The Shadow of Your Smile

Chapter One: Splendidly Attractive Nerdiness

"Oh! Betty!" Christina said, running over and grabbing Betty's arm as she passed by in the lunch room on floor 28. She dragged Betty over to the table where she was having lunch with the tiniest woman Betty had ever seen. "Betty, I want you to meet Anastacia Watson."

The woman stood and didn't come any higher than Betty's shoulder. She was tiny all over. Incredibly small in every way, including her voice. "Good afternoon, Betty," she said, a light British accent settled gently on her speech. "Christina has told me so much about you. I simply could not wait to meet you in person."

Betty shook the tiny woman's hand and said, "I wish I could say the same. Christina hasn't mentioned you to me at all, Miss Watson." The three women sat down and began their lunches again. "So, Miss Watson—"

"Please," she interrupted Betty quickly. "Call me Anastacia. Or Ana, as Christina has fondly dubbed me."

"Okay," Betty said, a little surprised by the interruption. Most models she new would have rather she call them Ms. X— rather than by their first names or even a nickname. She wasn't sure if Ana was a model or not, but she looked like one. "Ana, what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a model," Ana replied lightly, munching on a pastry of some sort. "But I do a lot of freelance work, writing articles and the like. What do you do?"

"I'm the assistant to the editor in chief," Betty said, thinking that of course this tiny person sharing lunch hour with her was a model. No one that small isn't a model. "So, what magazine do you work for?"

"Mode. So, what's Daniel Meade like?" Ana asked, quickly changing the subject. "I heard that he's not incredibly intelligent and that he didn't really do anything to earn his job. Is that true?"

"No and yes."

"That's all you're going to tell me, Betty?" Ana pressed. "No and yes? What kind of answer is that? I don't mean to be rude, but, sweetie, if you want to survive in this business, you need to learn to come up with answers to those kinds of questions insanely fast. Otherwise, there's no hope for you. Especially if you're an assistant. You need to make your boss look good to the public."

Betty's attitude toward the British woman was growing steadily colder. "Listen, sweetie," Betty shot back, surprising Christina. "I don't know who you think you are or how much better than me you think yourself. Where do you get the nerve to insult Daniel Meade the way you do? Where do you get the nerve to insult me the way you do? I'll have you know I worked extraordinarily hard to get my job and there's no way I'm going to let you steal right from underneath me! Do you understand me?"

Ana smiled sweetly, then laughed. A quiet, bell-like tinkling of a laugh that only British women seemed to posses. "You think I want your job?" she asked, an amused smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Listen, Betty, I'm a model and a writer. There's no way I want to be Daniel Meade's assistant. He'd be trying to get into my knickers within the first hour. I'm sorry. You can have your thankless job." She leaned back and munched on a baby carrot. "Y'know, Chrissie. From everything you told me about her, you never once mentioned she was such a spitfire. I like her, Chrissie. I really do."

Betty looked between Christina and Ana, bewildered. Christina seemed to have noticed her confusion, for she said, "Betty, did I forget to mention that Ana's my mother's cousin's daughter from London? She's here for a photo shoot for our Then and Now: Women of Society's History cover story."

"What?" Betty asked dumbly.

Ana leaned across the table. "Betty, I'm Anastacia Watson, the poster child for the traditional British Victorian Lady," she said, smiling warmly. "There's no Victorian style I haven't worn. And no traditional Victorian pose I haven't done for hours at a time. My favourite's The Secluded Library. My brother favours Angelique, actually. He can't seem to get enough photos of me in that pose."

"Angelique?" Betty repeated, thoroughly confused. She was in no way familiar with modelling, let alone Victorian poses.

Christina smiled. "Angelique was our great-great-great-great-aunt who travelled to America when she was sixteen," she said. "She just up and left the Isles. There's a photograph of her that Ana here somehow found. It's absolutely beautiful. When her brother, Jonathan saw it, he had to photograph Ana in the pose. Jonathan's a photographer, y'see. And he's done nearly every one of Ana's shoots. Most of the photos in her portfolio he's done. Beautiful work, too, if I do say so m'self."

"And you did say so yourself," Ana nodded. "Anyways, when Jon saw the photo of Aunt Angelique, he knew that would become one of the most famous poses in Victorian modelling. He and I dug around in the many props and costumes shops where we had connections and found a table, lounge chair and fan that were almost identical to the ones in the photo. And, to my mother's surprise, we found a dress that was perfect."

"Recreating an authentic photo in modelling isn't entirely easy, Betty," Christina said. "There are so many details that go into it. The clothing, the props, the lighting, the colour grade of the photo when it's been developed. But, somehow, our little Jonathan did it. And he was right: that photo has become one of the most famous in Victorian modelling."

Betty still was confused. "I don't understand," she said. "What's Victorian modelling?"

"In England, modelling is divided up by what time period you're representing," Ana said, explaining. "There are eight different sections of British Modelling. Primeval, Roman (during the reign of the Roman Empire in most of Europe), the Dark Ages, Renaissance, Elizabethan, Industrial, Victorian and Modern."

"But I thought the Renaissance was during Queen Elizabeth I," Betty said.

The three women stood, gathered their trash, threw it in the garbage can and began walking towards Betty's desk. "Well, technically, yes, you're right," Ana replied. "But there are different styles of clothing all throughout the Renaissance that the stylists and designers split it into two categories. That way, Renaissance is what you would typically find at the Renaissance Faire, and Elizabethan is the hideous poofy clothing in the portraits of Elizabeth and others from the 1500s, where the sleeves of a 'simple' dress have nearly the same amount of fabric in them as the skirt—each. There's no possible way you could entice me to model for Elizabethan. I mean, who would want to wear something that makes them look like a giant balloon of fabric?"

Betty shrugged as they reached her desk. "So you model for the Victorian Era?" she asked, shuffling through the papers on her desk. Ana nodded. "So do you wear all the traditional clothing? Like the corsets, the shoes, the underwear?"

"Yes," Ana answered brightly. "Even the corsets. You get used to it after a while."

"Ana, let Betty feel under your shirt," Christina suggested, earning a shocked look from Betty. "That's not what I meant, goose. Feel her stomach." Betty gently put her fingers on Ana's stomach, feeling something rather stiff and hard underneath the fabric of the British woman's blouse.

Ana guided Betty's fingers to her side and the Queens girl felt the same stiff something. Then the same something on Ana's back, but also something else, "Feels like lacing. Are you wearing a corset right now?"

Smiling, Ana lifted her blouse a little to show Betty the obnoxiously bright violet corset she was wearing under her blouse. "I always wear a corset, Betty," she explained. "Except when I'm in the shower. If I take it off for longer than a half hour, putting it back on is like going through hell. It's hurts more than you'll ever know."

"Once, when she was visiting a year or so ago," Christina chimed in, "she took it off for a day and when we put it back on her, we broke three ribs. Corsets are no fun unless you're used to them."

"You broke three ribs?" Betty repeated, shocked. "Why do you even bother wearing it, then?"

"Because it's for my career," Ana answered, straightening her blouse. "I'm small enough to represent the Victorian Era, so I need to wear everything that they did for the shoots. But wearing a corset only occasionally is painful and really bad for your ribs, so I wear it all the time so I'm used to it. But back then, they wouldn't sleep with it on. However, I've only been wearing corsets since I was eighteen, rather than twelve, so I need to wear it when I sleep. Not comfortable, but we all have to make sacrifices for our art, don't we?"

Betty nodded. "Well, it was wonderful talking to you, Ana," she said brightly. "Even if there was a slight confusion at the beginning. But I do need to get back to work. Good luck on your article."

"Thank you, Betty," Ana answered, smiling warmly. She looked up from Betty's desk into the office directly across from it. Everything is so round on this floor, she thought, amused, as she examined the roundness of the office. Seated at the large glass-topped desk was a very handsome young man, at about thirty-two years old. "Betty, is that Daniel?"

The young assistant glanced up and answered, "Yeah, that's him. But, he's very busy, so please don't bother him. He has an appointment at one thirty with some hot-shot British writer who wants to talk to him about the next cover story…" She looked up sheepishly. "That's you, isn't it, Ana?"

Christina and Ana laughed heartily, and Betty noticed the family resemblance in the two women at last. They had the same laugh when they were genuinely laughing. "Yes, and it's about time to go in to see him, don't you think?" Ana responded, checking her watch. "I'll come down to the Closet when I'm done with the meeting, 'kay, Chrissie?" She gave her cousin a hug and a light kiss on the right cheek, then walked to Daniel Meade's office and knocked on the door. "Mr. Meade?"

He looked up from the paperwork he was completing and saw her with an incredibly confused expression on his face. "May I help you?" he asked.

"Yes," Ana answered, walking into the office. "My name is Anastacia Watson. I'm writing the cover story for the next Mode issue. I know I'm a little early for the meeting, but I have an incredibly long list of things to do today, so I thought that perhaps we could get started early. That's not a problem, is it?"

After recovering from his initial surprise to see her, Daniel Meade stood and said, "No, not at all. Please, Miss Watson, sit." Ana sat in one of the chairs across from him and he examined her for a moment, then sat down as well. "I admit you're nothing what I expected."

"You were expecting a tall, rail thin Glamazon, then?" Ana inquired, laughing her little bell-like laugh. "No, Mr. Meade. I'm not a Glamazon. Far from it, actually. I actually like to eat." Daniel Meade chuckled. "But, that's not why I'm here. You wanted to know about the article I will be writing?"

"Uh, yeah," Daniel Meade said. "I need to know exactly what you will be writing about so we can arrange for the photo shoot. What's the concept?"

"The concept?"

"Your point of view," Daniel Meade explained. "Will you be writing from an objective or subjective point of view? Will you be commenting on the social advances women have achieved in the last two hundred years or the fashion advances?"

"You misunderstand me, Daniel Meade," Ana said. "I do not tell anyone what I will be writing about until I have a draft of some sort already written. Suffice to say, I will be covering the Victorian Lady and the Modern Age Woman. Which means I will need models to represent the Victorian American Lady and the Victorian British Lady, during the different fashions of the era, as well as models for the Modern Age American Woman and the Modern Age British Woman, during the 1920 to today. Do you think you'll be able to find me enough models in time? I do not want to reuse models."

"That's –what?—eight models?" Daniel Meade asked.

"No," she answered simply. "That's eight models for the Victorian Era and eighteen models for the Modern Age. Twenty-six in total, in case your math skills aren't entirely up to par." She smiled sweetly. "No offence."

"Twenty-six models?" Daniel Meade repeated. "That can't be done. You're going to have to cut back some of your article."

"Fine," Ana said shortly. "Fourteen models."

Daniel Meade shook his head. "Fourteen is still too many," he said. "Mode has a limited supply of models to use for our shoots. You're going to have to narrow it down more."

Ana sighed and rubbed her eyes. She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could speak, a young man entered the office and cut her off, "Mr. Meade? There's a problem with the budget for the next cover story. We can't afford twenty-six models."

"Thank you, Henry, I'm well aware of that," Daniel Meade answered. "I was just going over a few ideas with Miss Watson about cutting back on the models."

He gestured to Ana and she stood to greet Henry, who stood at a towering six feet, compared to her five feet, actually, and looked the poster boy for adorable nerd. She reached up and shook Henry's hand as she took in his splendidly attractive nerdiness. "Pleasure to meet you, Henry," she said. "I assume you work in accounting?"

"Uh, yeah," he answered. "Does it show?"

"Just a little," she whispered. "Do you have any suggestions to help keep us in budget? I'd love all the input I can get."

"Oh, you're the Anastacia Watson in charge of the article and shoot?" Henry asked, a slight blush creeping to his cheeks. She nodded. "I'm so sorry! I didn't recognise you out of your dress."

"I beg your pardon?" she asked politely.

"You know, your Victorian dress," Henry stammered, trying to regain his composure. His blush darkened and Ana saw Daniel Meade chuckling a little from the corner of her eye. "I have a copy of two of your photos."

Ana smiled and nodded. "I see," she said. "Which ones are they?"

"They're, uh, The Secluded Library and Angelique," Henry replied, a thinking expression on his face. His glasses slipped down his nose a little. He pushed them back in place and continued, "I read that the Angelique pose was taken from an actual photograph of your ancestor. You've done quite remarkable work, Miss Watson."

"Ana," she pressed. "And thank you, Henry. So, did you have suggestions for Mr. Meade and me for the budget?" He didn't answer her. "Henry?"

"Hmm? Oh! I'm sorry," he apologised. "I was lost in thought. Well, I had thought that perhaps we could use the people from the office for the shoot. You know, real people representing real people from history. What do you think?"

Daniel Meade nodded. "I think it sounds great," he agreed. "Miss Watson?"

"Ana," she insisted. Then she nodded too. "That could just work. May I?" She pointed to the chair beside her. Daniel Meade nodded and she climbed on top of it, feeling a sharp pain in her back, but ignoring it. "Henry, take two steps back." He complied and she gave him a look over, thinking quickly. "That would actually work," she muttered, the pain in the left side of her back intensifying a little. She still ignored it; her corsets usually caused bizarre, random pains in her torso. "Of course, he'd have to be the British gentleman. He doesn't have the physique for the American…"

"What have you come up with?" Daniel Meade inquired, watching as she muttered to herself, waving her index finger in the air in the direction of Henry, apparently planning something for him, while standing on one of his chairs.

"If it's all right with them," she began, getting off the chair, the sharp pain intensifying, "I'd like to use Betty and Henry, and, actually, yourself as the models, Mr. Meade."

"Call me Daniel," he said. "What do you have planned?"

"Well, Daniel, you and Betty would represent an American couple," Ana explained, internally wincing in pain, but never letting it show in her face. Never let them see you cry, Ana, she reminded herself. "And Henry and I will represent the British couple. We'll shoot several different photos, one for each succession of fashion trends. We save on models and money by using the four of us. And it'll be a nice twist on the traditional fashion magazine. I can't exactly say for certain what your father would say if he knew beforehand, but it isn't a feature spread, so we don't need his approval before we shoot it."

Henry's eyebrows were raised at the thought of his photo being in a magazine. But Daniel nodded, "I like it. But wouldn't it make more sense to use someone other than Betty?" He stood and leaned on the desk in front of him. "Amanda, perhaps? I'm not saying that Betty wouldn't be good enough, don't get me wrong. I'm just saying that Betty has very apparent orthodontia—that isn't period, is it? Shouldn't we use someone else who doesn't have braces?"

Ana arched a judging eyebrow. "Are you implying that Betty isn't good enough to be in your magazine as a model?" she demanded. "There is nothing wrong with Betty! Besides, there are ways to hide her braces! She will do fine! And I want her to be one of the models for the article. And I want you and Henry to be models, too! End of discussion! I'll be back tomorrow morning at 10.30 sharp to discuss wardrobe with Christina, at which time, you two need to be down to the closet to be measured. ON TIME." She spun around and, grabbing her purse, stormed out of the office.

As she passed Betty's desk, she latched hold of Betty's arm and dragged her along to the ladies' bathroom. "Ana, what's wrong?" Betty asked, seeing the expression of pure pain on the British woman's face. "Are you all right?"

Ana shook her head and pulled her blouse off, turning her back to Betty. "Betty," she said, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks. "I need you to see what's going on with the corset. It hurts worse than when I broke those ribs. What's happening to me?"

As she looked over her new friend's back, Betty felt the blood drain from her face. She gently touched a dark discolouration on the bright fabric of the corset. The corset was wet to the touch. When she pulled her hand away, her fingers were covered with blood. "Ana, you're bleeding!" she gasped.

Ana's hand found its way to the blood stain on the back of her corset. She looked at her blood-covered fingers, then turned to face Betty. "Betty," she gasped, the pain overwhelming. "Call Chrissie. Then call the medic."

"Are you going to be okay?" Betty asked, pulling out her cell phone as Ana slowly walked towards a chair. Ana nodded, then collapsed, falling roughly to the tiled floor. "Anastacia!"