The crux of everything: I need to prove that we are not so different. That this stands a chance. I want it to stand a chance, so I need to see what he’s afraid to show me.
True. All true.
But not in this moment. In this moment, she sees her camera bag on the floor and opportunity. A chance to prove herself. A ticket into a club that so far has not even noticed her hovering by the door. She sees the one interview she’d had with a well-known photojournalist who was looking to mentor someone, a low-paying lackey gig that would provide hands-on experience and keys to a future. For an hour, she’d waited in a lobby that seemed to seethe with orange furniture, hoping that her portfolio would speak for itself, and then saw the man exit the elevator and walk right past her to the doors. The day was overcast with shots of bright, and he squinted with his hand over his eyes before finally turning to see her standing behind him.
“You’re Murray,” he said.
“Olivia Murray.”
He nodded slowly, then motioned to the couch. When seated, he studied the first image in her portfolio for a while and then quickly flipped a page and then another, and was only three in before he stopped. “Thing is, I have people with experience who want this. Who’ve put themselves out there and proven they’re up to the task.”
“I’m sure. But it’s hard to get experience when you don’t get a chance.”
A smile. “They made their chances. That’s what they’d say. Bottom line, though, I need someone who’s gonna be around.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He studied her. “You’re how old? Because I’ll be honest, your stuff’s good, but I don’t want to put work into someone only to lose them to a clock.”
“A clock?”
“The clock.”
He made a ticking sound, and she felt herself redden and looked down at the coffee table with its sharp glass corners and vowed right then to tell no one at the paper of her dream. Not till she had images that proved she could do it, despite her lack of experience, despite her being young and a woman with some clock others thought they could hear.
So in this moment, she sees this and hears the ticking clock that has had no effect on her life whatsoever but that prevents her from work. And she thinks of the contest. How in Los Angeles she can take photos Peter Darrow will nod at and pass off, or she can continue on course and do something different and take photos that would make him lean in, photos that would stand out and maybe even negate the strikes she apparently has against her.
Hannity will get it, she overheard the day before she left for her trip. Hannity, who was actually a junior editor in advertising and had shown off his photographs during lunch one day, all Jack Garofalo knockoffs of community found within the streets, just swap out Harlem with South LA. Also top in the running was Kyle Rudger, whose father was LAPD and promised him adventure in a ride-along. And Trevor Miller, a gadgeteer who always had the latest equipment. Miller’s grandmother was in a home with at tops a week left, he’d mentioned, as if adding that she would levitate for the camera. The boys, as they tended to do, spoke freely in front of Olivia. No one knew she was submitting; no one saw her as competition or noticed her studying the flyer on the door that outlined the rules of the competition—Submit three photos by June 1 to Peter Darrow . . . and don’t waste his time!—which made it worse, to be so not-thought-of. Suddenly she’d felt jittery with hope. And bold. All they didn’t know about her and her future bunched beneath her skin.
“I take photos,” she’d said. It was lunch in the break room, and the kettle on the stove began to whistle. I take photos. Not even I’m a photographer or It could be me who gets the spot. Downplayed. I take photos. A statement like I take baths.
“You do?” Hannity said. “I didn’t know.” Despite his arrogance and his derivativeness, he was a polite man, and his insults were never found in what was said but rather whom he chose to say it to. He turned back to Trevor Miller to continue his conversation.
“Anyhow,” she said, already feeling a deep hook of regret. “I’ll be back in a few weeks. Maybe with photos.” Maybe. Another soft, feathered word.
“A little vacation?” a voice said. “Some sand and sun?”
Ben. She’d not seen him enter the room. Not a fledgling like the others—a boss. An editor who’d started almost a year before. Her mistake, as she’d started calling him.
“Trying to get away?” he continued. A loaded, coarse question, given what had happened between them months prior to that night in the garden with Delan.
He smiled, and maybe that was all it took. Olivia felt defiance vine into her words. “Some sun and sand, maybe. But northern Iraq is supposed to be different from southern, so we’ll see.”
And with that, she’d walked out of the room, departing through a layer of silence. The feeling carried her on broad shoulders the rest of the day.
What would she say when she returned? That she never made it? That the Alps weren’t as snowy as she’d thought they’d be? And Delan, what would happen from losing this chance to really know him? Will she one day be just another one of his
