A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you, the less you know.
–Diane Arbus
Gwen
The day takes a sharp turn when my first client won’t stop crying and then poops all over my new drop cloth.
Granted, he’s only eight months old.
Even with the tears and turds, he’s easier to deal with than his Upper East Side mother, who’s decked out in clothing that costs more than my yearly income. She won’t stop glaring at me as if the crying and subsequent diaper malfunction are somehow my fault.
The day gets moderately better when I get a call from a celeb rag that I’ve done work for previously.
“We’ve got a dinner at Miguel’s that needs coverage.”
“Celebrities pretending they don’t want to be seen?”
“Pretty much. A group of new-money reality stars meeting for dinner to discuss some potential movie or TV show or who’s the richest dumbass on the block—who knows. Liz is covering the article. She’s expecting you at eight.”
Eight. I was up preparing for my morning shoot at five.
I’m getting too old for this crap.
Over a year ago, after one of my shots landed on a billboard in Times Square, I thought my life would turn into a never-ending circle of money and fame and recognition. I was sure that one picture was my ticket to what I really wanted to do—serious shoots with serious people, traveling the world, and making a difference.
Instead, I’m schlepping my way through New York City every day and night, taking any job I can, trying to get a shot with a serious periodical, and praying for . . . something. Anything.
It’s partially my fault. From the get-go I’ve been locked into the label of “former model Gwen.” Not photographer Gwen who’s been working her ass off for the last year. No one will take me seriously. And then when my personal life went sideways, I let it affect my professional life, which served to confirm the general opinion about former models attempting to break the mold. How can I prove myself when people refuse to look further than the surface?
I’m feeling every minute of my nearly twenty-eight years on this planet when I walk to Miguel’s a few minutes before the scheduled time. I probably have another half hour before anyone arrives because it wouldn’t be cool to show up—gasp—on time, like you don’t have anything better to do. The truth is I really don’t have anything better to do and I’ve given up pretending.
I talk to the hostess and then the manager about the party and they show me the area they’re planning on setting everyone up in. It’s not a huge guest list, about twelve.
The party room is through a large open doorway from the main restaurant space. Not exactly secluded, but I guess that’s the point.
While I wait, I get an idea for the space and the lighting. The room is narrow and the furniture is dark. On top of that, it’s all dim wall sconces that totally suck for getting detailed shots, so I ask to move a few lamps to make my job easier.
Thirty minutes later, people start showing up. The girls are mostly blonde, mostly Botoxed with unnaturally large lips and way too much makeup. The reporter covering the event is Liz Masterson. I’ve worked with her before on a few pieces. After quick greetings, she gives me the basics of the article—it’s a short piece about a new reality show set in New York airing next season, some type of Real World thing but with trust-fund kids who are famous for being wealthy and not much else. She wants some simple, candid shots.
Once that’s settled, I do my best to blend into the background, unnoticed.
It doesn’t work.
A few of the girls keep thrusting out their chests and staring at the camera when they’re supposed to be ignoring me. Does no one understand the meaning of the word candid? It’s bad enough trying to catch decent shots when people look more plastic than real. Not that I’m judging. Do what makes you feel good about yourself, but they would be just as beautiful, if not more so, without the obviously added enhancements.
I get a few decent shots and then my camera lens wanders because I’m bored.
The viewfinder passes over a couple at a small table in the main room who are trying to look like they aren’t fighting, but it’s clearer than the most high-definition image ever recorded. They aren’t speaking. Her mouth is tense, his jaw is tight.
Next to them, in a booth, a group of women are talking excitedly and laughing. Catching people in the act of true mirth is one of my favorite shots. It’s completely unrestrained and honest, and while most people don’t find it exactly flattering, I find it fascinating.
There’s a sharp tug somewhere in the vicinity of my chest as I watch them. They remind me of my sisters, the only people I’ve ever been comfortable with without it turning around and biting me in the ass. I haven’t talked and laughed with another woman without feeling anxious in, well, over a year.
Ugh, I’m so fucking depressing.
Moving on. I pan the camera over to the bar. Aha, a first date. I’d bet my Canon on it. She’s sitting high and anxious in her seat and he’s leaning back, all confident swagger and condescending smirk.
She gets up and heads toward the bathrooms, her fifties-style dark green A-line dress swinging as she walks, and he watches her disappear before pulling something out of his pocket and dumping it in her drink.
I snap the shutter a few times. “You dick,” I mutter under my breath, already weaving through the tables.
My first reaction is to walk over and punch him in the throat the way my police officer sister Gemma taught me, but that would likely result in a lawsuit and/or getting thrown in jail for assault. Therefore, probably a bad idea.
Instead, I follow his victim to the bathroom.
I find her leaning over the sink, applying bright red lipstick. Thankfully, the bathroom is empty except for the two of us.
“Hey.” I stop near the door, letting it shut behind me.
She blinks at me in the mirror and then turns. Only the top of her lip is red.
I pause for a second, unsure how to begin. “So, there’s no easy way to say this, but your date put something in your drink. I have, um, a picture.” I walk to the sink next to her and turn the camera in her direction, paging back to the photos I caught so she can see. “He moved pretty fast, but I got a good one of him putting whatever it was back in his pocket. Some kind of vial.”
Her partially done-up mouth forms an O of surprise. “Oh, my God.” One hand flutters to her chest. She’s not from around here. If the Southern drawl didn’t give her away, her innocent expression would have done so all on its own.
“How well do you know him?”
She shakes her head, her gaze moving from my face to the camera between us. “I don’t. We just met. It’s a blind date. This has never happened to me before. I didn’t think . . . well.” She straightens and puts a hand on her hip. “Now you know something like this did happen to one of my sorority sisters, back in Blue Falls, Texas. We were going to a frat party and she was assigned as the sober monitor, you know, to drive if needed and take care of the girls, and one of the guys tried to get her drunk but we could never figure out who it was. I wasn’t there that night but I heard all about it and they never did figure out which of the guys spiked her drinks.”
She stops suddenly, a red blush creeping up her cheeks, and she covers it with her hands.
“I’m so sorry I’m rambling on, I do that when I’m nervous. What do I do? Is there a back exit?” She peers behind me at the door.
“I think there is, but this guy will probably do the same thing again to someone else. Do you want to run, or do you want to help me nail him to the wall?”
Her eyes meet mine, wide and dumbfounded. Then she straightens, her mouth firming before she meets my eyes. “I ain’t running anywhere. Let’s get out the nails.”
“Good. Can you go back and act normal? And this goes without saying, but don’t drink your wine.”
She nods. “I can do that. What are you going to do?”
“We are going to take this guy down. What’s your name?”
“Scarlett Marie Jackson.”
I nod. “Of course it is.”
Five minutes later, she’s taken a few deep breaths and finished applying her lipstick, and we’ve come up with a quick game plan. Once she gets over the shock, she is surprisingly assertive.
I find the manager and tell them what I saw, showing them the pictures I snapped of asshole Jerry drugging his date as proof, and they call the cops. The manager has a printer in his office and I have all my cables in my camera bag, so we’re able to print off the money shot. There’s no way I would ever hand my whole camera over to the cops. My Canon is like my right arm.
Once I get back to the dinner party, Liz is looking for me.
“What’s going on?” She pulls me off to the side of the small room.
In a low voice, I quickly explain the situation. “I’m sorry, Liz. I have plenty of shots for your article, and I’ll get more if you need them.”
She waves me off. “That’s fine. I can’t believe that guy. Then again, maybe I can. Something similar happened to me in college.” She shakes her head. “Don’t we all have one of those stories?”
“Feels like it,” I murmur.
“Anyway, good on you for stepping up and doing something.”
“How could I not?”
One of the pouty blondes comes up and asks Liz a question and I resume my post, snapping pictures of celebs while keeping my side-eye out for Scarlett and her turd nugget of a date.
It takes nearly thirty minutes for the cops to arrive, and Scarlett does a surprisingly decent job of acting cool while not drinking her wine, although asshole Jerry keeps raising his glass in a toast to encourage her to take a sip. The bartender brings her a glass of water though, and she uses that as her excuse to leave off the wine for a bit.
When New York’s finest finally arrive, management directs them to asshole Jerry.
The whole thing is surprisingly anticlimactic. I don’t know what I expected, the guy to turn into OJ and jump into a white Bronco or something? But he doesn’t even fight it.
When they say, “Come with us,” he goes. He doesn’t even seem surprised.
Dick.
I suppose it’s lucky there isn’t much of a kerfuffle, and the cops are in and out without any problems. I do snap a few pictures of them taking him away, because I have to. The look on his face is sinister in its complacency. Like he knew. Like he expected it.
My apartment is close enough to walk and I set a brisk pace home, hugging my sweater around me. Autumn is creeping into winter and the chill in the air portends the change of season. I can’t wait to put on sweats and a lumpy T-shirt. The party scene is not for me. Not anymore.
It’s dark outside, but there’s plenty of illumination from the storefronts and streetlights. The errant cab passes by and a few people are walking the streets still. I lift my gaze to the black sky above.
No stars.
There never is with the ever-present light pollution and haze in the city. I miss sitting on the patio back home and counting the pinpricks above me.
“Wait!” A high-pitched voice calls out behind me before I wade too much into homesickness and general misery.
Scarlett is running after me, heels clattering on the pavement, dark hair flying behind her. She stops beside me. “I didn’t get a chance to thank you properly.”
“There’s no need.” I wave her off and keep walking.
She keeps pace beside me. “Are you kidding? If it wasn’t for your help back there, well, I don’t know what would have happened to me. Really.” She shudders, then puts a hand on my arm. “You have to let me make it up to you somehow. Do you like cupcakes?”
“Cupcakes?”
“You know, little cakes with frosting.”
“I know what cupcakes are.” I’m just surprised she’s offering. It’s been so long since anyone has wanted to hang out with me or do anything for me, I’ve forgotten how to respond.
“I could make you some. Cooking and baking are my only real talents. It’s why I’m here in New York, actually.”
I stop walking and face her. “Your name is Scarlett, you’re from Texas, and you make cupcakes? Are you for real?”
“Well it’s like my granny always told me, reality is as real as beer and Skittles.”
A startled laugh escapes me. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“I never thought it did either, but then she always mixed up her phrases. So, cupcakes?” Scarlett’s tone is hopeful. “Are you free tomorrow night?”
“I’m not sure, I might have another shoot. Sometimes they come up unexpectedly.” It’s true, but inside I know it’s also an excuse, a defense mechanism.
“Too busy, huh? You sound an awful lot like the last three guys I dated.” She sighs. “That’s too bad. I don’t know anyone in the city. I met Jerry on Grindr, have you ever been on there? Probably not, you’re way too gorgeous to need help from some app where you have to swipe up and down and right and left and people just want to get laid. Anyway, I’m rambling again.” The smile she gives me is apologetic. “You have to let me do something for you. You won’t have to do anything or go anywhere. I can save you time so you can get to work. I’ll bring you some of my famous red velvet cupcakes, everyone loves them, and even if you don’t have time for a social life, you have to eat, don’t you?”
“Yeah, sure,” I agree. “So this is my stop. It was nice to meet you. Good luck with . . . everything.” I wave and make an escape.
“Bye! Thank you again! Wait, I never got your—”
Her last word is cut off as I enter the building and shut the door behind me.
I never gave her my name.
Probably for the best.
* * *
My alarm goes off the next morning at seven. Bleary-eyed, I slam it into silence and then stumble out of bed. I didn’t get to sleep until after midnight. Once I got home, I was a little amped up from the excitement of the night.
There isn’t much distance between my bedroom-slash-living-room and the kitchen. It’s only a few steps to turn on the coffee machine and warm up the computer before running to the bathroom to take care of morning business and splash some cold water on my face.
By the time that’s done, I’ve got a steaming cup of coffee ready and waiting. I sit in front of my laptop in the small dining space that’s also my kitchen and pull up my website and social media accounts.
It’s the only apartment I could afford on my own, and there are only three rooms, really. The kitchen-slash-dining-room, the bedroom-slash-living-room and a tremendously tiny bathroom. There’s also a closet that’s about the same size as the bathroom, but at least they’re actual separate rooms.
I’m scanning around, still half awake, when I notice my Twitter followers have increased.
I turn my head just in time to spit my coffee all over the kitchen floor.
“Ten thousand?” I yell into the empty apartment. “Ten thousand?”
What happened? I click around and find a tweet of an article with my name in it.
It’s been shared almost twenty thousand times.
“Holy shit.”
A few more clicks and I find a Buzzed article written by Liz Masterson.
Liz was doing the reality show piece; why would she write anything about me?
There’s a picture, an old one from a shoot when I was still modeling. Next to it is one of Scarlett at Miguel’s. The headline reads “Former Model Stops a Rape.”
I scan through it. Liz wrote a piece about what happened last night. She calls me the Wonder Woman of Broad Street. Snorting a laugh, I click to my blog. Thousands more followers there, too.
What the fuck?
My email box has exploded with job offers. Most of them are still of the celeb “please shoot my wedding/child/family photos” variety, but they’re jobs. More than I could ever accept and enough to cover my rent for a while for sure.
Maybe this month I’ll spring for the fancy ramen noodles in the big pack.
I power on my phone, and there are a ton of missed calls and messages there, too. I groan. I need an assistant. Half those calls are probably media outlets that I do not want to call back.
Been there, done that.
In between all the job offers is another rejection from a high-profile political rag, which puts a damper on my excitement. I’ve been pitching my idea for a year now and can’t even get a bite.
There’s a light tap at my door and I get up and open it without looking through the peephole.
“Hey, Martha.” I dash back to my computer, absorbed by the magic happening on my laptop.
“Good morning, dearie.” Martha steps into my kitchen, shutting the door behind her and heading straight for my coffee pot.
Martha is my neighbor. She’s about ninety years old and comes over every morning to drink my coffee. She also steals weird things like Q-tips, garbage bags, and tampons. Even though I’m pretty sure she hasn’t PMS’d in at least forty years. I’m not sure why she takes my things, but I just let her. She bakes me cookies sometimes, so it’s a fair trade.
“Are you busy today?”
I glance over at the question. She’s wearing her trademark pink floral nightgown and her hair is in curlers. It’s always in curlers. “Um, sort of. I have a bunch of new followers on social media.”
She blinks. “Oh. Can I use your bathroom?”
“Sure, Martha.”
She disappears into my bathroom for so long I nearly forget she’s there. Then she’s out the door without so much as a goodbye, the pockets of her gown bulging.
I laugh. No matter how “famous” I might be, some things will never change.
An hour later I’m still clicking around online, amazed at all the sudden publicity, when my phone rings, and this time I recognize the number.
“Victoria?” I answer. I haven’t talked to her since the Times Square photo. She’s the reason I got the job in the first place, but after everything that happened since. . .
“Are you free today? We have a shoot in Harlem. ‘New York’s Sexiest.’ It’s for Stylz.”
In true Victoria fashion, she acts as if nothing’s happened and it was only yesterday she was talking me up and promising me the world.
I don’t really want to do it. Stylz magazine is the same magazine that printed the article describing my shame to the world. But I’m over it. I’m not letting my past drag me down. Again. Even though it’s more celebrity nonsense, I would be a fool to say no.
Everyone knows Victoria. Turning her down now would be professional suicide.
“What time?”
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