𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳
Whether it manifested as a fleeting specter, casting its ephemeral shadow across the girl's dreams, awakening her on that least likely of mornings, remained forever veiled, destined to...
The next day, before shooting, Linda met Guillemette Fournier. Her eyes were large and almond-shaped, the color of root beer. She wore a thin scar on her left cheek, and a silver Cartier on her narrow wrist. She pushed a strand of marcel-waved hair from her face and threw Linda a quick smile.
-You must be Linda.-she had her own way with her french words, played with them in her mouth like cherry chocolates.-You're late, honey, you know that?
-I'm sorry. The traffic was–
-Never explain.-she cut her in this french accent, a slightly guttural r sound.-In fact, talking at all is not really required in this profession. Anything you might have to say, you say through the camera, the image. And hopefully the product. What comes out of your mouth is totally irrelevant. Understood?
-Understood.
She was wearing Prada leather sandals, and a simple dress, yet still looked drop dead gorgeous. Linda felt almost dumb in front of her in her short furry hair. The palms of her hands showed pale pink against her burnt caramel skin. They looked ornamental, as if she came from a place where women dipped hands and feet in pink powder. She didn't smile, and was 15 years older than Linda.
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It took her a while to find the photographer's suite, Guillemette had turned her to, in the warren of workshops and artist studios. As she walked into the studio, "Heart of Glass" played on the stereo. No wonder he liked her look. A Blondie guy. The photographer stood at the chest-high counter, looking at some film on the light box. Old, maybe forty, with a trim build and curly dark hair, Linda could tell he worked out-he wore a tight black T-shirt to show off his precision-cut muscles. What was his name? Walker, or Parker, something like that. She came over and saw he was actually chopping some coke on the light-box glass. With a quick glance to his assistant, a smart-looking, heavy-featured girl in Elvis Costello horn rimmed glasses, he laid out lines, did two of them, and handed Linda the rolled-up bill. She did hers up quick. Не unrolled the hundred, wiped the last of the grains from the green and ran his finger over his gums, put the bill back in his pocket. Then he looked at her, impersonally, and she could tell he'd forgotten her name too, more interested in her skin.
-You have some powder? You're shiny.
She powdered down at a mirror nailed to the wall by the phone, while the assistant adjustedthe lights. The coke turned up the volume, a nice sparkly buzz. That was some real Colombian cocaine. Guns would have been more than thrilled. She checked the mirror to see if there was a rim around her nostrils, and wondered what the assistant was getting paid an hour. She looked smart, probably an art-school grad, and what was she making, ten, maybe twelve? When Linda, just eighteen, was about to get a hundred dollars and free blow for standing still for an hour. What a freaky world. There was no point in looking for meaning. Life was a fucking stretch of surf, and you rode your board, it was all you could do.
