The woman nods, her lips pressed flat. It’s like she can read the anxiety coursing through me. I think I detect empathy glimmering in her eyes but it’s difficult to tell.
“I won’t lie. Yes, we picked the best photographs to hang on the walls. But if you don’t try, you won’t know. That’s all I can say. The choice is ultimately yours.”
My belly swirls with nerves as I glance at the exit again.
I could run like I’ve done so many times in my life.
Or I can face this, get through it even if it’s awkward and I won’t be able to gleam like so many of the women in those photos.
“Okay.” I let out a breath. “I’ll give it a go. What do I do?”
The receptionist stands up with a broad smile on her face. “Excellent. I don’t think you’ll regret it. If you follow me, I’ll take you to the studio and introduce you to the photographer. You’ll be able to have some refreshments if you like, while you wait for your partner.”
More swirling anxiety moves around my belly at the word partner, as I follow her down the hallway – past more smiling photographs – and to a door at the end of it. “Who is he? Do you know anything about him?”
She opens the door for me, tapping her nose with an even bigger smile, something I would’ve thought was impossible before she did it. Her smile seems to latch onto me, making me want to return it even if part of me wants to scream.
“That would ruin the surprise. It’s against our rules.”
“Okay, great,” I mutter dully, walking into the studio.
It’s a large room with a photography section set up on one end – draping white material, a camera on a tripod – with an area off to the side where the costumes and props are stored. There are all kinds there, flapper and gangster and Viking and all sorts of silly things.
The photographer sits on the opposite side of the room, near the refreshment table.
She rises when I enter, a tall lean woman with short-cut bleach blonde hair and a tattoo of a butterfly on her neck. “You must be Kelly.”
I nod, walking over to her. “And you must be my photographer.”
She smiles. “Good guess. I’m Janie. I want you to know you’re in safe hands. I’ve done dozens of these.”
“And…”
She narrows her eyes when I trail off, staring with the same perceptiveness as the receptionist. Or maybe they don’t need to be perceptive. Maybe it’s blazingly obvious how nervous I am and a rock would be able to tell.
“What is it?”
“I wanted to ask,” I say, licking my lips. They’re so freaking dry, in stark contrast to the rest of me, which is sweaty and nerve-sticky. “Have any of these ever crashed and burned?”
She frowns for a moment and then lets out a sigh.
“I’m not really supposed to talk about that. But I can see how nervous you are, and I don’t want to lie to you. Yes, they have. A few have gone very poorly.”
“Thank you.” I feel a weight lifting off my chest. “Maybe it’s a little crazy, but I prefer that. At least then there’s no pressure to be perfect. Does that make any sense to you?”
“Of course it does,” Janie says. “I’ve actually asked the management to put up photos from some of the less idyllic sessions. And that’s why I told you the truth when you asked me. Because, like you said, thinking you have to live up to a perfect ideal puts you under a lot of pressure. But please try not to worry. It’s just—”
“A bit of fun. I know.” I unclench my fists, which I didn’t even realize I was clenching until just now. “I’m going to try and relax. Maybe I could have a glass of water?”
“Of course.”
Janie turns to the table and grabs a paper cup, filling me a glass from the cooler and handing it over. I take it and nod thanks, and then drain it quickly.
“Another?” Janie asks.
“I’m fine. I’ll probably pee myself if…”
I trail off, my hands darting up to my mouth in mortification.
What the heck has got into me today?
It’s like I’ve got no filter.
“Don’t worry. I once pissed in my girlfriend’s bed when I was drunk. It’s no biggie.”
I giggle through my hands, glad for the release, glad not to have to dwell on how awkward I’m probably being.
“Do you know anything about the man I’m meeting today?”
Janie laughs and nods. “Yes, I do. I know his name. But I’m not going to tell you. That would ruin the fun. That’s one part of this process I wholeheartedly agree with.”
I want to ask her, to beg her to tell me something about him. But when it comes down to it, I know it probably wouldn’t make much difference anyway.