Page 58 of Thigh Highs
Under the Spotlight
No one seemsto notice my exit out of the makeup area, so I head over to the set where about a half dozen people are bustling around. The backdrop is a plain eggshell white wall stretching about as wide as my entire bedroom, and the ground in front of it has been set up with wooden plank flooring painted in the same shade ofwhite.
I’m saved from having to announce myself when a guy fiddling around with a light meter spotsme.
“Oh good, she’sready.”
Everyone turns their attention to me and despite the confidence I felt in the bikini a few minutes earlier, I’m glad for the robe wrapped tightly around menow.
Jim Sanders ends his discussion with who I assume is the photographer and walksover.
“Well, I have to be off now, but the creative director is here to oversee things in my place.” He nods towards one of the people on the set and I recognize Harry Bell, from my interview. “Good luck, MissDominguez.”
With that he leaves and everyone else clears to the edge of theset.
“So,” Harry begins, “to get you up to speed, brand rep, this is a basic shoot to get the images customers will use when viewing product details. We’ll have some poolside shoots on location later in the week. For now, we’re keeping it simple and, as our client wants, carefree. Relaxed.Fresh.”
None of those are adjectives I would apply to the mood on set right now, or to P&T in general. Everyone is standing with their arms crossed, looking like this is just one pesky item on a to-do list with way more importanttasks.
The photographer, a white-haired man with a camera so large slung around his neck I’m surprised he doesn’t fall over, steps onto the set and motions for me to do the same. I tug off my robe and stand there with nowhere to put it until one of the assistants finally takes it out of my hand. Goosebumps instantly rise on my bare skin as I follow the photographer onto the woodenfloor.
I tell myself that I should be standing here with my head held high, but instead I wrap my arms around myself, almost shivering. I feel the same way I did the very first time I stood in front of Aaron’s camera: uncertain and painfully awkward. I’m pretty sure this photographer isn’t willing to strip down to his underwear and dance to AC/DC just so I can loosenup.
Of course, the thought brings up an image of the white-haired man in khakis doing just that, and it makes me feel slightly better. Slightly. I know Aaron would probably have thought the exact same thing, and it still puts me on edge every time my mind turns tohim.
“What should I do?” I ask, my voice ringing out across the otherwise silentset.
The photographer looks up from adjusting his lens. “Just go through your poses. We’ll adjust if we needto.”
“My poses?” Irepeat.
“Whichever ones you usually do,yes.”
He clicks the camera once and I shift so I’m holding one hand behind my head and bending a knee, imitating what I assume is one of a swim suit model’s ‘usual poses.’ The photographer keeps clicking away and I shift slightly, placing a hand on my hip. The clicking stops and I hear someone clear theirthroat.
“Can someone please pose her?” Harrybarks.
I must look as awkward as Ifeel.
One of the assistants steps up and starts directing me on what to do with my arms. I fumble through some hair flips I’m sure look nothing but disastrous on film, and we do a few seated shots during which I’m constantly reminded to smile and look carefree. I give a few toothy grins that probably come off as less ‘Buy This Bathing Suit and Be Beautiful and Happy Like Me’ and way more ‘I’m Being Held at Gunpoint, PleaseHelp.’
The ordeal is finished in about half an hour. I make a dash for my robe and don’t even bother waiting around to see if I’m needed for anything else before ducking into the empty makeup room to change. From the way everyone was grumbling and checking their watches by the end of the shoot, I know the results were far from captivating, and the only thing I want to do is get away from this place as fast as Ican.
I don’t know what to do with the bathing suit, so I lay it over the back of the makeup chair. I’m about to leave when the sight of the emerald fabric laid out like that sparks an idea in me. Pulling out my phone, I open up the camera app and get towork.
The shoot today might have been a complete failure, but I might be able to save things with a shoot of myown.
* * *
“Hi again.It’s Aaron. I’m sure call display already told you that, though. Christina, I...I really need to talk to you. I miss you, Dominguez. I miss talking to you. I miss hearing you laugh. I miss pretending it doesn’t hurt like a bitch when you punch me. I know I hurt you. I know I fucked up. I’m just...I’m going through some stuff, and it was wrong to say the things I did to you before telling you about everything else too. I do love her, but it’s not like you think.I—”
He gets cut off by the machine and my finger hovers over the replay button. This is the third time I’ve listened to his message today. I want to focus on him saying he misses me, misses the same things I do about him: talking, hearing each other laugh over stupid jokes. If the message had cut off just a few seconds earlier I probably would have called himback.
As it stands, the only thing that’s been echoing in my head all day is ‘I do love her.’ I don’t know why it matters so much to me. We weren’t dating. We hadn’t even discussed what was going on between us. It shouldn’t be such a big deal that he was still hung up over an ex the wholetime.
Heshouldn’t be such a big deal. All I want right now is to hang out with him, to have him sitting here next to me on my bed while I describe the terrible photo shoot, and show him Yulia Francuzova’s hilarious business card, and tuck my head under his chin while I confess how worried I am that this whole P&T job has just been one hugemistake.
I resist the urge to play the message one last time, just to hear him say my name, and start to get ready for work. Taking this job might not have been the best decision, but I’m going to make the most of it, starting with presenting the materials I’ve made fortoday.
