Nick busied himself with the camera, taking his time putting the bag back on the back seat and pulling up the photos he’d taken of Carly on the North Head cliffs. He’d been planning to drive home as slowly as possible, to put off the moment when he’d have to show her the photos. But he should have known that her fierce impatience would wreck that plan. So he’d insisted on holding the camera and counted on her being insulted. With any luck, she’d get into a signature Carly huff and decide that she didn’t want to see the shots after all, if he wasn’t going to trust her with his Nikon. But she’d surprised him—well, her annoyed little eye roll hadn’t surprised him one bit, but the rest of it had. She’d stared him down, her mouth set in a firm, stubborn line and her eyes locked on his, and then given in.
His thumb shook slightly as he scrolled through the images now, and he hoped she wouldn’t notice. He wished he’d come up with another excuse, and another one after that, but he’d been caught off guard. Everything about Carly seemed to catch him off guard, and now here they were, each with one elbow on the armrest, craning their heads over the camera so she could look at his photos right in front of him.
His pulse sped up as she scrolled through the first few shots, some warm-ups he’d taken of her before she’d started posing. It had been an unpleasant walk up to the edge of the headland, and it had been windy as hell up there, but the view from the edge of cliffs was as striking as he’d remembered. The Sydney skyline in one direction, and the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean in the other. As dramatic and iconic views went, he’d thought it was a good place to start.
But now, this entire exercise seemed like a colossal mistake, and his heart was hammering in protest. It had been months since he’d let anyone see his photos, and it was hard not to think about the last time he’d tried. He’d shown Delphine a shot he’d taken during a dress rehearsal at the Opera Garnier, one of the best he’d taken since he’d gotten serious about photography, or so he’d thought. She’d frowned down at it for a good thirty seconds and finally managed a “beuhhhh,” the French verbal equivalent of a shrug. After that, he’d stopped asking her if she wanted to see what he was working on, and so she never saw another of his photos. It wasn’t like she’d made a practice of asking to look at them.
He swallowed hard, and reminded himself that it didn’t matter if Carly hated the photos. He didn’t need her good opinion, and if they were truly terrible, they could go to some other location and try again. She needed this as much as he did, and as she’d told him this morning, he was her last resort. So she wasn’t in a position to criticise or get picky. Still. He swallowed again.
After a few tense seconds of scrolling, she stopped and leaned closer to the camera, squinting slightly. She was close enough that one of her errant curls bobbed close to his face when she cocked her head, threatening to tickle the tip of his nose.
“Hmmm,” she mused. He couldn’t tell what the sound meant, and he was too anxious to ask. She saved him the trouble. “I really like this one,” she said, and as relief bloomed in Nick’s chest, she pulled back so that he could see the screen.
He’d caught her at the height of her attitude, balanced on one leg with the other one raised and wrapped behind her body, her hair blown back off her face and away from her long neck. He’d been right to get her to cheat to the left; it made her look like she was a second from tipping over and toppling off the rock. But the look she was giving the camera made it clear that she wasn’t coming down until she decided to. Despite his anxiety, he’d gotten at least one good shot out of this day.
She leaned forward to look at the camera again, and this time her hair did catch him on the nose. It smelled like the bouquets of roses the stage managers kept stashed backstage to give to principal dancers on opening night, but smokier somehow, and less delicate. He became aware that the sun was beating down on the little car, making the air feel stuffy and the backs of his knees itch with sweat.
“I look really good here,” she said, leaning back and gesturing at the camera. “I mean, you made me look really good. And the view from the cliff looks incredible behind me, and even the wind really works. It’s so dramatic.”
“Euh, thanks?” he half asked, the stream of compliments making his cheeks flush and something uncomfortably pleasant crawl in his chest.
He looked at her, waiting for the other sarcastic shoe to drop. Surely she was going to find something to criticise or complain about, some way to blow up this otherwise perfectly nice interaction. All available evidence would suggest that was what was about to happen. But instead, she just said, “Let’s post it.”
“Oh, I should edit them first,” he objected. It was one thing for her to see them, but he needed to make sure they were perfect before anyone else did.
“We don’t have time for that,” she said, shaking her head dismissively. “And who cares if it’s not perfect? Let the people see my grubby sneakers and stretch marks on my inner thighs. Authenticity is what clicks anyway, right?”
“Euh,” he started, but he had no idea what to say to that. He hadn’t noticed any stretch marks on her inner thighs, but suddenly they were all he could think about. Maybe he should start the car and put the air con back on.
“Come on, we don’t have time to tinker and retouch. If this plan is going to work, we have to start posting these photos ASAP,” she said. “Besides, this is really good; it doesn’t need editing. I promise you. Can I see the rest?”
He knew she was only praising him because she was in a hurry, and she wasn’t really praising him at all, just this one photo. Still. He picked up the camera and held it out to her.
“You’re sure?” she asked, eyeing him skeptically.
“Sure,” he said. “How much damage can you possibly do?”
“You’d be surprised,” she muttered, taking the camera.
“No. I wouldn’t,” he said archly, and she chuckled, but turned her attention to the camera.
He watched as she scrolled through the images for a few minutes, watching her forehead crease and her lips purse as she assessed the other photos he’d taken. He’d just realized he was staring when she burst out laughing, tossing her head back as the loud, joyful sound filled the car.
“What’s so funny?” he said, craning his neck to see which photo had incited that response. She giggled, the high-pitched sound so different from her deep, almost scratchy voice, and held it up for him to see.
She’d stopped on a frame he’d taken just as a gust of wind had thrown her hair right across her face, so her entire head looked like a red curly blur. But beneath the fuzzy red ball that was her head, her body was all sharp, long lines. Her arms were thrown out at a low angle at her sides, energy radiating from her shoulders all the way down through her fingertips, just the way dance teachers always demanded. One of her legs was extended behind her, her foot pointed in her sneaker, and a slight bend in her front leg was making the muscles in her thigh bulge beneath the hem of her shorts. She was a picture of utter chaos and absolute control.
“Not the best shot in the set,” he said. “Maybe we shouldn’t post that one.”
“I think it’s hilarious,” she replied, grinning back at him, her lips glistening and her eyes alight with amusement. “Is that really what I look like?”
Yes, he thought, as he turned away from her and turned the key in the ignition.That is exactly what you look like.
Chapter 10
That evening found Carly pacing the length of the bedroom, swiping back and forth between the photos Nick had agreed to let her post. She’d hoped the windy morning would result in more than just three usable shots, but he’d been so precious about making sure she only posted photos that he’d decided were perfect. Amazing that even three of them had lived up to his impossible standards. Clearly the man never did anything or bothered with anyone who wasn’t perfect, which raised the question of why he’d agreed to spend any time with her.
She squinted down at the middle photo and noticed again how precisely he’d manage to position her between the distant spiky skyline and the yawning bright blue sky over the ocean. She was in the center of the frame, arching into an attitude and fixing the camera with a determined kind of look, but she appeared to be dancing on the edge of the world. She’d meant what she’d said in the car, however grudgingly she’d admitted it, and however surprised he’d seemed to hear it. He was good at this.
