“They’re not bad,” he agrees. “And I’ve been making a decent living. But they’re not my passion. Just like teaching kindergarten isn’t yours.”
I’d been looking at a photograph of a tide pool, but now I tilt my head up to look at him. “Are you lecturing me?”
“Just calling them as I see them. You should be dancing.”
“I dance.”
“Hmm,” he says, which clearly isn’t agreement, but since he’s also not arguing, I move on, hoping to change the subject.
“When did you go to Paris and London?” I ask, pointing to some photos on a far wall. “And is this Moscow?” I turn back to him. “Are these yours?”
“What makes you ask?”
“I don’t know. The style is different. The composition. The use of light. Is it a different technique?”
“You were right the first time. My friend Frank took them. I sublet him studio space on the second floor, and share this part of the gallery with him. He’s in Bali now, I think. Possibly Alaska.”
I laugh. “Well, I hope he packed well.”
“I can’t keep track. Come on,” he says, taking my hand. “The studio’s back here.”
We go down a short hall, and then through a steel door to the familiar studio where I’d come to audition. “This place is bigger than it looks.”
“I have the second floor, too. It has two apartments and a shared kitchen.”
“Do you live here?” The thought amuses me. Like an old-time artist living in a garret.
“Not technically. Frank lives and works in his apartment, but I use the other as an office. It has a Murphy bed, though, and lately I’ve been sleeping here. It’s easier than going home even though I’m just over in Venice Beach.” He smiles at me. “Better now?”
The question surprises me, and I realize that my nerves have faded. “Yeah,” I say. “Better take some pictures quick before the nerves come back.”
“I would, but I think you’ll appreciate me waiting just a little longer.”
I don’t know what he means until he pulls out his phone and sends a text. A second later I hear a door open above us, then I see two sets of legs descending the stairs on the far side of the room. A moment later, I see who the legs are attached to, a lanky guy with a mop of dark hair that he wears in a man-bun, and a petite blonde in very impractical heels.
“Kelsey, this is Jon Paul, my assistant.”
“Just JP,” the guy says.
Wyatt turns his attention to the girl. “And you are . . .?” He trails off, and she thrusts out her hand toward him.
“Leah,” she says. “I’m Siobhan’s intern. She sent me over to drop off some mockups for the front of the catalog.”
“They’re on your desk,” JP says. He looks at me. “Is she—I mean, are you—”
“She’s just here for an audition,” Wyatt says, then shoots me a warning look before I have the chance to ask him what the hell he means.
Leah looks at me. “I hope you get it. The show’s so exciting. And the press is going to be all over it. Roger Jensen’s already said he’s going to cover it.”
“Who’s that?” I ask, and Leah looks at me as if I asked who Neil Armstrong was.
“He’s an editor with the Pacific Shore Art Examiner, and he’s brilliant. Plus, he has a syndicated column.”
“Oh, well. Then that’s great,” I say, surprised that Wyatt doesn’t look more pleased by news of the coverage.
“We were just about to head out,” JP says. “I finished working on the plans with Mike, so he’s good to go on the construction. But if you need me to help set up for Kelsey’s audition, I can stay.”
“You go on,” Wyatt says. “I’ve got it.”
“Great meeting you,” Leah says, with a little wave to both of us.
JP says the same to me, and then they both head out. As soon as the door shuts behind them, I turn back to Wyatt. “Auditioning?”
“You’re anonymous,” he retorts, and I nod with sudden understanding.
“There’s no way around JP, I’m afraid. But there’s no need for an intern to know who you are. Hell, I’ll keep it from Siobhan if I can. What?” he asks, peering at me.
I realize I’m smiling so broadly my cheeks hurt. “Nothing. It just feels nice to be taken care of.”
“I like taking care of you,” he says in a way that makes me feel all soft and gooey inside. “Speaking of. How are you doing? Butterflies still gone?”
“They’re starting to come back,” I admit.
He takes my hand and leads me over to the wall, then pulls the drape off one of the pictures. It’s a woman standing in a steamy shower, her body dappled with soap bubbles. She’s stroking herself, one hand on her breast, the other between her legs, and she’s biting her lower lip in a way that makes it clear she isn’t just washing.
But at the same time, she’s staring straight through the water and the steam at the camera, at the audience. And she’s bold and beautiful and unashamed.
“Remember what you told me in the parking lot?” he asks. “That you saw beauty and strength in my photos? Well, that’s what I see in you. That’s what the camera will see.”
I gather his words and wrap them around my heart, wishing I could keep them with me always, because they calm me. More than that, they strengthen me.
“I’m sorry to be nervous,” I say.
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
“Then we’ll do just fine.” He nods toward the bed, still set up as a set. “Are you ready?”
“Don’t I need a mask or something?”
“No. I want to see you. But I’ll make sure to block your face later. There’s a lot I can do in the darkroom, okay?”
“Darkroom?”
“I mean that in the broad sense,” he says. “The show is a combination of images I’ve captured both digitally and on film. Some prints are purely digital. Some are purely film. Some are a mix. So when I talk about the darkroom, I’m talking either the literal room, or a figurative digital darkroom.”
“I know nothing about photography,” I tell him. “But I’m impressed.”
He laughs. “Very glad to hear it.”
“Do I need makeup?”
“Not tonight. For one, I’ll be masking your face. For another, I’m shooting digital tonight, and we’ll just do one or two poses to get you warmed up. I’m not even going to worry too much about the lighting. Just a little bit of reflected light and we’ll be good to go.” He smiles. “So, are you ready?”
I nod, though I’m not at all certain, and he sends me off to the bathroom to change into the fluffy robe again. “There’s lingerie in a bureau in there,” he tells me. “I have a slew of designers donating to me. Pick a thong you like and wear it under the robe.”
He isn’t kidding about the lingerie. The chest is crammed full of silk and satin in a variety of colors. I choose a thong in a deep purple. Then swallow hard when I realize he didn’t tell me to choose a bra.
When I return to the studio, I have the robe cinched tight around my waist and feel a bit like a housewife. “I don’t know what to do with my hair,” I tell him. I haven’t touched it since I took it out of the elastic, and it’s wild and wind-tousled. “If you hand me my purse, I can brush it out.”