"Hate's a strong emotion. Maybe stronger than love."

Anne didn't respond. Jane went on. "Why do you think you feel that way?"

"I don't know."

Jane paused, collecting her thoughts. She tried another tact. "Do you think you're a beautiful woman,

Anne?"

"Yes." She flushed. "I mean, for my age."

"For your age?"

She looked away, then back. "Well, I'm not twenty anymore."

"No one stays twenty forever."

"Right," she said, an edge in her voice. "Growing old. That's the way G.o.d intended it."

"Yes." Jane carefully modulated her voice, working to keep it neutral, nearly expressionless. She had

found that in some subjects her lack of emotion fueled theirs.

"How old are you?" Anne asked.

"Thirty-two."

"A baby. I remember being thirty-two."

"You're only slightly older than that."

"I'm forty-three. A lifetime from thirty-two! You don't know. You can't because-"

She bit the words back. Jane zoomed in on Anne's face; it filled the frame. The tape recorded the tears in

her eyes. The desperate vulnerability. The way her lips trembled, how she pressed them together.

Honest, Jane thought. Powerful.

Jane focused on Anne's mouth. She wetted her lips, then began to speak.

Jane shifted the camera's eye to her subject's. "Every morning I look in the mirror, studying. Searching for

the signs of aging. I focus on each new line, each crease. The softening line of my jaw."

She fisted her fingers. Jane caught the reflex on tape.

"I can't eat anything because it either goes straight to my gut or makes me retain water. As for

drinking-" She laughed, the sound angry. "One too many c.o.c.ktails and my eyes are puffy for days."

Jane understood the way fears and insecurities could become a great, clawing desperation. Or worse, self-hatred.

"Do you have any idea how many hours I've spent in the gym? On the stair machine and treadmill? How

many buckets of sweat I've poured out in an attempt to stay a size six? Or how much money I've spent on collagen injections, Botox and chemical peels?"

"No," Jane murmured, "I don't."

The woman leaned forward, arms curved tightly around herself.

"That's right, you don't. You can't. Because you're thirty-two. A decade younger than I am. A decade!"

Jane didn't respond. She let the silence grow between them, edgy and uncomfortable.

When Jane spoke, she repeated her earlier question, bringing them full circle. "What are you afraid of, Anne? When you're alone in the dark, who is the monster?"

Tears filled her eyes. "Getting old," she managed. "Becoming soft. And lined. And-" She drew a quick breath. "And ugly."

"Some would disagree. Some see the progression of time on the face as beautiful."

"Who?" She shook her head. "The day you're born, you begin to die. Think about that." She leaned forward. "Don't you find that depressing? Physically, you're most perfect at birth."

Jane worked to hide her excitement. This piece may prove to be one of her best. It felt that good. Later, she would make that determination by studying the tape for powerful subtleties: the way emotions played over her subject's face, the way her body language mirrored-or contradicted-her words.

"That's it, Anne," Jane said, wrapping the session.

"It's over? That was easy." She scooted off the table. "It went okay?"

Jane smiled warmly. "It went great. I'm thinking I might use it in my upcoming show, if I can get the corresponding reliefs done in time. Ted will schedule your sittings." During those sittings, Jane would make a plaster mold of Anne's face and various parts of her body. She would then cast them using molten metal, dripped into the mold. The liquid material formed a lacy, meshlike relief-the organic effect caused by the slipping, sliding and pooling of the metal over the subject created a dramatic contrast to the rigid quality of the material itself. Critics had called her work both lyrical and stark. Feminists had lauded it as both an indictment of society and a gross exploitation of women.

Jane thought of it as neither-her art was simply the visual expression of what she believed to be true. In this case, that Western society valued beauty to an unhealthy degree, especially in women. The visual artist, like the writer, musician and even stand-up comedian, used her own experiences to say something about the human condition. Sometimes what she had to say didn't go down easy; it spoke differently to each individual, never the same to all. And yet the universality of the message was what made it powerful. That indefinable something that touched many, yet no one person in the same way.

Anne motioned the dressing room. "Mind if I get changed?"

"Please do."

The woman looked at Ted as she backed toward the dressing room. "I'll just be a few minutes."

As the door snapped shut behind her, Ted met Jane's eyes. "I have that effect on a lot of your subjects.

My mother says I'm scary."

"Mother knows best."

Although she said the words lightly, he frowned. "Do I frighten you, Jane?"

"Me? The original Bride of Frankenstein? Hardly."

"I hate when you talk about yourself that way. You're beautiful. A beautiful person." Ted motioned the

dressing room. "Now her, I feel sorry for."

"Anne? Why?"

"Not just her. Most of your subjects. Their view of life is so narrow." His expression altered subtly.

"Women like her, they don't feel anything authentically. They don't know what real pain is, so they make

some up."

The simmering anger behind his words caught her off guard. "Is that so bad? Who are they hurting besides themselves?"

"You tell me. Would you give away your pain to become like her?"

Anne emerged from the dressing room before Jane could answer, clothes artfully arranged, face done,

hair coifed. "That's much better, don't you think?"

"You look gorgeous," Jane said. She beamed and turned expectantly toward Ted. Instead of offering a compliment, he turned away. "I'll get the appointment book." After he'd made the appointments, Jane showed the woman out, thanking her again, a.s.suring her that the session had been a huge success.

When she returned to the studio, Ted was waiting where she had left him, expression strange.

"Is something wrong?"

"She was looking for a compliment," he said. "Women like her always are."

"Would it have hurt you to give her one?"

"It would have been a lie."

"You don't find her beautiful?"

"No," he said flatly, "I don't."

"Then you're probably the only man in Dallas who doesn't."

He looked at her, his expression somewhat ferocious. "She can't see beyond the surface. All I see is

inside. And what I see in her is ugly."

Jane didn't know quite how to respond. His feelings, their depth, surprised her.

"If you give me the go-ahead," he said suddenly, "I can have the invitations to your opening party in the

mail by noon tomorrow." She glanced at her watch, relieved he had changed the direction of their

conversation. "I'm meeting Dave at the Arts Cafe for coffee. I'll do it when I get back."

"In the meantime I'll finish cataloging the pieces for the show."

Jane watched him walk away, an unsettled feeling in the pit of her gut. She realized she knew little about his personal life. His friends, whether he dated, how he spent his leisure time. Until today, he had never mentioned family.

Until today, she hadn't a clue what made him tick. Not really.