A/N: Firstly, I want to say THANK YOU for your enthusiastic response to the last chapter, you are all absolute darlings and I can't tell you how much I appreciate your comments! I'm so pleased that there are readers out there who [still] enjoy reading Andith fluff as much as I do. Apple Charlotte for all you lovely, lovely folks! And more fic…

Ok, so this one doesn't adhere so strictly to the song's premise. Prompts are just jumping-off points for me anyway. However, I'll also admit that this one was also inspired by all the gorgeous spreads of Laura! Enjoy!


C – Centerfold

Music and Lyrics by Seth Justman.

As recorded by The J. Geils Band.

XXX

My blood runs cold…

My angel is the centerfold.

XXX

"Oh," Edith breathed, walking mesmerized towards a large black and white canvas. "This one is…."

Her companion grunted in agreement with the unspecified tribute.

She stared, feeling the image envelop her. It was a 70 inch photo of an abandoned library, ruined and long forgotten. Piles of rotting books littered the floor; you could almost hear them whispering their ancient stories to the wind. They seemed lonely, and at the same time contented, at peace. A roofless corner of the room had been embraced by a winding branch, and its lacelike shadow splayed across the crumbling covers. What gave the piece its magic was the light; which streamed through a once ornamented window and fired the stillness with an ethereal glow. The photographer had captured the whole thing in a soft focus which made the space feel timeless, sacrosanct. Edith felt something akin to the sensation she felt when watching a silent film; that mix of wistful melancholy and childlike hope that washed over one when Chaplin turned his wide, plaintive eyes to the camera, shouldered his bundle and shuffled off down an empty road…

She heard footsteps approaching behind her, implying that she ought to move on.

Before turning away, she leaned in to read the label.

A. Strallan.

XXX

Tom looked up from his computer as Anthony blew into his office.

"I can't do the shoot," he declared, his voice gruff with gravity.

"What?!" Tom squawked. "You've been begging me for weeks to book you a shoot with Edith Crawley and now that I've finally—"

"I know. But not like this."

Tom's frown melted into an amused smirk.

"I thought you wanted to photograph her. That she inspired you; sparked some artistic vision. I didn't realize you had a crush on her."

"I don't! That's not— It's just that—"

He'd seen Edith Crawley modeling makeup, tight shots of her fathomless brown eyes or pink-rouged cheeks; in quirky ads for a variety of products that had her playing off of bizarre props or wearing outlandish costumes; and in several fashion shoots, which placed her sometimes in hemlines that stopped perilously close to her pants-line or necklines that plunged almost to her navel; but he'd never seen her completely, utterly, nude.

It was a sadly typical setup for the industry. So often to sell a high-end perfume, the marketing department chose to sell a woman. He'd done such shots before. But this time it was this woman. A face in a magazine that had so captivated him that he'd begun to collect her work, each new spread strengthening his certainty that he must shoot her. He longed to turn his artistic lens to her striking features; penetrating brown eyes, a long elegant nose which dipped towards a discerning mouth and an upturned chin, and was flanked by charmingly rounded cheekbones pressed with dimples. Her figure was just as photographically enticing, lean and supple and painted in tones of buttermilk and peach roses. Today, every inch of that fair skin would be on display. She'd be posing nude with an oversized bottle of the product, and the crepe that was to cover her most intimate parts would be photo-shopped in later.

And he didn't like it. He couldn't say just why, but it certainly was not, as Tom implied, because he had a crush on her, thankyouverymuch.

The young Irish agent raised his palms in a helpless gesture. "I can't do anything about it now. Contract's signed, talent is ready. So you'll just have to get over your scruples, loverboy," he jeered gleefully.

Anthony glowered at him and stalked from the room.

XXX

When he reached the set, Anthony's eyes found her immediately. She was sitting in a high set canvas chair, having the last of her makeup applied. Her smooth sculpted legs bent from the hem of a fluffy blue robe, inevitably drawing the eye and the imagination upwards towards the bare torso beneath the terry wrapper. Anthony felt a muscle at the back of his jaw twitch. He tried to tell himself this was just a job, she was just a subject like any other, but sensibility shouted him down. For whatever reason, she was special.

The makeup artist stepped back, signaling that the shoot was about to begin. As was customary, the crew each gave a brief introduction, while Edith nodded and beamed graciously. The photographer was last, a tall, friendly-looking gentleman who stepped forward and extended a long-fingered hand.

"Anthony Strallan," he offered, and bowed his head slightly. The smooth growl of his voice and the sympathetic, slightly crooked smile that accompanied it blossomed warm in Edith's cheeks.

"Hang on, Anthony Strallan? Do you have a piece on at the Carson?"

His brows knit together. "I do, yes."

"Ohhhh! I have to tell you that I absolutely love it! It was so…" she moved her hands in a helpless gesture and gave a bashful smile, "It was…thrilling and enchanting and…heartbreaking and…somehow comforting, all at the same time..."

"I was lucky to have discovered that old place," he explained, excitement puffing air into his voice, "I was hiking in Hungary, and I just happened upon this beautiful treasure, and I thought, I have to get this. It was a truly magical spot…almost holy—"

"Yes exactly! As if ju—"

The production manager, a staunch young woman with petulant features and an oversized watch put an appealing hand on Edith's robed shoulder.

"Ah, yes," Anthony acknowledged, feeling his enthused grin drop into a more casual smile. "We'd better get started."

The work lights switched off with a chunk, and the stage gleamed under bright photo lights. Anthony pretended to be fiddling with the camera, making adjustments, pondering angles, but all the while he was keenly aware that at any moment Edith's robe was coming off. As the seconds passed, the elation of sharing his work with someone of vision was swallowed in a rumbling discontent.

He wasn't sure quite why the idea of Edith's nudity bothered him. Was it simply that he felt guilty that he was attracted to her and would certainly be affected by her naked body as much as he was by her clothed one? No, it wasn't that. He admired her features in an artistic sense; it had nothing to do with sex. But she wouldn't know that. An older man, even a photographer, how could she not think him a letch? He'd imagined their shoot, looked forward to its eventuality, as a meeting of equals, fellow artists. How could she see him as an equal when she would think he was leering at her the whole time?

He mentally shook himself. She didn't think a thing about him, good or bad. As Tom had said; he was the contract photog, she was the talent, end of story. What made her any different than any other gig? And why, for that matter, after numerous shoots with women being sliced into their component parts by his camera for the sake of fashion, was he feeling as though he were about to serve Edith up on a platter? A piece of meat to be ogled by every person who picked up a magazine. As if that wasn't what modeling was all about. As if she didn't accept that as part of her job. But still, his resentment growled.

The robe came off, and he had to fight the urge to move to embrace her, shielding her nakedness from the eyes of those gathered. Ironic, he thought, because it was his "eye," his camera, that would expose her to the world. He couldn't help examining her, and noticing how magnificent she was. Strong, lean, and opalescent, humming with vitality. The light played in the shadows of her bones, under her breasts, between her legs, showcasing her tall, graceful form. She was exquisite. A masterpiece. And he was privileged to have the opportunity to render her in light and shadow; to attempt to capture the integrity, vulnerability, power, and grace of this singularly beautiful woman.

XXX

Edith took a deep breath. And then another. With a will she kept her hands from rising to cover her breasts, or cupping around her barely covered groin. She felt absurd and clumsy and completely invaded—not at all the sensual sophisticate she was supposed to be portraying. There was a misconception that models were completely comfortable in their own skin, that they thought themselves infinitely beautiful and never doubted their appeal. She supposed she was a bad model, because she still hadn't achieved that level of confidence.

Perhaps it was because she hadn't intended to be a model. She'd studied performance in school. But her friends in the photography department had asked her to be a subject for their projects and it had led to paying work, so her career path had changed. She looked upon setups as a role, so that it wasn't truly her that the camera caught. Whatever character she was playing, the spunky boho-queen selling female napkins or the imperious vamp selling a cocktail dress, was beautiful. She was simply Edith. But it was hard to be someone else when you had no mask; nothing but a little makeup and some carefully positioned plastic between you and the camera; not even a pair of shoes.

Ka-chick.

The first shot sounded in her ears. A flurry of others followed, as A. Strallan familiarized himself with his canvas; her body. The rhythm of the shutter was familiar; it usually helped her focus, zone into her character for the shoot. But this time the glaring reality of her nakedness distracted her to all else. It was as though the more she tried to relax her muscles, the more tightly they knotted. Well then, she thought hopefully, if she couldn't relax they couldn't do the shoot and she could put on her robe and go home… Except that this was her highest profile gig to date, it would be good for her career; Thomas had said it might also help her if she wanted to try for the stage again. On the other hand, to break her contract would be disastrous…

She became aware that the clicking had ceased. The large black camera fell and two bright sympathetic eyes appeared. He walked over to her, speaking in that kind, hushed whisper-growl.

"Miss Crawley—Edith-are you alright?"

"Uh, yes, I…. it's just that…" She shifted uncomfortably. "I've never done a nude shoot before." She'd said it like it was something of which to be ashamed, like confessing that she still slept with a teddy bear.

"It is rather gruesome isn't it?" he gave her a lopsided, confidential grin, which danced mischievously, and charmingly, in his eyes.

She laughed, feeling her muscles unclench. "You've done nude modeling?"

He affected a showy pose. "Of course, can't you tell by my manly physique? I'll have you know I'm in talks with H&M."

She laughed again. He chuckled. It was a pleasant, comforting sound. She relaxed some more.

"I had a thing for my Art 101 professor. Said yes to modeling for her class before I knew what I was into. Imagine having a whole classroom staring you down."

"Well, I'm glad it's you this time," she said warmly. "Plus, I know I don't have to worry about looking ridiculous. I know from your piece at the Carson that you can find beauty in anything."

"Especially," he said simply, "where beauty already exists."

A shadow of uncertainty fell across her eyes and then vanished, like a quick moving cloud on a sunny day.

He opened his mouth to reassure her, heartfelt admiration ready to spill forth, when a whining Yorkshire accent barked, "Mr. Strallan, are we ready to work?"

"I guess we'd better get back at it," she said.

"Indeed we should," he agreed earnestly, though she could sense the joke in his tone, "If we don't get a move on they'll run out of your hours and have to use my picture instead." He pulled his face into an exaggerated grimace of horror and swept over to his camera, leaving her chuckling in his wake.

The shoot resumed, and she didn't feel anxious anymore. He continued joking with her (mostly by way of mocking himself), and at one point made a quip about the perfume that left them both in stitches for several minutes. Much to the consternation of the hawkish production manager, the next two quarters of an hour were riddled with aftershocks of giggles whenever Edith's eye would catch Anthony's—the languid pose and careful focus shattered by a ripple of mirth.

They were finally able to pull themselves together, and they worked through a few poses, Edith making suggestions and Anthony gentle requests, never demands, as though she were really the one in charge. If it weren't for an occasional meaningful "oy," from the production manager, they might have been the only two in the room. Edith found Anthony's creative enthusiasm infectious, and was no longer shy, but keen to try new things, eager to produce the best result.

With the last half hour or so of the session, they threw the "script" out the window, abandoning urbane arousal for a series of shots with a more romantic flair. In one, Edith took a sniff from the bottle, and formed her face into a smile that recalled rose petals and candlelight, stolen kisses and tender passion. Her deep brown eyes gazed adoringly at the camera and straight into his heart, which thudded insistently, crushing the breath from his lungs and arresting all thought.

"Anthony?" her sweet voice echoed in his oxygen-starved brain. "Are you all right?"

He blinked, and reality returned, breath swirling into his lungs.

"Oh, er, yes, sorry. Can we try that one again? And this time, if you could angle your head ever so slightly…"

XXX

Edith caught up the plain while envelope, fingers slicing an opening into one edge. She pulled out two 8 x 10 prints. One was the abandoned library; Anthony's gallery print that had so enchanted her. The other was a shot of her. He'd cropped it at her shoulders, and it felt as though she was naked not to be devoured by the viewer, but rather as if she needed no adornment. It was one of the unscripted moments at the shoot, he'd made some droll remark, and with his clever lens he'd caught the next moment, mirth bubbling up into her eyes, hair tumbling forward over one brow, lips curved in blossoming merriment. She looked radiant, confident, and he'd made her harsh features look soft and feminine, even desirable. Accompanying the prints was his business card, with a short message scrawled along the back:

My favorite from the shoot. Thank you for a delightful afternoon.

A.S.

She turned the card over, mentally reciting the eleven digits beneath his name. She read them three times, then pulled out her mobile and dialed.

"Tom Branson, media representation." Recited a brogued voice at the other end of the line.

"I'm looking for Anthony Strallan."

"I represent Mr. Strallan, what can I do for you?"

"I only wanted to—to thank him for…er…if you can tell him that Edith Crawley said thank you, the photos are lovely."

"Edith Crawley?" There was a pause. "Would you like me to set up an appointment for you?"

"Oh, um… sure." She made a snap decision. "Yes, actually, thank you. I'd like to do some headshots with him."

"Excellent! I'll take a look at his bookings…."

Five minutes later Edith had an appointment with Anthony at his home studio on Friday at 3:00. She told herself the appointment had nothing to do with wanting to see him again. She'd booked a second session with him because of the way he'd made her look, not the way he'd made her feel. They'd worked well together, he was a skilled photographer, and well, she was planning to try for acting jobs again soon wasn't she? And she'd need updated headshots, wouldn't she? Right then, Friday it was.

But Friday suddenly seemed unreasonably far away.

XXX

"I want to thank you, by the way, for helping me get through my first nude shoot."

Edith said, leaning down and placing a steaming cup of tea at Anthony's elbow. With his careful instruction she'd navigated the kitchen and made them some tea, Anthony engrossed in editing her headshots.

"Thank you," he said absently, his face in a concentrated scowl, his fingers clicking away at his mouse as his keen eyes darted from pixelated point to pixelated point.

Edith studied his profile as he worked. At the perfume shoot she'd thought his features friendly, pleasant. And they were still that, but now she saw the subtleties, enticing contradictions just like those in his work; gentle and powerful, refined and unassuming, cheerful and pensive, kind…and terribly attractive. Like his work, he'd quietly and imperceptibly seduced her, and yet he was as unreachable as that desolated library, lost in the Hungarian hills.

He leaned back, turning to face her with a smile. "You're welcome." He said, as if there had been no interval between her statement of gratitude. "I'll tell you a secret: I don't enjoy working with reluctant subjects. If you're uncomfortable, I'm uncomfortable. We have to be able to work together."

She beamed stupidly, her stomach fluttering absurdly at the emphasis he placed on the word together.

"But, might I ask; if you were so uneasy, why did you take the job?"

She shrugged.

"Why does any model take a job? For the money, the work. And my agent said that it would be a good move for me. A sign that I'm a mature artist with the experience to handle it."

"You'll forgive me for saying so, but I don't know that there is anything particularly mature or immature about posing nude. And I'm just old fashioned enough to believe that you've got what it takes to make it in this business without…uh…"

"Showin' my tits?" she finished for him, in a crass South London accent.

His grin trembled. "Yeah…something like that."

She laughed.

"At any rate, you've got some lovely shots here."

She drew closer, leaning over his shoulder to peer at the many shots of her face smiling back at her from the computer screen. It took considerable willpower not to touch him as she did so.

It was a mark of Anthony's many years in the business that he was able to discuss the merits of a photo while simultaneously reveling in the nearness of his glorious muse, so close he could feel the warmth of her against his shoulder. His heart swelled with remembered tenderness, that look at the shoot that had left him reeling. You are just the contract photog, he chastised. Forget anything else.

"Anthony, you're truly an artist," she said several minutes later, after he had shown her some of his favorite shots.

"Why, thank you," he said flippantly.

"No, I mean it. You've really given me something. I've never…seen myself…like this before."

She grew quiet as a lump seized in her throat. "I…like the way you see me," she said softly.

He swiveled in his chair, fixing her with a clear, intense gaze.

"Edith…" he breathed, his voice calm and thrillingly deep, "it's not my camera that makes you beautiful."

He reached a tentative hand, extending one long finger and lightly tracing the line of her jaw.

"You are beautiful."

She broke into a smile, though tears glittered in her eyes. She gave a shaky laugh and shook her head.

"Would you like to get some dinner?" she asked, in a "what the hell" kind of tone.

"Hmmm…dinner with the loveliest woman in London," he pretended to consider. "That sounds…" he grew serious, "heavenly."

"Heavenly?" she teased, as they moved towards the door, "I don't think nude photography is very angelic."

He chuckled. "Fair enough."

"Besides," she remarked, a blush coloring her saucy grin, "angels aren't allowed any fun."

He raised his eyebrows and she laughed.

"Come on, I'm hungry."

my angel is the centerfold…

XXXXX


A/N: I wasn't sure how to end this, so, yeah. I don't know about you, but just the mention of this song is enough to get it stuck in my head for days, so, sorry about that…. :D (Cue the chorus of "Na-Na's"…)

Also, you might be interested to know that the scaffold is built for a continuation/companion to It's All Right With Me; I can't say when or if it will be completed, but here's hoping.