Page 37 of Cruel Dominion

Olivia’s eyes scanned my face, like she was searching for something. She must have realized that I don’t want to talk about my past, since she politely changed the subject.

“I’ve been in the gallery for three years now,” she said. “I love the work, and I get to guide artists who are more advanced in their careers. But I’ll be honest, I miss working with students. Being a mentor was so rewarding.”

“Even when you’re mentoring a bunch of spoiled kids with their parents’ credit cards?”

“Even then. I know there are a few who pursued art as a career. I’d love to see what kind of work they’re doing now. I’d love to see your photography, for example. I remember how committed you were. There were a few shots I can still see vividly in my memory. You had that natural eye for it. I always wondered if one day I’d see your portfolio pass my desk.”

I felt my cheeks heat with embarrassment. “I can’t believe people still remember how into photography I was. Lots of kids had cool hobbies back then.”

“But not all of those students had real talent.”

Olivia gave me a piercing look over the edge of her teacup. “Trust me. I know the difference.”

“I’m not sure how much I did with my talent,” I said, glancing down. “I mean, I kept taking photos, but they were just of the people in my life mostly.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself, Anna. Some of the best art is focused on our personal lives. Did you keep working with film?”

“Whenever I could. I couldn’t always?—”

I stopped myself before I could tell her I couldn’t always afford film. It seemed presumptuous, somehow, to talk about that time now that I had access to unlimited cash.

Olivia sipped her tea and gazed at me thoughtfully. “I’d love to see them, if you ever have the time to bring them by.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I really don’t think they’re?—”

“Don’t worry about what’s good. I’m the gallerist—that’s my job. Satisfy my curiosity. I’d really love to see what you’ve made and I think you owe me after promising to keep in touch and then vanishing from the face of the earth for—what is it—six years?”

I laughed hollowly, knowing I couldn’t say no.

I knew she wasn’t just being nice. She really did want to see my work, no matter if it was shit or not. She’d be honest with me, tell me where I might’ve gone wrong, where I could improve. She’d praise the things I got right.

I missed that kind of constructive feedback. Didn’t realize I was craving it.

“Well, when you guilt trip me like that…” I trailed off.

She smiled coyly. “Fabulous. Shall we make a date then? Say early next week?”

I knew if I thought about it too much, I’d chicken out. So I went straight home and put every reel of film I’d collected over six years into a grocery bag, then had David drive me to a photoshop to get it all digitized. When I pulled out Dad’s credit card to pay extra for the rush job, I didn’t feel a moment of guilt.

After I made an appearance at dinner for Mom’s sake, I hurried up to my room to review the photos. I clicked through the thousands of photos, giving myself just a few seconds to decide what I was interested in looking at again. I ended up with about four hundred that I didn’t hate on sight.

Once I really took the time to look at them, I found myself entranced. I’d captured every woman who worked with me at the Butterfly Room, women who knew me—the real me—better than almost anyone here at home.

There was Vanessa, the 30-year-old single mom who taught me that men tipped more when you wore red lipstick. She loved the camera, and I’d taken dozens of photos of her. There she was painstakingly applying liquid eyeliner, putting Band-Aids on the blisters she got from her six inch heels, video calling her sons to sing them a goodnight song.

Then there was Zara, the girl who started on the same day as me. I’d never met anyone who was so tough and vulnerable at the same time. She’d curse out any customer who touched her without permission, and stay stone-faced when we were overwhelmed. But she cried whenever she heard a sappy love song.

Here she was pouring out a line of shots, hiking up her cocktail dress, pulling out twenty dollar bills she stuffed in her bra.

But some of my favorite photos included me. Not me alone, but me slotted into a group shot with my coworkers. There I was, snapping a photo of eight of us just before service, primping in the mirror behind the bar. Or when I posed with Zara, both of us pretending to be Jessica Rabbit.

Maybe that was what made lying about where I’d been so horrible. It was like I denied these women, this life I’d built, every time I pretended to be some house-building do-gooder. Because when I looked back at my time in the Butterfly Room, I didn’t feel embarrassed. I felt proud of how hard I worked, and nostalgic for a time when at the end of the day, it felt like I really did something.

I whittled the whole thing down to fifty pictures. My favorite ones implied a mystery or a bigger story, feeling like I captured a moment of a life so complex, you have to imagine the rest of it.

These were women that the rich people in this town would write off immediately, but in these photos, they were powerful and captivating.

Maybe my photos should be seen after all.

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