eating grapes from her fridge. “I don’t argue with the client,” he said.
Emma examined the three prints of Daphne Wittfield on her desk. “I don’t get it,” she said of the first one.
The image was black and white. Daphne stood nude, arms at her side, legs shoulder-width apart. A powerful lamp shone from behind her at hip level.
Victor said, “You see how it looks like a circle of light is floating behind her? That’s subliminal.”
“And the hidden message is?” asked Emma.
“As Daphne put it, ’That the sun shines out of my ass.”’
“It looks more like she passes noxious gas.”
“Daphne thought it was perfect,” said Victor.
Emma shook her head. “I can’t work with this,” she declared. “Or this.”
She held up the second photo. The shot was black and white, but with a blue wash. Daphne’s hair was spiked and her body posture rigid. “She looks like she stuck her finger in a light socket,” said Emma.
“Exactly,” said Victor nodding and chewing. “She wanted to send the message that she’s electric. A real live wire.”
The next photo in the portfolio was tinted red, showing Daphne, naked again, sitting cross-legged on a mat (thank God for artful shadowing), her arms stretched above her head, bent gracefully at the wrists and elbows. “Daphne on fire?”
asked Emma.
Victor touched his nose. “She’s supposed to be the shape of a camp fire. Her arms are flames.”
“I’m not sure I can do this,” said Emma. She was so used to the innocent theatrics in the staged shots of yester month.
She loved her clients as wood nymphs or Cleopatras; the photos reminiscent of lingerie catalogues, female-crafted soft-core porn. It was part of the fantasy Emma created in the minds of men.
But the Daphne portfolio, the stark, conceptual so-called “art” shots? And the total nudity? Emma was embarrassed to look at them, let alone work with them. She also realized that she was at a disadvantage, missing the shoot. Watching the process helped Emma cement the images in her mind. The finished photos became reference points, reminders of what she’d already seen of her clients’, body, heart, and soul.
Daphne hadn’t let Emma see anywhere near her soul. Whether the blond had a heart remained a mystery. Emma
dropped the portfolio on her desk. “I far prefer the usual cheesecake,” she said to Victor.
“You can’t have your cheesecake and eat, too,” he replied, taking a seat on the couch and opening up his copy of the New York Post.
“I hate this case,” said Emma, dropping the Daphne portfolio. “Daphne shows zero emotion. She’s approaching
seduction like a marketing plan. And she’s weirdly confident. Women in love are insecure. They’re anxious and confused.”
“Sort of how you’re acting right now,” said Victor. “Does that mean you’re in love?”
He meant it as a joke, but Emma was not amused. “Do you remember Susan Knight?” she asked, changing the subject.
“You shot her about a year ago. Petite, brown hair, blue eyes. Headband, nude hose and flats?”
Victor asked, “Posed as a wild west call girl?”
Emma nodded. “I’m working with her again.”
“Who’s the guy?” asked Victor, flipping the pages of the paper. “Does she need new pictures?”
“Same guy,” said Emma. “I made a special exception for her. But I’m done with him. It was one-night only.” She hadn’t called Susan to report in yet about Jeff.
“Emma, I’m impressed. You have achieved a feat that is the goal of every New Yorker.”
“Having two clients at once?”
“You made Page Six,” he said. He saw the expression on her face. “Relax. It’s a blind item. Your anonymity is safe.”
Emma sat down next to Victor and read the entry.
JUST ASKING…
What Anglo artist got caught canoodling with a buxom brunette in the back room at Ciao Roma by a
larger-than-life model who may or may not be his new girlfriend? The brunette’s identity is a mystery
Emma examined the three prints of Daphne Wittfield on her desk. “I don’t get it,” she said of the first one.
The image was black and white. Daphne stood nude, arms at her side, legs shoulder-width apart. A powerful lamp shone from behind her at hip level.
Victor said, “You see how it looks like a circle of light is floating behind her? That’s subliminal.”
“And the hidden message is?” asked Emma.
“As Daphne put it, ’That the sun shines out of my ass.”’
“It looks more like she passes noxious gas.”
“Daphne thought it was perfect,” said Victor.
Emma shook her head. “I can’t work with this,” she declared. “Or this.”
She held up the second photo. The shot was black and white, but with a blue wash. Daphne’s hair was spiked and her body posture rigid. “She looks like she stuck her finger in a light socket,” said Emma.
“Exactly,” said Victor nodding and chewing. “She wanted to send the message that she’s electric. A real live wire.”
The next photo in the portfolio was tinted red, showing Daphne, naked again, sitting cross-legged on a mat (thank God for artful shadowing), her arms stretched above her head, bent gracefully at the wrists and elbows. “Daphne on fire?”
asked Emma.
Victor touched his nose. “She’s supposed to be the shape of a camp fire. Her arms are flames.”
“I’m not sure I can do this,” said Emma. She was so used to the innocent theatrics in the staged shots of yester month.
She loved her clients as wood nymphs or Cleopatras; the photos reminiscent of lingerie catalogues, female-crafted soft-core porn. It was part of the fantasy Emma created in the minds of men.
But the Daphne portfolio, the stark, conceptual so-called “art” shots? And the total nudity? Emma was embarrassed to look at them, let alone work with them. She also realized that she was at a disadvantage, missing the shoot. Watching the process helped Emma cement the images in her mind. The finished photos became reference points, reminders of what she’d already seen of her clients’, body, heart, and soul.
Daphne hadn’t let Emma see anywhere near her soul. Whether the blond had a heart remained a mystery. Emma
dropped the portfolio on her desk. “I far prefer the usual cheesecake,” she said to Victor.
“You can’t have your cheesecake and eat, too,” he replied, taking a seat on the couch and opening up his copy of the New York Post.
“I hate this case,” said Emma, dropping the Daphne portfolio. “Daphne shows zero emotion. She’s approaching
seduction like a marketing plan. And she’s weirdly confident. Women in love are insecure. They’re anxious and confused.”
“Sort of how you’re acting right now,” said Victor. “Does that mean you’re in love?”
He meant it as a joke, but Emma was not amused. “Do you remember Susan Knight?” she asked, changing the subject.
“You shot her about a year ago. Petite, brown hair, blue eyes. Headband, nude hose and flats?”
Victor asked, “Posed as a wild west call girl?”
Emma nodded. “I’m working with her again.”
“Who’s the guy?” asked Victor, flipping the pages of the paper. “Does she need new pictures?”
“Same guy,” said Emma. “I made a special exception for her. But I’m done with him. It was one-night only.” She hadn’t called Susan to report in yet about Jeff.
“Emma, I’m impressed. You have achieved a feat that is the goal of every New Yorker.”
“Having two clients at once?”
“You made Page Six,” he said. He saw the expression on her face. “Relax. It’s a blind item. Your anonymity is safe.”
Emma sat down next to Victor and read the entry.
JUST ASKING…
What Anglo artist got caught canoodling with a buxom brunette in the back room at Ciao Roma by a
larger-than-life model who may or may not be his new girlfriend? The brunette’s identity is a mystery
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