Page 63 of Pick-Up
“You don’t have to answer that,” says Charlie, his nose scrunched in distaste. But he is looking at me like he’d kind of like to know.
Normally, any reference to the Golden Globes or that seat filler makes me want to hide. I’m not big on public displays of humiliation. But I am way too intrigued now by the wordalsoto care.
“It’s fine,” I say, taking a sip of my iced tea. “We were really already over by the time my ex… did whatever he did. At least, as far as I know. Why? Did Ethan’s ex-wife cheat on him?”
This is surprising to me. Very surprising. I’m not sure why. Maybe because he seems like a keeper. Maybe because of how he looks in a T-shirt or all wet in a supermarket aisle. Maybe because he doesn’t seem disposable, the way—I realize in this moment—maybe I feel.
When I pictured his wife, I envisioned a woman who was quietly angry, resenting the way he didn’t help. Not a philanderer.
“Yup. She cheated. With some guy she dated in high school! One of those fucked-up stories you hear about reconnecting on social. Emotional affair turns real. Midlife crisis. So basic. You know the drill.”
Do I? I guess so. I know the trope anyway. But that is so nothow I pictured Ethan’s broken marriage. I pictured flirting turned to bickering turned to sniping turned to separate lives. Maybe separate beds? I pictured values changing, clashing parenting styles, the quiet desperation of figuring out what to make for dinner. Every. Single. Night.
I have more questions. Many. And I am about to ask them when Jackie lets out a bloodcurdling scream. By the time my eyes catch up to the action, she is standing on her chair, holding on to the sun umbrella like a life preserver.
A gargantuan lizard is staring up at her with interest. It ticks its head back and forth between her and the ground like an automaton.
“It ran over my foot!” she yelps.
In her defense, it is the grand master of lizards. It is enormous. And it’s taking a special interest in her like when cats snuggle up to someone who is allergic. In its defense, her behavior could be considered alarming to a creature unfamiliar with human neurosis.
“Ah,” says Michael, approaching as if from nowhere. “You have met one of our friends from the iguana sanctuary. They’re endangered, and Mr. Bernard is helping to protect them.”
Jackie looks like she’d like to finish the species off. “Can you please make it leave?”
I look at my phone. Shoot. I need to make us leave too. It’s time to get back to work.
Our next setup is at the pimped-out spa and that, plus the absence of Martin, makes the work more chill. After that, we’ll shoot back at the restaurant and the activity shed.
The weather and lighting cooperates. Derek—who apparently has a heavily trafficked Instagram platform chronicling his and his husband’s baking endeavors—has been charged with taking some vertical videos for the magazine’s social platforms. They come out pretty cool.
Charlie is pleased with the photos for the official glossy spread,after a cursory look through them. Unfortunately, Peter and I are less jazzed about the video content. Somehow, the very thing that makes this place so beautiful—how minimal and neutral and stripped down it feels—isn’t coming across. It just looks flat and barren. And about as flavorful as Whole Foods–prepared foods. It feels like featuring negative space.
Though the still photos work without models, our footage doesn’t.
Peter, Stephanie, Derek and I are huddled around the camera’s playback, shaking our heads, biting our lips and sighing.
“It lacks life,” I say.
“We could shoot some footage of the iguanas,” suggests Peter.
Jackie shudders.
“This is the problem with shooting on a deserted island,” I say. “You’ve only got what you’ve got.”
“Anyone got a couple models on them?” asks Stephanie. She has plucked a rose quartz roller from the spa boutique’s beauty display and is running it back and forth across her forehead.
“No supermodels in my pocket, sadly,” I say.
“Okay. Fine. Catalog models, then.”
“I’ve done some modeling,” says Peter.
“Hilarious!” says Stephanie, and I grin too. But he doesn’t crack a smile.
“Oh,” says Stephanie, rearranging her face. “Of course you have.”
“Steph, put that away,” says Derek, pointing to the crystal roller. “Those are for guests to buy. We’re not meant to sample them.”
