“Out.” This time I accompany the words by standing and gesturing for her to back up before slamming the door shut, then adding a chair as a second barrier.
After a second’s thought, I pull the curtains shut, too. I already feel exposed without drawing the attention of an actual peeping tom.
It isn’t until I lay out all the toys (and set most of them charging) that I find Zach’s card.
“Take a photo of each outfit. Coordinate as you see fit.”
Ah, coordinate. Such a simple phrase for a task that has nausea gripping me in its sweaty, stomach-rolling, grasp.
And, pray tell, who wouldseethese photos?
Well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?
With far less enthusiasm than such an expensive gift should have warranted, I slide a fingernail under the shrink wrap of the smartphone and dig it out of the fancy packaging. Even knowing what I am expected to slather over its innocent hard drive, the phone feels good in my hand. All smooth surfaces and snug curves.
And about ten times as heavy as my current model.
As I transfer my SIM card, a shiver of apprehension scampers along my nerves. Am I really thinking of doing this? Even after seeing what happened to Tessa, how it screwed her all the way to hell and back again when those images of her fell into the wrong hands.
Maybe Zach just wants them for himself?
Except that’s a foolish thought. It might be a possibility, but there are a dozen other scenarios far more likely. Better to think of the worst possible one and gauge my feelings against its future than to paint a rosy coloured landscape and set myself up for a tragic fall.
The worst, then.
I take photographs and they are spread across the internet. Not just for a while, but forever. How would I feel knowing they were out there when my kids got their first computers? Happy birthday son and please don’t go digging into the porn archives unless you want to see Mummy in her birthday suit.
They’d still be lurking somewhere when my grandkids ventured online. Great grandkids.
Or perhaps there wouldn’t be children. Perhaps when you spread your legs for the internet, having a partner and children stopped being an option. Then the only people who ever looked at my images online would be strangers. Using them to do whatever they wanted in the privacy of their own home.
How would that feel?
Better to be stored in a theoretical wank-bank than to lose touch with my sister. It was hard to consider future children when my current family member was the one on the line.
Zach might have changed his mind.
Except proof that he hasn’t is laid across the bed. Why spend so much money setting me up for a challenge if he’d changed his mind about the outcome if I failed?
He’d been nice for one afternoon and evening. An afternoon that followed straight after a day from hell. If it hadn’t been for Trent’s intervention, this week would have taken the same route.
And why am I even holding a debate with myself when the result is a foregone conclusion?
I pick up an outfit in a pale pink that reminds me of candy floss. The bra is made of criss-crossing satin straps edged with lace soft enough not to scratch. Zach’s mind might be in the gutter, but he has good taste. Just looking at the collection of skimpy underwear sets off an ache in my chest. It is so pretty.
Before I can rethink things, I strip and put on the pastel underwear. The phone is a mess of strange apps and instructions. I curl under the bedclothes as the setup asks me a dozen different questions and for a dozen different accounts. The moment I hook up my email, a flood of security concerns hit my inbox.
Enough for me to pine for my trusty two-purpose phone.
Finally, it’s ready. I test and retest the camera options, trying to see which one will work the best. My hands shake so much the answer is none.
I need a stand. I try to stack the phone against some textbooks, but it just slides onto its back. Another one across its front tips it towards the sky.
I pull my longest sweatshirt on as a coverall and venture out, bumping straight into Finley, who may or may not have been loitering. “Do you have a tripod?”
“Show me your haul and I’ll sort you out,” she promises.
About ten seconds later, she’s in my room, staring open-mouthed at my latest collection.
