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Frankie Drake turned her hand at many-a-skill, with an endless curiosity and desire to try new things. The first time she asked Trudy to model for her, she had prompted warm chuckles to spill from Trudy’s lips until she realised Frankie was serious.
“You want to… draw me?” Trudy asked hesitantly. “Why?”
“Because you’re beautiful,” Frankie always did know how to get right to the heart of the matter, making Trudy’s breath catch in the process.
“That’s hardly a reason,” Trudy protested, though she set her glass down all the same, Frankie’s honestly already unlatching some of her hesitancy.
“It’s an excellent reason,” Frankie returned. “I might never be able to capture the essence of you to paper, but I’d like to try all the same.”
“Are you even a good artist or am I going to end up looking like one of those awful paintings where no-one knows who they’re meant to be of?” Trudy asked.
“Nothing about you or inspired by you could ever be awful.” It was as though Frankie knew she had Trudy’s reluctance on the run, because her lips twitched in that self-assured smile of hers that made Trudy — and others, she was sure — feel off-guard and out of sorts.
Trudy took up her glass and drained the last of the gin for courage, then returned the glass to the tabletop and stood up. “Sure,” — Trudy sounded far more assured than she felt — “how do you want me?”
Which, in hindsight, was a silly slip of the tongue, but one which — if her wickedly suggestive smile was anything to go by — Frankie fully intended to capitalize upon. Frankie tilted her head towards the bedroom. “I think the lighting is better in there.”
Lighting, hah! Right….
Still, Trudy went along with the pretense all the same.