The adventures of Lisa-Marie and Yasmin

I was ready.

At least that’s what I claimed.

And when Lisa-Marie claimed something, she did it with style. With sunglasses. With a smile that said: watch me, here I come. With an air as if the world had actually been waiting for me to finally show up and shake things up a bit.

That’s just how I was.

Or let’s say: That’s how the version of me I liked to show myself was.

The disco queen.

The one who came from the countryside, but in my mind had long since been on dance floors. In clubs, surrounded by lights, music, and laughing people. With bass that shook my body, and that feeling of being allowed to be anything for a moment—just not invisible.

I loved action.

I loved that tingling sensation when something was happening. When fabrics were scattered about, when outfits were being tried on, when Mario was getting things ready, when Yasmin acted as if she were completely calm, even though inside she could probably have written three scientific studies on travel fever by now.

So the days leading up to Fehmarn had been exactly my thing.

Activity everywhere.

Clothes here, accessories there. Sunglasses. Caps. Scarves. Bags. Mario’s photography gear. And me right in the middle of it all, as if someone had set off a little pink rocket inside the house.

“Lisa, you don’t have to comment dramatically on every outfit,” Yasmin had said at some point.

I looked at her as if she’d just suggested we stop breathing for the sake of efficiency.

“Yes,” I said. “I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because otherwise no one knows how important it is.”

Yasmin had just shaken her head. But I saw her smile.

I always saw her smile.

On friday on the way there, I had tried to be exactly that Lisa.

The cool one.

The one with the Playboy cap. The one with the sunglasses. The one who, even at three in the morning, acted as if tiredness were a problem only for people without an inner sun.

When the first rays of sunlight streamed through the car window, they hit my face—or rather, my stylish sunglasses. I was sitting in the back, wrapped in blankets, but in my head I had long since become the star of a music video.

Outside, cars passed us by. Or we passed them. I have no idea. It was the highway, it was early, everything was new.

And I actually thought:

Oh, if only they knew.

If the people in the other cars could see me. If they knew that sitting in the back of this car was a girl who had left home for the first time. A girl who came from the foothills of the Alps, from farms, meadows, mountains, and that special sky you never quite forget. A girl who, despite all that, dreamed of big-city clubs, of cheerleader glamour, of music, of lights, of being seen.

Not just looked at.

Seen.

I probably would have grinned if the whole world outside the window hadn’t been so incredibly beautiful that even I kept my mouth shut for a few minutes.

That didn’t happen often.

Yasmin appreciated that.

Saturday belonged to her.

And I swear: I just wanted to watch.

Really.

I wanted to experience her big moment, be happy for her, maybe say a few sweet things, and later claim that of course I’d known all along that she’d look stunning.

But then I saw what Mario really saw.

Not just Yasmin’s face. Not just her figure. Not just the black mask, the feather, the light on the old staircase, or later that moment on the leather lounger, which she herself seemed to have trouble believing had actually happened.

He saw something in her that she apparently only discovered herself in the moment.

And that scared me.

Not right away.

At first, I was just impressed. Then moved. Then, at some point, silent. So silent that I barely recognized myself.

Because if Mario could look at Yasmin like that—so focused, so appreciative, so completely present with her—what would happen if he looked at me?

Really looked at me.

Not at my jokes.

Not at my cap.

Not at my “I’ve got this.”

But at me.

During the group photo on saturday, my cool facade cracked for the first time.

Mario helped me get changed. A pink miniskirt, a matching top, that gorgeous long necklace with the flowers. Sexy, yes. But also classy. Kind of cute. Kind of grown-up. Somehow more than I’d expected.

I looked down at myself and thought:

Oh no.

Not because I didn’t like it.

But because I liked it way too much.

Yasmin was already sitting on the couch, all dolled up, watching me with that look that pretended to be purely analytical but was actually warm.

“You’re staring,” I said.

“Scientific observation,” she replied.

I wanted to say something cheeky. Something fitting. Something very Lisa-like.

But suddenly there was nothing.

Just this feeling that I wasn’t just wearing an outfit right now.

But a possibility.

A version of myself that I had always played—and that was now suddenly being taken seriously.

Luckily, there was a distraction.

Outside, by the railing, stood another doll.

She seemed calm. Elegant. Present in a way that didn’t need to be loud. I saw her and, naturally, did what Lisa-Marie did in moments like this: I strolled over to her, pretending to be cool, as if I had everything completely under control.

I didn’t.

But details.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Lisa-Marie.”

She turned her head toward me. Her smile was open, but not intrusive.

“Beatrice.”

“Nice name.”

“Thanks. Yours too.”

“Mine sounds like the alps, a farm, and a woman who secretly dreams of starring in a music video.”

Beatrice laughed.

And with that, the ice was broken.

I don’t know how it happened. At first we stood side by side. Then a little closer. Then so close that her shoulder touched mine. At some point she had put an arm around me, and I leaned against her as if we’d known each other forever. No one was listening. No one was bothering us. Inside, people were shouting, laughing, getting ready, taking pictures. Outside, we just stood by the railing, two dolls in a strange world, and suddenly I didn’t have to pretend that everything was easy anymore.

“Tomorrow it’s my turn,” I said quietly.

“For the shoot?”

I nodded.

“Aren’t you excited?”

“Yes. Totally.” I laughed briefly. It didn’t sound convincing. “I mean, hello? Of course I’m excited. I’m Lisa. I’m practically built to look dramatically good.”

Beatrice looked at me from the side.

That look was unfair.

Way too gentle.

“And really?”

There it was again. That question my one-liners couldn’t do a thing against.

I looked down at my hands.

“I’m scared,” I admitted.

It was little more than a whisper.

But once it was said, I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t said it.

“I saw him taking pictures of Yasmin,” I continued. “And it was beautiful. So beautiful. But it was also… huge. Do you understand? As if suddenly everything mattered. Every glance. Every movement. And I don’t know what will happen if he looks at me like that.”

Beatrice was silent for a moment.

Then she said, “Soak it all in.”

I looked at her.

“What?”

“Soak it all in,” she repeated calmly. “Everything. Even the fear.”

A small shiver ran down my spine.

That’s what Nathalie had said.

Not quite like that. Not with exactly that voice. But it was the same sentence. The same magic. The same advice, just from a different mouth.

Soak it all in.

I swallowed.

“Nathalie said that too,” I whispered.

Beatrice pulled me a little closer.

“Then she knew what she was talking about.”

Yes.

She probably did.

The next day was my day.

Sunday.

Lisa’s day.

I tried to slip back into my role the moment I woke up. I almost succeeded.

“Ready for some action?” I said as soon as Mario joined us.

He looked at me and smiled.

Not mockingly. Not surprised.

More like he’d known all along that behind that sentence was a heart beating faster than I wanted to admit.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Born ready.”

Yasmin, who was sitting next to me, raised an eyebrow slightly.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’re thinking something.”

“Always.”

“About me?”

“Right now, yes.”

“And?”

She smiled gently. “You’re going to be beautiful today.”

That was mean.

Totally mean.

You couldn’t just say something like that when I was trying to act cool.

I blinked. “Yeah. Of course. That was obvious.”

But my voice was quieter than I’d intended.

Mario picked me up and carried me upstairs.

Even this walk felt different than it had the day before. With Yasmin, I’d been a spectator. I’d watched her moment, admired it, rejoiced with her. But now, every step on the stairs was a step closer to something that concerned me personally.

Me.

Lisa-Marie.

Not the loudmouth.

Not the disco queen.

Not the little action girl with sunglasses.

Me.

Upstairs, everything was ready. Or at least it looked to me as if the room had been waiting just for me to finally show up.

A king-size bed stood directly under the roof, in front of a single window. The light streamed in bright and soft, tracing lines across the blankets and pillows, making the room seem larger than it was. It wasn’t just a bed. Not in that light. It was a stage. A cinematic scene. A promise.

I understood right away.

Of course I understood right away.

“Okay,” I said, trying to smile. “That’s pretty dramatic.”

Mario nodded slightly. “Then let’s make it dramatic.”

He showed me the lingerie.

Hot.

I couldn’t put it any other way.

Delicate, daring, with details that hinted at more than they concealed. I stared at it.

“You can see everything!”

Mario looked at me calmly.

“Yes,” he said. “Exactly.”

For a moment, I was silent.

Because it wasn’t a cheeky remark from him.

No pressure.

No ambiguity.

Just a statement.

And in that statement lay something that, strangely enough, calmed me. Yes. You’d see a lot. But not because I was at his mercy. But because that was exactly part of the concept. Because the light, the bed, the pose, the accessories, and my own courage were meant to come together to create something that wasn’t cheap.

Just Lisa.

Maybe not the Lisa who was always cracking jokes.

But one who still belonged to me.

I let him change my clothes.

I was quieter than usual. Mario handled me gently, as always. No hasty movements, no wrong touch. Everything was calm. Careful. Natural. And it was precisely this naturalness that made it easier.

As I lay on the bed, I felt the softness of the blanket beneath me, the light on my skin, the room around me.

“Wait,” Mario said suddenly. “Something’s missing.”

Of course.

With Mario, “something” was always missing until suddenly everything was just right.

He fetched a small side table and placed it next to the bed. On it, he set a glass of champagne.

“Oh,” I said. “Now it’s getting dangerously elegant.”

“That was the plan.”

Then came the mask.

A shiny silver venetian carnival mask.

Cool in color, elegant in form. With white feathers. Feathers in the lingerie. Feathers as a hint, as a line, as a playful contrast between innocence and seduction. I could have laughed, because it fit so perfectly with my own absurd mix: country girl and club dream, sass and romance, cheerleader fantasy and fairy tale.

Mario positioned me.

“Bend one leg slightly. Tilt your head slightly to the side. Not too much. Yes. Hand toward the glass. Look at me.”

The camera clicked.

Click.

I took a breath.

Click.

I was still Lisa.

I was still cool.

I could still play with it.

So I played.

I let my gaze wander out from under the mask. I touched the stem of the glass with my fingertips. I acted as if I’d done nothing all morning but wait under skylights in feathers and silver masks for men with cameras.

“Very good,” said Mario.

Click.

“Just like that.”

Click.

“Lisa, that’s strong.”

Strong.

Not cute.

Not pretty.

Strong.

That word stuck with me.

I shifted my posture slightly, turned my shoulder, let the feathers play. The others helped again with lighting, reflectors, small adjustments. One moved the softbox closer. Another made sure the light didn’t get too harsh. Someone asked if I was comfortable. Someone else smoothed out a piece of fabric.

Everyone was working.

For me.

Not to expose me.

Not to stare at me.

But to make me visible.

It felt like hours passed.

Maybe it wasn’t hours. Maybe time just wasn’t reliable that morning. It stretched, contracted, vanished between clicks and light.

At some point, Mario lowered the camera a little.

“Great shots,” he said. “Thanks.”

And then I heard my own voice before my head could stop it.

“Then why stop?”

Mario looked at me.

For a moment, no one said anything.

Not because it was awkward.

But because the sentence hung in the room like an open door.

“What do you mean…,” Mario began.

But even before he finished the sentence, I knew.

I wanted to keep going.

I didn’t want to go back to the safe version. Not now. Not after I’d felt what it was like when I didn’t have to pretend to be cool, because it was connected to something real underneath.

It wasn’t defiance.

It wasn’t about proving myself.

It wasn’t “Look what I dare to do.”

It was more of a quiet, terrifyingly clear decision:

I wanted to know who I was when nothing remained of my mask except trust.

A little later, I was lying stark naked on the bed.

And yet the word felt bigger than the moment.

Because what I felt wasn’t exposure.

It was silence.

A strange, warm, concentrated silence.

The silver mask remained. The white feathers remained. Not to hide, but to compose. Lines. Shadows. Hints. Little secrets. Eroticism not as what was shown—but as what was not shown at that moment.

I stretched out slowly, just as Mario had instructed, and eventually not just because he had instructed it. The feathers moved with me, soft and bright in the light. The bed became a stage. The window a spotlight. The room a world where I didn’t have to explain anything.

Click.

Click.

Click.

I heard the camera and forgot why I should have been ashamed.

For a few minutes, I wasn’t brave.

I was free.

That’s something else.

Bravery still needs fear in the background.

Freedom forgets it for a moment.

Then suddenly—in the middle of a movement, in the middle of a breath—I realized what was happening.

I was lying there.

Naked.

In front of Mario.

In front of the camera.

In a room where other people were helping, setting the light, directing the shadows, seeing shapes.

And nothing about it was dirty.

Nothing about it was degrading.

Nothing about it was small.

On the contrary.

Everything seemed more careful than before.

More precious.

As if my trust had changed the room.

As if everyone had understood that this moment must not become louder, but quieter.

I thought of Beatrice.

Soak it up.

I thought of Nathalie.

Soak it all up.

So I did.

I even soaked up that shock. That realization. That almost incredulous amazement at how far I had gone—and how safe I still felt doing it.

Eventually, this shoot was over too.

This time, no one said anything loud right away.

Maybe that was for the best.

I was dressed again, slowly, gently, almost solemnly. Not as if something wrong needed to be covered up. But as if a chapter were being closed, one that you carefully place back on the shelf with both hands because you know how precious it was.

“Fresh air?” Mario asked.

I nodded immediately.

“Yes. Please.”

I had to get out.

Not gone.

Just out.

I needed to breathe.

I needed to process what had just happened.

I’d been changed for the garden. A different outfit. A red plaid dress. Black boots. Sturdy boots. A decent heel. Less sunday. More Fehmarn. More air after all that heat under the roof.

As Mario carried me outside, the cool air hit me like a breath of fresh air.

The garden lay before us, and for a moment I couldn’t believe that the same world where this intimate, almost unreal photo shoot had just taken place now simply held cherry blossoms, grass, stone walls, and sky.

A cherry tree was in bloom.

Of course a cherry tree was in bloom.

Because this day had apparently decided not to be subtle.

The blossoms were delicate, almost unreal in their brightness, and the wind stirred them barely noticeably. Out here, everything was romantic, but in a different way than in the room. Not warm and mysterious. But open. Soft. Alive.

Mario positioned me under the tree.

Click.

The sound of the camera had become familiar by now.

Click.

I looked up at the branches.

Click.

Blossoms above me. Sky behind them. Mario’s voice in front of me.

“Beautiful.”

Click.

I could have made another quip.

Something like: “I told you so.”

Or: “It was obvious.”

Or: “Fehmarn can be glad I’m here.”

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

Something had changed.

The coolness was still there, somewhere. But it no longer sat on the throne. It was just a piece of clothing I could wear. Not my skin.

Then came the stone wall.

Rough, old, solid. I was placed against it, hands like this, gaze there, body slightly turned. The light was different. No longer soft like blossoms, but clearer, more structured. The wall didn’t make me more delicate. It made me stronger.

Click.

I thought: That’s me, too.

Then a tree.

Not the cherry tree. Another one. Darker, sturdier, with bark that looked as if it had weathered many winters. Mario placed me in front of it, positioned me, stepped back.

“Lisa,” he said softly, “stay exactly like that.”

I didn’t know what “exactly like that” meant.

Maybe he meant my posture.

Maybe my gaze.

Maybe the moment when I had finally stopped putting on a show.

The camera kept clicking.

Click.

Click.

Click.

And at some point, everything blurred.

The garden.

The blossoms.

The wall.

The tree.

The voices.

The light.

Not because I was tired.

Even though I was tired.

But because everything inside me came flooding in all at once.

The drive there. The sunlight on my sunglasses. My desire to be seen. Yasmin on the stairs. Mario, who hadn’t photographed her as a subject, but as a secret he was gently unveiling. Beatrice at the railing. Her embrace. Soak it all in. The bed under the roof. The mask. The feathers. My own words: Why stop then? The nakedness that hadn’t been an exposure. The light that hadn’t betrayed me. The people who didn’t gawk, but helped. Mario, who looked at me as if I weren’t too much and not too little.

But just right.

That’s when the dams broke.

Not elegantly.

Not cinematic.

Not with a single beautiful tear running decoratively down my cheek.

No.

I bawled.

For real.

So much so that I startled myself at first.

My coolness didn’t fade away slowly. It just collapsed. With a crash. As if someone had pulled the plug on my little disco queen machine, and what emerged wasn’t darkness, but a heart that had pretended for far too long that it could cushion everything with a witty remark.

Mario was right by my side.

“Lisa?”

I wanted to answer.

Wanted to say: Everything’s fine. Wanted to say: I’m okay. Wanted to say: I’m just a little emotional right now, haha, it happens, let’s move on.

But none of that came out.

Instead, I sobbed.

I hated it.

And I loved it.

Because it was finally real.

Mario placed a hand on my hair. Gently. Very gently. Not in a soothing “stop it” kind of way. More like everything was allowed to be there.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Everything’s okay.”

I shook my head.

Not because it wasn’t okay.

But because “okay” was way too small.

“I wanted to be cool,” I managed to say eventually.

My voice sounded terrible. Broken, tearful, not at all like Lisa-Marie.

Mario smiled, sad and loving at the same time.

“I know.”

“I wanted…” I had to swallow again. “I wanted to be sexy. And funny. And… I don’t know. Like I had everything under control.”

He said nothing.

Of course he said nothing.

He let me keep talking because he obviously knew that, for the first time that day, I wasn’t putting on a front.

“And then…” I searched for words. “Then it wasn’t like that at all. Or maybe it was. But different. I was sexy, right?”

The question came out so quietly that I was almost ashamed of it.

Mario looked at me.

“Yes,” he said. “Very.”

I started crying again right away.

“But not cheap,” I whispered.

“No,” he said calmly. “Never.”

“And not… not like a joke.”

His gaze softened even more.

“Lisa,” he said. “You were never a joke.”

That was the sentence.

The one sentence against which nothing could help anymore.

I had thought that maybe the nudity would overwhelm me. Or the camera. Or the many photo shoots. Or the fact that I had dared to go further than I could have even said out loud that morning.

But no.

It was that one sentence.

You were never a joke.

Because I suddenly understood that my one-liners, my coolness, my sassy attitude, my “Watch me, here I come” weren’t wrong. But they had also been a shield. A sweet mask. Glittering, loud, endearing perhaps—but still just a mask.

And underneath was this other Lisa.

The delicate one.

The highly emotional one.

The one who longed not just to stand out, but to be held.

Not just to seem sexy, but to be valued.

Not just to be desired, but to be desired with dignity.

By Mario.

Loved.

Seen.

And yet there was more. Much more.

Too much for words.

Even my heart reached its limits.

I kept crying, and at some point I didn’t care if anyone saw. Maybe everyone saw. Maybe no one. Maybe Beatrice was somewhere nearby. Maybe she was thinking of her own line. Maybe if Nathalie had been here, she would have just nodded, because she would have known that this was exactly what had to happen eventually.

Mario stayed with me.

He stroked my hair, held me, said nothing unnecessary. And that was exactly the right thing to do.

After a while, I managed a shaky laugh.

“That’s unfair,” I muttered.

“What?”

“I wanted to stay cool.”

Mario laughed softly. “It almost worked.”

I sniffed indignantly.

“Almost?”

“A little.”

“How dare you.”

There she was again. A little bit of Lisa left.

But this time, she didn’t have to hide anything.

She was just allowed to be there.

Later, as the garden grew quieter and the day slowly drew to a close, I felt empty and full at the same time. Empty, because so much had burst out of me. Full, because everything this day had given me continued to glow somewhere inside me.

I thought of the Lisa from this morning.

Ready for some action?

Sweet little idiot.

She hadn’t had a clue.

She’d thought action meant movement, light, outfits, cameras, maybe a little glamour, maybe a little “Look here, here I am.”

But this day had shown me something else.

Action could also mean that something breaks open inside.

That a mask falls away.

That you encounter yourself and suddenly can’t smile away what you’re feeling.

That evening, I wanted to see the pictures.

Of course I did.

And I was afraid of it.

Of course I was afraid.

Mario didn’t show me all of them right away. Just a few. Gently. As if he knew my heart had already worked hard enough today.

The bed under the skylight.

The silver mask.

The white feathers.

The glass of champagne.

I looked at myself.

And I barely recognized myself.

Not because it wasn’t me.

But because it was too much me.

There was no caricature of my coolness. No cheap version of “sexy.” No Lisa hiding behind one-liners.

There was a woman.

Playful. Sensual. Strong. Gentle.

Desirable.

And dignified.

I rested my head against Mario and whispered:

“Is that me?”

He stroked my hair.

“Yes.”

I closed my eyes.

Tears again.

Of course.

On that day, I had apparently decided to sacrifice all my body’s water reserves to art.

“Tell Nathalie,” I murmured at some point, “that she was right.”

“About what?”

I opened my eyes and looked toward the window, behind which Fehmarn was slowly sinking into the evening.

“About everything.”

Because Nathalie had known.

Beatrice had known.

Maybe even Yasmin had known after her saturday.

Only I had still believed that you needed to stay cool to keep from drowning.

But it was exactly the opposite.

Sometimes you have to let go of your cool so that what’s real can finally breathe.

And when I later settled down, exhausted, tear-stained, and completely happy, I thought of the cherry tree. Of the feathers. Of Mario’s gaze. Of Beatrice’s arm around my shoulder. Of Yasmin, who would surely nod far too wisely tomorrow. Of Amber, who was looking after Nathalie at home. To Nathalie herself, who had stayed behind with a broken leg and yet had given us this gift:

Soak it all in.

I had done it.

I had soaked it all in.

The light.

The fear.

The vulnerability.

The dignity.

The desire.

The love.

The pain of being truly seen.

And the incredible tenderness of not getting lost in the process.

I was Lisa-Marie.

Disco queen.

Country girl.

Dreamer.

Witty talker.

Crybaby.

Woman.

And for the first time, none of it felt like a contradiction.

But like me.