It all happened quite fast. Pierre was still trying to understand why he had told her not to move when he finally turned to look up at her and brought the camera to his eyes.
It wasn’t a large camera after all, but it had a long extended lens which the man now supported with his other hand.
“Can you let your hair hang down on one side?” he asked looking through his camera.
“Why?” She raised her eyebrows.
He moved his face a mere inch from behind the camera, “It would make a good picture,” then went back to looking through his lens.
“How do I know you’re not a perv taking sleazy pics of vulnerable tourists?”
He lowered his camera all the way down and his brow furrowed. “Do I look like a perv?”
She prided herself on being good at guessing things about people from their accents, style, even clothes.
He was too far down for her to see his eyes, but his face had a nice open expression. He sounded educated, grammar school perhaps, there was a soft hint of a northern accent. Yorkshire, perhaps East Midlands at a push. He had dark hair, smooth but with a slight curl.
What did a perv look like anyway?
“Why do you want to take pictures of me?”
“Because, with your hair over the side, you look like Rapunzel in the tower.”
Despite herself, Pierre was intrigued.
Her hair, recently dyed a pale blonde and silver balayage, was long enough to reach her hips. She wasn’t convinced the colour worked but she’d give it another week and if she still hated it, she’d either go back to black & blonde or maybe pink and blonde.
The young man with the camera waited for her to gather the soft waves in both hands and swing them over her shoulder.
He nodded approvingly. “Can you stand on something? I mean so you can lean out of the window a bit more.”
Stand on what? She looked around, the old ruin wasn’t exactly furnished with chairs and tables. The best she could do was climb up to kneel on the inner ledge of the window. It wasn’t comfortable on her knees and the cotton skirt was no cushion, but the concept of posing as Rapunzel was cute. Bending forward so her upper body could lean out, she let her hair fall free. “Like this?”
“Perfect,” he said, snapping fast pictures. “Look to your left.”
She did.
He walked further out, careful of the slippery algae, and spent a lot of time trying different angles.
He reminded her of art and film students back at uni, the same absorbed look when they got a creative idea. Was he part of the tour? Pierre had a vague recollection of seeing him earlier. He didn’t sound Welsh, but then why would a Welshman come on a tour of his own country?
“Can you look down?” He was standing directly below her now, feet wide apart, trying to balance. “Yes, this is much better.”
“What are you going to do with the pictures?” she asked.
He paused, then lowered the camera. “Nothing.”
“So, why are you taking them?”
“Because sometimes you see something and it just …” he paused, thinking. “It wants to be a picture. I can’t really explain it. But I’m not going to sell them anywhere … erm… bad.” He said as he slowly sank down on one knee and aimed his lens straight up at her.
Snap, snap, snap.He went on for a while.
He didn’t look like a professional photographer, none of the usual ‘attitude’ she remembered from journalists that came through the hotel where she worked. His clothes, denim shirt especially, suggested a modest income. Perhaps a poorly paid teacher.
“Thank you.” He stood up.
“You’re welcome. Can I go now?”
