Coming into Focus, page 2
It was perfect.
“Um, yes. Let me get a couple shots to check the light.”
For the next several minutes, the only sound was my camera clicking. I reviewed the images on my camera display and frowned. They were beautiful, but…predictable.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing. It’s just you’re…so aware of getting your picture taken.”
“Of course I’m aware you’re taking my picture,” he said. “I’m in the bed of a woman I just met—well, that’s hardly a first. Being photographed in the bed of a—no, not a first, either, come to think of it. My point is it’s hard to ignore the camera at a photo shoot.”
I arranged his hair on the pillow to make sure I was doing justice to his haphazard curls.
His brown eyes studied me. “How long have you been doing this? You can’t be old enough to have much experience.”
I couldn’t tell him this was my first official assignment. “I always wanted to be a photographer,” I told him instead.
“Not an answer.”
I stood on Hope’s bed, straddling him, and pointing my camera down. “I’m not actually a staff photographer for the magazine yet. I’m helping Hope because she was in a bind. If you would stop talking, we’d get done a lot faster.”
He posed for the camera, and I took a couple pictures. They were beautiful but stilted. “Hope said the magazine editor is your uncle,” he said. “Don’t you work for him?”
Answering personal questions from a stranger wasn’t something I was comfortable with. I rearranged the blankets to show more of his arm.
When I straightened, his attention went right back to the camera. Unless I wanted obvious rock-star posing, I needed to keep him distracted. “I do work for him, but not as a photographer in the field. Working in his lab is one of my jobs,” I said.
“One of? How many do you have?”
I wanted to keep him talking, so I answered, “I’m working three jobs at the moment. I attempted four, but scheduling was a nightmare.”
“Three jobs! Why doesn’t your uncle pay you more? Or help you out some other way if he’s such a big-shot editor?” His eyes were warmer. Liquid-looking. Beautiful.
“It’s fine. We’re doing great.” Click. Click. Click.
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Me and my brother. Relax your hand.”
He did. “I can’t believe your uncle won’t help. That’s rubbish. I’ll hire you just because I like you and because I’ve never had a cowgirl in my—posse! Get it, Willa? You could be my literal posse. You want to come work for me?”
I laughed. “Nah, I’m good. This isn’t forever.” I didn’t want him to have a bad opinion of my uncle, so I kept handing out personal details. “Uncle Ken wants to help, but I don’t want handouts. He also wants to hire me to be a photographer for the magazine, which would definitely pay more than I make now. He keeps asking, and I keep putting him off. It’s harder to say no to Hope.”
“Why do you keep saying no? It must be better than working in the lab.”
“I like working in the lab. If I’m going to do more, I have to earn a spot. Once I do, I’ll work one job and make more than enough for Toby and me.”
“Can’t your brother work?”
I sighed. “He’s disabled. Can you stop talking for a minute?”
He could not. “Disabled how?”
I hopped on the bed to get his attention. “I’m not telling you another thing until you pretend you’re asleep.”
His face went blank and smooth in a second. Gorgeous. When I stopped to check the pictures, he said, “I’m an artist. I can’t tolerate being bored. Anyway, this is research about actual Americans, and I like your accent because it’s ridiculous. Tell me what’s wrong with your brother.”
“Nothing is wrong with him. We’re all set here. These are great.”
Jimmy sat up and extended a hand for me to hold as I jumped off the bed.
I summarized for him while he pulled his shirt on and checked his hair in Hope’s vanity mirror. I was five when Toby was born. He had retinoblastoma, a cancer in his eyes, when he was a baby. It wasn’t diagnosed soon enough to save his left eye, which was removed when he was two years old. Kids with retinoblastoma have a higher incidence of other childhood cancers, and Toby didn’t dodge that bullet, either. When he was a teenager, he needed surgery for osteogenic sarcoma; his right leg was amputated.
“Oh dear.” Jimmy’s voice was mournful. “He’s blind, and he can’t walk?”
“His other eye works fine, and he gets around great on his prosthetic.” Everything happened when Toby was young. He was mostly as independent as any other eighteen-year-old boy.
“Except he can’t work?” Jimmy asked.
“He does some IT freelance stuff from home, but he can’t drive, which limits him.”
“Does he have an accent like yours? A matching set of adorable American southerners. I should hire you both. Can’t your parents take care of him?”
At the same time I was trying to keep up with his conversation, I was guessing what would come next in the day of a legend. Since it wasn’t “go to work,” I didn’t have a clue. “What would you do now?”
“I’d eat breakfast, Willa. Is it not what you do? Do Americans not—”
“Oh, right. Good idea. Come on.” I headed for the kitchen. “Let’s go have your pretend breakfast.”
Hope’s house was great for a photo shoot. Her breakfast bar was spotless like it was waiting for a magazine spread. It was this breakfast bar’s lucky day.
Jimmy opened the fridge and stared inside.
“Grab anything,” I said. “You’re not going to eat it anyway.”
He held out a can of whipped cream.
“Not that. Something breakfast-y.”
“It’s the only thing in her refrigerator. Who only has whipped cream in her fridge? Weird, right?”
“It’s odd.” I checked her pantry. Nothing there but a jar of spaghetti sauce. “Okay, get a coffee mug. We can make it work.”
He gasped in horror when he opened a cupboard, then stepped aside so I could see.
It was just mugs. “What’s the matter?” I asked
“As I thought,” he said after he’d looked in more of her cupboards. “She has only matching mugs, Willa. It’s so sad!”
“I’m not following you, but okay. Hop up onto the stool, and…” I spotted the coffee I’d brought. Hope already drank two of them, and I was going to have to sacrifice the third.
I positioned the take-out cup so the logo faced the camera. Some free advertising for Broadway Bean. Maybe my boss, Jenny, would give me a bonus. “Try to look a bit rougher. These are first-thing-in-the-morning pictures, and I know you didn’t wake up like this.”
“I did wake up like this, as a matter of fact.” He obliged me anyway by slumping over and nailing an impression of a man who’d been out all night making bad choices. He tasted the coffee. “Mm. This is delicious.” He held it out to me to share. It was getting cold, but it was still good. I make a great coffee.
I gave it back to him and put my camera back to my eye to study him through the lens. The light was perfect, but he was conscious of the camera again.
“You never answered my question from before,” he said. “Why don’t your parents take care of your brother?”
Of course I hadn’t answered; I didn’t want to. On the other hand, when he was listening, he wasn’t thinking about the camera, and when he wasn’t thinking about the camera, we were getting some perfect shots.
“My dad died a couple years ago.” I took several steps closer to him and tightened the focus.
“Oh, poor Willa. What about your mom?”
“No mom,” I said shortly, making use of the moments when he was distracted. It wasn’t as difficult as I’d thought it would be, anyway. The camera was a buffer, and I was safe behind it. I kneeled on a barstool for a higher perspective.
He drooped onto the counter. “Poor, poor Willa. All alone with an ailing brother.”
I laughed and climbed down. “You’re not even close. Hold still. I’m going to move around you.”
“Did they take Toby to a workhouse and force him to work around the clock for minimal pay until he got consumption?”
“Um, no, since we’re not in a Charles Dickens novel. Haven’t you ever been to America?”
He sipped coffee and made an affirmative sound. “But as a rock star, darling. Nobody tells me anything unpleasant. From my visits here, I would assume America is full of gorgeous people who all want to sleep with me.”
I climbed on the counter next to him and continued to snap photos while I talked. “Nobody took Toby, but it was tricky for me to keep custody since he was a minor and I was barely an adult. It’s fine now. He’s eighteen, and nobody can take him from me.” I took a couple more frames and then rested my camera in my lap. “Okay. What happens after breakfast?”
“Depends on the day and who I’m with.”
“Pretend it’s today, and you’re not with anyone.”
His smile was clearly meant to humor me. “I’ll play along. If I wasn’t already with someone, I’d be getting ready to meet someone. I don’t,” he made air quotes with his fingers, “‘spend time alone.’”
“So you would…do your hair?”
He patted my knee. “Silly girl. My hair is already perfect.”
It was true.
“Makeup?” His face was bare, but he was a musician and obviously theatrical. It was worth a shot.
He spun on the stool to face me. “Yes. This is an extraordinary idea. I bet I’m going to be good at putting on makeup, Willa. Let’s go check what Hope has.”
I followed him down the hall and waited while he rummaged through Hope’s makeup drawers. It quickly became apparent that his confidence when it came to cosmetics was completely unearned. I let him go on longer than it should have before I set my camera carefully on the counter. “All of it off,” I said, gesturing to his face. “This is a disaster.”
When I found makeup remover and a washcloth, I handed them to Jimmy. He gave them back to me and closed his eyes, waiting.
It was less work than arguing, so I wiped the makeup off his face.
“Hope is lonely.”
I snorted.
His eyes were closed, but his lips curled up. “You even snort with an accent.”
“I don’t have an accent, you do, and you’re wrong. Hope meets the best people, and everyone loves her. She’s the opposite of lonely.”
“Clearly she meets a lot of people. It’s obvious from the prominently placed pictures.” He jerked his head to his right, where there was a framed photo of Hope with some woman with a guitar.
“How much eyeliner did you put on? I can’t get it off. Stop squirming.”
He ignored me. “I’m extraordinarily intuitive, and this feels off. Like a set design, not a home. Those mugs, Willa! Nobody normal has matching mugs.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Like, not a single joke mug? People love to give joke mugs. Like, ‘Reporters Do it in the Newsroom?’ I’d get that one for her. Or, like ‘Death Before Decaf?’ or ‘World’s Best Aunt?’ Nothing? You know who has sets of matching mugs, Willa? Serial killers. Do you reckon—”
“No, I don’t reckon Hope is a serial killer, actually. Stop talking for a minute. I’m almost done here.”
“Mm. You smell like bubble gum, just like I’d have guessed.”
“It’s because I’m chewing bubble gum,” I said.
He hummed. “It’s the smell of American girls.”
“It can’t be that since I’m a woman. Stop talking.”
His mouth finally stopped moving long enough for me to finish. “Finally. There. Now let’s start over.”
He handed me a black eyeliner pencil. I reached up but couldn’t get the right leverage for a steady hand. It wasn’t going to work. “I thought all Americans were tall,” he said. “It’s like your schtick.”
“True, most of us are seven feet tall and smell like bubble gum, but not all of us. Here, let’s switch places.” I sat on the counter, and he stood between my knees.
“Your hair is so shiny, Willa. You look like a commercial for girl vitamins.”
“Close your eyes.”
“In a second.”
I frowned at him. “Stop staring at me.” It was one thing when I was taking his picture. It was something entirely different when I wasn’t.
“You do have freckles. When you came in, I thought, ‘the only way this creature could be even more appealing is if she had freckles.’ Why are you covering them?”
“Close your eyes.” When he did, I said, “Freckles make people think I’m younger than I am. Believe it or not, some people already assume I’m a girl, not a woman.” I paused for a pointed beat.
“You shouldn’t hide them, they’re perfect. You should strive to look more like yourself, not less.”
“Stop talking. You’re moving your face too much.”
He whispered instead. “Next time I see you, leave your freckles out. Promise?”
“You’re not going to see me again.”
“Yes, I am.” He was still whispering. “So promise.”
“Promise.” I was sure it wouldn’t matter.
I mulled over what he’d said about Hope.
“Out loud,” Jimmy said. “What’s going on in your head?”
“You’re wrong. Hope has everything she wants. Her job is pretty much unheard of. Nobody gets to do what she does. I mean, like you said. These pictures of her with her idols, laughing with her, chumming it up. People love her, and she’s such a good writer. She can put anybody at ease and get any scoop she sets her mind on.”
“That much is true. I don’t even remember how I got here. We were supposed to be meeting at my hotel with my assistant there to keep me on track. Then my assistant opted for a nap instead, and I found myself on Hope’s couch, telling the story of how I lost my virginity, and she hadn’t even asked me about my virginity.” He paused for a breath. “It really is a good story. Do you want me to tell you?”
I laughed. “I’m good, thanks. But you see what I mean. Hope has an effect on people. Everyone loves her.”
“Of course everyone loves her. She’s amazing. I love her, and we just met.”
“Exactly.”
He wasn’t done. “But I was only with her for a few hours. Even if I show off by sending her a chair or something, I won’t interact with her again until my next album, if ever. An interview—even a good one—isn’t a relationship. It’s a job. It doesn’t mean she’s not lonely.”
A twinge of discomfort momentarily rattled me. “I’m sure you’re wrong. Hope loves her life.” I hopped off the counter and handed him the eyeliner. “Now pretend you’re doing this yourself.” I angled myself behind him.
When we finished in the bathroom, he suggested we do a “party-aftermath” scene, but we hit a snag. “We could have you passed out in a tub. I’ll get empty bottles from Hope’s recycling bin and scatter them around. It’s gonna be great. All we need is some beard scruff on you.”
“Yeah. Grand idea. Sadly, I can’t grow hair on demand. I would if I could.”
I didn’t have a ton of experience with men’s facial hair, but Toby usually had some scruff by the end of the day. “Maybe you’ll have some in a few hours?”
Jimmy nodded. “Probably. I’m going to try.”
“Should we sleep in the meantime?” I suggested hopefully.
He brightened. “I call pink velvet chaise!”
“Of course you do.”
He went back into the other room and nestled into the chaise, punching the pillows until he was comfortable. “This is going to be great. Tuck me in, Willa.”
I covered him with a blanket, dimmed the lights, and got settled on the couch. Then I sat straight up. “Shit!”
“What’s the matter?”
I was digging for my phone. “Toby’s probably worried sick. I should have been home already.”
“I should call my assistant, but I’m not going to. She doesn’t take my calls anymore anyway. She’s a rubbish assistant. I can’t even complain because Oliver and Eric told me she would be, but I didn’t listen.” He sighed forlornly. “I have to keep pretending she’s much better than she is. Saving face is important, Willa, even amongst your best mates.”
I called Toby five or six times before he answered. “Don’t worry,” I said hastily when he answered. “Everything is fine. I’m working on a project for Hope. I’ll be home later. Is everything okay?”
He muttered something sleepily into the phone and disconnected.
“All right, Willa?” Jimmy asked.
“Yeah. He worries.” I stuffed my phone back into my pocket and snuggled back into the couch.
“Hm. It sounded like you woke him.”
“Are you concentrating on growing your beard in? It seems like you aren’t.”
“Are we napping?” he countered. “Or haranguing? Because I’m feeling quite harangued right now. My beard will not grow in if it feels bullied, Willa.”
I smothered a smile. What an irritating, charming man.
Chapter Three
I fell asleep harder than I meant to and didn’t wake until the sun came up. Jimmy and I were both disappointed in his complete lack of facial hair.
“Can American men grow hair on command? No. Don’t say. I can’t, which is all that matters. I’m not a lumberjack, darling; I am a songwriter.”
We did the best we could with the bathtub/empty beer bottle scene anyway, then I downloaded the images and emailed them to Hope, who had evidently pulled an all-nighter at the office.
He called for a ride as I packed my camera. Before he left, he asked, “Willa, can I hug you?”
I wasn’t big on hugs, so I was surprised to want a hug from Jimmy. I was even more surprised when I was a little reluctant to let go. He smiled warmly at me, still holding onto my arms. “Thank you for taking pictures of me and for telling me your stories and for being lovely.”
“Thanks for letting me take your picture.” I smiled at him. “You’re my favorite pop star I’ve ever met.”
He wrinkled his nose. “I hope the sentiment stays true even when you’ve met a second one. Give me your number. If we come through anywhere near here on our tour, I’ll get you on the list. Will you come visit?”
