SECRET Revealed (8 page)

At the top, the doors slid open to a spectacular studio, twice the size of Julius’s. This was at least five thousand square feet of exposed brick and wide plank floors. Most of the walls were painted white, with small partitions carving out thematic spaces like a maze, some areas with wide, low-slung couches, some with large colorful backdrops suspended from the ceiling and unspooling to the floor. I could hear a buzz of activity in the brightly lit corner where a green-screen backdrop lay near the wall-to-wall windows. Along the outside walls were photos of bleakly beautiful landscapes, and of the awful things war does to places and people, shot after riveting shot, and a few stunning nature panoramas that no doubt required death-defying feats to capture.

The same blond now directed my attention away from the pictures to an empty director’s chair next to where another makeup artist seemed to be fussing with Marsha’s foundation. I took the vacant seat.

“Afternoon, my dear,” Marsha said without looking up from her smart phone. “Have you heard? Apparently Madonna has been outfitted with a set of
‘grillz.’
Also she is learning how to
‘booty pop,’
whatever the hell that is.”

Marsha proffered a screenshot of the pop star’s gold mouth accessory.

“I see. Well … now that it’s big with middle-aged white women, at least Gus isn’t going to want one.”

She smiled, placing her glasses on her face.

“Well, I’m off,” she said, pushing up from her chair. “See you tomorrow.”

“Wait! I thought … aren’t we getting our pictures done together? Where’s Jeff and Tad? Where the hell’s Rink?”

“Came and went. The beauty of Photoshop. We don’t have to pose together to look like one big happy news family.”

“Aren’t we?”

“Sure,” she said with a wink.

“Have you seen Erik’s work on that back wall?” I said. “Take a look on the way out. Astounding images.”

“I know. But have you see
Erik
?” Marsha muttered, nodding towards where a powerfully built man, easily six foot four inches tall, stood talking to his blond assistant.

“Um.
That
didn’t come up in our Google searches,” I whispered, noting his wavy brown hair, almost the same color as his skin. From across the room, you could also see his rock-climber forearms flinching as he carefully polished a large, round lens.

“Born in Kenya. Dad was a half-Japanese, half-Swiss diplomat; mom was some kind of African princess. Big scandal. Grew up in Paris,” Marsha whispered, peering at him over the top of her glasses. “Never married. Placed fifth in the ’98 Olympics.
Biathlon
. That is the sport where you ski, my dear, with a fucking gun. He represented Switzerland.”

“How did you find all that out?”

“He spent the better part of last winter documenting border skirmishes in Northern Afghanistan. Those pictures on the wall? They were nominated for a Pulitzer. He speaks Farsi. Oh, and he’s a Leo.”

“Bet he
never
guessed you’re a journalist.”

“God, if I were twenty years younger. Hell,
ten
.”

“Marsha! Are you objectifying this man?”

“I am.”

“But that’s against everything you stand for.”

“Yes.
Right up against
everything I stand for,” she said, softly cackling. Then she turned to me. “Do you know what happens, Solange, to your sense of propriety after you turn sixty?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Neither do I, and I do not care to know. Well, good night then. And try the canapés. They’re delicious.”

The blond assistant slid a glass of champagne into my hand. “Here you go. To relax you.”

“No thanks,” I said, carefully placing the glass back on the makeup table. “I’m already relaxed.”

Marsha looked at the champagne and then at me. “Oh, I could weep,” she said before kissing me on the cheek good-bye. She turned on her heel and made her exit.

“Let me introduce you to Erik,” said the blond assistant, leading me by the elbow across the room, the remaining assistants giving the impression of seas parting as I entered Erik’s orbit.

“Erik, this is Solange Faraday. The weekend anchor.”

He was directing a gaffer high up on a ladder, the muscles in his arms tensing, his voice commanding and deep.

“To the left and down. I want the spotlight right … there … where the screen creases on the floor.”

“If this isn’t a good time—” I said to him.

“Nonsense,” he said, turning to face me, looking me up and down. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

Good lord, my breath actually caught in my lungs. Up close he was like an African/Asian/Nordic god, and though I hated the term
exotic
, I couldn’t think of another way to describe his almond-shaped, gray-flecked eyes, his thick wavy brown hair, his crooked, bratty smile, his brown skin, which looked partly genetic and partly the result of some death-defying adventure that took him way too close to the sun. He was closer to my age than I’d thought at first, something I found a huge relief, though I don’t know why it mattered. When did I start doing that? Comparing men’s ages with mine? After I turned forty? After I stopped feeling noticed by anyone under forty?

“Hello. Um, so … where can I change?” I asked, turning into a schoolgirl. Next to this man, I felt almost petite, delicate even.
Pull yourself together, Solange! You’ve done important, dangerous reportage too
.

“Use my bedroom.” He pointed to a door flush with a large white wall.

“You live here?” I asked, surprised.

“I sleep here,” he corrected. He was smiling again,
showing one chipped front tooth, the kind of offhand flaw I’d always found terribly sexy. I felt my face heat up.

His bedroom was large and airy, with floor-to-ceiling steel factory windows, glossy white trim. The walls were white too, and the dresser white-stained oak in a matte finish. The king-size mattress was on an oak platform and covered in a white duvet and pillows. It was the kind of room where a lot of sex would take place, a room where children definitely were not allowed.

My garment bag was hanging on a bare rack in the middle of the room. I decided to throw on my gold blouse, not one I usually wore to work because it plunged a bit, but I was feeling, I don’t know, like being noticed. Like being looked at, by him.

When I entered the work area again it was quiet, no gaffer, no camera assistants, just the blond assistant neatly laying out makeup brushes in front of a lit-up mirror.

I took a seat and crossed my legs.

“We’ll just focus on the eyes, I think,” she said, looking at me through the mirror. “Make them pop. You don’t need much. You glow on your own.”

She was talking about me, not to me, and yet I still blushed.

“Is this blouse okay?” I asked the assistant, suddenly feeling flustered and self-conscious, like the blouse was too low, or maybe not low enough.

“It’s lovely,” she said, picking through the brushes. She didn’t seem to have a great handle on the tools of her trade,
let alone the colors. I soon began to look a little garish. When she pumped the mascara tube ominously, I had to stop her.

“Look. I know photos require a bit more makeup than usual, but I am not sure this lipstick suits me.”

Her face fell. She was clearly nervous. “Normally I do my own eyes at the network,” I said. “Do you mind?”

“Yes! I mean no, by all means, I don’t mind. We just want you to feel totally comfortable and sexy.” She exhaled, utterly relieved.

“I just … want to look like myself.”

“Right, totally,” she said, backing away as I wiped off some of her enthusiastic work, reapplying it with my lighter touch.

Why would someone with Erik’s profile hire such an incompetent makeup artist? What was also weird was how quiet everything had suddenly become. I hopped off the director’s chair and poked around the partitions looking for Erik, for anybody. I found him measuring the light in front of a large green screen, onto which the newsroom and a cityscape were projected.

“There you are,” he said. “Shall we begin?”

Erik expertly positioned me where I’d appear on the billboard, my elbow resting on a block, an appropriate stand-in for Bill Rink. Erik wasn’t shy, placing his hands on my shoulders, moving me this way and that. And I was … 
enjoying it
. I found it almost … relaxing.

“That’s good. Commanding. Yes, perfect,” he muttered into the viewfinder, clicking away. “Now arms crossed,
that’s right. Shoulder to me. Nice. That’s it. Nice. Very nice. Smart. Good.”

I was posing for the camera as I had done a million times before, but I was also posing, a little bit, for Erik. He was pulling a certain kind of sexiness and daring from me.

“Lovely, Solange. Let’s try another look.”

“Yes. Let’s.”

I skipped (
skipped!
) back to the bedroom and threw on my red shimmering blouse, returning to position myself in front of the green screen. This all felt so girly, heady, model-y. I was having
fun
.

I hopped back onto the stool while Erik concentrated on placing a light just so. He stepped in front of me, awfully close, to move a lock of my hair … just … so. When he was taking pictures, looking at me through a viewfinder, I felt fine. But now, standing there looking down at me the way a man looks at a woman, his hip cocked, one hand holding his massive camera like it weighed nothing, his other hand scratching the back of his head, I became wobbly on the stool.

“You’re a natural in front of the camera. I mean, that’s evident from your work. But you’re also incredibly easy to photograph. Lovely at every angle.”

Click, click, click
.

“Oh. Thanks. I guess,” I said. Was he stepping over a line? It felt like it and yet I couldn’t help but feel flattered.

“I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Offend me? No, I’m not offended,” I said. “I think … sometimes I wrestle with compliments like that.”

“Why?”

Click, click, click
. He moved back and forth in front of me with the camera, crossing my sight line like a pendulum.

“I don’t know. I guess I just want to be taken seriously.”

He snapped more pictures, this time stepping closer. “You don’t think a woman can be sexy
and
taken seriously?”

“Of course,” I said. But did I believe that?

He was smiling into the viewfinder.

“It’s easier doing this without my work colleagues around,” I admitted.

“People on their own are far less inhibited. They’re more themselves. That’s why I prefer to do group shots this way. Photoshop everyone together later. Okay, I want to get a few more before we lose the sun,” he said, peering over his camera, a lock of wavy hair rakishly falling over one of those gray eyes.

I noticed long shadows tracing along the wood planks. The day was drifting by. I also realized the blond assistant wasn’t around anymore and low jazz music was wafting from hidden speakers.
Are we alone?
I put my hand on my stomach, feeling a little dizzy, hungry maybe. Where was that canapé table? Didn’t Marsha mention food?

“Solange, I’d like to see you in something other than your work wear.”

What?

“Oh. Well, I didn’t bring anything else but—”

“Something that shows off your true self. Away from work.”

He regarded me intently, like this was a dare.

“Like I said, I didn’t bring casual clothes. Why would I?”

This was becoming strange.

“I have some things you can try on. They’re hanging in my room. See if anything strikes you.”

What the hell?
He seemed so nonchalant, adding, “
If
you’ll accept the Step, that is.”

He snapped a picture of my face just then, no doubt revealing the shock registered there. The room was completely silent except for the creaks and knocks from the surrounding lofts. Oh, and my heart rattling around inside my chest.

“Are you one of the men from …?”

He nodded, his face serene. He regarded me thoughtfully, his camera down, resting against his thigh.

“Don’t you normally sleep with supermodels?”

“I can assure you, I never kiss and tell. So?”

“So.”

“So … do you accept the Step, Solange?”

When he smiled, his skin crinkled around his mouth and eyes. I slid off the stool. My legs were liquid.

“Which Step is it again?”

“
Courage
,” he said, his free hand now traveling under his T-shirt to his stomach. Maybe he was nervous too?

“I could certainly use more of that right about now.”

“This is one way to get it.”

“Okay then. Why don’t I go and slipintosomething-morecomfortable?” I said it really, really fast as I made my way to his bedroom.

I shut the door behind me and took a deep breath. This was all moving fast. The first fantasy was on home turf, and that was nice. This was really close to work and it made me a bit nervous. My eyes scanned the room. Something was different. The rack that had held my work blouses was gone, replaced by a row of fancy, flimsy, sheer
things
, festooned with feathers, lots of lace, a bow or two. Closer examination revealed mostly black and nude bras and panties, with splashes of red and white here and there. It was all lingerie—elegant stuff, expensive stuff, teddies, sheer wraps, a long see-through black gown and beneath, on the white-painted floor, a pair of gorgeous black feathered mules. A thick, white terry-cloth robe lay across his bed. On the dresser was another blessed glass of chilled champagne, which I downed (impressive, for me) in almost one gulp.

What was I about to do
? I was about to have sex with a sexy-as-hell war photographer, but not before he took some sexy shots. Of me. Wearing this sexy stuff!

I pulled out the sheer gown, held it up to the window.
Holy shit
, I’d never buy something like this for myself.
When would I wear it?
I thought back to Julius when we were married. If I’d shown up in our bedroom wearing this, he’d have
laughed
. Not in a mean way, but in a way that said,
Baby, you don’t have to put on a show to get to me
. I imagined my hurt. Why would he laugh at a time like that, when all I was trying to do was be sexy for him, like that expensive marriage counselor had suggested way back?