Matt pauses, catching his breath and squaring his shoulders. “Probably. But it’s a bad decision I want to make again.”
I close my eyes. I need to tell him that we can’t do this. What just happened was a cataclysmic mistake that can never, never happen again. I say it over and over in my head but I just can’t voice the thought out loud.
“Yeah,” I answer, taking several shallow breaths. “This is going to be a problem.”
10
“People are going to look at me,” Holly whispers, her voice a panicked mixture of mortification and fear.
“No one is going to look at you,” I try assuring her. “And if they do, they’re only looking because you’re gorgeous and they’re trying to figure out which of your many Instagram fan accounts they should follow for the most up-to-date photos.”
She answers me with a doubtful laugh. “I’m not gorgeous. The clothes are gorgeous, but they also make no sense in this context. Where am I going that I’m wearing an evening gown and a leather jacket in the middle of the day?”
“You’re clearly going to a very exclusive early-afternoon ball. If any of the three of us is worthy of going to a ball, it’s you.”
“Well, I resent that,” Marco throws in, pausing from adjusting the settings of the camera the social media team gave us for the day. “I would like to formally go on record saying that I, too, am entirely deserving of attending a ball.”
I shake my head, determined to steer us back on track. “Fine, we all deserve to go to a ball but on this specific occasion, only Holly is going.”
Marco is somewhat appeased and I once again focus on our reluctant model. “Just do your best to block everyone out. We only have to take a few pictures and then we’re good to go until the next location.”
“The next location?” Holly repeats, horrified. “Where else are we going today?”
“Only a few places,” I say gently, trying not to scare her. “This is a solid start, so then we’ll just briefly photograph you at the Trevi Fountain, the Colosseum and two or three other spots. Then that’s it. All finished.”
Holly pales. Looking at the scene around us, I can understand why.
We’re tucked off to the side, near the bottom of the world-famous Spanish Steps. As an essential Roman landmark, the sprawling stairway is unmistakably crowded. We’re not far from the office, but the exuberant energy of the visiting crowd adds a layer of electricity to the air. A sense of urgency. Sitting on the steps isn’t allowed anymore, so people mill up and down, pausing to take pictures as they traverse the celebrated monument. To any other tourist, the scene is magnificent. To Holly, it’s downright sinister.
“What can I do to make you feel better?” I ask her. “I wish we could do this somewhere inside, but the social media manager explicitly said they want lively city shots.”
Holly squeezes the bridge of her nose and takes a labored breath. “One of you could switch with me. That would make me more comfortable.”
“I would in a heartbeat but there is zero chance that that dress would fit me, and Marco is the only one of us with photography experience. Trust me when I tell you that you look radiant.”
“Really? And how could I possibly look radiant when I’m two seconds away from fainting and/or vomiting?”
I pause. “Excellent question. From my perspective, your natural beauty and the stunning clothes juxtapose your discomfort in a very beautiful way. Thus leaving you...”
“Radiant,” she unhappily answers.
“There you go. Now, just give me one second and we’ll get this going.” I move a short distance over and quickly approach Marco’s side.
“We need to start. The more I try to pump her up, the more she tries to physically crawl inside the dress like a turtle shell.”
“I’m good to go when you two are,” he says, holding the camera up in front of him. “How long do you think we have to shoot once we get her on the steps?”
“No more than five minutes,” I tell him. “I feel like an evil stage mom as it is.”
“It’s not your fault the social media team gave us this project. We’ll figure it out. Worst-case scenario, you get me a tripod and I photograph myself. I don’t mean to brag, but there’s no way that that leather jacket won’t spring to life the second it touches my body.”
“That’s good. At least we have a backup plan. Okay, let’s do this.”
A minute later we’re midway up the Spanish Steps, standing on a wide, expansive landing. Per Holly’s request, we’re as far off to the side as possible, and she’s standing a couple of feet in front of the stone border wall. There are a few people nearby resting in the wall’s shade, but they’re all busy on their phones. I hoped that would help Holly relax, but she still looks like she’s mentally preparing to be burned at the stake.
“Maybe drop your shoulders a bit?” I suggest, watching as she unclenches her posture by an almost indistinguishable degree. I’d ask her to look into the camera, but it would only show the misery in her eyes from a head-on angle. Instead, I instruct her to look off to the right, in the direction of the sun. It makes her eyes scrunch a bit, but the byproduct is nice, even if it does compromise her optic health.
Marco takes a stream of photos and I lean toward him.
