by Dara Girard
“It will.” He held out his card. “I want you to come to my office.”
“I don’t think—”
“You’re not a stupid woman, Ms. Duvall. Don’t act like one for my enjoyment. I have a proposition that could catapult your career.”
“I don’t model anymore.”
“I’m interested in your photography.”
“I see,” she said, trying to keep a handle on her growing excitement. “Do you want to start where your father left off?”
Ian became very still. “Is that an offer?”
Mariella wondered about his strange response then remembered how her words could be misinterpreted. “Regarding photography? Yes.”
“Meet me in my office, tomorrow at eleven and I’ll explain my proposition. And see if we can come to an understanding.” He turned and left.
Mariella stared at his card, resisting an urge to jump with triumph. She couldn’t believe it. What an opportunity. Perhaps Flash magazine wanted to use some of her celebrity portraits. Maybe Jeremiah spoke to Ian before he died. Slowly her mounting joy began to fade. But it was obvious that, just like the others, Ian thought that her relationship with Jeremiah was different than it was. Although that image had served its purpose in the past, Mariella didn’t want to use it now. She gathered up her belongings, and threw them in a large mesh bag lying next to her, and dashed after him. She caught Ian as he was about to get into his car.
“There’s something you should know.”
He stopped halfway. “Yes?”
She glanced at Josh then Ian. “I know what the papers said, but they weren’t always right. Your father and I were friends. He helped me with my photography. There was never anything more between us. So if this is some kind of bribe in order to keep me quiet about something that wasn’t true, there’s no need.” She waited, ready to hand him back the card. While Jeremiah had been alive, she had gotten many offers, only to find out that they usually wanted more than her photography talent. Many assumed she was a certain type of woman based on her relationship with Jeremiah. It had angered her on several occasions because some of the “contacts” Jeremiah considered to be his trusted friends and colleagues, were the worst, and she had never had the nerve to tell him.
“I see.”
Mariella hesitated, not sure what those two words meant. “Does that change anything?”
The corner of his mouth kicked up. “That changes everything.” He got into his car. “See you at eleven,” he said then sped away.
Mariella entered her place exhausted and ready to collapse on the couch, but the savory aromas coming from the kitchen renewed her spirit. “Dinner’s ready,” Gen called out. “Do you want to take a shower first? Or are you ready now?” Before she could finish her sentence, Mariella had found her way to the kitchen and was already trying to sneak one of Gen’s spicy stuffed cabbages. Mariella’s favorite.
“Mariella,” Gen playfully scolded.
“Just one bite.”
“Okay,” she said.
Gen was Mariella’s perfect roommate. Being a former model helped. She knew the pressures of the industry, the competition, the drive, and her experience of living in a model’s apartment at sixteen helped her become self-sufficient and know how to handle living with others and hustle when necessary. And as Mariella’s assistant she was ready for action at any time.
Mariella knew that Gen played a much greater role than her title credited her with, but that didn’t bother her, especially since Mariella was a very generous boss when it came to her salary. They lived in a trendy three-bedroom, two-level condominium, with an exquisite view of the Hudson River. While they were very different in temperament, they both shared a love of art.
Mariella’s interest in art had been greatly expanded when she had worked at an art gallery in upstate N.Y., and she spent most of her discretionary funds buying unique and exclusive pieces. Shopping for art was her second love, next to buying cosmetics. The hallway entrance, with its twelve-foot skylighted ceiling was a showcase of black-and-white photographs, which included several signed copies by Jeremiah.
Throughout the shared space, the walls were painted a soft blue, with eggshell white trim, and an eclectic array of furniture. In the living room, with its vaulted ceiling and high windows, was a long teak couch, with overstuffed maroon cushions, an assortment of oil paintings, one-of-a-kind blown glass lamps, and two high-back artist chairs.
Mariella went directly to her room, still high from the potential offer. Her room was her oasis, with calming colors, pared-down décor, and richly textured accessories. With a large picture window facing the Hudson, her walls were covered with cream brocade-textured wallpaper. On one large wall, there were framed pictures of some of her most memorable cover shots, and of course the ones that made her look the best, even though none ever made her look bad. Dispersed in between were mirrors, of varying sizes and shapes, adding an element of fantasy.
Off to the side, was a three-way mirror and a Japanese Shoshi screen. On her large oak chest and jewelry armoire, were numerous photos of her sisters, their families and her parents, in an assortment of gold frames. Her matching bedroom set included a large poster bed with voluminous white curtains, tastefully adorned with cashmere throws and linen pillows, providing soft touches. And of course, there was excellent lighting, provided by ornate track lighting that could be adjusted to either daylight or evening lighting, at the touch of a button.
Above the bed was a prized possession Jeremiah had given her: a three-photo series of children playing. Mariella walked into her bathroom—a sleek, upscale alcove with every comfort money could buy. Her makeup table looked like the backstage at a theater. There were numerous books on makeup and characterization, and pictures, with instructions on how to get a wide array of looks.
Although she always had makeup and hair professionals at each shoot, Mariella was known as being very gifted in doing her own. As a child growing up, she had practiced for hours, changing her look and appearance, using her mother’s makeup. Once she went so far as cutting her hair into a really short do. Needless to say, her new hairstyle did not go over well with her mother, and from then on she practiced on her dolls instead. When it came to having the look, Mariella always had everything on hand.
That night after a quick shower, and hurried dinner, Mariella completed the paperwork for the Bretton shoot, then she went on her laptop determined to find out everything she could about Ian Cooper. She told herself she was just curious to find out about the man she might be working with. She didn’t want to admit that he intrigued her. From the dark glasses that shielded his eyes to the dark shirt that emphasized his build, he was a man of mystery.
She remembered that Jeremiah rarely talked about Ian and she’d never seen a picture of him anywhere. Even after he’d taken over the magazine he hadn’t allowed his picture to be shown in the paper. When Jeremiah did speak about his son, it was in general terms and he only referred to Ian’s temper and recklessness—the words were usually spoken with both pride and pain. She knew about Josh from the start. Josh was always there. But who was Ian? And why did he want to work with her? Was Jeremiah behind it?
Mariella entered her query online, determined to find out more. What she uncovered left her speechless. Ian had been an award-winning photojournalist for nearly ten years. His photographs had been featured on the covers of Fortune and National Geographic. He’d covered the Olympics, several wars, and both natural and man-made disasters. The online collection of his work astounded her. It was dark, ruthless, clear and dangerous. No light, no brilliancy of color. Stark, yet moving as though he was unaware of the compassion he’d brought to the composition.
One moving photograph showed homes decimated by a hurricane looking like toothpicks scattered in a puddle, contrasted with kids playing soccer in a FEMA trailer park nearby. Another picture showed the setting sun spreading its warmth on the devastation of a structure that had once been a home. In the middle stood the faint image of a
couple embracing among the debris of their former life; yet another picture showed a silhouette of bare trees, their leaves ripped from the branches, standing tall, with the string of a deflated yellow balloon dangling from the tip of a branch, lonely and dejected. That picture shook her with an unexpected wave of sorrow although she didn’t know why.
This couldn’t be him. This had to be a mistake. This couldn’t be the arrogant, condescending jerk she’d met today. A man like him couldn’t portray such humanity, show reality with such tender cruelty and gentle pain. She could see that he was as talented, if not more, than his father. Yet, his work was so different than Jeremiah’s. Jeremiah approached photography with a light fanciful air. Almost as a game, which was why she had enjoyed working with him. He’d taught her to feel the image through the lens. To not be afraid to arrange a scene, or to create one, no matter how contrived it looked. The final outcome was what counted.
The emotion the photographer wanted to capture and impart to the viewer was paramount. Jeremiah had been markedly different than her father who had given her a camera at eight and said “Take a picture of anything so that I can see what you see,” his island accent caressing each word. He’d found beauty in the strangest, ordinary places—a broken leaf, footsteps in the snow, not feeling the need to alter them. Unlike her mother, he didn’t emphasize her beauty. Instead, he taught her, along with her three other sisters, to enjoy as much as they could, and that beauty was all around them.
She hadn’t been a very good student of his philosophy. On her mother’s insistence, she had focused more on refining her social skills, and had to admit she liked all the attention, but there were times when she wasn’t attending some recital, or taking tap and voice lessons, that she would be outside taking pictures.
Of course, her mother never approved and always reminded her that she should be in front of the camera, not behind it. Her father had understood her. He was probably the only one who did, beside her sister Isabella. He knew and nourished her love of taking pictures and would always tell her that if she ever wanted to do something different, that she would make a good photographer. She never dreamed that one day it would come true.
Oddly, Ian’s approach to photography wasn’t like her father’s or Jeremiah’s. Ian approached it like a storyteller for future generations to uncover and for present ones to reflect on. Looking at his pictures made her want to be better, not just good, but great.
Mariella stayed online for the rest of the evening, reading Ian’s articles on photography. His prose was as deep, intelligent and mesmerizing as his photographs.
“What are you doing?” Gen asked, clutching a cup of warm Ovaltine. She pulled up a chair next to Mariella who sat hunched over her laptop at the dining room table. Lights from the town shone brightly into the apartment casting soft shadows on the walls. “You’ve been on that thing since finishing dinner.”
“I’m reading about Ian Cooper. He used to be a photojournalist.”
“I know.”
Mariella didn’t ask her how she knew, that wasn’t the question that plagued her. “Why did he give up all this to run a magazine?”
“He had to,” Gen said. “Josh told me he had to step in when his father became ill, because the magazine wasn’t doing well and they knew Ian could turn things around.”
Jeremiah hadn’t told her that. But he never discussed business with her. “I wonder what he could want with me.”
“Ian wants to meet with you?”
“Yes. He gave me his card and said to come to his office tomorrow at eleven.”
“You’ll have to ask him then.”
“Don’t worry. I intend to.”
“I’m sure Josh—” She stopped.
Mariella couldn’t help a smile. “Josh seems to have a lot to say.”
“We spoke a little at the park.”
“I see.”
“It’s nothing serious,” Gen said quickly.
“Funny you should say that because I keep having this strange feeling that you’re in love with him.”
Gen’s face reddened. “Why would you say that?”
“I won’t say it if you tell me I’m wrong.”
Gen sipped her drink then set the cup down. “I know he’s not what you’d call handsome but I like his looks, and that’s all that matters; plus he’s smart and sweet and…” She picked up the cup.
“And?” Mariella pressed.
She stared down at the cup. “Yes, I do love him.”
Mariella rested her chin in her hand and shook her head. “Don’t move too fast.”
Gen frowned. “Why?”
“It’s been my experience that people rarely make rational decisions when in the ‘I’m in love’ state. Trust me, I’ve seen my sisters do bizarre things because of it.”
“Sounds romantic to me,” Gen said softly.
Mariella sat back and pointed at her. “Listen, because of love, some of what they did looked ridiculous at the time. Fortunately, everything worked out. All I can say is I hope to leave this planet without falling prey to it.”
“You’ve never been in love?”
“No, nor do I plan to be. That doesn’t mean I’m not capable of loving. I love my sisters and nephews and niece very much.” She smiled. “And you, of course.”
Gen didn’t smile back. She looked at Mariella as though she’d happened upon a strange creature. “So you never want to get married?”
“What made you think that?”
“Well, you said—”
“I said I never wanted to fall in love. I didn’t say I’d never marry. Marriage can be very advantageous if it is to the right person.”
“If you love him, it’s the right person.”
“Not necessarily. A man should always love a woman more. Otherwise the woman is at a disadvantage.”
“How can that be?”
“Love makes you weak, vulnerable. Women only have few powers to claim, and giving away our hearts leads to our greatest oppression.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“You don’t have to but it’s true. Why is it that the best love stories usually deal with someone dying? I’ll tell you: Because men believe in sacrifice and suffering, especially when it comes to a woman’s lot in life. Suicide, ruination, depression, death, illness. All the classics have women who don’t, or cannot survive, without the ‘love’ in their lives, or lovers separated by fate who will do anything to be together, including killing themselves.”
“But love stories—”
Mariella held up a hand silencing her. “Personally, I find them as realistic as a unicorn, but that’s just me. We can dream of men who will risk all for us as much as we risk for them but those stories only exist in books. I am a realist and plan to keep myself intact by living in a rational manner. Either marry a man who adores you—one you can reasonably tolerate—or don’t get married at all.”
Gen stared at her friend, amazed. “Mariella, how can you be so cynical? I thought you said your sisters are happily married.”
“They are, but they are the type of women who make good wives. I don’t. I’m aware of my faults. I can be impatient and demanding and I’m certainly not the nurturing motherly type that men crave. The best husband for me would be a man who is very rich and travels a lot.”
“I believe that men and women can love each other equally.”
Mariella shrugged. “Well, you can choose to believe that if you want to. Do you think Josh loves you?”
“I don’t know,” Gen stammered. “I think he likes me.”
“Likes you? Don’t be modest. I’ve seen him tripping over his feet, and he’s always tongue-tied when he’s around you. I suppose he’ll suit you. No, he’s not very handsome, but at least he’s rich.”
“Mariella, don’t talk like that,” Gen scolded.
“I’m just being honest. You know as well as I do that men are visual creatures. Right? Well, look at you. You’re beautiful, and you’ve been an international model.
You can get any man you want, you have the looks, so use them. It doesn’t matter for what.”
Gen shifted awkwardly in her seat. “But it makes you sound shallow.”
“Who’s to say I’m not?”
“I know you’re not,” she said firmly. “If you were, I wouldn’t be your roommate. Besides, if you were truly shallow you wouldn’t have been staring at those photos all evening.”
Mariella glanced at her watch. “Has it been that long? What time is it?”
“12:30 a.m. If you want to be ready for your appointment with him tomorrow, you will need to look rested.”
“Yes.” Mariella turned off the screen and closed the laptop. “Well, his work is impressive, I’ll give him that.” She walked over to the stove, and poured herself a cup of tea. “But we’re not talking about me,” she said, determined to continue their prior topic.
Gen sighed, looking a lot older than her twenty-four years. “How I feel about Josh doesn’t matter.”
“You’re concerned about how he feels about you?”
“No.” Gen lowered her head. “You know that I can’t be with any man.”
“Your past—”
Gen met her eyes. “Is part of who I am. I can’t lie about it, but I don’t want to reveal it either.”
“He shouldn’t mind. This is a new day.”
“It’s not that new. There are still certain taboos. I don’t think Josh would be able to handle it. Besides, look at the kind of family he comes from. Yes, I know what you’re probably going to say. I may have the looks, but unlike you, Mariella, I don’t have your kind of confidence. Men love the way I look, and for many, they think I’m a certain way, when I’m not. And…” She went to the sink and dumped the contents of her cup. “You know, I really don’t want to talk about it anymore. Trust me, I know it won’t work.”
“How would you know, if you don’t give him the chance?”
“I don’t want to know.” Gen abruptly turned. “Good night, see you in the morning.”
Mariella sat back at the table then turned the laptop on again, this time wondering which of her photos would impress Mr. Ian Cooper. Mariella spent most of the night, into the early morning going through her portfolio and selecting her best photographs. She intended to get the job, and wasn’t going to take any chances.