Chapter Twenty-Three
The next few weeks pass in a blur spent selecting images, poring over retouching, and generally immersing myself in the most important project of my career to date—not to mention, the most nerve-wracking. In the blink of an eye, it’s the week of the show, and I’ve never been so highly strung in my life. I barely come up for air, have almost zero social contact, and start to worry that I’ll develop a vitamin D deficiency, I see sunlight so rarely. I eat well at least once a day, though, thanks to Arlo.
The pressure is immense. On one hand, it’s liberating, finally being able to realize my dreams, but on the other, it’s majorly confronting. I couldn’t feel more exposed if I was naked. In fact, I’d probably feel more comfortable getting up and doing a striptease in front of a room full of strangers, than revealing these photos to the world.
As D-Day draws nearer, I feel sick to my stomach pretty much all the time, and actually go as far as barfing a few times from sheer anxiety. I can’t face food most of the time, though I do force down my daily Delivered dinner and dessert, regardless of appetite, or lack thereof. I also find it very difficult to sleep in the few hours I make it to bed each night, or more accurately, in the small hours of the morning, despite desperately needing rest.
The day before the exhibit I’m sick with nerves again, but for no real reason. Everything is done. Literally. Everything. The photos have been hung, we’ve hemmed and hawed, agonized, and debated over the placement of each and every one—”we” being me and the team from the publisher. The studio has been cleaned to within an inch of its life by specialist cleaners, and a last-minute once-over has been scheduled for a few hours before show time.
I have press interviews lined up a little before the show opens also, which is one of the causes of my anxiety. I know it’s pretty illogical; it’s just talking to a couple of journalists about what has been my labor of love for so many months of my life. The thing that has occupied my every waking (and often sleeping) thought. The first time I’ve gone out on a limb and put my creativity in the spotlight for all to see, in a medium in which I lack substantial professional experience.
It’s totally low-key too, just some long-awaited behind-the-scenes shots of one of the most famous, most desired, and most photographed men on the planet. Who also happens to be the lead singer of one of the world’s most popular bands. No pressure. Did I mention that since the Paris song situation I’ve been rumored to be romantically linked to the subject of this “little” project, which could potentially be of more interest to the public than my trifling photos, and a pretty compelling reason some people will want to trash the shots before even seeing them? I mean, what could possibly go wrong?
It occurs to me too late that I’ve been so preoccupied with the photos, I haven’t given a moment’s thought to my appearance on my night of nights. I should probably have done so before now—I figure even if the whole thing is a farce, maybe I can dazzle people with my physical presence, and distract them from the photos. Admittedly, it’s not the most solid strategy, but I read somewhere that we make up our minds about people based on looks in the first seven seconds of meeting them, regardless of anything the person may go on to say or do. I’m running with this theory, and I want to make those seven seconds count.
As though by telepathy, as I’m mulling this all over, my cell rings, and it’s Arlo.
“Hey, how’re you doing?”
“I was calling to ask you the same thing, princess” is his husky response.
“You sound tired.” I know the feeling.
“I am. We’re doing great in the studio, but it takes a lot out of you, especially after a massive tour. You sound wrung out, too. How’s it all going?”
“The photos are all hung, and I think they look amazing, so that’s something. But then I also feel like I’ve been staring at them for so long that I’ve lost the ability to really see them objectively, so there’s a distinct possibility they’re terrible, and it will be pointed out to me by a room full of press tomorrow. Do you know what I mean?”
Arlo sighs. “Yeah, I do. It’s very similar to how we feel when we put a song, or worse still, a whole album out into the world. It’s natural to wonder if other people will feel the same way about your baby as you do. But we feel the fear, and do it anyway. It’s that, or stagnate. It’s all part of the creative process.”
“That’s okay for you to say, but it’s a different story for me.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, you’re Arlo Jones. You’ve never put a foot wrong musically, or in business, but let’s say by some stroke of extreme bad luck, you did. The world would forgive you. Whereas if I fuck this up, I’ll be consigned to history as The Girl Who Was Rumored To Be Dating Arlo Jones And Once Mistook Herself For A Photographer.”
Arlo is laughing. A lot.
“Don’t forget that we all have to start somewhere, myself included. I wasn’t always the Arlo Jones. Back in the day we were just a bunch of starry-eyed boys who loved what we did, and put it out there, hoping others loved it too. We were shit scared, of course we were, and no matter how successful you get, some of that fear is always there. There’s a part of me that’s still that fifteen-year-old in my garage. And contrary to what you think, there’s not a lot of forgiveness in this industry—you’re only as good as your last hit. Listen, you wouldn’t be human if you weren’t nervous about this. There’s no point in sugarcoating it—it’s a big deal, but you have to focus on something other than the nerves. Think about why you’re doing this, and don’t let the other shit grind you down. If you start listening to the voices, they’ve won.”
I guess he’s got a point.
“I’m certain the photos are going to be a runaway success. I didn’t ask you to take on this project to impress my way into your underwear, remember. I asked you because I could see that you had talent, and I immediately trusted you not to make me look like a complete dick, regardless of what you may think of me on any given day. Quite the opposite, in fact; I thought the connection we have would only be good for the photos—that you’d bring out things in the shots that someone else wouldn’t notice. No matter what has gone on between us since then, I still trust that to be the case.
“Anyway, apart from giving you the pep talk to end all pep talks—don’t worry, you can thank me later—I actually rang to let you know the plan for tomorrow.”
“Umm… I already know the plan. Worry. Try not to barf. Worry some more. Face the press—aka the firing squad—then risk it all by opening the doors to the gallery, and inviting the world to mock me. Possibly end up drinking my own body weight in gin, before changing my name and emigrating to Armenia, never to be seen or heard of again.”
“Ha ha ha, at least you still have your sense of humor! Funnily enough, that wasn’t what I was going to say. My plan involves a stress-relieving massage, hair and makeup, and a session with a stylist to get you decked out in something special, so you look and feel like a million dollars. If you look and feel good, you’ll ooze confidence, and instill confidence in others. It’s important when you’re meeting the press. After that, everything else should fall into place.”
“Oh.” I’m actually speechless. Almost.
“Arlo, this is too much, again, but it’s also perfect. Exactly what I need. In fact, just before you called, I suddenly realized that I hadn’t even considered my appearance for tomorrow, and although I know it’s not about that, you’re right, if I look like shit, I’ll feel like shit.”
“I’m glad you like the idea. It’s not too much, it’s a simple gesture. It’s not like I’m flying you to Barbados, first class, or something supremely decadent like that. A car will be along to pick you up at nine o’clock, and you’ll be gone a couple of hours. Oh, and Tog?”
“Hmm?”
“You never look like shit.”
As much as that man can try the patience of a saint at times, and our thing together—I still have no idea what to call it—has been rocky, I’m beginning to finally see that under the bad-boy exterior, there’s a real possibility that he’s one of the good ones. Not that the evidence wasn’t there before, because it was, it’s just that I’m really late to the party.
“Actually, while I’ve got you, I need to ask you something.” I’m hesitant, not sure how this is going to go down.
“Shoot.” He responds quickly—seemingly unaware of my nerves.
“I was just wondering…. You know, given the recent speculation in the press after Paris and all, the PR people have said I’m bound to get asked about us in the interviews tomorrow….”
I let the end of the sentence hang, hoping he’ll jump in and answer the question before I have to ask it. He doesn’t.
“Yeah?”
“Well….” I sigh and decide that I might as well just rip the Band-Aid off, instead of prolonging the agony.
“What do you want me to say?” I ask hesitantly.
“It’s not my interview. Say whatever you want. The truth is probably a good start, but don’t take my word for it. What do the PR people think?”
You don’t have to be a genius to know that he’s pissed, but perhaps MENSA membership would help to work out why. One minute he’s relaxed, and the next he’s tearing my head off.
“They say pretty much the same thing. That if I feel comfortable, I should stick to a very brief version of the truth, and then say I’d rather not discuss it anymore, but I’m happy to answer any questions about the work.”
“Alright. Sounds like a plan. That’s why we pay them the big bucks, obviously.” Sarcastic, much?
“Arlo, is there something wrong?”
“No, why would there be?” he answers, almost too quickly.
“You just seem a bit… off all of a sudden, that’s all.”
“Well, I’m not. In fact, I’m very much on. But while we’re on the subject, what will you tell them?”
“I guess I’ll just do as I’ve been advised—tell them the truth.”
“Which is what?” He’s losing patience fast.
“Which is that we spent a considerable amount of time together on the tour and became close as a result, and now that we’re back, we’re taking some time to figure out what comes next.”
“Right.” You can cut the atmosphere with a knife.
“Why? What would you say if you were asked?” I venture, perhaps stupidly.
“Well, I’d probably stick to the truth too. That from the moment we met I knew things were different with you than with any other woman. That the chemistry and the intensity was something that I’d never felt with anyone else, and doubt I ever will. That I was certain from day one you were someone that I wanted in my life for years to come, and that since then I’ve been working hard to make that a reality. That you’re the only woman I’ve ever said I love you to, but you’re also the only woman who has made me doubt myself every single day. That I respect and admire you in a way that has made me question everything I thought I knew about myself. That you’ve turned my world upside down, but in the best possible way.”
He pauses briefly, and I hold my breath, wanting him to go on, but at the same time terrified he will.
He does.
“I’d also tell them that these past few weeks that we’ve hardly seen each other have been some of the toughest of my life. That more than once I’ve driven to see you and then turned the car around, because I told you I’d give you space, and I’ve been determined to do that, even if it felt like shit. That I’ve never opened up to anyone about my feelings the way I have to you. Hell, I’ve never had these feelings before, but you make me want to spill my guts, even if you don’t reciprocate. That no matter what ends up happening between us, I’ll always be glad we met, and I know we’ll always be in each other’s lives, in some way. That I’ll always be there for you, no matter what.” He sighs.
“Oh.” Needless to say I’m stunned.
“Yeah. Oh. Anyway, you’ve got a hectic day ahead tomorrow,” he presses on, “and I’m wiped out from recording, so I’ll let you get your rest.”
He’s suddenly all business, as though speaking to an acquaintance rather than someone he’s just delivered that speech to.
“Yeah, okay, sounds good. Arlo?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks… for everything.”
“Sure. No problem. Good night.”
“Night.”
Just as I’m about to hang up, I hear Arlo’s voice again.
“Tog?”
“Yeah?”
He pauses, and I get the sense he’s weighing up whether to say something or not.
“Good luck for tomorrow. I know you won’t need it, because you’re going to smash it, but I’ll say it anyway. I can’t wait to see the photos… and you.”
“Thanks, Arlo. For the opportunity, for believing in me, and for being such an easy subject to shoot. This has literally been the gig of a lifetime.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And Arlo…?”
“Yeah? Thanks for… putting up with me. I know it hasn’t been an easy ride.”
“It hasn’t, but it’s been 100 percent worth it. Night, sweets. See you tomorrow.”
Strangely, as we finally hang up the phone, I feel bereft—empty, even. I don’t know if it’s just that I really miss Arlo or all the things he just said weighing heavily on my mind. Either way, it leaves me feeling uneasy as I prepare for bed in an attempt to get an early night. I don’t envisage getting much sleep, but I know I should at least try.
***
The following day with the stylist, I decide to pull out all the stops and dress to impress. I choose a white shirt with a navel-revealing, plunging neckline, coupled with a pair of shiny gold stretch leather skinny pants. I finish off the ensemble with some super-high Louboutin sling backs and a coordinating Chanel clutch. I love it.
When I return to the studio, it seems the local delivery guys have been busy—I’ve received a heap of flowers and cards to wish me well on my BIG. DAY. Of course, the most gorgeous and lavish bunch is from Arlo. I don’t recognize most of the flowers, but they’re all in tones of white, off-white, and cream. I guess he’s picked up on the fact that I’m not one for riots of vibrant color—I’m almost always dressed in black. The bouquet is wrapped in layers of brown paper, hessian, and vintage lace. Stunning.
The card simply reads: I’ll catch you. xAJ.
Shit. I struggle to hold back the tears. I take a few deep breaths and try to push down the emotions that bubble to the surface as I read those words. I don’t want to ruin the makeup that was so painstakingly applied earlier—without it, I look like someone who hasn’t slept in months, hasn’t been eating right, and has barely seen daylight.
In addition to the flowers and cards, I also receive a flurry of texts, comments and messages on social media, and e-mails. Gloria even calls me to lend her moral support, although she’ll be at the opening later, too. No smoke signals, carrier pigeons, Morse code, semaphores, or faxes, but other than that, I think my friends and relatives have all methods of communication covered.
The press interviews go smoothly, which shouldn’t be a surprise to me, as I was briefed by the PR team that this would most likely be the case, with the only potentially thorny issue being the whole me and Arlo thing. In the end, even that isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I find it harder to answer one particular question about the work—which photo is my favorite—than anything else.
The simple answer is that I don’t have one, but that’s only half of the truth. In reality, I have many favorites. It depends on my mood. Some I love for purely aesthetic reasons—the composition, framing, light, or some other artistic feature might really appeal to me. Others may not be as strong from a technical perspective, but I see things in them that nobody else, except possibly Arlo, would. Context makes a difference.
Mostly, though, I love that the story of the tour is also the story of Arlo and me, and where we’ve been both geographically and emotionally. Though I don’t feature in any of the photos, they all feel so personal, as though I’m laying myself bare for all to see in each one. I’m suddenly thrust into the limelight, both as a photographer and as the rumored paramour of one of the most fuckable men on earth. I’m not entirely sure I’m ready for the shit storm to follow, but I also know it’s too late to back out now.
I’m stalling a little, skulking in my office up on the mezzanine, but I know I can’t hide forever. Just as the thought occurs to me, one of the PRs knocks gently on the door, hardly waiting for my reply before pushing it open. She reminds me of the time, and though it’s good to be fashionably late, even to one’s own event, any later and I’ll be verging on rude. She’s right, I can’t put it off any longer. I take a few calming breaths and start toward the stairs. It’s now or never.