Painting Perfection (ShiningKnight x DearestDarling)

[Shiningknight]

Isaac Winters climbed out of the New York taxi, carrying with him an old and battered brown leather satchel, which he slung over his shoulder. He paid the driver and walked away as someone else climbed into the taxi. Walking slowly he fished around in the pocket of his black coat, before pulling out a scrap of paper with an address on it. He quickly checked it against the building in front of him, an elegant tower of luxury apartments. On the top floor of the grotesquely expensive building was his next client. Putting the paper back in his pocket he glanced up at the building and the grey skies above that threatened rain, before heading into the lobby of the building.

He stood there for a moment, looking around before finding the elevators, barely registering the strange questioning looks of the people in the lobby. He certainly didn’t look like her belonged there. Walking through the lobby, he was wearing his black coat, fairly new along with a dark blue jumper underneath and a pair of light, slightly faded jeans. The jumper itself was slightly frayed in places at the edges. His medium length brown hair was styled in a messy look and there was a slight layer of darker brown stubble covering his jaw and chin. He reached the elevator as it was about to close, but a middle aged woman stopped the doors and Isaac slipped inside.
“Thank you.” He said in a curious voice, a mingling of a New York accent with an English one, the result of an American father and an English mother. He pressed the button for the top floor, home to the largest, most stylish and most expensive apartment, before settling himself in a corner, ignoring the curious glances of the others.

Finally, after a painfully long and awkward elevator ride, he found himself on the top floor. Stepping out of the elevator he found himself in front of the door. He took a moment to compose himself slightly and out of habit checked inside his satchel, making sure he still had all of his sketchbooks and pencils. He took a deep breath and knocked several times on the door, dreading the coming session and the ones to follow over the next few weeks. For the past year, since he turned twenty, he had been working as a portrait artist for the incredibly wealthy, after quickly establishing for himself a reputation as one of the best current painters in New York. While these sessions paid more than enough money for his otherwise humble lifestyle, he hated sitting opposite the pampered and spoiled children and listening to all the “Mummy, the man looks scruffy!” or “Daddy, make sure he makes me look good.”. It bored him nearly to death, so did the paintings, the lack of character or personality they portrayed. He was quickly snapped back to reality as the door opened.

 

[dearestdarling]

Daisy had always hated New York. Every spring and summer they vacationed in their penthouse uptown, a luxury suite to most but not much more than a pretty prison cell for her. Her parents cited the crime rates when questioned about the restrictions they put on her, but it was just an excuse to keep her locked away, only to be released for school and pre-sanctioned extra curricular activities. On the West Coast she was afforded a little more freedom; they had an expansive property with a private beach that she could sunbathe on. She was counting down the days until September 1st, when they would fly back to their other home and she would start college.

Her mother, Helene Harrington, was hovering over her, watching with hawk-like precision as she practiced a concerto on the baby grand. Her parents thought that music 'kept her out of trouble', but truthfully, it was just a way to pass the time. Daisy had been primped all morning long-- a stylist had been by to curl her long, rich brown hair so that it fell in waves down her back, a floaty, ethereal white dress had been picked for her to wear. She didn't understand what the fuss was about, or why her parents were suddenly obsessed with the idea of having a life-sized portrait of their daughter in the front room. In their social circles, these kinds of fads were common. One wealthy couple would spend an embarrassing amount of money on some frivolous luxury item, and like lemmings the rest would follow. But her own parents had won the game. They had managed to book one of the most sought-after artists of the moment, Isaac Winters, to come to their home and paint their lovely daughter. She wasn't much more than an ornament to them, a pretty songbird locked in a fancy cage. And the portrait would be a testament to that, so Daisy had come to resent it.

A loud knock interrupted her playing, and her mother placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "Wait here, I'll get the door," she instructed but Daisy shrugged her mother's hand away, slipped off of the piano bench, and dashed to the door, sending her perfectly set hair in disarray. In her haste she nearly knocked over a vase that cost more than what many people made in a year, and her mother only just caught it before it fell and broke into a million pieces. The extra time it cost Helene to catch the vase and replace it on its display table gave Daisy the advantage she needed to reach the door first. The company that she was able to keep was so limited that she was chomping at the bit to meet this artist, even if he was stuffy and boring.

She swung the door open, and instead of the artist they'd been expecting, a man that looked homeless stood outside their door. The only men that Daisy had ever seen that wasn't clean shaven were those that stood on the corners of busy streets, clutching cardboard signs that begged for anything that could be given. Daisy's delicate brow furrowed, her blue-green eyes shining with concern. He didn't look dirty, but his clothes were worn and looked like something that their landscaper in California would wear. He was young, not much older than herself.

"How did you get past the doorman?" Her words were poorly chosen, but she was genuinely surprised. "Look, my mother is going to send you away, but if you can come back by in a few hours, I can give you something, alright? My mother won't be here, she'll have pilates class." Speaking of the devil, her mother had reached the doorway and pulled the door wider so that she could see the visitor. Unlike Daisy, she was not at all pleased to see him on their doorstep.

"I'm going to have that doorman fired," she huffed, looking the man up and down. "We don't give out handouts here, alright? So turn around and find your way out before we call security."

 

[Shiningknight]

Isaac couldn’t help but smile at the Harrington’s reaction and immediate assumption that he was homeless. It had happened with all seven of his last clients, all of whom would be considered as the social elite, the rich and powerful. People he had soon started to detest. But being a realist, Isaac knew that if he wanted to paint for a living he would have to cater to their whims, paint all their spoiled little children as if they were the most beautiful children he’d laid his eyes upon, and then graciously accept the more than adequate paycheque. He hadn’t even spent all of the money from his first job yet, despite the fact that the money, whilst seemingly a small fortune to him it was nothing to them.

“Actually my name is Isaac, Isaac winters. You got in touch with me about a portrait of your daughter.” He explained, allowing his English accent to become more prominent. He had something of a southern English accent, or as some of his friends had pointed out, much to his annoyance, a posh English accent. However he found that usually when dealing with these kind of people, the accent went down rather well and they soon warmed up to him. He was hoping the same could be said of the Harringtons. As he introduced himself he pulled a business card from the inside pocket of his coat and handed it to them. On the front was his name, phone number and email address. On the back was a small sketch of the last girl he had been hired to paint. He had drawn the sketch the night before.

“Actually your doorman is rather good.” He added as he steeped between the two women and into their apartment, giving it a quick glance over. Find nothing of interest of originality, he turned back to the women, carrying on. “The only reason he didn’t see me was because he was busy turning away a genuine homeless person, god forbid should we have to acknowledge the poor and needy.”
Isaac mentally cursed himself even as the words were leaving his mouth and, hoping that his latest clients hadn’t or wouldn’t notice, he moved quickly on.

“Of course if you don’t believe me I have sketches of my last few clients, some of which I believe you may know.” He said as he was pulling a simple black sketch book from his satchel, which he opened to the latest page. “This is Emilia Rose, the latest girl I was hired to paint.” He explained, showing them an immaculately drawn black and white sketch of a young girl. The sketch captured every little detail, from the one or two stray hairs to the reflection in her eyes.