A Clean Slate (23 page)

“What's his story?” I asked Mella. My sea bass had just been delivered, and I took a bite of the flaky fish, which had a hint of Caribbean spice to it. I was grateful for the food, since I was feeling the effects of my three piña coladas. It was my last hurrah, after all.

“Cute, isn't he?”

I glanced at Sam again and nodded. He was wearing a tan linen shirt, the cuffs rolled haphazardly up his tanned arms. His blond, wavy hair was rakish and messed, and he was laughing at something Francie had said. I usually didn't go for older guys, but there was no denying his deliciousness. Plus I liked his taste. He'd given everyone, including me, Prada wallets before we left the hotel bar tonight. I had turned mine around and around in my hand like it was the Holy Grail. I'd never thought that my job with Cole would get me Old Navy, much less Prada.

“He's from some wealthy family,” Mella said, “and he never takes their money, but from what I hear he may soon have to. He's apparently getting cleaned out by a nasty divorce—custody battle, the works.”

“He seems so happy, though.” I thought of Sam's cheerful attitude when I'd met him at the airport and the way he'd seemed so pleased to give everyone the Prada wallets tonight.

“He's always like that. He seems to be able to laugh everything off.”

My sister, Dee, had been exactly the same way. Even during my mother's divorce from Danny and our subsequent moves from place to place, Dee was never angry or cranky like me, never seemed to mind a bit. The thought of Dee made me feel strangely lonely, especially here in a foreign place with a group of people, most of whom I'd known only a few hours.

I excused myself to go to the bathroom, but instead walked out of the restaurant and up a winding road lit by ankle-high lights, following signs that read Deadman's Beach. I needed a moment's peace, a little respite from group activity.

The road curved at the top and descended to the left until it reached a swath of sand. I stepped out of my sandals and walked into the water, standing in the darkness for a few
minutes, letting the cool waves lap against my shins. It should have been serene, yet it wasn't. Or maybe I wasn't. I felt a vague fear somewhere deep inside me.

A particularly large wave rushed onto the beach then, splashing my legs and the hem of my sundress. I backed away from the water and turned toward the restaurant, but I was unable to shake that fear. It felt familiar, and the more I focused on it, the more I retreated inside myself, into the hole of dread in the pit of my stomach. The piña coladas, I thought vaguely. I should get back to the table and drink some water. My feet kept moving, and yet, in my head, I seemed to shrink more and more away from my surroundings, my mind a mass of swirling thoughts I could barely make out. I was mildly aware that I was nearing the restaurant, my feet continuing to trudge as if on a well-known path.

I rounded a corner of the building and, as I did so, stopped and stared through a window at the group of people I was with: Corrine, trying her hand again with Cole; Sam, regaling the rest of the group with some story; Mella, sipping at her vodka.
Go inside,
I told myself, but now my feet wouldn't move at all. There was only a tingling numbness at the bottom of my legs.

After a moment or two, I stopped seeing the group inside, and instead my own reflection in the glass became clearer and clearer. At first I noticed the dangling silver earrings I'd worn tonight and the slash of lipstick I'd applied in the bathroom. Yet the longer I gazed at myself, the more the picture changed. My hair was no longer pulled back, but rather hung lankly around my face, the bangs overgrown and pushed aside. The earrings disappeared, as did the lipstick. In fact, I seemed to be wearing no makeup at all, and my eyes were hollow, empty.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a logical voice told me to stop, to just ignore that girl in the glass, but I was par
alyzed on my numb feet. I stared at myself, at what I was beginning to realize was the person I'd been over the summer. I didn't have an actual memory of a distinct day, but I gradually became aware of a vague recollection that I used to walk the streets at night, peering into restaurant windows, staring at the golden, gleeful patrons inside. I was struck by how sad this was, this feeling of being on the outside looking in, and the longer I stood there, the more frightened I grew. It felt like the old Kelly, the one from this summer, was trying to take over again.

A
shrill scream sounded in my head. Again and again. I raised my hands to my temples, massaging them, but it wouldn't stop.

Slowly, I opened one eye. The thought of opening both seemed impossible. The one eye searched the hazy room, fixating on the old-fashioned black phone on the nightstand. I concentrated all my efforts on extracting an arm from the sheets. I raised the receiver to my ear and finally, blissfully, ended the screaming.

“Good morning,” said a pleasant, singsongy Caribbean voice. “This is your wake-up call.”

“Grfff,”
I mumbled by way of thanks, and hung up.

I staggered to the shower, rubbing my temples. After that run-in with my former self in the window last night, I'd finally wrenched myself away and gone back to the table without a word to anyone. I'd applied myself wholeheart
edly to the craft of ordering cocktails, hoping to chase away the old Kelly. For all my talk of embracing the different parts of me, the different women I used to be, I was afraid that I would revert wholly back to the depressed Kelly of the past summer. Cole had come round to my side of the table at one point, gesturing to what was probably my thirty-third drink and saying, “You'll be ready tomorrow morning, yeah?”

I'd given him a haughty look, snapped, “Of course,” and kept drinking.

So now I had to make good on that promise. The hard spray of the shower felt like little pellets stinging my back, but I was glad I could feel at all. Not bothering to dry my hair, I threw on my straw hat, a pair of white shorts and a light blue tank top, and headed for the lobby.

Cole was already seated in a wicker chair near the front desk, four black cases at his feet. “You okay?” he said. His face had a slightly sarcastic, questioning look, but his voice was soft.

“Just a headache.”
Headache
seemed a particularly mild word for the jackhammering that was going on in my skull. “I'm fine. What do you want me to carry?”

He stood up and put his hands on his hips, studying me. “It's a big day.”

“I know. I'm ready, and I'm excited about it.”

“Do I need to be worried about you?” Somehow I knew that he meant more than just the hangover.

I looked up at him, the subject of my memory loss hanging between us. I thought about confiding in him about that image I'd seen in the glass last night, how close I'd felt to my old self, but it seemed too amorphous to explain properly. “Nope. No need to be worried.”

“Just say something if…you know. If you want to…”

I put a hand on his arm. “I know. Thanks.”

Cole stopped at a roadside deli and plied me with eggs, sausage and passion fruit before we drove the rest of the way
around the island to the beach where we'd be shooting. The next day we would move to the Baths on Virgin Gorda, and after that there'd be one more day on St. John's.

As soon as we got to the beach, Cole and I began setting up, and the combination of the food, the work and Cole's surprisingly caring and understanding attitude made me feel much better, clearing some of that bullet-to-the-brain sensation. It also pulled me away from the image in the window, allowing me to let her fade away, to decide that I'd imagined it; it was just a figment of Caribbean rum.

Sam arrived in the hotel van with the rest of the crew a few hours later. The first shoot that day involved both Mella and Corrine, one wearing a black bikini, the other white. Chad fussed around them for what seemed like hours, trying on one necklace after another. He and Sam finally agreed on chokers made of rough brown cord, three tiny shells dangling from each.

The shoot went remarkably well right from the start. Cole was more relaxed than I'd ever seen him, immediately developing a joking rapport with the models. If Corrine was still upset after getting shot down by Cole the night before, she didn't show it. Maybe she'd ended up with Sam.

“Mel,” Cole called out, “step closer to Corey.”

Neither woman seemed annoyed at these nicknames he'd bestowed on them. Mella took a step to her left, her jutting hip nearly touching Corrine's as they stood with the glittery water behind them. Since the sun wasn't that high yet, I was kneeling below them, holding a giant reflector so we could light their faces properly. The alcohol was beginning to flush itself out of my system by way of my sweat glands, causing rivulets to run down my back, and my tank top to cling to me. But I didn't dare complain or move. I knew how important this shoot was to Cole.

“All right, now, Corey,” Cole said from behind his camera. “Turn a little toward Mel. A little more. That's it. And
Mel, lift your head toward the sky. Right. Right. Corey, I want you to tilt your head down.”

From my vantage point in front of them, I could start to see what Cole was going for: two gorgeous women on a beach standing very close together, yet not touching. Mella's head was thrown back, Corrine bending toward the graceful, angular line of Mella's collarbone. When Cole instructed Corrine to open her mouth ever so slightly, it became perfectly clear, and undoubtedly erotic, for it seemed as if Corrine might kiss the hollow of Mella's neck. The crew was silent and frozen now, even me with my sweaty tank top, my knees crushed into the sand. The only sounds were the
whish, whish
of the lapping water, the quick
tic, tic, tic
of the camera and Cole's now-quiet directions:
more, Corey; lean closer; Mella, eyes closed please; tilt your head to the right; that's it, that's it, that's it.

After another ten minutes, Cole asked for a wardrobe change. “The bright bikinis, please. Those splashy, trashy ones.”

Mella and Corrine went through cosmetic touch-ups and hair changes and returned with minuscule string bikinis in psychedelic sixties prints, their hair in high ponytails.

“Right,” Cole said. “Kelly Kelly is going to start off this one.”

I was standing over to the side at that point, digging through Cole's bag for a lens, and this was news to me. I stood up abruptly. The crew all looked at me. I noticed Sam with an odd expression I couldn't interpret.

I walked over to where Cole's tripod waited. “What are you talking about?” I whispered to him.

“I want you to take a few shots to start.” His voice matched my lowered tone.

“Why?”

“Because I think you can do it, and I want a different perspective. I want to see what you would do here.”

“But this is your big break.”

“Then don't muck it up for me. Take a few shots.”

I glanced around at the crew. Robbie stood with brushes in his hands, waiting to run onto the set if needed, same with Francie with her apron of makeup. Mella and Corrine had their feet in the water, both seeming a bit impatient. Only Sam wore an expression that I could now read as concerned. A panicky feeling clawed inside my chest. What was I supposed to do? I might fail miserably. I might be awful. I was too hungover to do this.

But then I reminded myself that this might be my last chance to do something so extraordinary. I planned to quit when I got back to Chicago. I gave Cole a nod, and he smiled.

“Mella, Corrine,” I said, “can you move to your right about ten feet so I can get the palm trees in the background?”

Both of them moved obediently, and I thought,
Well, that's something else I'll never get to do again—order around a pair of supermodels.

Once they were standing in front of three sky-high palms, I had to decide how to pose them. Cole had already gone for the sexy, these-girls-are-about-to-make-out angle. We needed something completely different.

I looked over and saw a group of six guys, probably fifteen or sixteen, standing on the side of the road, gaping at the girls. They had bare, deeply tanned chests and wore low-slung surfer shorts.

“Can you guys come here?” I called to them.

They glanced behind, thinking I was talking to someone else.

“Yeah, you guys,” I yelled.

Laughing and punching each other, they made their way toward us. I stole a glance at Sam, whose expression had darkened, but Cole gave me a thumbs-up.

I introduced myself to the guys and asked if they'd help
me take a picture. They could barely speak because of their proximity to stunning, barely dressed women, but they all nodded, shooting sidelong glances at Mella and Corrine.

“Okay, I want you to make a circle around them.”

They did as they were told, but stood a good two feet away from the models.

“Closer, closer,” I said.

When they were finally right next to them, I thought for a moment.

“Now, you and you—” I pointed to the two best-looking guys, both of whom had dark hair, smooth brown skin and dimples “—I want you to pick up Mella and Corrine and put them on your shoulder.”

Corrine sent me an I'm-gonna-kill-you look at this point, but Mella just gave a laugh and started climbing onto her partner's shoulder.

“It's all right, Corrine,” I said in my most authoritative voice.

She sent an imploring glance to Cole, who nodded at her. She huffed and did the same as Mella until they were each perched on the shoulder of one guy, the other boys surrounding them.

“Okay, now I want the rest of you to look up at them and cheer.”

The guys stared at me stupidly.

“Pretend you just won a soccer game, okay? You're celebrating.”

They nodded at this, apparently understanding perfectly, and started to hoot and holler.

“Mella, Corrine, raise your arms like you just got an award.”

The guys yelled louder. The two who were holding the models gazed up at them, bouncing them a little. Mella laughed and laughed, holding up one hand in a peace sign. Cole began yelling, too, and soon I heard Robbie, Francie
and Chad join in. As the shouts rang around the beach, I looked in the viewfinder. It was perfect: the blue skies and palm trees behind the tight knot of bodies, the guys all staring adoringly at the models, lifting their arms in victory salutes, their mouths open in mid-yell. As soon as Corrine cracked a smile despite herself, I clicked off a round of shots. And suddenly I felt like cheering, too.

 

The shoot had drained away my headache and given me reason to celebrate, so I agreed to a drink with Cole when we got back to the hotel.

“You were brilliant,” he said, raising his beer to me. “Bloody brilliant.”

“Really?” I knew it had gone well, but I wanted him to tell me.

“It was absolutely fantastic! The girls up high and the guys, the way they were all cheering. You put it all together, and that's what a good photographer does.”

“I hope they turn out.”

“Ah, they will!” He tipped his glass and clinked it against mine.

“Well, the ones you took in the black and white suits, they were stunning.”

Cole and I went on like this, wrapped up in our little mutual admiration society, until we were joined by Sam, showered and looking very gorgeous in tan shorts and a thin, light blue sweater, yet wearing a dour expression on his face.

“I'm glad you two are here,” he said, slipping onto a bar stool next to us, not bothering with any other greeting. “I need to talk to you.”

“Have a beer, mate,” Cole said. “Relax.”

Sam shook his head. “Look, I think the shoot went great today. All of it.” He nodded at me, and I decided to take that as an indirect compliment. “But there are two problems.
One, we hired you, Cole, not Kelly, and for you to just unilaterally ask her to take shots is not acceptable.”

“Bugger off,” Cole said. “She was brilliant.”

Sam held his hand up. “I agree. I think the shots with the guys are going to be great, but you didn't know that, and you could have wasted some very expensive time if your gamble didn't pay off.”

“This is bloody bullshit. You never used to put these parameters on me. You never used to give a crap what I did.”

“Coley, I don't have to remind you that this is a different time now. This is not five years ago.” Sam said these words quietly.

Cole put his glass down and hunched over, his elbows on the bar. The elation from this afternoon ebbed away, and for the first time I noticed the tinkle of glasses from other tables, the recorded steel drum music in the background.

“The other problem,” Sam said, turning to me, “is the way you asked those guys to pick up the models.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but felt like a schoolkid being reprimanded, so I closed it again, waiting to see what the principal had to say.

“Do you know how much it would have cost us if Mella or Corrine had fallen on her ass and broken an arm or something?”

I shook my head. It had honestly never occurred to me, but now that I thought about it, each of Mella's limbs was probably insured for a bazillion dollars by Lloyd's of London.