Chapter 3

Betty had thought that the morning would never come. All night long, it seemed to her, she had lain awake, her thoughts seething with disbelief and anger over what had happened. Doug slept on unconcernedly beside her, and the knowledge that he was apparently untroubled by what he had done, added fuel to the fire of her fury. When at last dawn had come, she had risen wearily, and this morning, the brandy was very welcome in her coffee. She had just finished her second cup when Doug had come into the kitchen and she had silently set about preparing breakfast for him. She didn't think she could face anything to eat herself.

"Betty, honey, about last night..." Doug began tentatively, hoping for some encouraging reassurance, but Betty didn't reply. "I'm really sorry... it'll never happen again, believe me!"

Doug's voice was earnest and humble, but Betty didn't care. Without a word, she handed him a plate of bacon and eggs, and poured him a cup of coffee.

"At least say something," Doug pleaded, ignoring his meal. "I've said I'm sorry--what more do you want? I... I guess I just lost my temper, besides being dead tired."

"Your breakfast is getting cold," Betty said indifferently, moving out of the kitchen and going into the living room.

Gratefully, she sank down into the soft sofa. Her husband didn't say anything more and she was grateful for that. She wanted to think, to go over the horrible events of last night. It wouldn't be for the first time, of course, but she reasoned that the cold light of day might throw a new gleam on the unbelievable trauma of last night. She admitted to herself that she was partly to blame, but at least, she told herself, her motives were altruistic. She had been really worried about her husband and it was her relief more than anything that had made her harangue and nag at him when he came home.

He should have phoned her--there was no denying that. But why didn't he, if his reason really was, as he insisted, that the car broke down? Betty just couldn't figure that one out. A looming suspicion kept nagging at the back of her mind... maybe he had spent the evening with another woman! No! No! Doug wouldn't do a thing like that! I know he wouldn't... or would he?

Betty just couldn't bring herself to believe that her husband was actually involved with another woman... but why then had he got so upset when she had questioned him? Was it because of a guilty conscience? But worst of all, what had made him do such a disgusting, perverted thing to her? A shiver coursed through her as she recalled the agonizing pain and humiliation of that degrading act. Her sorely tried rectal channel still twinged from his cruel rape, and she was aware of a general, overall discomfort and achiness. She still couldn't really believe that it had been her husband who had done such a dreadful thing to her. He was like a complete stranger, demented with depraved lust. And now, the fact was, she didn't think she could trust him ever again. He had broken some indefinable bond in their marriage by his wanton behavior, and that tie could never be repaired, no matter what he did or said.

The loud pealing of the doorbell broke in on her thoughts, and glancing at the clock, she realized that Doug must have left for work already. She hadn't even heard him leave. But now, someone was at the door.

Pulling her housecoat tighter around her tall, slender body, she hurried to the front door. Wondering who her early morning visitors could possible be, she pulled it open, and was surprised to find an attractive man in his early forties, accompanied by a much younger woman, standing there.

"Good morning, Mrs... ah... Fletcher!" the stranger said in a cheerful voice.

"Good morning," Betty answered, "but who... ?" She was bewildered by the fact that the stranger knew her name, and wished that he'd state his business.

"I'm sorry to bother you so early, but may I come in? There's something I'd like to discuss with you!"

Betty was surprised by his request, but felt that there was no danger in admitting him to her home, as he was accompanied by the young woman.

"Certainly, come in, both of you," she said after a moment, "but you must forgive me... I haven't dressed yet."

"Don't worry about that, Mrs. Fletcher," the stranger said affably, following Betty into the livingroom.

When they were seated in the livingroom, he began again.

"First of all, let me introduce myself. I'm Harvey Peterson, and this is Jean Wembley, my assistant. Now I suppose you are wondering what all this is about?"

"Yes, I have to confess that I am," Betty said, a touch of annoyance in her voice. What did this smooth-talking stranger want with her?

"Well, I'm very pleased to be able to tell you, Mrs. Fletcher," Peterson said, his voice lowered conspiratorially, "that you have been noticed!"

"Noticed?" Betty echoed foolishly.

"Yes," Peterson went on, "out of literally thousands, you, Mrs. Fletcher, have been noticed by our talent scout!"

"Talent scout?" Betty repeated in amazement. "I'm afraid you've lost me, Mr. Peterson!"

"Well then, let me explain," Jean Wembley interjected smoothly. "Mr. Peterson is head of Galaxy Models, and sends his team of talent scouts out to search out new material. You see, we run a very special type of model agency."

Betty was staring from one to the other, her mouth half open in bewilderment.

"Yes," Peterson went on. "Instead of the usual teenager type of very young woman that most agencies seek, we look for the more striking, the more worldly type of woman. And you notice I say "woman". We're not interested in girls or teenagers!"

"B-but what has all this got to do with me?" Betty asked, still puzzled.

"As I mentioned, one of our talent scouts spotted you," Peterson explained, "at the Cross-Ways Supermarket, I think it was..."

"Yes, I often go there," Betty agreed, "but how come he picked me?"

"Because you're just what we're looking for!" Harvey expostulated. "You're fantastic looking. Tall, willowy, with that fabulous red hair. A rare beauty, in fact, and with something extra, too!"

"What would that be?" Betty questioned, half-facetiously. She wasn't sure she really believed the man, but on the other hand, what he was telling her was mighty interesting...

"Allure. Yes, in a word, allure," Peterson explained. "A great many women are good-looking, but not many have that extra something... the very thing that you've got!"

"I think we'd better all have a drink," Betty said, "it's getting too complicated for me." As she mixed the drinks, her brain was racing wildly. What if Peterson was serious? Would he offer her a job as a model? Images of herself, swathed in elegant clothes, adorning magazines, with all that extra money, flashed across her mind. She'd have a life of her own! She'd be someone again, not just Doug's wife!

Almost trembling, she carried the drinks over to Peterson and his assistant, and put down glass for herself on the table beside the sofa.

"Excuse me for a moment and I'll go get dressed," she said, glad of an excuse to get away and think clearly for a few moments.

"Don't bother on our account," Peterson said. "In fact, if you don't mind, I'd like to take a few pictures right away."

"Pictures? Of me?" Betty said, reaching for her drink.

"Yes, for your book. You'll need one right away, although I'm sure there are a few bookings you can get right off the bat. But a portfolio is a good thing to have. I don't usually take the photos myself, but in this case..."

Betty's brain was in a whirl. She knew he was talking about the book that all models carry around with them showing their best and most recent photographs. But... did that mean that he was accepting her as a model without delay? Oh God, it was all too good to be true...

"But shouldn't I change into something better, if you want to take full length pictures?"

"No, just head and shoulders will do for now. Later, when we do the composite, we can worry about clothes."

"B-but does this mean that I'll really be a model?" Betty breathed excitedly, taking a deep swallow of her drink.

"Honey, you are a model," Peterson said. "I'm just the guy who'll introduce you to the public!"

"I can hardly believe it," Betty breathed, finishing her Scotch. This new wrinkle put everything else in a new light. When Doug found out that she had a glamorous job, was earning her own money, meeting new people... he'd quickly change his attitude. He'd have to apologize for last night; have to try and really make it up to her... Oh thank goodness, things were really working out after all...

Betty's heart was singing and she barely heard what Peterson was saying. Jean had gone out to the car to get the cameras and Harvey was complimenting her.

"I'm sure you'll take a fantastic photograph... with skin like yours, and that hair..."

Betty was uneasily aware that Peterson's eyes were traveling hungrily down her body, taking in the curved outline of her breasts, and fastening eagerly on the long expanse of her smooth, slender legs. She was glad when Jean came back, laden with cameras. She somehow felt safer with the other woman there. Betty judged her to be in her late twenties, and thought she was quite attractive, with her short cap of dark hair and her slight, almost thin figure. She wondered if she had ever been a model herself.

Harvey was busy arranging the cameras, and Betty thought they were very impressive looking, and confusing, too. She would have felt better if she was wearing something else other than her robe, even slacks and a sweater, but she was hesitant to slip off and change in case Peterson wanted her for anything.

"Right, we'd better get the info on you first before we start taking any shots," Peterson said. Jean got out a large notebook, and Betty gave her name, address and age.

"Now your measurements, honey," Harvey said, pulling out an assortment of measuring tapes from his large black bag. He measured her height first, and then took her weight as well.

"Would you mind slipping out of that robe, honey?" Harvey asked. "Getting the right vital statistics is important!"