Chapter 5
When I registered what I’d seen, I lurched and encountered something hard. And wet.
“Dammit! What the hell?” The man I’d backed into lifted his arm in the air, out of my way, but beer dripped off his elbow. I’d gotten it on my shirt, too, but I ignored it and looked into the recording booth. Adam had just kissed Eden’s belly. I grabbed my camera up and paused. Eden looked out, and our eyes met. I hesitated for a half a heartbeat. And the moment was gone. I laid my camera down at my side, turned, and walked away.
My mind reeled with the valuable information I thought I’d discovered. I had no evidence, and I’d missed the money shot, but what I’d witnessed along with the pics I did take would give Andy a story he could spin for major traffic. The question was: would I tell him?
As I crossed the room, lost in my own internal conflict, Hervé caught me and handed me a plastic cup filled with sparkling water. “So you’re a photographer? I’ve always loved those huge pictures of the great western expanses. Ansel Adams stuff, ya know? And pictures of Manhattan that make it look as majestic as a national park. What kinds of pictures do you take?”
These people were so damn nice. I wished I could tell him I took pictures of the Brooklyn Bridge at night. “I work for Andy Dickson over at—”
Recognition registered in his eyes, but his face remained friendly. “Ah, right. So Eden gave you permission to shoot?”
“She was hesitant, but she said I could.”
He whistled. “Wow. Never thought I’d see the day. But she always humors Micah.”
“Does she? She doesn’t seem like the type to humor anybody.”
“Eden’s a sweet girl once you get to know her, but she’s been burned by the media, so she tends to treat you guys with a shoot first, ask questions later kind of attitude.” He chuckled. “Kind of like you, if you think about it.”
I smiled at his little joke, still processing his appraisal of Eden. Maybe there was more to her than met the eye. From everything I’d seen, Eden was a stone-cold bitch. Except when she was alone with Adam. But who would know better than Hervé? That led to another burning question. “What about Micah? Has the media gotten him all wrong, too?”
He grunted a little grizzled grumble. “Tread carefully with Micah, sweetheart.”
I lifted a hand, protesting his inference. “No, I’m just curious if there’s more to him than what’s been reported.”
He half shrugged. “Eh. With Micah, what you see is what you get.” He stepped an inch closer, confidentially lowering his voice. “Although the reporters like to paint him as a serial womanizer, you know? It’s not fair to him.”
“But he does go through women at an alarming rate.”
“He does. But numbers aren’t the only story. If journalists reported more than the who and the what, you’d know that he treats the women he dates very well. He’s respectful and kind. Someday, a girl will come along and appreciate him.”
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.