Chapter XVIII. Infinite Sky.
XVIII.
INFINITE SKY.
THURSDAY.
“How was it?”
Lorry’s voice on the end of the line was crisp, clear, as if he were in the bed next to Cecilia and not some three thousand miles away. She could almost smell him. Sun and soil and sex.
“Agonizing,” she responded, the day returning to her. “We took some gorgeous shots, but still, agonizing.”
It was a strong reaction for a day spent cruising the waters of Cabo aboard an eighty-five-foot state-of-the-art yacht.
The crew was up before dawn, piled into vans, and shuttled into town where the production had chartered what appeared to be the most sleek, expensive-looking vessel for rent on the peninsula.
“Oh là là!” she’d said to Marc, when they’d arrived at the proper slot in the marina, a good thirty minutes before the talent, and lugging a trolley cart of equipment and bottled water.
“For fuck’s sake,” he’d retorted.
Marc was often sardonic about the amount of money that went into these types of shoots, ad campaigns with astronomical budgets where few expenses were spared.
Supermodel booking rates and first-class travel and five-star hotels for the talent.
While he and Cecilia were still earning a pittance as Didier’s lowly assistants.
Like Cecilia, Marc did not come from money. He needed this job. He was a talented photographer in his own right, but he’d had a solidly middle-class upbringing and was not in a position to quit and go out on his own. And every so often, that resentment bled through.
But for Cecilia, the indignity of these shoots was not in the highlighted difference of status so much as that they brought out her insecurities.
“It was mostly swimsuits,” she said to Lorry now. “The way these girls slip in and out of wardrobe, all day long. And everything looks perfect. No lumps or bumps and the perkiest of boobs. No asses. I feel monstrous next to them.”
“I like your boobs, Ceece. I like your ass.”
For a moment, Cecilia didn’t speak. Hadn’t Lorry just penned an eleven-page letter detailing the many reasons their relationship would not work? Was he suddenly changing tack? Why make such a reference? A clear reminder of their intimacy. Was this his way of stringing her along?
“Thank you,” she said, eventually. “But you’re not the fashion world.”
“Well, then maybe you need to leave the fashion world. Maybe you need to not immerse yourself in an environment where you don’t feel appreciated. Or where there’s such an emphasis on the physical.”
Cecilia flinched. This was not the first time they’d had this conversation.
“Plus, you’re not there to model,” he continued. “Don’t compare yourself to them.”
“I know. It’s just hard. The entire team, they’re all tiny.”
“I blame your mom.”
Cecilia’s first impulse was to balk, to defend her mum, at all costs.
But she’d spent hours lamenting to Lorry about her mother’s obsession with weight and beauty and looks.
How Olive June McPherson had been a finalist in the Miss Jamaica Pageant 1964.
How she’d been revered for her long wavy hair, light complexion, and slender physique.
How that beauty—that Black-British-Indian mix—defined her.
And Lorry had absorbed it all. Never condemning, never judging.
Which was unusual for him. Just doing his best to comprehend.
How Jamaica was a culture where both colorism and looks played a large role in status and acceptance.
How the fairness and mixture of one’s features could determine one’s social standing.
For decades the banks in Kingston would only hire women with lighter complexions.
This was nothing new in colonized nations, of course, but Lorry was amazed to see it play out so close to him.
Lorry, who’d inherited his English mother Gwendolyn’s golden hair and light eyes and Anglo nose.
Lorry, whose ancestors on his father’s side were Eastern European Jews, but who had inherited little of their physical traits.
Lorry, who had moved through the world as the whitest of white men.
A fact he freely admitted. Save for the unfortunate middle-school incident when his best friend, Jeremy Levine, was harassed by a fellow student who let loose an anti-Semitic slur while throwing pennies at Jeremy’s feet.
Jeremy survived, but Lorry’s parents wasted no time pulling their son from the district and enrolling him in a more diverse boarding school an hour up the road.
“I’m sorry your mom has made you feel less than, but you are perfect the way you are,” he continued. “And the last thing you need is contrived ideals of beauty sabotaging your confidence. You’ve said it before, you’re burned out on the fashion bit. Just … quit already and come home.”
“I can’t quit, Lorry. I don’t have a trust fund to fall back on.” She’d regretted the words almost immediately. But it was such an entitled-rich-white-boy thing to say. As if her career were just some caprice, and she did not have to worry about food and rent.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not attacking you, I just …
I just don’t have the luxury of taking some extended time off to figure out what I want to do with my life.
My parents are running out of patience. They have …
expectations. I have expectations. For myself.
My classmates are all starting to do great things, and I’m still… ” She trailed off.
She did not want to rehash the burden of being Black at an Ivy League college.
How she knew there were people waiting for her to fail.
Those who’d questioned whether she’d only gotten in because of affirmative action.
Those who assumed she wasn’t worthy and that she’d stolen someone else’s spot.
She’d brought it up before, and he’d been patient and supportive.
But she did not want to dive into that conversation again.
She did not want to air so many of her insecurities at once.
Not now, when they were already on such shaky ground.
“That kind of expectation, that kind of pressure,” Cecilia continued, “it doesn’t go away.
I can’t be mediocre, Lorry. Every photographer pays his dues.
You don’t just take photos and hope you get discovered.
Didier is exceptional. He’s an established talent and he’s generous with his time and expertise.
There are hundreds of would-be photographers who would kill for this position.
And someday, when this apprenticeship is over, maybe I’ll find myself in a position where I have the luxury of doing what I want.
And that work will not be mediocre. In the meantime, I just have to get through it. ”
Lorry was quiet, and Cecilia found herself staring at the stucco ceiling, silently fuming.
The room was now almost completely dark.
It would be dinnertime soon. A group of them were going to a nearby taqueria.
She’d yet to commit to joining them. Cecilia could feel the start of a sunburn spreading across her cheeks. Crap. She’d been so careful.
“I thought you wanted to be in museums. I thought you wanted to make art,” he said eventually.
“I do. I am. We are making art.”
“Is it art, Ceece? Or is it commerce? You’re selling clothes. Magazines. Fantasies. You’re selling the idea of a certain way of life. That’s not art. And if you were being honest with yourself, I know that you don’t think so either.”
Cecilia was silent for a moment, weighing what Lorry had said. Questioning everything. Her work, her passion, her very existence. As if all she’d just said hadn’t mattered.
“Fuck you, Lorry.”
“Ceece…”
“No. Fuck you. You know how much this means to me. You know why I do this. And you know that it’s a means to an end.”
“Being Didier’s second assistant? And then what’s next?
First assistant? For how much longer? You know all you need to know.
You have an amazing eye. You don’t need to apprentice anymore.
And certainly not for someone whose work is something you’re not even sure you want to do.
If you insist on apprenticing and you want to make art, then find a photographer who is making art.
I understand that it’s a means to an end for you.
But working in that world is toxic. It’s eating away at your self-esteem. You deserve better.”
It smarted. Lorry preaching from his place of entitlement.
Lorry, who could afford to bend all the rules because they weren’t made to keep people like him in his place.
Lorry, who could profess his undying love and speak intimately about her body in one breath, and in the next, carelessly break her heart.
“Look,” he said then, his voice softer, soothing, “I love you, Ceece. And I care about you. So it frustrates me when I see you torturing yourself. I just want you to be happy. I just want you to figure out what makes you happy. Think about your legacy.”
He’d said it unironically.
Cecilia was still lying in the dark, wondering what exactly she should be thinking about her legacy at twenty-six when Marc showed up at her door. Cargo shorts, ponytail, and a pair of Birkenstocks instead of his usual work boots.
“Hey, goof,” he greeted her from the far side of the threshold. “What are you doing? We’re leaving in ten minutes. Be ready.”
“I think I might stay in,” she said, leaning against the doorframe, tugging on the hem of her oversized T-shirt.
“And do what? Watch Friends? Talk to your boyfriend? Give yourself a facial?”
Cecilia laughed. Marc had that effect on her. And right now, she really needed the levity.
“We’re in Mexico, for fuck’s sake.”
“Fine.”
“Good. Ten minutes. Put on some pants.”