Ricococo

Dear Readers,
After the heartbreak I suffered from Jean DeBout's sudden sail out of my life, I swore I would never fall in love like that again.   My poor little heart wouldn't bear more pain.  However, I never said I would, or in any way could, stop the fellas from falling for me.  And fall they do, but that's really not my problem.  


I was down and out in Paris; with Jean DeBout's departure all the glitter, glam, and romance of the city had vanished.  Of course my work on the runway continued uninterrupted as depression did nothing to lessen my looks, but without my true love's support, I was turning to very bad things for comfort.  Being the smart lady that I am, I knew I couldn't sustain this rough and tumble lifestyle forever.  I needed to help myself, and the best thing to do was to leave Paris quite quick.  A photographer friend suggested Italy.  With nothing but my fur coat, I shuttled to Italia. 


Once I landed in the fashion capital, it was obvious that the Sweetie P. phenomenon had slithered its way across Europe.  Photographers and designers were waiting to greet me and swept me away to a fabulous apartment.  I started working immediately and all the attention helped ease the hole left by Jean DeBout.


During my third runway show, I was taken aback by yet another sighting of a mysterious painter buried in the midst of the flashing lights.  Something was not right. Other more naive models may have overlooked this breach or agreed to looser terms and provisions, but I for one had stated very clearly in my contract that under no circumstances was my image, or any likeness thereof, to be captured by anyone other than an authorized photographer, not a painter. From my perch on the catwalk, I could see that this painter had neither proper credentials nor a press pass.  That was not right and it made me mad.  I was no dummy and I was most certainly not one to be taken advantage of! At the conclusion of the show, I gave a quick hello to my admirers- it was in my contract- then strode up to the interloper.  "Pardon me!  Where is your paper work?  Where is your pass?  This is not proper procedure and it is imperative you that vacate the premises now!" 


"Senorina!" he replied.  "You are la bella figura!  I have been looking everywhere for la donna perfecta and I see nothing.  But you! I see you and I must paint you.  The artist cannot control the inspiration; I must only paint." 


His big brown eyes were pleading for mercy, and his bottom lip bit back a tremble. I took pity on the painter and glanced at the painting.  What I saw took my breath away.  He was a true artist and had captured my great beauty in a way no photograph ever had.  Who was I to deny such an impressive work of art? We conversed over the intoxicating effect of my beauty and by the end of our conversation, I had agreed to pose for him.  Dear reader, I want you to know that I made it quite clear to him that under no circumstances would I be removing my beautiful fur coat.


Ricococo was a dashing fellow.  While he did not have the same kind of luxurious fur coat as me, he was quite gifted in the art of compensation.  Every day I posed for him, he was wearing a white artist's shirt.  It was always clean, crisp, and free from paint stains.  It was expertly tailored to drape across his lithe shoulders. He left the top 3 bottoms undone, allowing the fabric to fall in perfect pleats around his waist.  The arms billowed and accented his delicate wrists.  His kohl  eyeliner was artistically applied.  


Before I knew it, I was once again three quarters of the It couple.  We attended gallery openings (often for him, featuring me- the paintings always sold out), private viewings of the ballet, and opera at Teatro alla Scala.  We would weekend in nearby villas.  We had fun together and I could tell that he was falling for me.  When he wasn't painting me, we spent many an afternoon studying our respective languages.  Ricococo was a fantastic cook, but since I working the runway, I could seldom eat the pizza and the pasta that he prepared just for me.


Unfortunately, Ricococo developed a few bad habits afforded him by his wealthy commissioners. Though he was a talented and successful artist, these bad habits were a sign of immaturity and impropriety.  It was undignified, and I knew that Jean DeBout would never have behaved in this manner.  Eventually, the bad habits lead to laziness and the once ambitious Ricococo wanted to do things domani, domani, doppo domani... I had left France to get out of the gutter.  I certainly wouldn't get caught up in his mess here.


I knew it would break his heart, but the only way I could help both myself and Ricococo was to leave.  Late one night, when I was supposed to meet him at De La, I instead sent a courier to deliver a message.  "Dear Ricococo, you must forget me and never look for me.  We cannot be together.  Trust me when I say this is for the better.  You'll always have the paintings to remember me by.  Yours truly, Sweetie P."  


In my heart of hearts, I know that Ricococo has never gotten over me, but that's really not my problem.


Yours truly,


Sweetie P.


P.S. Next stop Madrid.