Xander pulled the cable out his black leather barrel bag, attached it to his camera, and plugged it into the laptop. In a matter of seconds, the images slid across the screen. Adjusting the angle to avoid the glare from the motel room’s appalling overhead lighting, he scanned each thumbnail as it appeared and lined them up in neat rows of five. His fingers drummed impatiently on the tabletop as he waited for the download to finish.
It was always the way — even after all this time he never ceased to be amazed at the strange opportunities that presented themselves. Who would have thought he’d pick up shots like these in some hick town in the middle of nowhere?
He flicked the images to slideshow and sat with one hand clasped around the rather dubious glass he’d found in the bathroom and tipped his head back. The scotch burnt as it slid down his throat. Jaz hadn’t succeeded in working her usual magic as far as motels were concerned if this very ordinary room was anything to go by.
The slideshow flickered in front of him in the half-light and he stared intently at the images. Her grandmother was wrong — Jeanie looked nothing like Marilyn Monroe. She had a look all of her own and the photographs captured something of the retro beauty of her face and body. No angles, just rounded curves; the sweep of her hair against her cheek; the angle of her legs as she leaned forward on the stool and gazed into the distance with half closed eyes — bedroom eyes. The memory of her voice, soft, warm, and slightly husky, stirred something deep in his gut.
He shuddered and the chair creaked in sympathy as he rocked back and pulled a pair of dark rimmed glasses from his top pocket. Settling them comfortably on his nose, he scrutinized the dozen or so pictures rotating through the slideshow for the umpteenth time. Then he paused it and brought up a single shot. Jeanie’s halo of silver-blonde hair reflected the light shimmering in the mirror, and those curves were enough to kick start any man’s fantasies. She had an almost ethereal air.
Sitting on the stool, she leaned forward, her feet flat on the floor, one elbow resting on her knee and her fingers to her full lips. Her right hand cradled her elbow as she gazed down at the floor. A little pensive, a little shy and unsure of herself. All the characteristics he’d seen in her from the first moment she’d walked out from behind the counter in the café.
He selected the photograph and cropped the background, removing all but the empty mirror and the stool she sat on before hitting the presets. Instantly the color leached from the image, leaving a black and white photograph. He leaned back and gave a satisfied smile. It would rival any her grandmother had pinned to the walls of the café.
“Xander?”
Blinking, he dragged his eyes away from the image. “Yes, Jaz. Come in, the door’s open. Tell me what you think of these.” He lifted the laptop from the bed and put it onto the bench top under the fluorescent strip light.
“What do you reckon?”
Xander waited while Jaz studied the photograph. Despite her abrasive tongue, she had a sharp eye and saw enough fashion shots to know a good picture, but this was different somehow; more a portrait, not the kind of photography he made a habit of. It confused him. Fashion shoots paid the bills but landscapes were his art form, his hobby, and his relaxation. So where did this fit in? Why was he so drawn to the image of the little waitress from the milk bar?
“It’s a good capture, the light’s good, and the mirror behind her gives it an interesting reflective quality. Shame she’s so big though.” Jaz’s dark nail tapped her perfectly straight front teeth, making an annoying little clicking sound. “Maybe you could set it up again tomorrow and get one of the girls to pose, then you’d get something we could use. It’s definitely got the retro feel about it but the Capri pants and black jumper are just so, well, so dated.”
“Jaz — retro is dated. A fashion reminiscent of the past. What could be more retro than that? She’s a cross between Audrey Hepburn and Marilyn Monroe.”
“I can see the Monroe bit, she’s pretty top heavy, but she’s a far cry from Audrey. Way too chunky.” Jaz peered again at the screen and shook her spiky head. “The camera adds pounds and she can’t afford it. Check out her thighs, she’s huge, and the white pants just accentuate it. It’s what happens when you have a grandmother who bakes.” She nodded her head knowingly.
“Come on, Jaz lighten up. Forget the magazine industry for a moment and see it as a portrait. Can’t you see the character there?” Never mind the body wreaking havoc with his libido — a libido that hadn’t paid to much attention to anything lately. It certainly seemed to be making up for lost time now.
“A heap of insecurity. Is she chewing her fingernails? Her eyes aren’t even on the camera.”
“I like the fact she’s not staring into the camera. No matter.” He shrugged. “It was just a favor for her grandmother. I thought it was the least I could do after you lot trashed her café.”
“She’ll only have to put up with us for a couple more hours tomorrow morning and then we can head back to Sydney. I’m sending the models and crew back first thing, so let me know who you want to keep here for the last few shots and they can travel back with us.”
“I’ll check out the proofs and text you in case you’re asleep, but I don’t think I’ll need anybody.”
Returning to his laptop, he set the slideshow again. Fifteen years of photographing models had left him jaded. Every year they got younger, skinnier, and harder, hard as their manicured nails. He’d thought he was impervious to a pretty face by this point but obviously not. The images of Jeanie stirred something in him. Were they the answer to the wave of tedium and restlessness plaguing him recently? He needed a holiday, a bit of time away from the day-to-day grind, but he’d anticipated something a bit more exciting than Oldbridge — more camels on a beach at sunset or the gorges of Kakadu. Certainly not a milk bar turned café on a dusty side road off the main highway out of Sydney.
Xander turned back to his laptop and his gut kicked. No wide open spaces, just the curve of her bottom against the simple timber stool, the swell of her breast outlined by the fine black jumper, and the shoes — she was just so perfectly balanced. Unexpected warmth stirred in him and he ran his finger down the screen, grinning as he reached the shoes. So perhaps there was a little tiny bit of vanity there, a little tiny bit of woman screaming to get out. The heeled shoes resting level on the floor gave her calves a great line.
He zoomed in until her face filled the entire screen. Her eyes were downcast and in the close up he could see her fragility and lack of confidence, but a little bit of defiance too. He flicked to the next photograph. He’d caught her staring directly into the camera this time. A sudden protective need raced through him. A need to keep her safe, to banish her insecurities, make her comfortable in her own skin. The trace of a smile lurked in her eyes but he wanted more. He wanted to see it blossom.