Prose Extract 2.0 - 'Morality for Beautiful Girls.'

"The ground is hard
As hard as stone.
The year is old,
The birds are flown.

And yet the world,
Nevertheless,
Displays a certain
Loveliness--

The beauty of
The bone. Tall God
Must see our souls
This way, and nod."
-- John Updike, "November"


I've been thinking a bit about beauty lately, primarily because it seems to want to throw itself in my face a little bit at the moment. That is, I read everywhere people trying to judge and figure out what it beautiful and what isn't, advising on how to make yourself more beautiful [I haven't seen anywhere yet advice on how to make yourself less beautiful - perhaps there's an opening in the market?] and pretty much selling beauty in a can. Most worryingly, however, I see a constant stream of comments from people, including people I care about very much, to the effect that they don't find any beauty in themselves, and doubt they ever will.

This is particularly worrying for two reasons: firstly, I think I'd be with the majority when I say to these people, "what do you mean you're think you're ugly? I think you're stunning!", and it always hurts me to see people I love with low self-esteem; and secondly, if we were to admit that you lovely people aren't beautiful, what on earth does that say about people like me? I realise I'm not quite hideous, but I'm certainly no Robert Pattinson, and if all of you look as bad as you think, I haven't got a hope!

The particular piece of work this comes from will probably never be completed enough for me to actually use this scene, but after one especially self-deprecating set of thoughts from someone whose beauty really isn't in question whatsoever, I felt like sitting down and putting some propaganda into my character's mouths.

So yes. Something like that.


Extract 2.0 - Morality for Beautiful Girls

When he came into the room, he could see she had been crying. Not a great deal, but enough to have two dark smudges of makeup down the corners of her eyes, and one murky mascara teardrop rolling down toward the end of her nose. He loosened the knot on his tie with a slight feeling of guilt, trying to make it look as if he had not been waiting.

Looking up full into the mirror, she caught sight of his lean frame propped against the doorjamb, and swore with surprising violence. For a moment she looked truly ferocious - then the fire fizzled and she put her head back in her hands. Leaving his tie hanging on the door handle, he sat down on the bed behind her, blinking in some surprise at the wealth of cosmetics spread out on the dressing table.

"I didn't know you owned this much makeup. I didn't know anyone owned this much makeup!"

She tried to snorted indignantly: what came out sounded more like a wet snuffle. "Typical boy. We all have this stuff, you just don't get to see it. You just see a pretty girl and imagine it happens all by itself. Poof! Magic."

The last word was unbearably bitter: he felt something twist in his heart. Not fair.

"Ah, but of course, how silly of me," he said, the gentle sarcasm softened by a smile. "What, after all, is the joy in seeing magic done if you already know the trick, right?" He fell silent for a moment: she, head still lowered protectively, said nothing.

"Let me take a look," he said finally, moving around to perch on the edge of the table. "Whatever disaster you're imagining, I guarantee it's not even half as bad as you think. If that."

"Or you could go away for five minutes while I dispose of the evidence." Her voice was brittle and hard. "Or the bodies. Phone the restaurant, cancel the reservations, order us a chinese or a pizza, something I can eat in jeans and a t-shirt and not feel like a child playing with her mother's makeup." She swore again, with some feeling. "This was such a stupid idea."

"It was a great idea, and it's going to be a great night," he said mildly, resisting the impulse to pat her on the shoulder. "It just needs a little fine-tuning, that's all. Let me take a look. Please?"

The gentle plea in the final word was like a key in a lock. With a sigh of frustration, she took her hands away and turned to face him, wiping a black tear-smudge across her nose in an endearingly childlike gesture. He smiled, remembering his sister again, and thought he caught the barest hint of a reflexive response, quickly stifled.

Her only sin, he thought to himself as he examined the source of her anguish, was trying too hard. Which, his inner companion commented drily, was really more of an inexperienced virtue. He felt, not for the first time, a real surge of anger against the people who should have been there for her, who should have given her more support and self-confidence. Not fair.

"Well, this is barely a problem at all," was all he said aloud. "Nothing that a minute or two won't solve. May I?" he asked, picking up the box of wipes - she nodded meekly, suddenly stuck shy.

"Your problem," he said slowly, gently wiping away some of the dark streaks, "is that you're trying to do a bit too much. You're starting off by assuming you don't look good, and that you're going to need a lot of work to cover that up, when in fact the opposite is true."

"Oh yes, I'm a beautiful butterfly and a unique snowflake," she retorted caustically, turning slightly so he could wipe some of the blush from her cheek. "A fairytale princess who can rise stunning straight from bed and into the world. Not all of us were born to be film stars, you know."

"Being a film star has nothing to do with it." She closed her eyes so he could clean her eyelashes off. "They need just as much work as anyone else, and twice as much upkeep." The wipe was added to the growing pile in the rubbish bin: he selected a fresh one. "They just have more time and money to spend on it than everyone else, that's all."

Finishing up, he examined her face, his head tilted slightly to one side, exactly as he'd watched his brother do a hundred times. The image of the solid and serious young man muttering furiously to himself as he went about his job, younger siblings looking on in wonder brought the smile back to his face, and he was rewarded with the slightest of conspiratorial grins in return. Taking advantage of her momentary attention and good-humour, he sorted through the products on the table, picking a few here and there and arranging them neatly next to him. Finally, with a brief apologetic glance at her apprehensive expression, he started with the lightest layer of the most sheer foundation he could find: she flinched slightly every time the sponge neared her face, finally opting to keep her eyes shut and her hands clenched around the arms of her chair, knuckles whitening as if she expected a slap. He kept up the commentary as he worked his way across her face by gentle degrees, trying to draw the tension out of her spring-loaded frame with the conversation.

"I mean it when I say that you're doing too much. Steven used to say it was the most beautiful models who were the hardest to prepare: at some point there's a limit to what you can do with cosmetics, and while you can slap a whole new face on an average-looking person, with someone naturally pretty you have to be much more selective."

He made a moue of disapproval and rifled through the boxes on the table, looking for a much lighter eyeshadow than the one she had out.

"Society tells you that you have to have makeup on to look your best, and if you want to go along with that, fine: there is a lot you can do with cosmetics, but it's not always a case of 'more-is-better'. That's not society trying to help you look beautiful, it's society trying to get you to buy more crap."

She smiled weakly, but kept her eyes firmly closed. "Why do I get the feeling this isn't the first time you've used this speech - oops, I'm sorry!"

He wiped away the liberal smear she'd inadvertently caused, laughing. "It's not my speech, really, it's more Steven's: he taught my sister everything she needed to know, with Mum not being around." He refused to let his voice shake. Not what I need now, God damn it. "I think it's what got him interested in the beauty industry in the first place."

"Was she a lot like me?" The question was out before she had thought it through. "I mean - " she hesitated. "Did she have the same problems, like this, sometimes?"

He was very still. She desperately wanted to open her eyes. Several long seconds ticked past: his fingers tickled her cheek where he had paused.

"Yes," he replied finally, "yes, she was quite a lot like you, actually." She didn't have to ask which question he had really answered. A gift, of sorts.

He resumed working; she let out a long breath.

"Steven used to tell her," he went on, surprising her, a odd note of affectionate laughter in his voice, "that women were just like food: there is no bad food, just different tastes; if they were bland, they could stand a lot of spicing up to make them appear more appetizing; but if they had enough beauty and character to them already - " he turned her gently in the chair to face the mirror, " - all they needed was the lightest of seasonings. Open your eyes."

It wasn't really a suggestion. Feeling afraid, confused and horribly bare, she complied.

What greeted her was unexpected. Instead of the stranger she hoped to see every time she finished this particular part of getting ready for the day, the face in the mirror was decidedly her own. And yet -

"What did you do?"

The pale arching eyebrows, the dark eyes, the strong nose and firm chin: everything was where it ought to be, but around them was the delicate emphasised line of a jaw and cheekbone leading up into the very faintest hint of red blush and the vague, almost non-existent shadow around her eyes. Her lips were a gentle pink against white, white china skin - why, she wondered suddenly, did I ever wanted to cover that up? - and her eyelashes seemed full and healthy below the barest hint of colour on her eyelids. I look beautiful, she realised very suddenly and, again, I look strong.

"How did you - "

She discovered he had moved: he was by the door, retrieving his tie from the handle. It seemed like a long time ago he had come in without knocking.

"I used a bit of makeup to help you remember how incredibly beautiful you are," he said with a smile, a full-blooded smile that lit up his face and rolled back, for a moment, the years of pain in a life too young to hold them in. "To everything there is a season, right? Just a hint of seasoning - magic."

He finished knotting the tie with a flourish and held out his hand. "Let's go. If we hurry, we can still make those dinner reservations. Between good looks, good food and good company, I think you might just make an evening of it."

She smiled back, a beautiful girl with a beautiful smile and a heart and soul worthy of both, and rose to join him.