Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
FINLEY
Inserting my spoon into the teacup, I rotate it the requisite three times before performing the double tap. Then I pick up the mug and take a sip. I made orange clove in memory of Thomas Culpepper’s delicious-smelling aftershave.
Staring intently at my computer screen, I cannot for the life of me believe this pirate is the same sexy man who came into my shop.
There isn’t one decent picture. Not one.
Which never happens. Even if the model is reluctant, I can always get one good shot—usually when they drop their guard and don’t realize I’m still snapping away.
Not Thomas Culpepper though. He is by far the worst model I’ve ever worked with, and that includes the baby who projectile vomited onto my new camera lens.
Picking up my phone, I call Allie. Before she can say hello, I ask, “Can you come over?” Her apartment is only a block from mine.
“How about if I bring a pizza? I was just getting ready to order one.”
“Extra cheese,” I tell her.
I spend the next thirty minutes trying to find one respectable pose and one facial expression—not necessarily in the same photo. I’ll Frankenstein them together if I have to. There’s nothing. Not even the doctor shots, and Thomas claims to be a doctor. How hard could it be for him to look like one?
The knock on my door causes the teacup to nearly jump out of my hands. Clearly, more time has passed than I noticed. After mopping up the spilled liquid with my sweatshirt, I get up and walk across the room to let my friend in. I take the large pizza box from her while asking, “Want a beer?”
“Sure.” She slides her coat off and drapes it over a stool at the counter. “You sounded upset. You okay?”
I reach into the refrigerator and grab two long-neck bottles before placing them on the counter. Popping them open, I hand one to Allie. “I had a session today with the most amazingly gorgeous man I have ever laid eyes on. Sizzling.” I add the last for emphasis.
“Sounds like fun,” she says enthusiastically.
I lead her into the living room and point to the spot I recently vacated on the sofa. “Take a look.”
My friend sits down and puts her beer on a coaster. Then she focuses on the computer screen before looking up at me. She looks back and forth several times before asking, “This is the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen?”
“I know, right?!” I place the pizza box onto the coffee table before plopping down next to her. Then I wrap my arms around one of my furry, white, decorative pillows—I need all the comfort right now. “The thing is, in person, he’s a total hottie. He just can’t model to save his life.”
Allie picks up the laptop and brings it closer to her face. “Is he cross-eyed?”
“In nearly every frame,” I assure her. “But not in real life. In real life his eyes are a delicious hazel green. They also point in the same direction at the same time.”
“Huh.” She’s obviously as perplexed as I am.
Reaching over, I click to the next page to show her the “doctor” photographs. She bursts out laughing. “These are horrible, Finley.”
“Yup.” Beating my head into the pillow, I tell her, “I don’t know what to do. The woman who ordered them is going to ask for a refund for sure.”
Allie’s face contorts into what I’m assuming is supposed to be a look of sympathy, but comes off more like pity. “You might have to give it her.”
“I might,” I moan. “The problem is, I hate feeling like I’ve failed. I’ve never taken such bad photos. Ever.”
“It’s obvious your model was the problem.” She reaches over and opens the pizza lid. Pulling out an extra cheesy slice, she brings it to her mouth and takes a bite.
“He was the problem, but I’ve always been able to put people at ease so I can get the shot I’m after.” I tell her about how Thomas didn’t seem to understand why he was there and how that added a lot of stress to the day.
“How could he not know what his girlfriend had in mind. I mean, he came with a lab coat and everything.”
“He claims he really is a doctor,” I tell her. “If that’s true, you’d think he would know how to smolder like one.”
“Yeah, well, real doctors don’t exactly smolder, do they?”
“They would if they looked like him,” I declare excitedly. Jabbing my pointer finger at the computer, I add, “But instead of looking sexy, this guy looks mentally diminished.”
“He really does.”
“It’s not only about money,” I tell Allie. “It’s about my name, my reputation. I can’t have this woman going around town telling people I suck at my job. Elk Lake isn’t big enough to absorb that kind of ding to my reputation.”
Allie grabs the throw off the back of the couch. “Is everything in here covered in fur?” she asks. How has she not noticed this before?
“Fake fur. I don’t believe in killing animals for their skin.” Returning to the subject at hand, I tell her, “There’s no way I can show these pictures to my client.”
“What else can you do?”
“I could ask Thomas to come back for a reshoot.”
“Do you think he’d do it?” she asks while kicking off her shoes and putting her feet up on the coffee table next to the pizza box. Her socks look super soft.
“No,” I tell her. “I could barely even get him to stay for these.”
“Then you’re going to have to send them,” she says. “Tell your client her boyfriend is simply not a model.”
My shoulders slump low and I rest my head on the pillow.
Even the fur isn’t helping me feel better.
“I suppose, but I hate accepting defeat. I pride myself in my ability to put my clients at ease, and this”—I sit up and make a wild gesture toward the computer screen before continuing—“makes me feel like a world-class failure.”
“We can’t win every race we run,” she says.
What is she talking about? “I don’t run. At least not if I’m not being chased by a gun-wielding lunatic.”
Allie gives me that eye again. The one that says she thinks I’m an odd duck. “Email them and get it over with,” she tells me.
I reach out and take my laptop out of her hands. Then I pull up my email and start to type.
Dear Ms. Brucker,
Here are the photographs you hired me to take of Thomas Culpepper. I’m sure you will be as surprised by them as I was.
In my defense, Mr. Culpepper clearly did not understand the assignment, and he was unwilling to work with me on the shots you requested.
I don’t believe Mr. Culpepper and I are a good fit. Please accept my deepest apologies and I wish you luck getting your photos elsewhere.
All the best,
Allie Rogers
I don’t offer to refund her money, yet, because I really don’t feel that I’m to blame.
If she demands her money back, then so be it.
I reluctantly hit send. Once my message enters the ether, I feel a definite weight lift off my shoulders.
Luckily, Margaret and Bob have a session booked for tomorrow and I know without a doubt that every frame will be near perfection.
If they weren’t in their sixties, they could be romance cover models.
Yet, I can’t help but feel disappointed I couldn’t get Thomas on board. Even without any modeling instinct, the man is stunningly handsome. Imagine what he could do if he got with the program and unleashed his inner beast?