Title: What the Camera Sees
Fandom: General Hospital
Characters: Tracy Quartermaine
Prompt: #8 Floor
Word Count: 1,203 words
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Tracy Williams prepares for a charity function…without her husband.
Author's Notes: Set during the Mitch Williams years (c. 1981). Before she's been banished, but not by much.

The glow from the lighted mirror set Tracy Williams off to her best advantage. She'd insisted on this particular vanity set when she and Mitch bought the penthouse, and she'd never regretted putting her foot down.

Mitch had political aspirations, and a political wife needed to be aware of her appearances. She assessed her make-up in the oval-shaped mirror. It was just prominent enough for any lighting situation, but not too overly done. Her hair was still up in curlers—those odd, squiggly things they advertised on television. Tracy never would have bought them for herself, but her mother was a sucker for all things new and clever. She had to admit, they worked quite well, regardless of how ridiculous she looked in them.

She pulled out her eyeliner, carefully tracing the dark liquid just below her lashes. She'd watched her mother do this, back when Elizabeth Taylor was smashing through the screen as Cleopatra. She'd learned from her mother how to apply make-up, how to spray her perfume above her, rather than on her, how to dress appropriately for every occasion.

She'd learned from her mother and had hoped that someday her own daughter would learn these things from her.

Tracy closed her eyes for a moment, not wanting to think about such things. There were no daughters in her future, she knew. Not being the maternal type, this shouldn't bother her as much as it did. But something about knowing that she'd never have Mitch's children, that she'd never…

She slammed down the tube of liner, sending her cosmetics bouncing in all directions. Tracy drew in a long breath, trying to calm herself, staring into the mirror with hard, scrutinizing eyes.

What would the camera see tonight?

Would it see a typical political wife, a pretty face attached to a powerful man?

Would it see her as his patsy, the rich debutante bankrolling an ambitious man's rise to the top?

Or would the camera look beneath the perfectly manicured mask? Would it see the cuckolded wife, the woman who'd begged her own husband to make love to her on their wedding night, the burden he carried in the name of having the right connections?

Would the camera see what she saw? The disgust in his eyes? The desire to escape, to go to his mistress, to go to that damned apartment he kept for their liaisons?

Tracy shook herself out of it. She was in too deep now. She reached out, pulling a strand of pearls from her jewelry box. She had to keep it together. She had to be strong, if not for herself, if not for her damned husband, then for her family.

The pearls looked good against her throat. They'd been a gift from Lila, on her wedding day—to Larry Ashton. They were beautiful—simple and elegant, just like Lila was, just like she wanted to be. They marked her as a Quartermaine, as something more than average. She pressed her hand against them, feeling their coolness against her skin. As long as she had these pearls, as long as the connection remained unbroken, she knew she could sustain. No matter what.

She couldn't go to them and tell them she'd failed again. She couldn't go to them and tell them another man didn't love her anymore, might never have loved her at all.

Tracy began to pull the curlers out of her hair, piling them in a big pink mess on the vanity. Her hair was long, rich brown locks that offset her face and enhanced her coloring. She watched as the curls fell in ringlets, framing her stark features, wild and just a little bit sexy.

She wanted to keep it that way.

She wanted to put her make-up on too thick, red lipstick instead of coral, Cleopatra eyes and come-hither lips.

She wanted to give Mitch a taste of his own medicine. She could do it, she knew. She could go down to that damned disco he owned on campus, a hot dress and wild hair. College boys loved older, married woman…rich, neglected, experienced women who wanted as few strings as possible for their money.

There was that fellow he'd hired to run the place, Somebody Spencer, with the odd hair and intense eyes. He looked seedy enough—the fact that he was sleeping with the boss's wife would probably thrill him. Tracy knew she could seduce him, knew she could make him want her. She could imagine it, the back room of the disco, the music and lights just out of reach, the blood pulsing in her vein from the very decadence of the act. She wondered if sex felt better when it was illicit, wondered if orgasms were more powerful if experienced when breaking one of the Ten Commandments?

Thou shalt not commit adultery.

Thou shalt not ruin thy brother's life. Thou shalt not steal, or manipulate, or push people's buttons. Thou shalt not be a bitch to thy family.

How is it that, with all the sins she'd committed in her life, adultery was the one she could never manage? How much had she learned watching her mother at the mirror?

Never be unfaithful, no matter how much he strays.

She stared at herself, hating what the mirror showed her. A thirty year old woman with a growing son and two failed marriages.

This was not what she'd planned for herself. The dreams she'd woven, the goals she had—they didn't include feeling like this, fantasing about a sordid affair with a man she'd never give the time of day under normal circumstances.

She shook her hair, watching the ringlets play in the light. She could seduce a man if she tried. She could shock the camera, shock her family, shock the world if she put her mind to it.

But the camera didn't want Tracy wild. The camera wanted a more wholesome, polished look. The camera wanted her to behave, wanted to believe the illusion she and Mitch created. The perfect political couple.

She pulled the brush through her hair. Maybe one day, she'd find it within herself to go out on that limb. Maybe one day it wouldn't matter what people thought of her.

But today wasn't that day. Because before she was a political wife, before she was Mrs. Mitch Williams, before all these masks that she'd chosen for herself were set into place, she was a Quartermaine.

And Quartermaines survived.

She was just about done when the bristles of the brush snagged on the clasp of her pearls, sending the tiny opalescent droplets flying everywhere. Tracy cried out, pushing the chair backwards and crawling down onto the floor.

The pearls were everywhere, bouncing across the tiles, under the vanity, towards the tub, even out into the bedroom.

The necklace was ruined.

She shuddered, deep within her, and had to take a deep calming breath. It wasn't an omen. It wasn't a sign. It was just a stupid broken clasp.

She stood, staring defiantly at the proper, well-groomed woman who looked back at her. Grabbing another necklace, any old thing, she put it around her neck.

It was not a sign.

She was a Quartermaine, and Quartermaines survived.

The End

Written for the 100situations Challenge.