Claire had not tried to use the bodies as objects for her photography since David had made his opinion on the subject quite clear, and she certainly wouldn't dream of doing it now, but nonetheless, she took a look at the newest body downstairs. To be fair, she had really planned on checking on David after Nate had told her that David had finally talked to a client again yesterday. But the late Ms. Chase caught her attention as well.
For starters, the woman was gorgeous. Claire wondered whether she saw female bodies differently now, after the fuck-up with Edie, and decided she didn't; this was an aesthetic judgment. Secondly, the juxtaposition of that kind of beauty with what David was using to pump stuff into her just screamed for a photo. But a promise was a promise. In order to avoid temptation, she postponed her chat with David and went outside for a joint. Which was where she encountered someone who looked like he could have been attending one of Aunt Sarah's parties, carrying a parcel.
"Cool make-up," Claire told him, in lieu of a greeting. "But the eyes are overdoing it. What's that supposed to be, red or orange?"
"Molten gold. Everyone is a critic," the green person said with dignity.
Claire shrugged. "Hey, they're making us have a go at each other on a regular basis at college. You should have heard what my friends called my series of self-portraits."
Holding her joint, she looked for her lighter, but the green guy was faster.
"Allow me, Rita Hayworth," he said, and pulled out a lighter of his own with one hand, holding on to his parcel with the other. "Look, sweeting, anyone who can't see those flowing red tresses frame a delectable face is too benighted to count anyway."
"You're gay, aren't you?" Claire said, unimpressed, but she led him light her joint. "Care to share?"
"Labels are so 90s," he replied, and accepted the joint after she had taken a puff. She took in the morning view of the garden, regarded, not for the first time, the utter mess George had made of her birthday tree and spent her daily minute of hating her mother's husband. It started to feel old, so she turned to Mr. Green again.
"So," she said, "let me guess. You're the guy supposed to organize the wake."
"Actually, I'm here to deliver the wardrobe for Cordelia Chase, honeykins. But you're right. I'm Lorne. Trust me, none of her other friends would be remotely capable of throwing a decent party."
"Claire Fisher, and it's a cool idea anyway," Claire commented. "I'd say that's what I want when I die, but Mom and David are too repressed." When he didn't reply, she looked at him, curious. "You're supposed to protest that I'm too young to die before the rest of my family, or something," she said, mildly impressed that he didn't.
"I wouldn't know," he said, passing the joint back to her. "I haven't heard you sing yet. And I don't believe I'd want to."
"My voice isn't that bad," she said with a crooked smile.
"That isn't the point, Clarissima," he said, and the sadness mingling with his flippancy convinced her that she didn't want to know. She inhaled instead.
"Wait a minute. Did you say you were Claire Fisher? Aren't you one of Olivier Castro-Stahl's students?"
"Yes," Claire confirmed with a decided lack of enthusiasm. It was nice to be recognized, but she'd have preferred it to be for her own work. Granted, her own work so far had not had an exhibition devoted to it yet, and hadn't really sold in the group exhibition last year, but still. She eyed Lorne and wondered whether Olivier had fucked him as well. Sometimes it seemed there wasn't anyone in the entire city of Los Angeles who hadn't been screwed by Olivier, one way or the other.
"I'm not a fan, either, lambkins," Lorne said, reading her expression with an accuracy that was starting to get eerie. "But I head the artist division at Wolfram and Hart, and we do represent the guy. He needs lawyers on a regular basis, you know."
"No kidding," Claire said, and hoped she wouldn't be pathetic enough to ask whether this "artist division" of one of Los Angeles' most prominent law firms was any good at organizing exhibitions for young unknown artists.
"You wouldn't want the kind of contract he has," Lorne said, and Claire decided enough was enough.
"Are you reading my mind or what?" she demanded.
"Nah. I told you. I haven't heard you sing. But you have an expressive face, Claire," Lorne said, taking the joint from her again.
"My mouth is too large and I look like some kind of human duck drawn by Disney," Claire said bluntly. "So what kind of contract does Olivier have which I wouldn't want?"
"The eternal kind," Lorne said after having inhaled himself. "I think you should stay… flexible. You are too young for the belly of the beast, darling."
"I was too freakin' young all of my life," Claire shot back, annoyed. "That's what you get with two brothers who are way older."
This caused Lorne to look nostalgic and mutter something about someone named Numfar, and she decided to change the subject. When they talked about old boyfriends or family, you knew you had to.
"Do you think your friend would have been okay with me photographing her?" she asked. "Not that I did," she added hastily, since she didn't want to get David into trouble.
"Cordelia would have been thrilled," Lorne said crisply. "She was one of nature's queens. But take my advice, my dear, and save your artistic talents for the wake. I promise there will be worthy subjects aplenty."
The last bits of the joint glimmered in his gesticulating hands and fell to the ground, and she decided she might as well ask. "Was that an official commission?"
He confirmed it had been, picked up his parcel again and said farewell. Watching him enter the house, Claire decided to take any fit either David or Nate would throw over this as a welcome sign that her brothers were returning to normal.