Surviving Beauty

By David Rory O'Neill

Regan was just seven years old when her mystical beauty became a curse rather than a gift. That was when her father began to ruthlessly profit by selling her image. The exploitation of youthful beauty is an eternal struggle of good and evil. A stubborn non-conformist Detective Inspector of the Garda is fighting that fight. DI Jim Burrows will play a critical role in Regan’s ability to survive and recover from that exploitation. Regan’s journey from childhood to womanhood will be thrilling and dangerous but ultimately it will be a warm and inspiring story of a young girl’s brave journey to adulthood, her struggle to survive the exploitation of her innocence, and above all - the healing power of love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Rory O'Neill
• Release date: Dec 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301493234

David Rory O'Neill

What sort of writer am I?Take DH Lawrence's sensuality and sensitivity, mix in a big dollop of John Steinbeck's earthy humour and truth, spice with a dash of Joyce's inventiveness and bawdiness. Sprinkle in a spot of Becket's radical originality. Cook in a slow simmering cauldron over an Irish peat fire given extra heat by the Scots/Irish hard burning coal and dish up in a new bowl of non-conformist Belfast manufacture. That's me. These are big names to live up to but I try.I live in beautiful and splendid isolation over looking the Shannon Valley in County Clare, Ireland. I'm a bit of a cultural orphan - but thanks to the beloved B, I'm very happy in our eclectic art and book filled rural nest.

Book preview

Surviving Beauty.

David Rory O’Neill

Published by davidrory publishing at Smashwords.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Copyright David Moody 2013 and 2016. 4th ed.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Born and raised in Belfast until troubles and tribal violence drove him away, David grew to be a non-conformist and independent soul clinging to his counter-culture ideals. He found peace and his true calling as a storyteller in the literary Irish tradition. He now lives in a lovely restored old art and book-filled house in the lee of the Silvermine Mountains, Tipperary, Ireland. He shares his life there with beloved Brigitte and a cat with issues, called Bobby. David Rory O’Neill has written twenty novels and more are bubbling and brewing. http://www.davidrory.com

Cover design by Sami at Ebookcoversgalore.com

Thanks go for editorial help to Miriam Drori.

For Ria who is my beloved legacy and who in June 2016, gave me a grandson: Art Leonis Parker Eliott.

For Brigitte who showed me what love can be.

For the Indie authors who have overcome self-doubt and embraced readers.

And to the readers who share the vision and have embraced the authors.

David Rory O’Neill. Ireland. 2016.

Published books:

The Novella:

Leotie, Flower of the Prairie.

Animal

Rachel’s Walk

Rachel’s War

The Daniel Series:

1 Conflict

2 Challenge

3 Passion

4 Grip

5 Judgement

6 Pyramid

7 Trial

The West Cork Trilogy:

1 Surviving Beauty

2 Beauty’s Price

3 Blue Sky Orphan

4 The West Cork Trilogy Omnibus.

The Prairie Companions

The Butterfly Effect Trilogy:

Bonny The Butterfly Effect.

Lauren The Butterfly Effect.

Chepi The Butterfly Effect.

I welcome contact with my readers. Information on published and future work can be found on my website: http://davidrory.com

Or visit me on Facebook: http://on.fb.me/1myLoRf

If you enjoyed this novel please leave a review on your suppliers website – reviews are the lifeblood of the modern author.

UK English used so you will find grey not gray and colour not color – these are not mistakes. (Sorry Noel Webster)

Contents:

Introduction.

Review.

Chapter 1. Let’s have a look at you. Age 10.

Chapter 2. I know that place.

Chapter 3. I’ll convince them. Age 11 to 12.

Chapter 4. They did what?

Chapter 5. I’m going to tell.

Chapter 6. I’m not gona hurt you.

Chapter 7. So beautiful.

Chapter 8. She must have issues.

Chapter 9. Guilty or not guilty? Age 13.

Chapter 10. A new name. Age 14.

Chapter 11. It’s a bitter pill.

Chapter 12. Teen angst. Age 16.

Chapter 13. Loneliness. Age 18/19.

Chapter 14. The mating game. Age 19/20.

Chapter 15. I’m torn. Age 21.

Introduction: Regan was just seven years old when her mystical beauty became a curse rather than a gift. That was when her father began to ruthlessly profit by selling her image. The exploitation of youthful beauty is an eternal struggle of good and evil. A stubborn non-conformist Detective Inspector of the Garda is fighting that fight. DI Jim Burrows will play a critical role in Regan’s ability to survive and recover from that exploitation. Regan’s journey from childhood to womanhood will be thrilling and dangerous but ultimately it will be a warm and inspiring story of a young girl’s brave journey to adulthood, her struggle to survive the exploitation of her innocence, and above all - the healing power of love.

This is number one in a trilogy but the reader can be assured the novel stands alone and need not be read as part of that trilogy. This work is meant for an open-minded mature readership and therefore includes frank and honest descriptions of adult sexuality.

Review by Marcia Quinn-Noren.

The Dangers that Walk With Beauty,

A simple question framed on the book's cover, above the image of a sun-kissed blonde, her perfectly wide-set eyes brimming with innocence, hints at the controversial topics probed within David Rory O'Neill's courageous and compelling novel: Can Regan survive the exploitation of her beauty? The title itself suggests what many of us know full well, yet fail to consciously acknowledge. An element of danger accompanies the attribute of beauty.

This first volume of the West Cork Trilogy takes readers into young Regan's world, where shadows stalk her every move throughout the precious days, months and years of her late childhood and early adolescence. Well paced chapters introduce a growing cast of finely developed characters, bringing intensity, suspense, confrontation, rescue and retribution.

The heroic force embodied by Detective Inspector Jim Burrows breaks the grip of evil that has held Regan and her friend Mary in a state of bondage. But wounded creatures suffer from their unseen scars, long after the trap has been sprung. While the coping mechanisms that served to support Regan's survival are no longer needed, they remain fixed at the core of her being.

Jim's strong convictions find support in the genuine, tender love he shares with his sensuous Biddy, the wife who stands beside him. Their relationship demonstrates the healing power of romantic harmony, allowing Regan to find the security, safety and serenity that had been absent from her life. Will the gifts so generously offered by Jim and Biddy provide adequate soothing balm to heal and transform Regan's inner turmoil and confusion into calm self-containment? I look forward to finding the answer to this and much more in Beauty's Price and Blue Sky Orphan as the trilogy continues.

Surviving Beauty.

Chapter 1. Let’s have a look at you. Age 10.

Let’s have a look at you, called Erik Lang to his daughter. They were in his photographic studio in one room of their three-bed flat above the Internet café he and her mother Jo ran in the sleepy town of Bandon, West Cork, Ireland. Regan had celebrated her tenth birthday two months before. Most people thought she was at least twelve or thirteen. This age confusion arose because of Regan’s unsettling allure and beauty. In the past eighteen months, Regan Lang had changed astoundingly quickly. The previously tall, willowy young girl had put on weight and body mass abruptly. Regan was beginning to show the perfectly arranged curves that would turn the pretty girl into a dazzling young woman. The pale tan skin on her arms and legs had abruptly become covered in a fine blond down.

Regan had watched fascinated as her body changed and most of these changes she liked. But some, such as the body hair and the monthly bleeding; she hated. She would stand before her bedroom mirror and examine herself with curious detachment, as if watching someone else. Her father had photographed her intimately since she was seven. She’d become used to examining her body critically and minutely. She was not vain, in the normally understood sense, but she was obsessive about how she looked. A spot or blemish, a cut or bruise, would be a big deal. She would worry lest her father noticed. If he did, then he would complain that she was not taking proper care of herself.

She was doing that kind of critical examination in the full-length mirror in the changing room of the studio. It was only a corner of the room with a rail, with dark blue curtain and three bare bulbs down each side of the mirror. They made her eyes hurt if she looked at them. Regan had stood before the mirror seven times today. She always examined herself critically after each costume change but she was getting tired and fed up. She wished he’d stop now. She took a swig of the flat 7UP from the bottle. She then examined her lips to see if they needed more lipstick. She thought a little lip-gloss would do and stood closer as she applied it. She felt heat from the bulbs uncomfortably close to the side of her body so stepped back and leaned forward to get further away. She smelt an odd pungent scent. It took a moment to realise that her hair, which was tied in two big bunches, had fallen against a bulb and was burning. She squeaked, stood up abruptly, spilling the soda she was still holding in her left hand: Feck it!

What’s wrong? called her father.

I burnt my hair on these bulbs and now I’ve splashed myself. I’m getting fed up with this Daddy. Can we stop now?

The curtain opened and he appeared behind her holding his big Canon camera and looking angry. He said, Let’s see you, turn round.

Sorry Daddy, I’ll have to change into something else now.

Erik knelt before her and put a hand on her shoulder. The anger had left his face. He smiled at her as if pleased. That surprised her and she smiled back delighted to see a smile after a whole morning of sternness and irritation.

"No don’t change. That is a happy accident. Bring the bottle out with you and we will use it as a prop. We’ll take a series of shots of you looking like you’ve spilt it on yourself deliberately.

But Daddy you can see through the cloth now?

Yes a little bit but that’s more of a tease, we can use that. I’d like to take a few shots of you drinking and spilling the soda and licking it off your lips. It will be very sexy.

But Daddy I...

Enough now. We’ve wasted enough time. We need to get finished before Mum is done in the café. I’ll have to take over there. Come now. It will be fun and naughty and make you look very sexy.

"But Daddy, I don’t want to look very sexy.

That’s nonsense dear, you are sexy and you should be proud of that. Let’s not be having this conversation again. Let’s go.

As always at times like this, Regan smiled sweetly and did what she was told. Inside, she retreated into her secret place. She sang her song in her head, imagined she was on the beach, felt the sand between her toes and the cold water that made her skin goosebump. Sometimes if she really tried she could even smell the seaweed. She tried not to look into his eyes, even when he told her to look at him. She had developed a way of not seeing. The bright lights would make her eyes dilate. They were such a pure pale grey they hurt from the brightness. But he’d yell at her if she rubbed them or blinked. Regan had learned to look at nowhere so everything was fuzzy and she saw only shapes and the brightness. He would be talking all the time, telling her how to stand. How to sit, where to look, where to put her hands or legs. To play with her hair or stick out her tongue. Open her mouth, wet her lips and all sorts of other stuff that she thought silly. He would use words that meant nothing to her. She knew what ‘sweet’ meant and ‘pretty’ but the rest were his words and nothing to do with her. He always seemed pleased and happy when she managed to do these things in a way he wanted. She had come to know what was expected. When she wore certain clothes, lay down or sat on a chair and her hair was as it was now in a fringe with bunches, then she was supposed to be ‘coy and naughty’. When she wore a bikini and had her hair pulled back, she was to be athletic and stretch a lot. If she was wearing stockings and womanly stuff and had her hair down, she was to drop her head, look up through her eyelashes and pout her lips doing what he called: ‘smouldering.’

Regan went to her secret place and was not in the room as her father posed her on the mat, the floor, the exercise bike, the armchair, or on the lounger. He talked constantly in his familiar stern German accent. He sounded impatient and unpleasant until they finished. Then he would be soft and pleased and give her smiles and tell her how much he loved her. How beautiful she was and how someday she would be a world famous model or a star. Regan wanted none of these things. She just wanted her Daddy not to be angry with her and her Mammy to like her and be nice instead of shouting all the time. When he’d finished and was sure he’d gotten at least fifty good shots of the wet look, Erik switched off the spots and told Regan all the usual encouraging stuff as she dressed.

Eric rushed downstairs to the office knowing Jo would be getting impatient to get up. She hated to miss the afternoon TV soaps. He wanted to get these images uploaded as quickly as possible because he knew they were the hottest he’d ever gotten. A few teasers of these on the index page and they’ll be drooling and signing up for memberships in hundreds. It’ll pay for this fancy digital camera ten times over. I said it was worth the money. No more developing and scanning. Straight into Photoshop and then upload and watch the money flood in. Only ten memberships yesterday but these shots? They’re pure gold but I hope they’re not too hot. You can see everything. I’ll need to watch those chicken-shits that host the site don’t take fright and start calling it porn. Hell, I’ll need to move it to the Russians if they do. But those shits are robbers. They’re already pirating my stuff. She’s popping up on sites all over the place and I’m not getting a cent. She’s a bloody gold mine.

As Eric Lang sat before his computer putting the BrightStarLucy.com logo on the pictures he’d just downloaded from the camera, he tried not to see the person in the pictures. It made him just a little uncomfortable if his eyes rested too long on the fine hairs sparkling on her long legs or the pink moist pout and protruding tongue licking her outstretched finger so suggestively. Eric tried really hard to forget who this beautiful young girl was. He tried not to see the pretty smooth face that was so like her mother Jo’s. He struggled not to imagine what the men who subscribed and sent their thirty-nine dollars for thirty days membership would be doing when they gazed at these images. Mostly Eric was very good at such selective awareness. He could completely remove all thoughts of who was represented in his imagery. They became an abstract, a product, and a lucrative commodity, not his only child. Not a ten-year-old trusting child who did what he asked because he asked. Those thoughts were very successfully kept at bay most of the time but these were the most revealing pictures he’d ever taken. The most suggestive and blatantly sexual. Up to now the images could have been described as modelling. They were so described on the site but Eric knew that was bull. Everyone knew these sites had nothing whatever to do with fashion or emerging models.

Eric had learned not to see the images he took during his career as being people with feelings and emotions. He’d learned his trade on a state newspaper in East Berlin. His father had gotten him the job by putting pressure on the editor. Kurt Lang was an officer of the state security police. The much-feared Stasi. He’d opened many doors for his son and taught him how to exploit people’s weakness and see their vulnerability as something to be used for personal gain. After the fall of the wall and the collapse of the East German state, the once fearful Stasi became social lepers, rejected by all those they’d formerly bullied and persecuted. Kurt Lang’s answer to that was to shoot himself dead in the bathroom of the family apartment.

Eric had, by then, met a beautiful young Irish dancer during her troupe’s tour of Germany. Jo Dillon was one of those naïve Catholic girls with no idea how beautiful they truly are. She was an easy seduction for the tall, blond, handsome, assured photographer who came to take shots of them for the local paper. His English was excellent, and he seemed, to her, very sophisticated and worldly. Not at all like the boys at home. Not short, not dark, not brutal nor a heavy drinker. Not violent or involved in murky IRA goings on. It was what Erick Lang was not that Jo Dillon found so attractive.

She let him do what no other had; she let him have his way with her in her hotel room. Then again two months later when they were playing in West Berlin after the wall had been broken. He came to her and stayed with her for two weeks. When she came back to Ireland three months later, she returned to Dundalk pregnant and frightened. She phoned Eric and told him. He surprised her by saying he would come to Ireland when he could and take care of her but that she should return to Berlin so they could be married quickly. Jo didn’t then see the real reason he was so keen for her to come back to be married. Even though she later had doubts, she could not let herself see she was simply an exit strategy for Eric. A quick ticket out of a troubled home with vindictive neighbours, whose long memories of how they’d been treated by Kurt Lang and his son Erik made East Berlin a very uncomfortable place to remain in.

When she heard her father run down the stairs, Regan dawdled about dressing, in no hurry to go in and sit with her mother. She regarded herself once more in the mirror. She adjusted her mini-skirt so it sat straight across the top of her thighs and bent slightly to be sure her new panties didn’t show. She adjusted the little tank top so it was straight and then she examined the area of her flat belly and thought: I wonder, should I get a belly jewel like I’ve seen in pictures? My belly button is OK I guess but a little sparkly jewel would look nice. Perhaps I’ll ask Daddy if he’ll buy one for me. My skin is losing its tan. I’d better get the lamps out and top up or he’ll be nagging me again.

In the next room, Jo Lang was watching TV, eating a pack of crisps and drinking a Coke. This was her lunch. She didn’t eat breakfast or a meal in the middle of the day. Frustratingly she was still getting fat or at least Eric said she was. He was always calling her lard arse or chubby thighs but when she looked at herself, she seemed to be as she had always been. Perhaps a little thickly built but not fat, no looseness. Her body was strong and she had thick legs and a big round bum but they were not even a bit flabby. She often wished she were taller, like Regan. She was sure it was her lack of height that made Eric think she was fat. Regan had gotten her amazing pure grey eyes, symmetrical face and thick slightly pouting lips from Jo. Her thick blond hair, height and skin that tanned easily was all Eric.

Regan came into the room where her mother sat watching TV and sat on the chair opposite. She waited until the commercial break before she spoke: Mammy can I speak to you a minute? Her mother nodded but didn’t look at her. Well the thing is, Daddy took some pictures today that I think were... well they weren’t nice and...

Shut up! I’ve told you before that is nothing to do with me. I don’t want anything to do with it. Speak to him.

But Mammy he won’t listen and just gets mad if...

I said shut up!

Regan sat staring at her mother and the look was filled with anger, pleading and confusion. Yet again she wondered why her Mammy always seemed so angry with her. If it’s about the photos? Why did she tell me to do it, why didn’t she say stop? Why did she say do it and then get mad when I did? Mammy bought the clothes and the costumes and make up. She fixes my hair and helps me with the tanning stuff. Why does she always say it’s nothing to do with her? It’s not fair.

Jo noticed the angry glare from across the room and flushed red but before she could speak Regan jumped up and ran out. Jo noticed the ultra short skirt, bare midriff, all the exposed flesh and was suddenly filled with outrage. Anger that made her want to scream. She thought: Damned wee tart and went back to the TV. There were several young girls on the screen wearing very short school dresses and exposing long tanned legs. She winced and thought: They’re bloody everywhere, damned wee tarts flashing their perfect stuff.

Ever since Eric had first suggested they could make a tidy sum from a website featuring their daughter, Jo had struggled with these conflicting emotions. She had been sure it was just an innocent modelling site. Eric’s explanations had been plausible. He is her father and would do nothing to harm her, would he? Jo’s view of male sexuality was very simplistic. They had needs and a woman should satisfy those needs when required, within reason, with moderation. But all this looking at pictures and porn and self-satisfaction was a mystery she preferred not to explore. She didn’t want to see Regan’s site but in the end her curiosity got too much and she had a look at the first page with the sample pictures. She had been confused and upset by what she saw. She couldn’t say exactly what was upsetting for Regan was always dressed. But the images are meant to be sexy. She looks knowing. That’s not on for a seven or eight year old girl. Not my pretty little girl. My little doll I dress and make pretty and buy all the latest fashions for. Those fashions were a bit revealing and sexy even. Like on MTV. But where is the harm in that? It’s just dressing up.

Those pictures haunted Jo and made her angry. Angry generally, not at him and no not at little Reagan. But she does pose like that and stick out that pink tongue, pout and flash those big eyes. How could she do that if she wasn’t enjoying it, encouraging it, egging him on? But no. Best not think about it. Have nothing to do with it. Who would know? People around here wouldn’t see that kind of site. Mainly America, Eric says. Most of the money comes from the US he says. She may even get a modelling contract out of it and be a famous rich model. Yes, best not think about it.

Regan went to her bedroom and lay on the bed with earphones on listening to radio music very loud. She was feeling a burning sense of indignation and outrage at the unfairness her mother always seemed to display. These were her emotions but she could not have expressed how she was feeling in these terms. For her it was a fuzzy unfocused anger. She tried to immerse totally in the music but every time she did, there would be his words in her imagination to drag her back to the moment. I wish he would only play music and not talk. I must get one of those CD players and then I can use my pocket money to buy music. I should be due money soon. It’s been ages since he gave me my fee. Regan reached across and turned up the volume trying to overwhelm her thoughts.

For a time it worked, but she soon began to think again and this time it was about school and how two of the boys had recently begun to tease her. They had seen her site. Obviously just the free sample pages but still, they’d seen it. As she thought about what they said, she realised they must have seen other pictures because they’d mentioned a schoolgirl costume. Those pictures were only available when they sent money. She’d accused them of lying but they said they’d seen the pictures on a site called something like ‘usernet’ and didn’t need to pay. They’d made up names and ages to get round age stuff and it was: Easy-peasy wee-buns anyway. They kept asking who took the pictures and did her Mammy know? What would happen if they told on her? Then they sniggered and said if she gave them a snog they’d maybe not tell.

She’d said, You can just feck off! My Mammy knows so there. And I’d rather snog a frog than you ugly ejits. The boys had been shocked, both by her cursing and her defiance. They had been sure they had found some dark secret she’d be keen to hide. They walked away confused and disappointed.

Regan had been upset and shocked but she had learned to hide feelings. She maintained a certain distance with everyone at school and had struggled to try to fit in and find acceptance. She was so very different looking to her classmates; much taller, strikingly blond among all the short, pale-skinned, dark haired children. The arrival of two Polish girls in her class had helped her hugely. They too were tall and blonde but because they spoke with strong accents and had poor English, they instantly drew the fire of all the bullies and tormenters. What had previously been directed at her was now directed to them. They had been drawn to Regan, assuming she would be sympathetic. She was ashamed when she remembered how she had shunned them and thrown abuse with all the others. Keen to be seen as one of them and not a foreigner.

That was when she’d learned to use the ubiquitous Irish euphemism ‘feck’. She had no idea what it meant and even less idea what the English ‘fuck’ it stood in for represented, but it was a means of sounding more like everyone else. She also learned to broaden her accent and get rid of the very precise pronunciation and ultra correct grammar she’d learned from her father. There was nothing she could do about her looks but in all other ways Regan worked hard at fitting in. After four years in the same class, she was succeeding and now had a small posse of admirers.

She had one best friend and that was Mary Crowley. She was also tall and a little different, being a fellow blow-in. Her parents were from Belfast in the north and Mary had a bit of an accent that set her apart. She was also very pretty and had nice clothes like Regan. They had lots of fun dressing up in each other’s kit and wandering in the clothes shops. There was very little worthwhile in Bandon. Sometimes they would be taken up to Cork City; or, even better, be allowed to go up on the bus alone. They would spend Saturday wandering the big stores and little boutiques, having lunch in McDonalds. Posing in front of the gangs of boys.

Once Mary had suggested robbing a skirt from the Pennies store and they had done it. Mary had stuffed it down the front of her jeans. They had nearly wet themselves with fright when they were going out the doors but they’d gotten away with it. They were so excited and thrilled they repeated the thing. Regan robbed a big silky scarf from the Monsoon shop by wrapping it round her body under her tee shirt in the changing rooms. Shoplifting became a regular Saturday activity for Mary and Regan. Their wardrobes began to expand, apparently unnoticed by their mothers.

Mary had been the only friend Regan felt close enough to tell about her model job. Mary thought it was: Fab and brill. She had no idea what was involved; she saw only the images in the magazines and on TV and like most girls thought it was dead glam. Regan had tried to explain that it was: So, like boring. Mary didn’t get that and pestered Regan to ask her Daddy if she could maybe be a model as well. Regan found that idea both appalling and attractive. She liked the idea of having her friend along as an ally. She imagined it might perhaps make it fun. However she also had fuzzy feelings of worry and guilt. She was not really sure why she felt shame about the pictures but she didn’t want Mary sharing that. For months Mary had been on at her to ask her Daddy but she kept putting it off. Mary even suggested she’d ask. Regan was in the end forced to act when Mary began to say, You won’t do it because you think I’m not pretty enough. Just cause I’m not blond like you. You think I’m ugly don’t you?

That’s not fair. I think you are really beautiful but you don’t get what you’d have to do? Do you really? I mean, wearing hardly nothing. You’ve got to pretend to be sexy like? It’s embarrassing sometimes; the other day I spilt 7UP on myself by accident. Then he took loads of pictures of me like that and it meant you could see everything through my top and panties. It was icky and not fun at all. Do you really want to do stuff like that?

Yea why not? That sounds fun and sexy like?

Mary’s bravado was typical of her. She was always trying to be more knowing than she was. She was nearly a year older than Regan. She’d be eleven in two weeks and was in a hurry to be older. She dressed daringly and flirted with older boys. Most of those lads assumed the tall, curvy dark haired pretty girl and her frighteningly beautiful and exotic blond friend were nearer fifteen. Fortunately for Mary and Regan, the lads they flirted with, tended to be sensitive boys down off the farm. Unsure of themselves and intimidated to stumbling, grunting incoherence by the fabulous girls. They would try to impress them with macho posturing, fighting each other or showing off their sporting prowess. Mary and Regan would be bored within minutes by such stuff and would swish away laughing at the silliness of boys.

Regan postponed bringing up Mary’s desire to model for nearly a year before the pestering became overwhelming. She decided to raise the subject with her father. They were doing a beach shoot on a clear sunny but chill day at the end of May. They had stopped for a hot drink from the flask and were sitting in the car. Regan was wrapped in a blanket and shivered slightly as she cupped the mug in both hands, relishing the hot tea. Her arms goosebumped and the fine hairs stood to attention. That used to be a reason Eric stopped. The goosebumps and hairs were too noticeable. He had been concerned about how hairy Regan’s arms and legs were becoming and had wanted to get Jo to use a cream to make her smooth; but the response to the shoots in which that blond hair was notable were very popular. Now he encouraged that look and he had been miffed when she’d wanted to stop because she was cold.

Emails constantly arrived speaking of how much certain subscribers liked such images. Eric didn’t usually read emails from subscribers; some of them were disgusting. But he scanned them and used the ideas expressed there occasionally for a shoot. Certain outfits and poses were requested more than others and knowing what was popular helped sell subscriptions. Bikini shoots in cool weather, like today, always sold well. The school uniform was another huge seller and Eric planned another one of those next. But Regan had grown so much since the last; they needed to buy new uniform.

Daddy I need to ask you something? Promise you won’t be mad and shout at me?

I’ll try but no promises. It depends on what it is.

Ok never mind then.

Don’t try my patience. What?

Well, you know my friend Mary? She’s been on at me to ask you if she could do modelling.

Eric stared at his daughter and was unsure how to respond. On the one hand he was annoyed Regan had told her friend what she was doing but on the other - he had looked at Mary several times and thought she would make a good subject. Pretty and fetching. Very photogenic. He reckoned he could get a great series of her that would sell well. If she didn’t freeze before the lens. Many young girls on the net were pretty but they didn’t sell because they had fixed grins and blank looks. They often looked vacant or afraid and stiff. The really big sellers, the stars, all had one thing in common. They looked animated and lively, as if they were having fun. Perhaps they loved showing off and were loving being appreciated. Regan had that quality even though she didn’t know it. Regan was a born performer he reckoned. Her dance helped that a lot. She had been doing ballet since she was five and that gave her great mobility and grace. It got her used to performing, being watched and closely examined. He suspected this Mary girl would share that quality. She was also a dancer, attending the same ballet-school as Regan.

However there was one big obstacle to a potentially very lucrative expansion and that was parental consent. One simply had to have it for underage models. Eric was torn. There was serious money to be made but there was also danger. If this Mary girl took it badly or told her parents the wrong thing, it could blow the whole operation and he’d lose everything. Or, at very least, be forced to move to a different town.

Very well. I will consider that but I must speak with Mary and then her parents to be sure they have no objection. Do you tell her exactly what we do?

Sort of but not really. It’s so difficult to say.

And has she perhaps seen our site?

Daddy, I have not even seen my site and I don’t want to.

Regan felt her tummy churn and was a little ill. She wanted Mary to come be a model because it would help Regan feel better. She’d not feel she was doing something odd or bad if her friend was there doing it as well. If other parents thought it was OK then maybe it was? But she also didn’t want it to happen because she was worried Mary would be really good at it and then her Daddy might not want her to do it at all. Maybe Mary would take over and then Regan would have nothing to do. Have no way to please them. Mary was very bold and cheeky and talked as if she knew everything. She talked about boys and sex as if she really knew all about it. That worried Regan because she didn’t. She knew the facts, she’d learned the stuff about how babies were made and that was; ‘Just so, like, yucky’. But she didn’t really understand what all the fuss about boys was. She played the games with Mary but Regan had no real idea what she was doing or why. She didn’t even like boys much. Regan’s worries were interrupted by Eric who said, Very well we will see about Mary later. Let’s get out there before the sun goes. I want to get some shots with you splashing and paddling.

But Daddy it’s still freezing in the water.

Never mind that. It’ll be over quickly and it will only be up to your knees. Let’s go. That’s my brave beautiful girl.

Jo Lang sat near the confessional. The church was up a flight of steep steps from the main street and she was still puffing a bit from rushing up. She’d been late leaving as usual. She was breathing hard because she was not as fit as she should be but also because she was very tense. Every week was the same. She’d sit and wait with her heart racing trying to still herself. She would beckon others in ahead of her to give more time to calm down. Confession always made her nervous and sometimes she wondered why she put herself through this ordeal. Every time, she would have the racing heart as she knelt the other side of the screen and lied. Asking forgiveness for everything but what she really needed absolution for. That never got mentioned but was always at the forefront of her mind. She knelt and whispered her lies to Father Conner or Murphy and always there was the big sin. The really big sin she’d never confessed to anyone. Except her friend Ann and the doctor and nurse in the clinic in Liverpool. The ones who’d taken away her secret. Taken away the other daughter, made her not be. Eric had been so disappointed when she’d told him she’d miscarried and lost their baby. He’d been good though and he had been kind and gentle with her. But she’d not told him that baby had been thrown away rather than lost. Jo could not live easy with the knowledge of what she’d done. It was eating at her Catholic conscience. One of the ultimate sins and she’d never confessed it, so it weighed heavy on her. Along with the other lies. The smaller ones about Regan