Free Paris Kiss by Maggie Ritchie

my stomach contracted. I was determined not to blush again and met his eyes.
    â€˜I’m not worried about my virtue,’ I said with all the coolness I could muster.
    Georges raised his eyebrows. ‘Perhaps you should be. Be warned, I love a challenge.’ The room had begun to fill up and he moved away to set up his easel at the other side of the model’s dais. ‘I’ll come and find you after class,’ he called over his shoulder.
    I frowned and pretended to attend to my easel, but as soon as his back was turned I peeked around the side of it. He had stopped to talk to an aristocratic woman in sables, a wealthy Russian by the looks of her jewellery and the retinue that fussed around her, laying out materials. Georges whispered in her ear, and she laughed and laid a heavily ringed hand on his shoulder. No! The stab of jealousy was so strong it made me grip the sides of my easel. Georges glanced back and I ducked my head, hoping he hadn’t caught me. I was acting like a fool; he was obviously a flirt and I had fallen for his charms like a silly servant girl. I began to fix paper to my board, determined to put him from my thoughts.
    Just then, a timid model came in accompanied by another woman. She licked her lips and darted looks from under her hat around the crowded room.
    Camille leaned towards me. ‘ Une ingénue . Prepare for some sport.’
    The new girl stopped at the dais and looked desperately at her friend, who gave her a little shove and said: ‘Go on, what are you waiting for? It’s not so bad after the first time.’
    A man called out: ‘Take off your clothes. Let’s see what you’re made of.’
    â€˜She doesn’t dare – her chemise is torn.’ This time the taunting was from a woman. I was surprised and looked questioningly at Camille, but she seemed to be enjoying the show.
    The students started chanting: ‘Off, off, off!’
    The girl looked as if she was about to cry. She stood uncertainly and all at once began tearing off her clothes. A raucous cheer rose around her. She stood naked before us, using one arm to cover her small breasts and the other she put between her legs.
    â€˜Look at her feet! The soles are as black as my husband’s heart,’ called another woman.
    â€˜Have you been walking far this morning, sweetheart? Your feet are so veined and red.’ A man, this time, with a thick German accent.
    â€˜At least her breasts are firm. Give her a few years and she’ll have a clutch of brats hanging off them. They’ll look like empty slippers.’ Another woman.
    It was barbaric. Nobody deserved to be treated that way. ‘We must help her,’ I said to Camille.
    â€˜ Ah bouf , Jessie. Stop being so soft-hearted. She needs toughening up otherwise she’ll be no good as a model. She’ll survive. You’ll see, it’ll be over soon.’
    Camille was wrong: the poor girl’s torment had just begun.
    A man walked towards her, his hat pushed to the back of his head. He grinned at his friends, who called out their encouragement. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘We would like you to take up the pose of the Wounded Swan.’
    â€˜I’m sorry, Monsieur, I don’t know this pose. But I have learned others.’ She lay down on the chaise longue, her ankles crossed and her hands doing their best to cover her shame.
    The man tutted like a disappointed schoolteacher. ‘No, that won’t do at all. Here, stand up. That’s right. Now bend your arm, no this way. Stand on one leg. Turn it out, like so.’
    â€˜Twist your neck towards the window,’ one of his friends called.
    â€˜Stick out your bony little bottom.’
    â€˜Lower your knee. Not that one, you fool, the right knee.’
    The commands came fsaster and faster and soon she looked like a contortionist.
    â€˜She’ll never sustain that pose, it’s ridiculous,’ I