“I’m okay, thank you.” I follow her into her office and sit down at one of the chairs across from her desk.
Once she settles, she shuffles some papers before turning her attention to me. “I bet it’s a lot slower paced here than in New York.”
“You could say that.” I shift uncomfortably in my chair, wondering when she’s going to bring up the pictures.
I don’t have to wait long. “So …” Constance inhales sharply before jumping in. “I understand things didn’t exactly go as planned with the photographer I hired to take your photo.”
The heat of resentment starts to creep up my neck and into my face. “You could say that. I wasn’t expecting such a surprising concept for the shoot.”
“What exactly did you expect, Thomas?” Her eyes pop open like I’m the wild card here.
“I don’t know, maybe a nice professional headshot for you to hang on the wall?” I retort.
“If that’s the case”—she continues to study me in that unsettling manner of hers—“I can’t help but wonder why you insisted on dressing up like a pirate.”
“I did what now?”
She clicks the mouse on her desktop and turns the monitor slightly in my direction. The pictures of my photoshoot fill the space. “Are these, or are they not, you?” She sounds thoroughly shocked. Actually, more unimpressed than shocked. Either way, she’s not pleased.
I lean in toward the screen to get a better look. Dear god, they’re even worse than I could have imagined. So bad, in fact,they make Zoolander look like a real pro. “This wasn’t my idea,” I tell her forcefully. “The photographer made me do it.”
“That’s not what she said.” Constance clicks on her screen again before reading, “Mr. Culpepper clearly did not understand the assignment, and he was unwilling to work with me on the shots you requested.”
What?“She said you wanted me to dress like a sexy pirate and a sexy doctor. She said you wanted to use the images in a calendar like the ones firefighters have.” I spit this out so fast I sound like a little kid tattling on a classmate.
“I wanted a normal picture of you to hang in the hospital entryway.”
“Which is exactly what I went there to get for you,” I tell her. “But Finley was positive you wanted these.”
“What kind of calendars are those firefighters coming out with?” Constance asks before once again turning her attention to the computer. She clicks away before exclaiming, “Dear god. Why aren’t they wearing their uniforms? Why are there so many puppies?”
“I think they use them to raise money,” I tell her. “Finley was under the impression you wanted to do the same thing with the doctors here.”
The look of revulsion on her face is comical. “Have you seen the other doctors here?” she says. “Could you imagine Dr. McCarthy starring in a picture like this? Or Dr. Randolph?”
Harry McCarthy’s stomach would need its own month, and Edith Randolph must be nearing seventy. I simply shake my head.
Constance picks up her telephone and punches in a number. She puts the call on speaker so I can hear. The bright, chirpy voice on the end of the line answers, “Happy Snaps, this is Finley.”
“Ms. Harper.” My boss sounds downright disdainful. “This is Constance Brucker.”
“Ms. Brucker. I assume you received the pictures.” Finley sounds worried, which for some reason makes me feel bad for her.
“I did,” Constance tells her. “And I’m highly confused by them.”
Finley releases a low growl of frustration. “Me, too. I mean, your boyfriend is a smoke show, but he clearly does not know how to model.”
Constance doesn’t clarify that I’m not her boyfriend. Instead, she says, “Dr. Culpepper wasn’t there to model. He was there to have a headshot taken for the hospital wall.”
The silence is nearly deafening. In fact, I’m half-convinced Finley hung up the phone, but then she practically whispers, “Excuse me?”
“I specifically told you to do the same thing for him that you did for my colleague, Margaret Clinton.”
“MargaretClinton?” Finley chokes on the name.
“Yes, Dr. Margaret Clinton. She hired you to take professional photographs for her website.”
“Dr.Margaret Clinton?” Finley repeats. “I thought you were talking about Margaret Rogers.”
