Shutter | A TWENTY THREE

A silver luxury car was conspicuously parked by the academy entrance. The driver was a stone faced man who spared me an apathetic glance from where I stood scoping him out. It made me hesitant to approach until the dark tinted window of the passenger seats rolled down. Ms. Dion graced me with a reassuring smile, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

"Well, get in then. There's no ticket fee to pay."

I hurriedly heeded and joined her in the back. The driver didn't wait a second to take off after the respective door shut.

"I didn't pull you out in the middle of a big test or something?" queried Ms. Dion.

"Is there any point in asking that now?"

"I guess not," she admitted, crossing one leg over the other.

What I was doing was unlike me. I knew that. Contrarily, I couldn't seem to fathom what had become of me lately. The me who adored every second at St. Sinclair, a place where I felt I'd belong was suddenly up to skip without batting an eye. I had no idea what this meant.

I released a sigh, sinking back in the crème leather seats.

"Everything alright?" asked Ms. Dion.

No. "So, where are you taking me?"

"The person of interest I mentioned to you last night, he's taken up this new hobby in art and well, I pulled some strings to get an invite to this exhibition he's attending. I only finally cleared up my other business and today's the opening day."

"And possibly the final chance to make the cut?" I summarised.

She answered with a nod.

"Right, so what factor do I play in tagging along with this? How am I meant to spiritually guide you? My marks in art are average."

"Grades don't matter in this, silly. There's no certain way I want your assistance. As my guide, it should come naturally. All you have to do is be you."

I fought off a laugh. Had she really just said that? This was too uncanny. Of all the things she could've asked for.

How was I meant to be myself? What was the actual me? Had I ever truly known it before? My stomach churned at the panicking thoughts and I grew nervous. Yet in all this, I caught a glimpse of my reflection on the window where I found my lips curled upwards.

**

The car came to a standstill at a building, my brows knitted. The establishment was adorned with mannequins wrapped in high class threads stationed by the display windows. No matter how much I looked at it, it was a boutique shop.

"I thought we were going to an art exhibition. Why did we stop here?"

"I'm a designer, dear. You think I'll let myself be getting funny looks with you dressed in that?"

"But hasn't the exhibition already started?"

"And that's where the phrase fashionably late comes from," she stated. "Now, come on."

I complied to follow her inside. While I tailed behind, awed by the expensive, dazzling clothes at every corner and the strong scent of perfume in the air, Ms. Dion walked with head held high like she owned the place. Which I would've believed by the way she was swaying the employees with a few words and a smile, or a quick flash of her eyes when lowering her shades.

Whether they were previously occupied with another customer, they obeyed without delay. Soon I was stood in front of a full length mirror with all sorts of blouses, dresses, jackets and designer named jeans which I didn't even know was a thing being shoved my way.

I was mostly blindly nodding my head along when Ms. Dion started throwing around these terms I presumed were the norm in the fashion world. Though I quickly put my foot down when she tried to take it further with visiting a salon. It took some arguing, switching back and fro from languages but eventually she yielded and settled with accessories. She said it would play the part of a camouflage from my hideous bangs.

She purchased a hairband with 'complementing' earrings which I was amazed at how my hair suddenly did seem disguised by the two simple items. Then my eyes nearly fell out of their sockets when I saw the price tag.

When I tried to refuse them, Ms. Dion threatened me with a pair of scissors to my bangs. I didn't question why she had those in her purse.

I decided not to ask what the rest of my outfit cost, also partly because I really liked it. Especially the plum colour the staff used to describe the cropped vest I had on over the black silky top hugging my arms and torso. It was snug and now a close second to my favourite, turquoise.

I prayed that the next destination the driver was steering us to was the exhibition when Ms. Dion had gotten very insistent on her suggestion to head to another store to buy a handbag that was allegedly a must for my outfit. Here I'd thought my mum was pushy when it came to shopping.

I peered through the window for a look at the venue. My mouth fell open at the resides barricaded with ten feet tall iron gates swarmed by an army equipped with cameras, firing the shots at what seemed to be anything or anyone in their circumference.

"Those are paparazzi, right?" I asked, astonished.

"Unfortunately, yes." sighed Ms. Dion.

"Um why are they here?"

"Because many big shot artists along with ones debuting are going to be here, of course."

"Oh right."

I had assumed the exhibition to be in an gallery or museum, not a residential looking area. Although, the nearly pruned shrubs were pretty artful. I couldn't concentrate on it however with the herd by the pathway.

I'd never been so close to the paparazzi in real life. It was both baffling and fascinating. Like a naturalist observing animals in the wild, in their elements.

It only took a young cub from the pack to stray their gazes onto the car, for every other set of eyes to comprehend us and instantly, they went into hunting. I jolted at the rapid movement and in seconds, they had us surrounded. They didn't seem to be taking pictures and I recalled that the windows were tinted, too dark to capture clear shots. So now they were waiting— no, egging us on to step outside.

"Vincent," Ms. Dion called to the driver. "Glasses."

He proceeded to fish a gauntleted hand through the glove compartment and when it reemerged, he had a pair of sunglasses identical to his boss's, handing it over to her.

"Put these on," she ordered, placing them in my hands. "And as hard as it might seem, just walk and act like they're not there. Okay?"

Regardless of how far too impossible that looked, I nodded, slipping on the specs and followed her lead out of the car.

The instance there was no longer a protective roof over my head, I held my breath. I'd never seen such a boisterous mass and it included that one winter back home where I was snowed in; one little school girl stuck with thirty blokes who had left the pub after watching the game.

Irrespective of the intimidating numbers, Ms. Dion walked through with a gait as proud as a peacock. Like the masses were nonexistent. God knows how many occurrences she'd had with the scenario that it didn't even faze her. The same went for an elderly couple right in front of us; a leisure walk in the park was how they made it all seem.

I aimed to copy as accurately as I could, keeping my chin up and shoulders squared. The dark lenses of the shades greatly aided in reducing the buzzing swarm to mere shadowed blobs roaming around me.

Then right when I wanted to commended myself for a job well done, gravity had it out for me. I tripped on air and I collided with the elderly man, taking him to the paved ground with me.

A thousand curses flew through my mind and the shutter noises were erratic in my ears, along with the groans of the man as I desperately tried to find my footing.

Quick to my distress, gentle hands lifted me up and I found it be Ms. Dion. Her expression neutral as she effortlessly dusted me down and I wondered if it was merely out of the sake of the clothes. Next, she assisted the man and the wife kindly asked me if I was alright after. I meekly nodded, feeling my cheeks burning in the suffocating space. How many angles had they gotten of that? The shots seemed endless. Once finding my voice, I attempted to apologise to her husband, only to receive a vicious glower.

His pudgy face was a reddening shade with thin lips wrenching open but his words remained unknown to me when Ms. Dion passed him a prompted look, which had him refraining with the glare. He then carried on along, a slight limp in his steps however.

I couldn't be happier to be over the gates when they opened by mechanical controls and we slipped through without the herd. It gave a more suiting frame to the photographers like they were caged hounds from my view, no further jurisdiction to elevate my anxiousness and free to curse my clumsiness. Somehow, I had humiliated myself in front of dozens of cameras again.

"Sorry," I apologised, hoping my blunder hadn't in any way besmirched her image.

"It's alright," she assured me. "Once they'd caught me walk right into a pole and it was all the talk on the tabloids for a week."

I gaped. "Seriously? I think I'd be too scared to go outside again if that happened to me..."

"But that would be taking the easy way out." She shrugged. "Doing that is letting them win and that's the last thing you should ever do. They won't leave you alone even if you're buried so it's better to just laugh it off and keep on moving. The world doesn't stop for anybody, trust me on that."

I wondered if all celebrities had such a cool and collective demeanour, her words admirable and something definitely beneficial to live by. These high media careers always seemed too much the trouble for worth in my opinion but now I saw the bravery in it. To have the nerves to look forward and not focus on the ones behind you- that was the kind of person I reckoned I wouldn't mind being.

I finally faced ahead and gaped once again. I was right to feel it was residential as a mansion towered before me. It was a rural building bearing the architecture of a Roman pantheon with its columns. Seeing my awe, Ms. Dion explained it was an estate owned by an investor who used it as his own private art gallery.

I couldn't grasp how own could simply use so much space just for one purpose to hang art. It was unreal.

Two security guards stood by the entrance and Ms. Dion forked over a transparent sheeted envelope I gathered was the invitation and after a moment of briefing, we were allowed to proceed.

I stayed by Ms. Dion's side like a shadow, a few folks would approach to greet or express their adoration. I kept myself occupied through this by marvelling at the paintings and sculptures around every corner. There were also waiters serving drinks in wine glasses they balanced on trays. I presumed it was alcoholic so I declined, not wanting to take the risk.

"Is that who I think it is?" echoed a prominent voice all at once, surpassing the sea of others.

We turned our heads to a man striding over. He looked to be in his early thirties, his dark mane fell just below his sharp jawline. His slender figure donned in a ivory white suit buttoned down to reveal his dress shirt and multiple chains hooked around it.

Everybody gave way and retreated as he neared.

"Oliver Beswick." A look of what was meant to be genuine surprise was plastered on Ms. Dion's face.

"Madeleine Dion, goodness, it really is you." He wore a smile that Ms. Dion mirrored as he placed a quick smooch on both cheeks. "What are you doing here?"

"The exhibit of course."

It wasn't dead obvious thanks to her charismatic disposition but I could just detect the heightened pitch in her tone that suggested she was putting effort into her octave. Then not to mention the dominant aura the man exuded was enough to hint he was likely her person of interest.

"So who's this lovely young lady?" He asked.

"My niece."

"Your niece?"

"Technically a friend's but I consider them family and it had been a while- the years went by in a flash, I hardly even recognised her so I thought it'd be nice to have her join me so we could catch up."

His eyes were gentle but a level of scrutiny lay in there. "Really?"

"Yes." nodded Ms. Dion.

"Interesting." He fitted a hand in his pocket. "Um, I'll be honest, I'm quite shocked. I didn't take you for a kind of person into these things."

"Well, art is an old hobby of mine."

"No, I meant in things like family." Eyes settling on me again and there was a silence.

Ms. Dion's picture perfect smile faltered and there was this cloud over her dazzling blue irises, making them hooded.

"Anyways," he continued casually. "Great to see you again. You look smashing-"

He was interrupted when a man in a tux approached, briskly whispering something into Mr. Dazzle's ear. I saw his jaw momently flexed before lifting the polite smile back to us. "Pardon me, Maddie. It seems my guest of honour has arrived and I'd like to properly greet him."

I watched his figure regress to the doors, the tux gentleman tailing close behind and I waited until I was positive they were out of earshot before turning to the rigid lady beside me. "What was that all about? What did he mean by he's shocked you're into family things?"

Ms. Dion kept her gaze low, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "A while back, I discovered I was expecting. The timing was not so generous to my schedule back then and taking a maternity leave would've damaged a lot of work I'd done. But Lance, my husband at the time, refused to let me juggle both.

So after looking at what was bigger between the loss and the gain, I decided being a mother... wasn't a load I was fit to carry with my career."

"You had an abortion?"

She curtly nodded like it was simply nothing but the ghost of a frown that swept by said otherwise. "My resentful sister in law went and spilt it to the tabloids. I was dubbed the Ice Queen after that."

"Oh." A silence ascended as I digested this newfound information. I bit my lip. "Then pretending I was your neice was a bad move."

"What?"

"Your cover story," I clarified. "We should've prepped during the car ride to come up with something more believable."

I expected a reply of agreement, instead I was met with bewilderment from the older woman.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just... got used to people being quite disappointed when they hear that. Or calling me heartless." The flicker of pain that flashed didn't go unnoticed. "Even my old colleague said I must be a robot."

I frowned. "Well I think that's harsh. Besides, you brought me here to assist you, not judge you. And you're remorseful, aren't you? That shows you're plenty human. Trust me, there's a boy at my school who's closer than anything to pure evil so don't worry about it."

How did Garren keep popping up even at times like these?

Ms. Dion let out a chuckle. "You are a very weird little girl. But merci."

A warm smile like no other found its way onto her lips and before I could savour it, it was gone in the next second when her eyes hooked onto something. As were many others present and I turned to see the big fuss was over the olive skinned gentleman in a three piece suit Beswick was chatting with.

"It might not be my place to ask," I started. "But why do you want to do business with a prick like that?"

"Because he's a prick with useful connections and runs one of the biggest fashion magazine companies in Europe."

"That sucks."

"Indeed. Now a heads up; the man Beswick is talking to is called Dylan Goy-Smith. Very famous sculptor and... Oh god, what is he doing here?"

It had been in our blindspot due to the men in tux around them but two other individuals tagged alongside the renowned sculptor. A man sporting curly hair and a beard.

"Who's he?"

"Barry Steinberg. He's what I guess you'd call a rival but personally I find him more of a pain in the ass."

I bobbed my head in understanding, set to dismiss him as not worth using manners until I took into recognition the other individual. Barry Steinberg had his armed draped around a young man with hair slicked back and particularly pretty green eyes.

It couldn't be though. Perhaps I was hallucinationing from lack of interaction.

However, as the men inched closer, the similarities grew more and more.

"Dion?" started Barry Steinberg. "God, it really is you. I thought Beswick was winding me up when he said you came. How've you been?"

"Splendid." The pitchiness in her tone was unmistakable this time. "You?"

"Great."

I tried to concentrate on the conversation but my eyes wouldn't agree to look away from the boy who didn't seem very happy with Barry's arm on him. His lips pouty and gaze focused elsewhere from the adults exchanging friendly greetings.

"I hadn't known you knew Mr. Goy-Smith, Barry," said Ms. Dion.

Barry's grin was wide and proud, nostrils flaring. "Well it's more because of my relationship with Shaunny here." I caught the poor boy grimace at the mention. "I'm what you could say a mentor to him and I hadn't found out until later that he was related to the Mr. Goy-Smith. It's rather funny, really."

"My thoughts exactly." nodded Mr. Goy-Smith.

Beswick smiled along though I had a feeling the man was highly aware of the alleged coincidence.

"So, who's this pretty young doll with you, Ms. Dion?" questioned Mr. Goy-Smith. The only one kind enough to pay me mind and possibly the only man here with no ulterior motives.

Only then did Barry regard my existence, as did the boy stuck beside him and when his gem-like eyes locked onto mine, there was no shred of doubt left.

"Maddie says this is her neice-

"Stevie?!" Shaun exclaimed.

It was clearly blurted out without a second's thought, reviewing the apologetic glance he passed Beswick for interrupting him. The adults quickly put two and two together.

"Shaun, you know her?" asked Beswick.

I swallowed, unsure whether to step in with another lie and say I was someone else. I came up too slow on deciding, leaving it all up to the boy who looked just as stunned by seeing me standing in front him as I was.

Though, nothing left me more stunned than what followed.

"Uh, yeah," Shaun answered. "She's my girlfriend."