Chapter XXXIX. Awakening. #3
Anouk handed Cecilia the towel and then went about repositioning herself.
In that moment, with her flawless breasts exposed, Cecilia remembered that Anouk was French and that she likely did not harbor all the shame and insecurity about nudity that Cecilia had.
She’d read something somewhere once (a men’s magazine, was it?) that French breasts were used to greeting the sun, to being worshipped.
And in comparison, American breasts looked like they weren’t comfortable being seen.
They looked reticent, shy. It said nothing about Jamaican breasts.
The article had been written by a man. Naturally.
“Do you need me?” Santiago called down from his perch a few meters away.
“We are fine.” Didier waved a dismissive hand.
And then leaned in to fan Anouk’s hair over her shoulders, the back of his hand grazing her flesh.
He did not bother testing with a Polaroid, which would have stolen precious minutes.
Cecilia leaned in to do a quick reading with the light meter, and he adjusted his aperture accordingly.
He shot off a dozen or so frames before rearranging Anouk’s hair again, moving it away from her body, exposing more skin. “Yes, I like this,” he said.
“You can move your arms above your head. Like before. If you don’t like it, we don’t use it … Yes. This. It’s more open. More vulnerable. Beautiful. Like a mermaid.”
Cecilia was playing with the position of the reflector, angling it to get the best light on Anouk’s face. She was trying not to drink in every inch of her, the gooseflesh on her taut belly, her raised nipples in the cold—but all of it, all of her, was distracting.
“I want you to lower the bottom,” Didier said.
“Don’t take it off, just down over your hips, so we can see your hip bones, and it’s not in the frame.
Juste un peu. A little more. You trust me, yes?
Bon. Lower. Yes, this is good. Okay, I want you to go back to the thought you had earlier.
When we were shooting with Bas. That same look.
Whatever it was you were thinking about.
Or whoever it was. Like madly in love. Yesssss. ” He smiled. “This. This. Yes.”
He was quiet for a moment, the sound of the shutter cutting the air, the waves washing up beneath them. And then, “Cecilia, there is some sand in my eye. Can you go up to the canopy for me and get my eye drops? It’s in my backpack. In the side pocket.”
Cecilia hesitated. She did not want to leave Anouk alone, in so vulnerable a position. The girl was naked. Her top in Cecilia’s overalls. Her bottoms well below her hips, at the start of her thighs. Her pubic area completely exposed.
For a moment their eyes met, and Cecilia detected something there. A disorientation, confusion. Perhaps, resignation. Or was it fear?
Cecilia turned her gaze to Didier, but he was looking at his camera, adjusting the aperture once again. “Maintenant?”
“Oui, maintenant. Now.”
And so she set the reflector down, out of reach of the water, handed off the second camera to Santiago, and jogged up to the canopies on the other side of the beach.
Leaving Anouk behind.
The backpack was not there. Jean-Luc, Rafaella, and a couple of the Italians were deep in conversation about scuba diving in Malta.
None of them claimed to have seen it. And so Cecilia ran as quickly as she could across the beach and up the incline to base camp.
The sun slipping in a lilac sky. She found Didier’s bag tucked away in the production trailer.
The eye drops in the pocket he’d indicated.
Cecilia grabbed them and headed back to the beach.
By the time she returned to the set, breathless and sweating, several minutes had passed. Didier was sitting in the sand beside Santiago looking out toward the horizon. Neither of the men were speaking. And Anouk was nowhere to be seen.
“Where is she? What happened?”
“We lost the light.”
Cecilia looked at him for a moment, staring out at the setting sun. His gray tee, his bandana. His eyes seemingly fine.
“Where is she, Didier?”
He vaguely waved his hand in the direction of the promontory, his focus still on the horizon.
There, up on the treacherous rocks, several yards out, cocooned in her towel, was Anouk.
Cecilia could feel her anger growing. She knew in her gut something awful had happened. Either he’d lured her out there, or she’d gone there to seek refuge, far away from the others, for good reason.
“Here are your drops,” she said, before taking off toward the rock formation.
As she approached, she called out for Anouk, and the model turned, slow.
Even from a distance Cecilia could tell she’d been crying.
Her wet hair plastered to the side of her face, her lips purple, her cheeks puffy.
Her body shaking. Cecilia wanted to run to her.
Up over the rocks. She wanted to apologize with every inch of her being.
She never should have left.
“Cecilia.” Didier was at her side, gripping her upper arm, firmly. “C’est fait. We’re done,” he said, handing over his camera. “Start loading the van.”