aware that a tall man was standing over her.

"Don't worry, it'll pass" He said with a wide white smile. She took in his clothes, long loose Myziki coat, cuffed trousers, Raf Simone Menswear 4 seasons ago, black turtleneck from that Zara menswer line, a top seller, and YSL blue shirt, old British handmade shoes, well and expensively dressed if not up to the season.

"Thank you. I'm fine". She replied.

"Now, what is that accent? New Zealand?".

"Australia. But my family are French."

"Lucky you. Can we have lunch?"

"No thank you, I have an appointment."

"Dinner then?"

"No thank you."

"Why not? Just dinner, I'd like to talk to you."

"I don't mean to be uncivil, but you are a bit old for me. Sorry. I'm sure you are very nice, but I am only 18. What are you? 40?"

"You don't know how true that is." He laughed and then laughed again. His eyes started to water, Marie Claire revised his age downwards, 35. She was getting better at guessing ages. Somehow it was important to know how old people were. He straightened up and choked off his laughter, but then for a moment looked a lot older.

"Goodbye" She said and started to walk briskly towards the nearest Metro. She wished that her aunt Blandine was with her. Blandine said she had to be more self-reliant. Truth was, she still felt 14. The tube was packed with damp Parisians steaming in the warmth. She sat down. The tingle hit her again. The Tall Man came and sat beside her.

"Name's Duncan McLeod. Born Scots, now French, occasionally Canadian. Art dealer, Militaria mainly, but old documents are a major interest. Also martial arts, and if you are so scared of the world as you appear to be, you should learn to fight, judo, all kinds of martial arts put women on an equal footing with men. Also a good sword."

Marie Claire regarded him with disbelief. "No thank you". She said coldly.

"Let me guess. Men hit on you. Photographers the worse. I am sure you are a model. All this season's clothes. But comfortable shoes. A few lessons in Judo and that would see them off. But you need to wield a sword and wield it well if you are to live".

" A sword? The lecherous photographers are not going to kill me, just seduce me".

"There are those who would kill you."

"Why?" This conversation was getting way too strange.

"Do you know what you are?"

"French, and Australian, according to my passports".

The train stopped, and Marie-Claire got out, Duncan followed her.

"Tell me. Did you die? And then come back to life?"

She turned and stopped, staring at him.

"How did you know?"

" I know. When?"

"4 years ago, but I really died when they took me off life support 3 years ago. My mother died in the crash, and my Father is driven by work, but my aunt brought me to Paris, there is a doctor here who works on 'induced comas' he thought that the life support acted like a coma and enabled me to heal so fast."

"Then someone suggested you become a model and here you stayed".

"Yes, correct on all points. While on life support, I grew 4 inches 10 centimetres. Tall enough to become a model. Never saw it for a career, never even thought about it. Wanted to be a doctor, or herbalist, something in that line. The Parents grew herbs for alternative medicines, lavender for perfumes. Modeling pays better."

"Have dinner with me, bring your aunt. We need to talk. Seriously."

"I don't think so. You are old. And you made me feel nauseous."

"Do you feel 'nauseous' often?"

"NO, just 3 or 4 times in the past couple of years."

"Good. Be very wary when you feel like that. It's a warning. A warning that someone wants to take your head".

"You are seriously crazy."

"I'm as sane as anyone my age can be. Give this to your aunt. Please". He said, holding out a card.

Marie Claire jumped as someone tapped her shoulder.

"Cherie, introduce me to your friend." The tall blonde, Britt-Inger, grinned widely, seductively at Duncan.

"You don't want to know him, he's nuts." Said Marie-Claire. She grabbed Britt's sleeve and pulled her after her.

Later that evening, she repeated the exchange to Aunt Blandine, showing her the card.

"Nice address, antique dealer, mmm, nice card. Any thing else apart from 'Nuts'?"

"What more do you need to know? Judo? Swords? Guys that want to chop off my head when I get the nerves tingling. Total Nut Job."

"Well, maybe a bit odd. Go to dinner with him, nice dinner. Even take a few judo lessons. I think he is after your body."

"He can stand in line. My body is mine and I am just a kid. No sex thank you!"

"You are nearly 19. You act like you are still 14".

"I feel 14. I really don't feel 19. Britt-Inger is 19, and she is ….old. She sleeps with men, she would drop this NutJob into bed in a blink. It's nasty, sex is nasty, you get horrible diseases. Yuk"

"Alas, still 14. I think you stopped aging when you had that accident. You still look 14. You still act 14. You need an older man with good skills to teach you."

"You are disgusting."

"No. Just honest. Don't fall into bed with some young guy. They are fast and useless, lots of energy and no skill".

"Yuk. You go to dinner with him then."

"Is he good looking? Well, I guess you didn't notice. But taller than you, I'd bet."

"Tall, too muscular to be a model. The Martial Arts, I'd guess. Dark, looks a bit Spanish, funny mixed accent, about 40, maybe less. Hard to tell. Not my cup of tea. You might like him."

"I am sure I would. OK, tell you what, we all 3 have dinner here in this house, your house, you paid for it, and if he causes trouble, we call the police. OK?"

Marie-Claire sulked like a 14 year old for a while. Then reluctantly agreed. Blandine had good sense, a somewhat armoured, but kind heart, and generally was a very reasonable person. Better than my mother, thought MC.

Blandine had said that she would realize that the fights with her mother were 'just a teenage thing' and would come to terms with it. Marie-Claire doubted it then and still doubted it. Her mother was a witch, she was sure of it then and still was. Blandine was a better person to live with, altogether more reasonable. Nevertheless, a niggle of grief welled up and pulled up a balloon of guilt whenever she thought of her mother. They had been arguing when the car crashed.

Blandine had an entirely different view of Duncan. He was tall and muscular, sure, Blandine would have liked to get his clothes off and those muscles on paper in indian ink. The face was good, sad and kind and wary. Yes, the face was excellent. He had brought 3 bottles of wine, and not just any wine. A chateau Lafite 69. Wow, was this mec out to impress or what?

"Sit down, this meal does not do justice to the wine, but thank you very much."

"Thank you". Duncan sat with grace of a dancer.

"Do I smell coq au vin?"

"My best dish". Said Blandine with just the right amount of flirty allure.

The meal was an unqualified success. The food was excellent home cooking by a good French home cook. Duncan ate appreciatively, Marie-Claire ate everything in sight with the appetite of a teenager, though skeleton thin. Blandine pushed the conversation around. Duncan kept trying to say something and then choking on it. Marie-Claire alternated by glowering at him and eating. She did not say a single full sentence.

It was early when they parted ways.
"Blandine, I need to say something important to your niece and she needs to learn to defend herself. Come to my dojo, with her, and I'll give her a few lessons. I have a friend, a female friend, who could help."

"It's not help she needs. She needs to grow up. I swear she is just the same obnoxious teenager she was before the accident. And Men! She does not know you exist. Even boys of her own age. She just flips them off. She broke the wrist of a photographer who tried to feel her breasts, and that's another thing. Still got her 14 year old body, just entering puberty, no breast worth mentioning, little body hair. I think you are wasting your time. The accident retarded all growth. I wish I knew if that was possible."

"Entirely possible. I used to date a doctor. " He laughed.

But you need to talk her into a little self-defense".

"Marie-Claire said you thought she needed to learn to fight with a sword?"

"A sword is a real weapon. It makes a man think twice about tangling with her."

"Well, you are the expert. I will talk to her. But don't hold your breath."

Indeed, all Blandine's pleading got nowhere. Marie-Claire insisted Duncan was a NutJob. She refused to even call him 'Duncan' or 'Mr Macleod', just calling him 'NutJob'.

Marie-Claire and Blandine were sitting together in the Maison Marco design studio when Marie-Claire next felt the tingle.

The tingle; NutJob Duncan had said was a sign someone near wanted to harm her. Marie-Claire looked around. Only the usual suspects sat there. Models, the PA guy to the designer. 2 skinny guys too close and talking in a conspiratorial whisper. The designer walked in. The tingle intensified. Jeff 'le Quebecois', head-hunted from Canada, impossible last name, had worked for himself as a tailor since graduating from Parson's school in NY, also completed an apprenticeship in Saville Row, London, in tailoring , but had started studies in architecture. He didn't look old enough for what must have been 15 years of just studying, plus 10 years of working, had to be 40 at the very least. He looked 20. Not gay. Straight. Marie-Claire might have struggled to guess ages, but her 'gaydar' worked well. Perhaps it was growing up in Sydney. Lots of gay guys there. She giggled. If the tingle happened when a gay guy approached, she would never stop tingling in Sydney, or in the fashion world of Paris.

And OK, she was sure he did look 20, but Yves St Laurent looked young forever until his death at the age of 71 from a brain tumour just a few years ago.

He looked directly at her.

"That one" He smiled widely, beckoning with two fingers. Marie-Claire stood up uncertainly, still tingling. Odd. Blandine pushed her forward.

"I'll wait". Her aunt said firmly.

Jeff was tall and just a tad imperious, but precise. He measured her, muttered 'perfect'. "Try this , and ..er.. this on." A black dress and a red gown, his signature colour according to the rumour mill. They were lovely and fit without alteration.

"So, how old are you? And who are you and where have you been hiding all this time?" he asked as he laced up the back.

"I'm 18, I'm French but grew up on a farm in Tasmania, then Byron Bay, then with my aunt in Sydney, she's a famous cake decorator".

"But how old are you really?" He whispered in my ear.

Marie-Claire turned around. "18. Really, the passport officer asked the same thing. I hope I look 18 for a long time. This is an age dependent profession".

"You look 14". Said Jeff.

"I had a bad accident when I was 14, was unconscious for a year, had life support turned off at 15, and died and was resuscitated, but healed fast, and even got a free trip to Paris to see an expert doctor about coma recovery. But I'm 18 now, honest!" Born on 11th September 2001 Not a date to forget".

"You don't say". Jeff grinned. "You don't know?"

"Don't know what?"

"What you are?"

"French and Australian, according to my passports. That's the 2nd time this week I've been asked in that odd way!"

"Marie Claire Bonnaire" He read the comp card. "Well, Marie Claire, I am no harm to you, but others may be. I would never harm a woman. And there are fewer women of our kind. A pity you were not just a little older when you…er…transitioned".

"Transitioned? I am not trans-gender."

"You need to learn a few things, and learn to fight if you want to keep this immortal life". Jeff undid the lacing.

"This immortal life?" Marie-Claire laughed, then noticed that Jeff was not laughing. He looked directly into her eyes, saying 'shusss' without words.

"Yes, We'll use Marie Claire in all the upcoming shows." Jeff said loudly to his black clad, gay PA.

"Thank you".

"Tante Blandine, we have to talk!"

"OK, we talk, you have another LookSee at 3pm at Maison Margiela."

"Jeff le Quebecois is another NutJob!"

"No! Marie-Claire, that is too much!"

"Not kidding, he also wants me to learn to fight! He said I needed to learn to fight! 'To fight to keep this immortal life' Quote, UnQuote!"

Blandine stared. Pulled Marie-Claire by the arm and out into the street.

"This immortal life? Really, he said that?"

"Yes, he did!"

"Maybe you should learn to fight."

"I'll end up covered in bruises! I'm famous for my white skin!"

Blandine sighed. It was true, and bruises tended to last and show up for a long time. Blandine frowned.

"Show me your arm, where you banged it on the bed we were putting together 2 days ago".

Marie-Claire rolled up her sleeve as they walked down Blvd Raspail. No visible bruises. Wrong arm maybe, Marie-Claire rolled up the other sleeve, no bruise.

"Well, that healed fast". Said Blandine. "Must have been that Acacia you cooked up".

"Arnica Montana, not Acacia." Marie-Claire said.

"Whatever!"

The rest of the day passed uneventfully.

A week later, just as Marie-Claire was wandering thru the newly re-opened Samaritaine department store, she had lost Aunt Blandine somewhere in kitchenware. Marie-Claire preferred handbags. A man stepped in front of her.

"My name is Tayis Kurnanian of Armenia" He carried a fancy walking stick. He was short and maybe 30, swarthy like a pirate.

"Oh" said Marie-Claire. She smiled uncertainly at him. Another NutJob! Really, it was time to go back to Sydney and get a real job. There didn't seem to be anyone around. The sword that was whipped out of the cane was totally unexpected.
"Don't scream!" The NutJob Tayis whoever said urgently. "Close your eyes and it'll be over quickly." He lifted the heavy looking sword over his head, Marie-Claire screamed and ran for the fire exit, and continuing to scream to the street. Security guards caught up with her and listened to a garbled story about swords, an old man with a cane called Tayis or Travis or … in 'Handbags'.

She sat trembling until Aunt Blandine arrived.

"We need to go back to Australia". Marie-Claire said, much more coherently.

"We are doing well here and now. What? ANOTHER nutjob? "

"Yes".

"Go and have a few fight lessons with Duncan, and stick it out until you have enough money to help you through university, whatever you choose to study."

"I would like to, but these NutJobs are getting to me. Can we go home?"

Home in Paris was the 300,000 Euro apartment that just 5 month's modeling had paid for. Yes, stick out the NutJobs and make enough to live on for a lifetime, or to get the education of a lifetime. Marie Claire did not sleep well.

The Next day was the fitting and dress rehearsal at Jeff's. As the designer laced her into the red dress, she whispered into his ear.

"Jeff. What did you mean 'This immortal life'? I have met you who suggested I learn to fight, I have a met a Duncan Macleod who offered to teach me Judo and to fight with a sword and yesterday This NutJob attacked me in Samaritaine. What is going on?"

Jeff looked at Marie-Claire. Then head down, fussing with the hem, he said, "Better you ask Duncan, he's older, wiser and much the better fighter. Be very aware, there are people who would kill you and cut off your head. Remember, if you kill them, cut off their head or they will rise to kill you."

"You are not serious."

"I have never been more serious. Here keep these." Jeff pushed over the sharp pointed scissors fully 30 centimetres long.

The Couture show was an outrageous success. Then the photo session, then a press party. It was midnight before Marie Claire was able to get a taxi home. Aunt Blandine had been there all the time, but was asleep in the taxi.

The other car came out of an intersection on their left, fast, and moving for them, deliberately. There was a crunch a stabbing pain and darkness.

It was later, much later, when she woke up. On a rug with a triangular pillow under her head. A vaguely known face swam into view.

"Hello Duncan Macleod, how are you?" she said and fell back into unconsciousness. It seemed a while, but suddenly she was awake and unhurt.

"Here drink this, you'll be OK in a few minutes." Duncan said.

"Thank you".

Marie-Claire drank the juice, peach or apricot, she wasn't sure which, it was wet and cool.

"My aunt? Is she OK?...Where is she?"

"In the Hospital. Out of danger. My ex is the emergency doctor, she'll get the best of care".

"It was deliberate. Why were you there?"

"I went to see your show. So you met Jeff. I have known Jeff a long time."

"How Long?"

"300 years more or less".

"This immortal life".

"Unless someone kills you by beheading".

"Why would they do that? And I take it, you mean other immortals"

"Yes, they came after us, or some do. You are safe if you you stand on Holy Ground."

"Holy Ground?"

"Any temple or church of any kind of religion, even pagen gods, there are Roman temples that are Holy Ground, the whole of the Ile de la Cite is holy ground."

"So I should become a Nun?"

"No, you should learn to fight."

"You are not after my body?"

"No, too young by a good few years".

"What happened to the other driver? Was he an Immortal?"

"Yes, and he lost his head"

"Someone chopped off his head? With a sword?"

"Yes".

"That tingle, is it always someone immortal?"

"Yes, but not always a friend. Be aware."

"And Jeff, he's an Immortal too."

"Yes, and kills with scissors" He held up the scissors that Jeff had given me.

"And uses a fire axe to remove their heads".

"I find that hard to believe. He seems kind".

"Looks can be deceptive. He's been around for over 300 years. Sewing since Louis the XIV, clothes have changed a lot".

"You said you gave fighting lessons. How much per hour?, and can you sell me a sword? Mr Antique Dealer".

Aunt Blandine reclined on the couch, plastered up one leg, the other ankle, and an elbow, a black eye turning yellow, a chipped tooth watching MC heft the training bag. Gym clothes, a sword, a judogi, clean underwear.

A smile crept up on Blandine's face.

"Have fun".

"That should be "don't get bruised".

"You'll get a few bruises, even kissing leaves bruises".

"Not that kind of training Tante! ".

Duncan and Marie-Claire squared off.

"Bend those knees, and guard up, higher…" said Duncan.