A Crazy Kind of Love

by Mary Ann Marlowe

  I laughed. He made it sound like Micah was the victim of a string of women using him.

  Hervé abruptly broke into my thought. “I don’t know if you’re going to get anything tabloid-y tonight. This crowd doesn’t appear to be interested in making your job easier.”

  He had no idea I was sitting on a story that would get Andy off my case for a very long time. And it would only cost me Eden’s trust—followed quickly by Micah’s. Not that I had much chance of securing Eden’s, but for whatever reason, at that moment, I valued Micah’s opinion more than Andy’s. And if I didn’t squash that instinct, I’d never make it in this industry.

  I shared a secret with Hervé that I’d never told anyone. “To be honest, I much prefer taking candid pictures of ordinary people. I understand why people want to see celebrities doing fabulous things, but I’d almost rather capture people here in everyday life. It would be more interesting for me to see Hugh Grant making a sandwich than climbing out of a limo.”

  He laughed in a way that was part grizzly bear, part indulgent uncle. “That sounds great. This mug might not be worth photographing, but if I decide to make a sandwich later, I’ll let you know.”

  As he peeled away from me to go mingle with his other guests, I peered through my lens and tried to find a subject worth capturing. In a group near the basement stairs, I found Micah. He was looking directly at me. Andy had claimed he was a media whore, but I didn’t think he’d be so conscious of where the only camera in the room was at all times. I snapped a picture anyway. The camera loved him as much as he loved the camera. I didn’t want to stand in the way of that great romance.

  He walked over and put his arm around my shoulder. “I want to introduce you to some friends if you don’t mind taking a break.”

  I was there at his behest, so of course I didn’t mind. “Lead on.”

  Without withdrawing his arm, he walked along with me, ducking his head a little to speak into my ear. “Are you getting any good shots?” His breath tickled and sent goose bumps down my neck.

  “Well, nobody has danced on a table yet, but I’m doing my best with what I’ve got to work with.”

  “The night’s still young, Jo Jo. Surely someone will suitably shame themselves for posterity.”

  Near the foot of the stairs, two weathered old men, wearing what could only be described as vintage rocker attire—jean jacket on one, leather vest on the other—stood, arms crossed, heads bent in conversation. Micah approached and pulled me around by his side.

  “Josie Wilder, I’d like you to meet Lars Cambridge and Stuart Michaels. Lars is a reporter at the Rock Paper—”

  “Yes, I know who Lars Cambridge is,” I cut in, hand out in greeting. Lars was a legend in his own right. Editor of the hottest music magazine, he’d cut his teeth as a concert photographer. They say it’s not what you know, but who you know. Maybe this was a chance to know someone whose career I’d love to emulate.

  Once Lars shook my hand, I turned to Stuart and added, “And Stuart Michaels with the Haverford Gallery in SoHo.” Two giants of the art world in this small room.

  Stuart nodded and shook my hand. “Did Micah say your name was Josie Wilder?”

  “Yes.” I nodded.

  He glanced at Lars briefly as if to confer, but then back to me. “Your name is familiar. Have you ever submitted your work?”

  “No, though one day maybe, once I’ve developed a portfolio.” I held my breath a beat to moderate the gushing speed of my vacuum-like sucking up.

  He rubbed his chin, eyes narrow. “Did you take a class with me at the Arts Annex?”

  “Nope.” I pressed my lips together. Stuart dealt in photography and would figure it out sooner or later, so I fed him the bread crumbs. “Maybe you know my dad. Chandra Namputiri?” Only a true photography aficionado would be able to connect the dots from my dad’s name to mine.

  Apparently Stuart was an avid fan. His eyes lit up. “Ah, yes. That’s it.” He turned to Lars. “I’m sure you’ve seen his work in World GeoPolitical.”

  “Of course. Stunning photographs.”

  Of course. My dad’s photos hung in the National Gallery of Art.

  The pieces clicked into place, and the features on Stuart’s face lifted like he’d been injected with helium. “And you must be Anika Namputiri.” He said it as if my name was the title of a book. I hadn’t gone by Anika since I started kindergarten. I’d never gone by Namputiri. Mine was the most obscure fame imaginable—a trivia question for photography geeks.

  Lars nodded as if he knew, but his eyes glazed with lack of recognition.

  Among my dad’s more popular works were a couple of portraits of a daughter he must have once viewed with the same curiosity that drove him deep into the Serengeti or around the corner to Little Five Points, his mind translating the world into compositions of color and shapes. They hung in private collections or galleries, usually with my Indian name, a name I tried to forget.

  My favorite photo of his caught me, perpetually tan, running through our backyard sprinkler, rainbows of water spraying, my eyes closed as a smile of pure delight spread across my face. That one hung in a hallway at my mom’s house, though. At some point, I’d become another piece of the furniture, inconsequential backdrop to more interesting people in the world.

  Stuart held his plastic cup toward me. “I see you’ve followed in his footsteps. How is he?”

  “I wouldn’t know. He lives in India with his wife.” Stuart’s eyes slid away from me briefly. But it wasn’t my shame that my dad allowed his parents to pressure him into returning home, that he’d chosen a new family over me. It was his life. Still, it wasn’t Stuart’s fault the situation was awkward, so I tried to pull the conversation out of the nosedive. “I’m sure he’ll get the itch to travel again sooner or later.”

  In every picture I’d ever seen of my dad, he held a camera. He’d left me with that same love of photography—and abandonment issues when he never returned.

  Lars indicated the camera hanging from my shoulder. “Are you here on assignment, or are you permanently attached to your camera like your dad?”

  “Assignment.”

  “Oh? Who do you work for?”

  “Andy Dickson at the Daily Feed.”

  His mouth twisted into a subtle sneer. He caught it and corrected it, but I saw it. “Well. It was nice to meet you.”

  Their heads bent down, and Stuart began talking low to Lars. “Did you say Marta’s at Johns Hopkins?”

  The conversation changed to things that obviously didn’t concern me. And just like that, my dream of making connections in high places burst into flames. I stood awkwardly, casting about for a convincing escape route.

  I took a step away and ran smack into Micah’s chest. “I thought you’d left.”

  “Nope. Thought I’d give you a chance to talk to your own kind.”

  “I don’t have a kind.” I meant it as a joke, but the truth of my statement right on the heels of such a stinging rejection and invasive thoughts of Dad made my lips twitch into a frown. I swallowed down the traitorous emotion.

  As if Micah caught my emotional upheaval, he laid his hand across the small of my back and led me to the far corner, near the soundproof booth. “Is everything okay?”

  I forced a smile. “Yes. Thank you for introducing me to Lars and Stuart. I’ve admired both of them for years.”

  He relaxed and sat on an amplifier, indicating a stool beside him. “I’ll tell you a secret. I’ve always wanted to be featured in the Rock Paper. I mean, as a musician, not as—” He blushed adorably.

  “You haven’t been?” I recalled the Pretty Boys spread and winced. “Hasn’t your band ever been featured?”

  “You’d think so. I’ve known Lars for a while, and I can’t get him to do a friend a favor.” He laughed, and I got the feeling he was intentionally abasing himself to cheer me up. I was grateful to him for that kindness. “Maybe I should pay him more.”

  I didn’t have to force a smile at that.
“It’s his loss. I could offer to do a full-length article on you for my paper, but you might not like it quite so much.”

  “I might if it meant you had to spend some time getting to know me.” He struck a teasing tone, but the sincerity in his eyes knocked me for a loop.

  I double-blinked, searching for an appropriately flirty, casual reply, but someone approached us and usurped his attention, saving me from navigating the land mines of ambiguity.

  When it became clear he’d been sucked into that conversation, despite the apologetic glances he shot me, I excused myself and slunk into the shadows, invisible and unimportant.

  Time passed, and people came and went. The volume increased as the alcohol flowed, and I became transparent to the naked eye. It always amazed me how quickly people forgot to notice someone recording their lives. And so I moved around the party, fading into the periphery, forgotten—but the camera remembered everything.

  Near two a.m., Eden caught up to me and pulled me upstairs into the kitchen. I hadn’t been out of the basement except to use the bathroom in hours. I saw Adrianna LaRue, a ridiculously famous pop star, in the kitchen, huddled with Adam. She flashed brilliant white teeth my way, and I stopped to snap pictures, but Eden grabbed my arm and tugged as the shutter clicked. Those pictures would end up blurred and useless.

  Eden led me to a small office and shut the door. “Let me see what you’ve got.”

  I flipped the settings on the camera to the viewer and handed it over. “There are a lot of pictures on here.” It was going to take me hours to figure out which ones Andy might like to see. He’d go through them all in any case, but I’d want to make sure he saw the best ones.

  “These are really great.” She rolled through the pictures I’d taken of Victoria. “You have an interesting perspective on the world, don’t you?”

  I blushed. “I just like to watch people. I mean, to see how they tick.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. I guess.”

  As I expected, she slowed down when she got to the pictures of her with Adam. She forwarded through the shots of them talking, kissing, gazing into each other’s eyes and then stopped. “Delete these.”

  She scrolled through five pictures of Adam touching and talking to her belly. “And I know I can’t ask it, but I’m asking. Could you please not mention any of this. To anyone?”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. It had to be awful to trust her secret to someone paid to spill the beans. But she’d luckily crossed paths with the world’s most reluctant pap. “Yeah. I didn’t see anything.”

  She appraised me for a minute, searching the truth through the windows to my soul. I hardly blinked for fear of failing the analysis. Her features relaxed. “Micah might have been right about you. Maybe you’re not so bad.”

  She flipped through the rest of the pictures, with a hmm and an ahhh. Finally, she handed me the camera. “Do you think you could do some work on the side? Unlike Micah, I’d pay you. I’d love to get some shots of one of my shows. I loathe the pictures up on my website now. They make me look like a 1960s folk singer.”

  “Sure. Sounds like fun.”

  “Excellent. Do you have a card?”

  I fished one out of my wallet, then hesitated. What if she’d somehow forgotten who I worked for? I still didn’t know the story there, but I didn’t want to accidentally blow this tentative trust with her. She pursed her lips, so I went ahead and extended the card to her. “Look, I don’t know what went down with Andy, but I just work for him.”

  She studied the card. “Try not to learn anything from him if you can. He’s concentrated evil as far as I’m concerned.”

  “I’ll do my best. As it is, he thinks I’m not long for this job.”

  She snorted. “You do good work. I’m sure you’ll make a name for yourself eventually. Keep at it.” She paused. “The photography that is. Not the stalkerazzi.”

  As she stood to leave, I reached out and touched her arm. “Not that I know anything, but congratulations. You both look very happy.”

  Her expression moved through a complex series of acrobatics—fear, suspicion, appraisal, acceptance, relief, and finally honest guileless joy. “Thank you. But really—not even Micah knows yet. It’s way too early. But thank you.”

  She slipped out of the room, and I felt like I’d made a tentative friend. Hervé was right. She’d been a lot sweeter to me once she dropped her guard. She seemed like someone I’d really love to get to know in a different world, one where I didn’t live on another plane of existence. One where celebrity didn’t create a caste system. I took out my phone to turn on the hot spot and began the process of submitting my photos.

  The door clicked open, and Micah stepped through. “Hey there. I was going to head out. Can I give you a ride? Do you live around here?”

  “I live in Williamsburg.”

  “That’s not exactly on my way home, but not too far out of the way. I could give you a lift if you like.”

  “And where do you live?”

  “Brooklyn.”

  I tilted my head. “Right. Where exactly?”

  He shrugged, defeated. “Park Slope.”

  “Not too far out of the way, huh? I live in the exact opposite direction.”

  He dropped to his knee before me. “Would you do me the great honor of letting me give you a ride home?”

  I could not for the life of me figure this guy out. If there was an angle he was working to get something more out of me, I couldn’t find it. “You know I’ve already uploaded all the pictures from tonight.”

  He knit his brow. “So . . . you’re off the clock?”

  “I won’t be taking any more pictures tonight.”

  If I thought he’d change his mind once I was no longer of any service, I was wrong. He held out his hand. “Okay. You wanna go?”

  As he opened the door to the townhouse and we emerged into the night air, a dozen cameras pointed at us, shutters click-clicking. I picked Wally out of the crowd and waved at him. He didn’t smile or wave back. He moved his finger up to the zoom and continued snapping.

  Chapter 6

  A dozen cameras clicked and flashed in a syncopated rhythm. Voices overlapped with undecipherable questions from both sides, calling out to Micah. Micah put an arm around my shoulder and ushered me to a waiting town car. The driver touched his cap and opened the door for me. Unnerved and somewhat thrilled by my moment in the spotlight, I turned to gawk at the crowding paps. A bright light blinded me temporarily, and I saw spots as I slid across the leather seat of the sedan.

  Micah climbed in, and I had a brief moment to wonder if any of my friends or loved ones would yell at me later for taking the risk of riding home with a relative stranger. Both Zion and my mom popped up on my shoulder, alongside the devil, shouting, “Go! Go! Go!” I secured my seat belt.

  Once the driver had taken his place behind the wheel, he turned around to ask for my address, and then we were off, leaving the crazy cacophony behind us.

  The inequality of our status slammed home all at once, and the sudden dark silence exacerbated my awkwardness. I had no idea what protocol I should follow when crammed into such a small space with my natural prey. Should I make small talk? Or maybe Micah wanted me to interview him. I stared into the night, overwhelmed with shyness and uncertainty.

  Fear of Andy’s disapproval knotted my gut, and I made up my mind to come right out and ask Micah for a statement on his recent girlfriend. I turned to face him and found him leaning against the door, watching me with interest.

  Before I could start my interrogation, he launched the first strike. “I overheard some of your conversation with Stuart. I thought you were from Georgia.”

  I sat up straighter. “I sure am. Born and raised.”

  His features changed with the alternating light and shade striping his face as we passed through Brooklyn. “But that’s not the whole story.”

  “No. My dad’s Indian. There’s a fairly vibrant Indian community outside of Atlanta.”

&
nbsp; He narrowed his eyes. I could see he wanted to pry. I took a deep breath. People could never quite understand how two people from totally different life trajectories could end up romantically entangled. So I gave him the basic outline. “My dad came over to get an MFA in photography.” I smiled, thinking of this bit of shared history. “Same school and department I went into. But I never went for the Master’s.”

  “I never went to college.” He said it conversationally with no trace of bitterness. “My sister did. She used to be a biochemist if you can believe that.” It was sweet to see him speaking with pride about Eden. “So is that where your parents met?”

  “Actually, yes. Mom started an MFA in interior design, but she never finished it.”

  “Because of you?”

  I put my finger on my nose. “Yup. But she does okay without the degree. She has her own business. We always got by.”

  He shifted but never took his eyes off me. Thankfully, he dropped that line of questioning and opted for something safer. “Did you ever get a chance to go to India?”

  “Once. I must have been nine or ten. Dad was from the southwest, a region called Kerala. He took me over to meet my grandparents.”

  “That sounds like a great trip for a kid.”

  “Oh. My dad took me everywhere with him. France, Kenya, Tierra del Fuego. But until that summer, he’d never taken me to his home.”

  I thought back to that summer. Dad had been uncharacteristically quiet and irritable the whole trip over. I’d traveled with him enough to know he was a life-is-about-the-journey-not-the-destination kind of guy. He normally loved every aspect of our trips from planning to packing to boarding the plane to messing with the in-flight music stations. So I knew something was off.

  Micah leaned forward, as if listening intently. “That’s crazy. I’ve always traveled, but my entire family lives within a fifty-mile radius. I can’t imagine meeting my grandparents like that. Must have been kind of scary.”

  I tilted my head and poked at emotions packed into memories that were two decades old. “I was a little nervous but mostly excited to finally meet my cousins and grandparents. My dad had taught me enough basic Malayalam so I could grasp some snatches of meaning from context. And most everyone spoke some English.”