33. Max
33
MAX
I stood across the street from the bustling gallery, watching the crowds gathered inside from a distance until I felt confident enough to go in.
I had every reason to feel nervous. Even though the internship with Richard Adams was based on merit, I knew that this little gathering was a test of sorts. He was launching a new exhibit at the Hawkes Gallery, called Then/Now, and he’d invited all of the applicants to come as his guests. I’d heard rumors about him dropping people from consideration after events because he didn’t like what they were wearing, or the way they laughed. The man was judgmental and quick-tempered, yet people still flocked to him.
With good reason. He was a certified star-maker.
At least I knew I looked pretty. I dressed to make myself happy, in a silver 90s-style shift and my black motorcycle boots, my sleeve of tattoos on full display. I’d checked out my profile in the mirror a dozen times to make sure I wasn’t showing in the slim dress. If I got the internship, I’d disclose the pregnancy, but while I was still under consideration, I was choosing to keep it under wraps. I didn’t want Richard to think that my pregnancy would impact my work ethic. Every time I thought about the pregnancy, I obviously thought about Theo too. We hadn’t spoken since I stormed out of his place the week before, and I hated how much I missed him. There was still plenty for us to figure out, but I wasn’t ready to talk to him yet.
I sighed as I watched more people filing into the gallery. No sense waiting, it was go-time. I straightened my back and walked in like I owned the place.
“Hi, welcome to our event,” a gorgeous woman with a clipboard standing just inside the door asked me. “Are you on the list?”
“I am. Maxine Simon.”
I held my breath as she scanned it once, and then again.
“Right, there you are,” she finally said, glancing up at me. “Feel free to take a look around the gallery. Richard will find you for a one-on-one before the end of the evening.”
“Do I need a name tag or anything?”
The woman shook her head. “No, he knows who you are. Don’t worry.”
I wanted to laugh. Don’t worry . Yeah right. My entire future was pinned to this internship. And even more absurd: Richard Adams knew who I was?
It made sense since he probably did a deep dive on every submission. Or he had his minions do it and then report back to him with the highlights. Speaking of minions, it was easy for me to pick them out in the crowd. There were the usual old money and new money folks parading about in the stark white gallery, interspersed with a group of stunning women who had to be his latest crop of worker bees.
Did Richard insist on a uniform? Because the pack of them were all wearing tight black dresses. There were minor variations in cut and detailing, but the style was almost unsettlingly uniform, like they were bridesmaids in a very sexy wedding. And their hair was styled similarly as well, pulled back in sleek low buns. No jewelry, the highest of heels. It made them easy to pick out.
They all seemed terribly busy, like they were getting ready to perform open heart surgery or pilot a plane. The patrons in the gallery seemed perfectly content to check out the giant photos and nibble on appetizers at a leisurely pace, yet these beautiful, delicate women were fluttering around looking stressed out. Richard Adams was nowhere to be seen, but I could picture him in a back room, watching everyone through two-way glass.
The interns’ perma-frowns made me a little worried. An exhibit opening was supposed to be fun. But maybe it was just because they wanted the event to go smoothly?
I headed for the bar only to remember that liquid courage wasn’t an option for me. Once again, I didn’t want anyone to know I was going alcohol-free, so I ordered a cranberry seltzer to carry around while I waited for Richard to summon me. I tried to focus on his work hanging all around me.
The first image was a massive black and white photo of a young woman’s bare back, with her chin resting on her shoulder, perfectly lit to show off her beautiful profile. Her blonde hair flowed over the other shoulder. It was a sensual image, like she was rising from bed after a tryst with a lover. The photo paired with it made me gasp in shock.
It was of another woman in the same pose, but without any of the soft focus appreciation of the first image. She was decades older than the woman in the first photo, and every wrinkle, freckle, sag, and crease were highlighted. It was as if he’d amped up the contrast in the image to highlight the ravages of aging. The photo was a shocking judgement of the older woman.
“Terrifying, isn’t it?” a voice beside me said.
I was about to say something wise-assed when I turned and realized that the speaker was none other than Richard Adams himself, staring at his own work. As usual, his thinning black hair was slicked back into a low ponytail, and he was also wearing all black except for a red bolero tie. His 1970s “dad glasses” made him look like a window-peeper.
“Oh my gosh, Richard, hello!” I managed to collect myself enough to answer him. “It’s … quite a juxtaposition.”
“Ha!” he laughed loudly. “That was almost the title of this exhibit. Aren’t you the clever one?”
I pushed down my feelings about the image and managed to smile at him. “I’m Maxine?—”
“Simon. Yes, I’m well aware of who you are.” His eyes bore into mine. “Walk with me.”
He turned abruptly, and I had no choice but to follow behind him like a dog on a leash.
“What do you think of this one?” he asked, stopping in front of two side-by-side images.
The first was of a full breast, photographed head-on so that it filled the whole frame. The fact that it was black and white was the only aspect that didn’t make it look like it was taken for Playboy . The photo next to it was also of a breast, but once again it revealed the march of time.
“I call it ‘The Siren and the Crone.’” Richard said.
“Interesting,” I said, hoping I sounded diplomatic, because I was hating everything I was seeing. I craned my neck to look around the room. “How many men did you photograph for the show?”
He looked at me like I’d said something absurd. “None. Why would I?”
“It seems to me that the series is about the aging process. Men age too.”
He laughed, but without any expression on his face. “Aren’t you a pistol? I like that. Keep walking.”
It was an order. As much as I hated following orders, I did as I was told. We stopped in front of another oversized photograph, this time a close-up of a full, round ass in a black thong.
“That’s Isabelle,” he said placing his hand on the glass above the right cheek, which would be forbidden if anyone was doing it other than the creator. “She’s one of my interns, but she’s also my muse of the moment. Let me introduce you.”
I fought off my gag-reflex as I followed him yet again, trying to feel okay about being professional with a woman whose naked butt I’d just seen up close and personal without her consent. Yes, she surely knew that her photograph was part of the exhibit, but that still didn’t make it feel okay. How much of a choice had she really felt like she had—either about the photograph being taken or being displayed?
We rounded a corner and a group of glamazons froze in shock, like they were mice caught in the middle of the kitchen floor when the light went on. Two of them scurried away as we approached.
“Isabelle,” Richard said in a smooth voice. “This is Max. She’s probably going to replace you.”
The young woman’s face went white, but she managed a smile at us. “Hello, Max, so nice to meet you.”
We shook hands and something passed between us in the moment. She held onto me for a beat too long.
“Hey, Richard.” A man I assumed was the gallery owner came striding up to us. “The Miami Herald is here and they want some photos.”
“Excuse me, girls,” Richard said, placing his hands together in prayer pose and bowing at us before walking away.
Girls ?
“I’d love to ask you some questions about the internship,” I said to Isabelle, as two other women in black dresses pressed closer.
She looked around nervously. “Sure.”
“Has it been amazing? Like, has your work improved because of it?”
A shorter brunette laughed, and Isabelle shot her a look.
“That’s hard to say,” Isabelle responded, twirling her bangle bracelet. “Maybe?”
The shorter woman leaned closer to me. “It would’ve improved if Richard would actually let her touch a camera. Any of us, really, but Isabelle has it the worst.”
I frowned at them. “Really? Why is that?”
“She’s his pet,” the woman said, giving Isabelle a sympathetic smile. “His ‘muse.’ He picks a new one with every class. Any time he needs a stand-in for a shoot, Isabelle has to do it. If he wants to test a set-up, she’s the one going through the poses. And any time he gets an idea for a new series, she’s the first one he goes to. It feels like I’ve seen Isabelle’s naked body more often than my own.”
“Wow, okay.” I tried to hide my shock.
“I’m not afraid of nudity. I’ve modeled before.” Isabelle glanced around then fixed her gaze on me. “But I don’t think you should do it.”
I jerked back in shock. “Do what?”
She took a step closer to me, looking nervous but determined. “The internship. It’s not what you think. Richard Adams is a total creep. This program is just a way for him to surround himself with pretty young women at his beck and call. Look around.” She gestured to the people milling in the room. “Do you see one male intern? No.”
“Has he been inappropriate? Like, has he touched you?” I asked, feeling the hair on the back of my neck prickling.
Isabelle’s mouth went into a tight line as she shook her head. “No, he’s careful so nothing could be held against him. Like all the modeling I have to do for him? He always frames it as a request. Technically, I can refuse, I just know it wouldn’t be in my best interest to. I banked too much on this internship—I used up my savings, I quit my job. I can’t back out now.”
“What would happen if you said no?” I asked, feeling a little woozy.
“He turns on you,” the shorter woman said quickly. “He makes life unpleasant enough for you to want to leave the program. And then he blackballs you. Says you’re hysterical, or bitchy, or lazy, so no one will want to work with you. Which means we go along with it. I wish someone had warned me.”
“Same,” the two other women murmured.
“He’s coming,” one whispered, speed walking away.
“I’m sure Isabelle told you all about how impactful this program is,” he smiled at me. “I’m excited to learn more about you Max. Come with me.”
I widened my eyes at Isabelle as Richard led me away.
“I looked at your portfolio,” he said, letting it dangle without any sort of critique.
“I bet you looked at a bunch of them,” I replied.
“I did,” he mused. “My program is flooded with applicants. You should count yourself lucky that you’re here tonight.”
“I’m…honored.”
It wasn’t exactly a lie. The man was talented, and he had an amazing eye. To be seriously considered for his program should be a compliment. But now, looking around the room at the other interns, I worried that my ability wasn’t what had gotten me on the guest list after all.
“I want to spend some time with you, Max,” he purred, looking at me like there was no one else in the room. “I want to learn about your hopes and dreams, so I can make them all come true.”
If I hadn’t just gotten the lowdown from Isabelle, I would’ve been over the moon. Now all I felt was icky.
“Wow,” I said, resisting the urge to jerk away when he rested his hand on my lower back as he led me to a far corner in the back of the gallery, where I could see more naked photos.
“I have a special feeling about you,” he said. “You could be my next muse.”
That was all it took to make my mind up.
I stopped walking abruptly. “You know what? That’s kind of you, but I’m not looking to be someone’s muse. I want to hone my craft. Work hard. And most importantly, I want to align myself with someone who believes in my abilities as a photographer .”
He looked wounded as I moved farther away from him. “But Max, that’s exactly what my program does.”
“I’m not so sure about that. I don’t think this is going to work out.” I refrained from saying more because I didn’t want him to realize just how much the current crop of interns had told me. “But I appreciate the opportunity, and I wish you the best, Richard.”
I turned to leave.
“Hold on,” he said, grasping my arm. “Are you seriously walking away from me?”
I looked down at where his hand was digging into me, then in his eyes. “Nope. I’m running . But thanks anyway.”
With that I strode out of the gallery, my boots clomping loudly enough that people turned to stare.
I expected to feel triumphant when I made it outside, but instead I just felt lost.
No internship, no Theo.
And pregnant.
My life was a mess.