Chapter 6
Of all times to be completely and utterly unfocused, today is maybe the worst time. And to top things off, I’m also flustered and stressed because of him.
“That’s an interesting choice,” Harry hums from his place of judgement, smack dab in the center of the empty conference room. Sliding the speed-light onto the camera body, I turn it on and snap another test photo.
“These are test photos, Harry,” I breathe, my jaw clenched, blood pressure near boiling. “You know,” I start, abandoning the camera to face him. “I can handle this. I appreciate you stopping by to say hello but–”
He places his hands on my shoulder in a way that feels condescending, thumbs stroking my arms as he tips his head to mine, lips downturned in a patronizing lilt. “Juliette, you’re–”
The conference room door opens, and the woman working the reception desk on this floor drags in my soft-box bag, a smile on her face. “Here you go, this was at reception. I think you may have left it.”
I clap my hand to my forehead and yelp, brushing past Harry to collect the bulbous but not heavy bag from her.
“Oh my gosh, I am so, so sorry,” I tell her, the words tumbling out of me breathlessly as I stare down at the black bag.
I forgot a piece of my equipment? That has literally never happened.
She reaches for it, and nods to the backdrop centering the room. “I’ll move it over there, don’t worry,” she says, taking it back from me before I can argue. I’m about to thank her yet again, but Harry’s head falls to the side, and I know what’s coming.
“Juliette, honey, you need to be more responsible with your equipment. Do you think actual photographers leave their gear lying around?” He closes the distance between us, and collects me in his arms, pressing my rigid body to his chest. “Come on, I know it was a mistake,” he says, dusting his fingers over my cheek, softening my tense nerves.
“Get these photos done, okay? I’ll lecture you on responsibility later,” he says, teasingly, attempting to lighten the moment as he places a kiss on the top of my head.
Behind us, the receptionist smiles, and leaves the space, clicking the door closed quietly on her way out.
I practically pry myself out of his arms, and brace a hand on my abdomen, nostril flaring. “I’m having a bad day, an off day, Harry, and insulting me in front of some nice woman doesn’t exactly help.”
His face scrunches to indignation. “Insult you?” He does this little half laugh, half scoff that makes me want to go full punch-his-lights-out.
“Julie, stating the truth isn’t insulting.
Maybe that’s why it felt like an insult?
Because the truth is hard to hear.” Another swipe of his hand over my hair like I’m a child he’s righting.
“That was only pointing out that you left your gear, and that was irresponsible of you.”
Anger surges through every part of me. Every.
Single. Part. My pinky toenail is full of anger.
The partially closed piercing in my belly button from when I was eighteen is angry.
My eyebrows are mad as hell. My face is flooded with rage, and my fingertips dance against my thighs to the sound of my silent rage as I stare at Harry.
Ford Mercer would never talk to me like this.
Why that floats through my mind at this moment, I don’t know, but with a pearl of sweat sliding down my back and my patience razor thin, I’m no longer able to take it. “Apologize,” I demand, folding my arms over my chest.
He nods toward the silk crepe blouse and pencil skirt I’m wearing, one he told me wasn’t my most flattering outfit when he saw me this morning. Actually, his exact words were, “your navy slacks are more slimming” as if slimming should always be the goal.
I am the size I am. I don’t want shape wear or clothes to hide me.
I want to wear what I want to fucking wear, and between his photography tips, backhanded compliments, and all his other bullshit, I wonder, was I an asshole in another life that didn’t hold the door open for old people or like, someone who makes grand plans with a group then cancels them without telling anyone?
In the grand karmic scheme of things, do I deserve this?
“Juliette, the receptionist knowing you’re forgetful–she doesn’t matter. She’s just the receptionist,” he says, in lieu of an apology or actually taking two seconds to think about my feelings, per usual.
Despite that slight not being aimed toward me, it only snowballs my anger.
“Take that back, or reword it, Harry. Just because someone isn’t a fucking day trader doesn’t mean they don’t matter!
” I step toward him, arms still folded in anger.
“I’m having an off day, and you’re my boyfriend.
You should make it better. But it feels like you’ve been actively working to make it worse.
” I bite my bottom lip to prevent anger from making it tremble.
“You insinuated I am not an actual photographer.”
Harry steps toward me, but thankfully keeps his hands in his pockets. “All I meant to say is that you have to behave more professionally, that’s all. And the receptionist, she hears all sorts of things. Us discussing your career is definitely not making the highlight reel. Don’t sweat it.”
I roll my lips together, sweltering anger on my tongue.
He always makes it okay enough for my anger to no longer be reasonable, but he never makes it truly okay.
I temper a breath. “I don’t care if she overhears launch codes, Harry.
I don’t want to be slighted by my boyfriend at all, but especially not with an audience. ”
He pauses, his dark eyes moving over my features, disdain flashing over his face for a moment.
“My apologies. I should have recognized that you are out of sorts today.” He tips his head to the side in his favorite judgemental lilt.
“And as much as the sailor mouth is endearing to me, Juliette, it may be something you shelve while working.”
That’s his apology, laced with a judgement, or a punishment, I can’t tell which. And I know this is it–he’s not going to say he’s sorry again, in a better, more meaningful way. This is how Harry apologizes.
I just want him to ride the elevator back up to his office and let me work.
“Thanks,” I reply, holding back the heaviest sigh that clogs my lungs.
The back of my neck is now sweaty from him, his stress.
I cast my gaze on the unrolled backdrop and the small desk and office chair positioned in the center.
“I need to get back to work.” A curt smile.
“I work best when I’m alone.” Read between the lines, Harry.
With that, Harry bobs his head, kisses my cheek, and heads toward the door. He doesn’t turn to tell me goodbye, good luck, he’ll see me later–nothing. He walks out, and leaves the door open.
The arches of my feet are screaming, and my lower back is howling.
A corporate photoshoot for five hours is, I now know, grueling as hell.
Flopping down on my couch, I put my feet on my tiny Ikea coffee table that is littered in copies of Everyday Photography and Lens Work.
I had to take a taxi back to my place because Harry, who said he’d be able to drive me back, ended up in a meeting he couldn’t see himself out of.
Between sharing a cab with two other strangers and a long day of work, I want nothing more than to soak in a hot tub and roll myself straight into bed.
But right now, I need to go through the photos from today to see what the next few days of editing are going to be like.
Turning on the TV, a rerun of something is playing, and I leave it.
I like the background noise; it helps me feel less alone.
And in the city, it also doubles as security–I always feel like I’m less likely to be burglarized if it sounds like an entire family is here. Or at least a couple.
My stomach roars as I push off the couch and get to my feet, ready to get out of this fucking bra.
The heels that pinch my pinky toes, the skirt that smothers my belly, and the top that gives me uniboob–I can handle all that.
But wearing a bra for 6 hours while staging and taking photos?
Absolute hell, and that under-wired pain demon has got to go.
In the small and only closet in my hallway, I open the door and begin disrobing.
Hanging up my blouse and skirt, I nudge my heels off and slide them into their plastic bin.
Closing the door, I’m about to pull some stretchy yoga pants from the basket of clean, unfolded laundry, and tug on a sweatshirt, but I pause in front of the mirror that hangs on the back of the door.
I stare at the image in the mirror, of the body of mine that everyone else sees. I see what they see, but at the same time, sometimes I think I see something completely different. At least when it comes to Harry, I know I do.
He sees areas where there could be less, where things could be tighter, places that could use a reduction.
I see the body that took me through life.
The body that discovered her love of capturing profound moments with photos and immortalizing them, the body that has taken me through heartbreak and life lessons, that body that has held me up through loss and pain.
My hips have gained inches, and my belly is softer than it’s ever been. But in my skin, I feel beautiful.
Harry’s words echo in my mind from earlier in the day. The navy slacks are more slimming.