As I perused the bar I saw her sitting at an alcove, slightly above the fray. It was at my eye level, legs and heels. She was enveloped in a lovely Pashmina of such a beautifully, vibrant shade of pink, Picasso would have been envious. Just as I gazed upon those spectacular limbs, like some burlesque show, she stood up. Let me give you a visual, shoulder length dirty blonde hair in quasi-curls, the soft skin glowing from exuberance, and especially the long, soft limbs that went to Heaven and back.
The legs ended at a little black Versace cocktail dress with a ruffled, feathered crown right above the knees. The arch from her buttocks flowed, seamlessly, to her muscular calves, to the curvature of her limbs and finished at her sexy black pumps. Auguste Rodin would have loved to mould that into eternity.
Throughout the evening she kept twisting and turning. She had attitude, was a little aggressive, a little flirty and hopped like a bunny. Then a funny thing happened on my way to the men's room, I saw her on the cusp of the ladies' room. She looked like she had stepped off a fashion shoot and you could smell her fragrance from a distance, and it was exquisite. She was sobbing, very faintly, of which there is no sadder sight than a beautiful woman in tears.
Earlier that day, she had been to Holt Renfrew to pick up that beautiful dress she had on lay-away, for the better part of the summer. The store had it so long they were knocking off 10% just for tenacity. On this day she was feeling beautiful again, like she use to before her life started spiralling out of control.
She originally hailed from Belgium, by way of Paris, which guaranteed a free spirit, and had an enchanting accent, a little sprinkle, nothing heavy, which made all those bookers giddy. She had been discovered at a high school fashion show, and catapulted to fashion houses all over Paris. Because of her youth, a chaperon was required, and of course her mother jumped on that train. The mother relished the chance to hob-knob with the rich and famous.
The glitterati of the fashion world were a strong aphrodisiac for grounded individuals, but for her mother, it was destructive. Through the years the tumultuous relationship, to say the least, of the Mother-Daughter team had turned into something of a joke within the industry. In fact, it had become too hard for her agent to book any more runway shows or photo shoots. So… when she turned 25 and because she was an ingénue anymore had become something of a pariah.
That night, after her mother saw the beautiful new dress, demanded money, and when none was forthcoming, an exchange of malicious words ensued. She stormed out of that little five-story walk-up on Cathcart St., and regretted that fateful day, when asked by her agent / manager to choose between her mother and her career.