She jerked her eyes back to his, and quite helplessly they flooded. “Howcouldyou?” she whispered brokenly.
He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her damp brow, then murmured against her skin, for her ears alone, “I want you to remember, Marni. I want you to think about what we had. That first time on the shore, the other times in the woods and on my narrow little cot.”
Too weak to pull away from him, and further hamstrung by the people watching, she simply closed her eyes and struggled to regain her self-control. Web drew back and brushed a tear from the corner of her eye.
“Remember it, Marni,” he whispered gently. “Remember how good it was, how soft and warm and exciting. Pretend we’re back there now, that we’re lovers stealing away from the real world, keeping secrets only the two of us share. Pretend that there’s danger, that what we’re doing is slightly illicit, but that we’re very, very sure of ourselves.”
“But the rest—”
“Remember the good part, babe. Remember it when you look at me now. I want confidence from you. I want defiance and promise and success, and that special kind of feminine spirit that captivated me from the start. You’ve got it in you. Let me see it.”
He stepped back then and, without another word, went to his camera.
Stunned and more confused than ever, Marni stared after him. Brushes dabbed at her cheeks and glossed her lips; fingers plucked at her hair. She wanted to push them away, because they intruded on her thoughts. But she had no more power to lift a hand than she had to get up and walk from the room as that tiny voice of instinct told her to do.
It began then. With his legs braced apart and his eyes alternating between the camera lens and her, Web gave soft commands to the lighting crew. Then, “Let’s get a few straightforward shots first. Look here, Marni.”
She’d been looking at him all along, watching as he peered through the lens, then stepped to the side holding the remote cord to the shutter. She felt wooden. “I don’t know what to do. Am I supposed to … smile?”
“Just relax. Do whatever you want. Tip your head up … a little to the left … atta girl.” Click.
Marni made no attempt to smile. She didn’t want to smile. What she wanted to do was cry, but she couldn’t do that.
“Run your tongue over your lips.” Click. “Good. Again.”
Click. Click. “Shake your head … that’s the way … like the ocean breeze … warm summer’s night …”
Marni stared at the camera in agony, wanting to remember as he was urging but simultaneously fighting the pain.
He left the camera and came to her, shifting her on the stool, repositioning her legs, her arms, her shoulders, her head, all the time murmuring soft words of encouragement that backfired in her mind. He returned to the camera, tripped the lens twice, then lifted the tripod and moved the entire apparatus forward.
“Okay, Marni,” he said, his voice modulated so that it just reached her, “now I want you to turn your face away from me. That’s it. Just your head. Now close your eyes and remember what I told you. Think sand and stars and a beautiful full moon. Let the music help you.” The words of a trendy pop ballad were shimmering through the room. “That’s it. Now, very slowly, turn back toward me … open your eyes … a smug little smile …”
Marni struggled. She turned her head as he’d said. She thought of sand—she and Web lying on it—and stars and a beautiful full moon—she and Web lying beneath them—and she very slowly turned back toward him. But when she opened her eyes, they were filled with tears, and she couldn’t muster even the smallest smile.
Web didn’t take a shot. Patiently, he straightened, then put out a hand when Anne started toward Marni. She retreated, and Web moved forward. “Not exactly what I was looking for,” he said on a wistfully teasing note.
“I’m sorry.” She blinked once, twice, then she was in control again. The music had picked up, and she caught sight of feet tapping, knees bending, bodies rocking rhythmically on the sidelines. “I feel awkward.”
“It’s okay. We’ll try again.” He gestured for his aides to touch her up, then returned to stand by his camera with the remote cord in his hand. “Okay, Marni. Let your head fall back. That’s it. Now concentrate on relaxing your shoulders. Riiiiight. Now bring your head back up real quick and look the camera in the eye. Good. That’s my girl! Better.” He advanced the film once, then again, and a third time. What he was capturing was better than what had come before, he knew, but it was nowhere near the look, the feeling he wanted.
He could have her hair fixed, or her clothes, or her makeup. He could shift her this way or that, could put her in any number of poses. But he couldn’t take the pain from her eyes.
He’d told her to remember the good and the beautiful, because that was what he wanted to do himself. But she couldn’t separate the good from all that had come after and, with sorrow on her face and pain in her eyes, he couldn’t either.
So he took a different tack, a more businesslike one he felt would be more palatable to her. He talked to her, still softly, but of the magazine now, of the image they all wanted for it, of the success it was going to be. He posed her, coaxed her, took several shots, then frowned. He took the stool away, replaced one lens with another his assistant handed him and exposed nearly a roll of film with her standing—straight, then with her weight balanced on one hip, with her hands folded before her, one hand on her hip, one hand on each, the two clasped behind her head. When her legs began to visibly tremble, he set her back on the stool.
He changed lights, bathing the background in green, then yellow, then pale blue. He switched to a hand-held camera so that he could more freely move around, changing lenses and the angle of his shots, building a momentum in the hopes of distracting Marni from the thoughts that brought tears to her eyes every time he was on the verge of getting something good.
For Marni it was trial by fire, and she knew she was failing miserably. When Web, infuriatingly solicitous, approached her between a series of shots, she put the blame on the self-consciousness she felt, then on the heat of the lights, then on the crick in her neck. One hour became two, then three. When she began to wilt, she was whisked off for a change of clothes and a glass of orange juice, but the remedial treatment was akin to a finger in the dike. She ached from the inside out, and it was all she could do to keep from crumbling.
The coffee grew cold, the doughnuts stale. The bystanders watched with growing restlessness, no longer tapping their feet to the music but looking more somber with each passing minute. There were conferences—between Edgar, Anne, Marni and Web, between Dan, Edgar and Web, between Cynthia, Anne and Marni.
Nothing helped.
As a final resort, when they were well into the fourth hour of the shot, Web turned on a small fan to stir Marni’s hair from behind. He showed her how to stand, showed her how to slowly sway her body and gently swing her arms, told her to lower her chin and look directly at him.
She followed his instructions to the letter, in truth so exhausted that she was dipping into a reserve of sheer grit. She couldn’t take much more, she knew. Shewouldn’ttake much more. Wasn’t she the one in command here? Wasn’t she the employer of every last person in the room?
