33
SAMANTHA CALLS TO say she likes The Scam . No, she loves it. But she says it needs a serious edit, because while the emotional arc is working, there are some glaring plot holes. I spend all my free time in February frantically figuring out how to make it all work. I have a whiteboard in the lounge room and Luke stands there with me one afternoon, helping me make sense of the timeline.
‘Wouldn’t she just go back to the office before the party? It makes more sense that way,’ Luke says.
‘No, because she needs to be at the party first, to have the confrontation with Callum that makes her realise her feelings for Nick, and the party is also connected to how she comes to realise she needs to steal the file.’
‘A lot of realisations happen at this party.’
‘Yes.’
‘So you’re not open to cutting that scene.’
‘The most important scene in the book? The turning point of the whole plot? No, I am not.’
‘Okay, okay. I just don’t think it’s possible to get from the city to Richmond and back again that quickly.’
‘Well, she has to. And Google Maps says it’s possible. Just.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
Luke is very particular about logistical details. He put me in touch with a cybersecurity expert from his work who talked me through the ins and outs of bank drops and money mules and helped me figure out exactly how the scam would work.
We go back and forth until Luke says, ‘Let’s just drive it together and time it. Then we’ll know for sure.’
In the car, he turns to me. ‘So, you and Mac are still talking a lot?’
He’s trying to look casual, which immediately gets my antenna up.
‘Here and there. You know that.’
‘He told me you talk every day.’
‘Well. Yes. We do. So I guess more here than there.’
‘That’s good. That’s nice. That you’re such close friends now.’
I can tell this is leading somewhere.
‘It is.’
‘But you’re still just friends?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. Just checking.’ He fiddles with the car radio.
‘Hayley asked you to ask me, didn’t she?’
‘It’s come up.’
‘I told her, and now I’m telling you. We’re just friends. There’s nothing going on. I’m not helplessly yearning for him from afar.’
There might be some yearning, but it’s not helpless. It’s very empowering yearning.
Luke changes lanes, then looks back over at me. ‘It’s okay if you are,’ he says.
‘What did Mac say?’
‘The same as you. That you’re just friends.’
This lands in my chest like a thud. I half-hoped Mac would tell Luke he was lovesick, he couldn’t be just friends with me, it was all too much for him.
‘Right. Good. See? Everyone’s on the same page. Friends, and that’s all it can ever really be.’
‘Okay,’ Luke says, in a way I can tell he doesn’t believe me at all. ‘And Joel…How are you feeling about Joel these days?’
‘Fine. I’m feeling fine. We’re friends too.’
‘You are?’ Luke looks at me in surprise.
‘Well, that might be going too far. We’re neutral. We’re comfortably neutral. I’m certainly not yearning for him . I’m not yearning for anyone. Oh, and look, we’re making great time. My book’s plot is saved.’
‘Don’t get too excited, we still have to get across Punt Road,’ Luke says.
Later that night, as I update my website, I decide I need a new author headshot. The current one was taken by Joel, and I hate that his name is sitting there as a photo credit. We might be comfortably neutral but I can’t live with that. This book needs to be free of him in every capacity. I contact an author friend who recently posted a new headshot on her website. It has the vibe of that classic author shot of Joan Didion, minus the cigarette, which is exactly how I want to look, and she DMs me the details of the photographer.
His name is Patrick and he’s really nice, she says.
When I read her message, my heart picks up a little.
A photographer called Patrick.
Could it be? I look up the website. It is.
Patrick from the wedding.
I guess the universe is giving me one last shot.
I look at his contact details for a while, before thinking screw it, and emailing him. A terribly awkward Hi! You probably don’t remember me, we met at a wedding last year… I use far too many exclamation marks and I even write ‘hahaha’ at one point before deleting it. I don’t mention the fact he messaged me and I ghosted him. Let’s pretend that never happened.
He writes back straightaway.
Hey Anna, I remember, and I’d love to do new headshots for you. When are you free?
God, he’s so nice.
I go to his studio later that week. I’m carrying a bag full of clothes because he said to bring lots of outfits. A nice dress, a shirt, a plain T-shirt, a leather jacket, a blazer, a cardigan, jeans, a long skirt I have never worn before in my life. Who am I? I don’t know—there’s ten different versions of me in this bag alone.
Hayley did my eye make-up, because I can never get my eyeliner right. She was practically vibrating with anticipation. ‘It is fate, it is really fate,’ she said, at least ten times, until my eyelid started twitching every time she said it.
I’m more nervous than I should be. But Patrick puts me at ease right away. He’s friendly but professional, and he gets me a bottle of sparkling water that makes me feel like a client in a way that relaxes me. I’m paying him, quite a bit of money, to be here, I remind myself. He’s wearing a slightly baggy button-down shirt, exactly like he was at the wedding. He still has that same sweet, friendly vibe.
‘How have you been?’ he says.
‘Good, you?’
‘Great.’
He sets up the lighting and chats while taking a few prep shots. ‘Give me three words to describe how you want the headshots to look,’ he says.
Damn. That’s a lot of pressure. ‘Um. That depends,’ I say.
‘On what?’
‘What level of photoshopping you can do. Like if I say I want to look edgy, that’s going to be quite a lot of work for you.’ I smile at him so he knows I’m joking. I have the kind of face where people regularly stop me in the street to ask for directions. Even at my coolest age (twenty-two), I never looked edgy.
‘Okay,’ Patrick says, smiling carefully. ‘We could maybe get to edgy.’
‘What about cool?’
‘Cool is very achievable.’
I’m not sure he knows I’m joking. Maybe I’m not. If the man thinks he can make me look edgy and cool, who am I to stop him?
‘What about I make it easier for you. Approachable. Thoughtful. And…interesting. At least give me interesting,’ I say.
‘Interesting is easy.’
‘No. Wait. Do I want approachable? I don’t like being approached.’
‘Warm? Friendly? Bookish?’
‘Bookish is fine.’
‘We can do some mysterious, cool ones too. I have a concrete stairwell that works very well as a backdrop for that look.’
We keep chatting and he has me in various poses while sitting on a stool in front of a bookcase. I change outfits, and we take shots on the concrete staircase. I put on my leather jacket, and I actually do feel a little bit cool and edgy. I already know I’ll be using a shot from in front of the bookcase for my website, but I’ll hold on to the concrete stairwell ones, if for no other reason than to look back on one day when I’m on my deathbed.
At the end of the session, Patrick touches my arm.
‘Hey so. Did anything ever happen with you and that guy?’ he says.
‘What guy?’
‘The one from the wedding.’
Patrick gets up and walks over to his desk as he’s talking. He shuffles through files for a while, before finding the folder he was looking for, and he pulls out a picture.
‘I always print out some test shots, before I send the files to the bride, just to make sure everything is looking good. And I printed this one, because I thought it was a nice picture of you. I thought, if you responded to my text, I could give it to you. But then when I looked at it again, it seemed…better not to do that.’
He hands me the photo. It’s me on the dance floor at Hayley’s wedding. And it is a gorgeous picture. It’s in black and white, taken at a flattering angle, and I’m almost but not quite laughing. I’m looking up at Mac. We’re dancing, my hands are around his neck. He’s smiling, eyes bright, looking at me like he never wants to look at anyone else for the rest of his life. We look like—well—we look like we’re falling in love.
‘Oh,’ I say.
‘Did anything ever happen?’ he says.
‘Um. Sort of. Not really. He lives overseas.’
‘Well, you can keep that print, if you want.’
‘Thank you. It’s a really nice photo. You didn’t give it to Hayley as part of her wedding pics?’
‘I didn’t. I put it in the reject pile. Which was really petty. But you never replied to my text.’ He smiles at me.
‘I meant to reply,’ I say, my cheeks warm. ‘I just…you know I wasn’t in a great place. And work was really busy. And I had a book deadline.’
Too many excuses. Stop.
‘That’s okay, I understand.’
I look back at the picture. It feels hot in my hand, like it’s burning its way through my skin. Through my heart. I can hardly bear it. I can’t focus on Patrick. I can’t focus on anything while I’m looking at it. I put it in my bag, sliding it carefully into the front of my notebook.
Patrick takes one of his business cards and hands it to me as I’m leaving.
‘In case you ever change your mind, or get less busy, and you want to get a drink sometime,’ he says.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
I smile at him. ‘I do already have your contact details though.’
‘I know. Think of the card as a tangible reminder of me,’ he says, smiling back.
There’s a beat of silence, and I can feel the disapproving impatience of the universe, of Sue the Psychic, of the mums, as they wait for me to do something, anything. But my mind is on the picture of Mac and me.
I say goodbye and leave.
When I get home, I put the photo and Patrick’s card in the top drawer of my bedside table.