Chapter 2
Amy is standing in the doorway when I get back. My eyes are stinging and I want to cry. I go straight into the back and she trails behind me like a faithful puppy. “Sky, what happened? It can’t be that bad!”
“I called Tiffany Getty a slut and suggested that the only reason they signed with Nick was to touch his naked chest!” I’m sniffling hard, trying not to cry—not before I find the tissue box. I head over to the prop shelves and start digging around. A crate of plastic apples topples off the shelf, onto the floor, spilling apples in every direction.
“Well, that’s not that bad.” She has a quizzical tone to her voice that tells me she doesn’t understand.
“The Gettys were there! All three of them walked out from the back of his shop. Her dad looked like he wanted to slit my throat and toss me into the canal.”
Amy averts her eyes. “Oh, well, yeah. That’s kinda bad.”
I find the little tissue box and sink to the floor. “That’s not the worst part. Nick told them that I’m usually fine—that I only get like this when I forget my meds. So I went from being a bitch to being crazy!” Holding the tissue over my face, I take a deep breath. I need to calm down, but I can’t.
“Oh, honey. It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.” She kneels next to me and rubs my shoulder.
“How can you say that? He’s ruined me. My business is falling apart because of him. The guy is a parasite and you’re telling me that it’s all okay?” I’m not usually like this. I don’t fall to pieces over little things, but it’s so far past little that I can’t take it anymore. I went from having a thriving shop to sneak-sleeping in the store. I have no apartment, no money, and thanks to Nick, I lost the Getty wedding.
“Of course it’s okay. Everyone knew you were crazy already.” She smiles and leans in, giving me a hug.
“Gee, thanks.”
“Seriously, Sky. Cut yourself some slack. You won’t close with every client. Some of them will choose someone else. You can’t beat yourself up when one gets away.” She only says that because she doesn’t know how bad it is. I’ve been hiding it from her. Amy has enough stuff to worry about, I haven’t wanted to add more to her pile.
But it’s going to become very obvious, very soon. I clutch my face and don’t look up. My gaze is fixated on the floor. “Go look at the calendar. My close-rate got cut in half after the ass-hat moved in. Clients walk out of here with my packet in hand, and I swear to God that he looks it over, offers them the same coverage for less money, and then gives them an extra album. I don’t even have a chance.”
Amy continues to encourage me. “Sky, you’re better than him. You’re the one who comes up with the newest ideas.”
“But, Amy, a week later, he has them, too!”
“Do you remember that Trash-the-Dress session in the city? It was so much fun. And you have another client thinking about booking a similar session. Don’t let him get you down. There will always be people trying to get a piece of what you have, Sky, because you’re the best. They want to be you.”
Her words calm me down enough to look up. She smiles and hands me one of the fancy mirrors we use in pin-up shoots. “It looks like a dog licked your face.”
My mascara is running down my cheeks and a big smear of eye shadow looks like dirt on my temple. The corner of my mouth twitches.
“Sky,” Amy begins, “you have a new idea, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” I stare into the glass, my imagination running wild. The picture hasn’t fully formed in my mind yet, but I can see the client in the water, make-up darkened and smeared. Something unusual and tragic. It’s like nothing I’ve ever shot before and very un-bride-like, but amazing all the same.
Amy waves a hand in front of my face to catch my attention. “Hello? Are you going to try it this weekend with Sophie?”
“If she lets me.” My eyes flick up over the top of the mirror. “It would be so cool, and Shelter Island is the perfect place to do it.” I bite my bottom lip, thinking about the logistics, and hand the mirror back to Amy to be put away.
“I wish I was coming with you. Five days out there sounds awesome—especially at this time of year. I bet it’s beautiful.” Amy stands and brushes herself off. She usually comes with me to carry gear and help out, but this wedding is small and I’m doing it at cost as a favor to a childhood friend. The only money I’ll make is from print sales after the wedding.
I say her new name out loud. “Sophie Stevens. I can’t believe she’s getting married.”
“Yeah, but Stevens is a lot easier to say, am I right?”
“Yeah, Poloiscitiano doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.”
Amy resumes her duties at the front desk, preparing paperwork. “Go home, Sky. Pack and take an earlier ferry out. Sit on the beach until Sophie gets there. God knows you could use a break. Just be sure to make fun of her new husband for me. ‘Steven Stevens’ is too funny.” It’s a name that sounds like it belongs to a cartoon dog carrying a briefcase.
“Are you sure? There’s so much work to do and I feel bad—”
“You always feel bad and you never stop working. You’re always here. Go, I’m fine. I can blast sixties music and walk around barefoot.” She winks at me, teasing. Amy would dress like a flower child every day of the year. She taps a stack of papers on her desk and staples the corner. “Seriously, go. Have fun. Relax for a few days. Drink champagne and sleep with a stranger. You know, typical wedding stuff.”
I laugh. “Typical for you, maybe.”
Amy tips her head to the side, like she feels sorry for me. “You’re twenty-two, Sky. You bust your ass every day and never stop to see what you’re missing.”
“Because I’m not missing a thing.” I grab my purse from the desk drawer and push it shut. “Are you sure you’re good here if I take off?” I never leave work early. If I haul ass, I can make the two o’clock ferry and get there with enough time to spend a few hours walking the beach or looking in the little shops.
Amy smirks, “Only if you promise to nail the best man for me.” She waggles her eyebrows and clicks her tongue at me.
“Yeah. I’ll do that,” I say sarcastically, grabbing a shipping label and a marker from the desk drawer. Quickly, I scrawl, AMY WAS HERE across the envelope. “There ya go. I’ll leave it on his forehead.”
She laughs. “Bitch.”
“No, crazy. I thought we established that.”
As I push out the door, Amy yells, “Bring me some cake!”
“Will do!”