Sensational!

Grogan Flapsplatt was a plank of wood. Well, he sure acted like one. He was going to ruin the shoot, no matter what his female counterpart managed to pull out of her repertoire from the Janice Dickinson Unaffiliated Modeling School franchise, Milwaukee. If it wasn't so important to get the cover shot, I would have laughed at their tight-run contest for the title of America's Next Worst Model.

The would-be supermodel, Jo-Lante Dupre, had a smile that never reached her eyes, when you could see them; her face was swallowed by the hood of her designer coat. She complained about everything . . . a lot. Every break in the photo shoot brought a fresh whine down the phone to her agent.

Grogan simply stood there, arms like a string-less marionette, and an expression of the recently departed. I could feel my nostrils involuntarily flaring. I knew Steve, the panicking artistic director, could see my ire rise, because he backed off pretty sharpish when I asked for make-up to step in.

"I know this is a stills shoot, but is there anyway you could animate him?" I asked Suzy, the make-up girl.

"I could use the fat, black, Kohl eyeliner?"

"Would that work?" Hope stole into my voice, until she allowed her face to crinkle with laughter.

"No, but if I shove it up his ass, he might perk up."

I chortled, my bad mood evaporating. Suzy was a hoot. We worked on the same shoots and often grabbed the odd taco together. I knew I was attracted to her, because I kept finding excuses to use up spare frames on her. She winked, made a crude gesture with the eyeliner and sauntered back to the trailer. I stared too long after her, but convinced myself that no one noticed or, more likely, no one cared. Two worlds existed, the real world and the fashion world.

The majority of fashionistas were, surprisingly, down-to-earth ordinary types, who put up with the few real divas as par for the course. I had landed in fashion photography via a long, bumpy fall from National Geographic shoots. It would seem that my Maori women were a pleasure to behold, and so a friend of a friend, of a man with a corner office at Sensational! magazine, had hooked me up with my new boss. The move was accompanied with a flourish of a pen and two extra decimal places than my bank manager was used to seeing. I had worked for Sensational! ever since.

Steve jogged over, his unruly curls peppered with snow. He looked like he was permanently on the verge of a heart attack and popped indigestion tablets like they were candy. "We're losing the light!"

I winced. His voice sounded like a kicked puppy. Half the time I wanted to get the shot, just to avoid him being rushed into the Emergency Room.

"Okay!" I shouted, and was rewarded with the attention of the female model, and Grogan's back. A familiar, repetitive, electronic tap indicated the male model was sending a text message. Not a good move. Not a good move at all.

Steve popped a Pepto and I tried in vain to flatten my nostrils. Steve shook his head and whispered, "Don't fire him, John -- we've not got time to get another model in and this set cost m-o-n-e-y." He always spelled out the word, as if it was bad luck to say it out loud, or like a school kid would spell out an expletive.

Jo-Lante stalked over to us, dwarfing Steve in her angry shadow. "This is not a professional shoot. My agent says my contract is for two hours -- we're over that now. What are you going to do for me?"

"Do for you?" My voice had an edge to it, but she was either too ignorant to notice, or had a death wish. Steve did notice it and managed to stand between us and cower at the same time.

"Ten more frames and you're out of here, sweetheart." He oozed smiles and whines at her. "Wanna keep the shoes?"

She huffed her accent and prowled back on set. I bit my tongue.

"When you're finished, Grogan," I used my best cajoling voice, "can we put this baby to bed, please?"

Ten more clicks of the shutter followed. Jo-Lante must have been counting, because the instant they were taken, she was on her mobile and batting aside runners on her way to her trailer.

"Oh, crap," Steve muttered. Another pink pill disappeared down his gullet. "We got the shot, right? Tell me we got the shot?"

"We didn't get the shot."

"Oh, crap."

Grogan seemed to cotton onto the idea that he stood alone on set. "Are we done?"

"No. We are not done," I said, with more conviction than I felt. "Stay where you are. Text your friend, or something, while I get the girl."

I handed Steve my camera, told him not to fiddle with the settings and jogged over to the trailer. As I approached, the door was flung aside and Jo-Lante flounced down the stairs.

"Are you seriously leaving my set?" I asked, trying to keep my temper in check.

She turned, smiling like a panther. "Yes, I am. And don't bother with a speech about never working in this town again, or whatever impotent threat is on the tip of your tongue. I've heard them before and still everyone comes back to me, because I am the best. I sell their clothes. I sell their dreams. Hell, I could sell them their own mother's clothes."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of holding you up. I just wanted to make sure you weren't stealing that coat." The coat she had been modeling all day was casually hung over her arm. To her credit, she didn't bat an eyelid. She threw the coat in my face and left in a flurry of phone calls.

"Ouch." Suzy stood behind me, trying not to laugh, but losing the battle.

"Ouch, indeed," I acquiesced. "Unless I can convince you to pop this coat on and give me the shot we've been looking for, then my goose is cooked."

"Sure."

"Sure?" I asked, incredulous. "I was joking."

"Why? Am I too ugly? Too fat?"

"No! I just mean . . . oh, you know? You haven't had any training and it's a lot to ask."

"Training? Puurlease -- you've been asking those professionals to give you girl and boy next door all day. I'll have you know, I am a professional girl next door. And, besides, I want you to owe me a favor."

"Anything, Suzy. Let's just see if we can get a half-decent shot before we close up, okay?"

"Half-decent, training, professionalism? Gee, you sure know how to make a girl feel special." But for all her playful complaining, Suzy put the coat on and ran over to where Grogan waited.

Steve was past caring. Not for long. Suzy was great.

There is a feeling, that I can't explain adequately, when it works. My finger strikes the button at the right moment, and it is as if the location, the subject, the camera, and I, all come together in wonderful synchronicity. In this case, it also helped that I saw the girl on the other side of the lens with new clarity.

Grogan still looked a plank, but I nailed the shot. Even through the monitor, with no touch-ups, Suzy looked beautiful. Snow swirled around the love-birds. Grogan held her, and Suzy jumped into his arms. I think I felt a bit jealous. Steve felt relieved.

"Taco?" Suzy hung over my shoulder, her breath warm and sweet on my neck.

"Love to," I replied. "What's the favor you want to ask?"

"Why don't we make it our first date."

"I don't date models," I dead-panned, as Grogan walked up to the monitor, looked at the picture, grunted, and returned his attention to his phone. "But I'll make an exception for a girl who knows how to use Kohl eyeliner."

"Glad to hear it," she played along, "because I'm not just any old model -- I'm sensational."

(1,360 words)

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