Chapter 5: In Front of the Lens

The studio on Wednesday smelled of hot lights and steamed linen.

A stylist knelt at my feet pinning a wine-red gown that had been cut for a size twenty, not taken in from a size six.

I stood very still and let my own reflection look at me.

My hips, my soft stomach, the arms I used to hide in long sleeves.

The dress hugged all of it and made no apology.

"Is it too tight?" the stylist asked.

"No." I laughed in surprise. "It fits."

"Of course it fits. Tobias had it made for you on Sunday night."

I turned to find him at the monitor, chewing a pen.

"Sunday night?"

"I measured you with my eyes. I'm a designer. It's the only trick I have."

The photographer was a tired, brilliant woman who had shot covers in Paris.

She put me in front of a plain gray backdrop and said, "Don't pose. Just be angry."

"Angry at what?"

"Whatever got you here."

I thought about the bags in the rain.

I thought about the mic in my hand, and a ring in white frosting.

The shutter began to chatter.

I turned my chin and let my eyes go flat and dangerous.

I lifted one hand to the hollow of my throat, where the pearls sat, and dropped it with a snap.

"Yes," the photographer said. "God, yes. Again."

Forty minutes passed.

Every frame felt like putting something heavy down.

I did not notice the crew had stopped moving until I finished.

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