29 “Including you”
29
“Including you”
The first time I saw a photo shoot, I was pretty starstruck. It felt like exactly how I had imagined it. It’s funny. Sometimes the things that are closest to our expectations can be overwhelming. Everything feels like a movie… The “click” of the shot and the strobes popping over the music blaring to make the star of the shoot feel comfortable. Photography studios are usually cold, with high white ceilings. Some have cycloramas; others have neutral backgrounds and floors that are removed after each session. And they’re almost always bustling with people: stylists, makeup artists, brand representatives, people from the publication where the shoot is going to appear, managers, production teams, lighting crew, technicians… They’re not ideal for shy people.
Luckily for him, Ivan is not. Apparently, according to him, he used to be back at school, when being different was scary and the other kids made fun of him. Maybe he was more self-conscious there. But for a long time now, he is who he is, and not much can make him feel less than…especially when he’s working. Because he’s good. He’s really good. That’s why I’ve never felt like hiring him for editorials or magazine covers was nepotism. Marisol agrees: yes, he’s my best friend, but I met him in a professional environment, he has an impeccable portfolio, his résumé speaks for itself, he’s reliable and trustworthy, and he works fast and gets the job done. That’s why, whenever we have an especially important cover, we call him.
Today, we’re doing a cover shoot of someone who will become one of the hottest actresses over the next few years, but I’m not supposed to know that. Not me or anyone else, but of course, I come from the future. We’re going to get a lot of praise for this cover because she’s talented, because we didn’t wait for her to be on top to feature her, and because she’s not what the heteronormative cover girl profile dictates. This issue, starring a relatively unknown actress who is only five seven and plus size with big boobs (at least as far as fashion dictates), is going to be a symbol of change. And we’re going to be a vital part of the movement.
Today is Thursday, December 12, two years ago. I remember this shoot vividly. It was relaxed and fun, and the photos came out great. We were all thrilled. On the magazine’s side, Rita, as fashion director, and I are in charge. Ivan is the stylist. Makeup artist Natalia Belda is responsible for the glam. The photographer is a great guy who we’re constantly fighting with Harper’s Bazaar over. I hope I get to enjoy this second go-round…if Ivan lets me.
“I mean, seriously, Miranda, I can’t believe you.”
He’s been livid ever since I told him that yesterday, in my last time jump, I told Tristan that I did want to be a mother, that I just needed a little more time. He’s not mad because he doesn’t want me to have kids out of some kind of jealousy or who knows what. It’s just that he knows me well, and he knows why I did it. And I do too.
But fine. We’re all suffering here, you know? For example, I haven’t said a word about how, in this parallel reality, he looks like a Bond villain from the seventies…if the film had been set in the futuristic era. He’s wearing a black frock coat with a Mandarin collar, matching trousers cuffed at the ankle, and silver Doc Martens; his hair is cut with a very strange gradient; he’s missing one eyebrow, which I don’t know if he shaved off in a moment of insanity or if he’s just that trendy now; and he’s wearing white contact lenses and a silver cap on one tooth. What do I do? Kill myself?
“When you get all serious and grumpy in this getup, you look like a cult leader.”
“Don’t be funny, Miri.” The photographer comes over, directing the actress, and Ivan crouches down to him. “Carlos…what do you think about trying a few head-on? The dress has amazing sleeves. Maybe you can play with them.”
I go over too. Rita is at the village, the table where all the computers and everything else are set up so they can see the images as they come in. She gives me a glance that I understand immediately, and in a whisper that doesn’t sound like a whisper, I say to the photographer:
“Carlos, I agree with Ivan. Let’s try a few head-on, with sleeves or without sleeves. That way, you can all see it too. Her posing in profile like that is flattering, I know, but…it’s not what we’re going for. We want her to be her. Just as she is. We’re looking for a powerful image, sexy, strong. The way her energy fills the room as soon as she comes in.”
The photographer nods and smiles.
“Gotcha. Sounds cool to me.”
Ivan and I take two steps back and cross our arms across our chests at the same time. “Djadja” by Aya Nakamura is playing…the remix with Maluma hasn’t come out yet.
“Mara, babe, we’re going to try a few from the front, okay? Stand with your legs apart a little like a powerful bullfighter…just like that! That’s it!”
“Wait a sec while we adjust the dress… Vero, can you do it?” Ivan asks his assistant.
“Of course, Ivan.”
“Don’t be mad at me,” I whisper to him.
“It’s not my life. I can’t be mad if you want to fuck it all up.”
“Listen to me.”
“You’re making me nervous,” he says with clenched teeth, biting his words.
“What if that’s why I lost him?”
“So what if it is?” His glare is full of rage. “Tell me, if that’s why you lost him…then what?”
“Well, I’ve probably been avoiding the question of motherhood out of Peter Pan syndrome or…I don’t know, narcissism.”
“Next are you going to ask who’s going to take care of you when you’re old if you don’t have kids? Because I don’t think I can flip out more than I’m flipping out right now.”
“I can’t ask myself questions about things that go a little deeper?” I ask, catching the suit jacket I’m wearing on my shoulders, never putting my arms in, before it slips off and falls to the floor.
“Of course,” he says, dodging the question, “you look stunning in maroon. I don’t know why you don’t wear color more often.”
“Because black is my color.”
“Well, the whole ’fit in French maroon looks incredible.”
“French maroon?”
“Yes. That shade of maroon is very French, right? Our Spanish one is more…more carmine. You know? More crimson.”
He lightly brushes the sweater I’m wearing with the monochrome suit, in the same shade, and nods his approval when he confirms it’s cashmere.
“Acceptable?” I ask sarcastically.
“You do love good wool.”
“Does that win me some points?”
“No, because you like good wool, but you’re still a jerk who’s putting your boyfriend’s needs before yours, even though they’re going to make yours take it up the ass.”
“Being a mother isn’t the end of the world.”
“Of course it’s not, you giant whore!”
Suddenly, everyone is staring at us. The flashes popping, the directions, the buzz of conversations all grind to a halt. All that’s left is the music and a ton of eyes on us. We mime our apologies, and the shoot starts again.
“Being a mother isn’t the end of the world, of course not,” Ivan goes on, “but it’s not what you want. At least it’s not what you want now. If it were, you’d be totally sure about it, don’t you think?”
“Well, I dunno. These big decisions always freak me out... Give me a second.”
I go over to the photographer and the village. Rita shows me a few of the photos on the iPad, and I nod.
“Her expression is so cool.” I point at the actress’s face on the screen. “She looks kind and sure of herself. That’s exactly what we’re going for.”
“Let’s try another look, yeah?” Rita suggests.
“Yes.” I look quickly at Carlos, who’s trying to get our attention. “Talk to me.”
“She looks stunning. Are you into the pose?”
“Love it.”
“Do you want to put the fan on for a bit?”
“Mara, are you into having the fan on?” The girl gives me a confused look, and I laugh. “Like in a Paulina Rubio video?”
“Oh, for sure!”
“Let’s do it then.”
“Should we do a few more poses with this dress and then try the other Dolce I don’t know how to answer.
“I’m not judging you,” he clarifies. “It’s just that…” He looks around. “We’re here, doing such pointless stuff…”
“The world needs these things to keep turning. And love.”
“Yes, but crisis has to serve for something, right? Whether it’s a pandemic or a breakup. To put things in order. To put things in the place they deserve.”
“Well, that’s what this is all about. That’s what I’m trying to do.”
“No, Miri. You’re not putting things in their place. You’re fleeing,” he says sadly.
“Fleeing isn’t the right word, Ivan. It’s complicated.”
“Miranda,” he insists very seriously. “He dumped you, and you fled to a warmer place, to your memories. You’re ditching everything else, trying to reconstruct it. Everything. Including you.”