“I thought you wanted to be in museums. I thought you wanted to make art,” he said eventually.
“I do. I am. We are making art.”
“Is itart, Ceece? Or is it commerce? You’re selling clothes. Magazines. Fantasies. You’re selling the idea of a certain way of life. That’s not art. And if you were being honest with yourself, I know that you don’t think so either.”
Cecilia was silent for a moment, weighing what Lorry had said. Questioning everything. Her work, her passion, her very existence. As if all she’d just said hadn’t mattered.
“Fuck you, Lorry.”
“Ceece…”
“No. Fuck you. You know how much this means to me. You know why I do this. And you know that it’s a means to an end.”
“Being Didier’s second assistant? And then what’s next? First assistant? For how much longer? You know all you need to know. You have an amazing eye. You don’t need to apprentice anymore. And certainly not for someone whose work is something you’re not even sure you want to do. If you insist on apprenticing and you want to make art, then find a photographer who is makingart. I understand that it’s a means to an end for you. But working in that world is toxic. It’s eating away at your self-esteem. You deserve better.”
It smarted. Lorry preaching from his place of entitlement. Lorry, who could afford to bend all the rules because they weren’t made to keep people like him in his place. Lorry, who could profess his undying love and speak intimately about her body in one breath, and in the next, carelessly break her heart.
“Look,” he said then, his voice softer, soothing, “I love you, Ceece. And I care about you. So it frustrates me when I see you torturing yourself. I just want you to be happy. I just want you tofigure out what makes you happy. Think about your legacy.”
He’d said it unironically.
Cecilia was still lying in the dark, wondering what exactly she should be thinking about her legacy at twenty-six when Marc showed up at her door. Cargo shorts, ponytail, and a pair of Birkenstocks instead of his usual work boots.
“Hey, goof,” he greeted her from the far side of the threshold. “What are you doing? We’re leaving in ten minutes. Be ready.”
“I think I might stay in,” she said, leaning against the doorframe, tugging on the hem of her oversized T-shirt.
“And do what? WatchFriends? Talk to your boyfriend? Give yourself a facial?”
Cecilia laughed. Marc had that effect on her. And right now, she really needed the levity.
“We’re in Mexico, for fuck’s sake.”
“Fine.”
“Good. Ten minutes. Put on some pants.”
There were fourteen of them at dinner. The crew minus most of the higher-ups. And the talent minus Jaya. The mood was laid-back, casual, fun. There was a mariachi band playing live music and multiple tequila shots, courtesy of Pietro, di Varenna’s sprightly photo editor, who insisted it was all going on his expense account. After, when Cecilia was adequately inebriated, Kip and Stu, who’d canvassed muchof the area with Maren while location scouting, suggested they head over to a nearby beach for an impromptu swim.
Upon arriving at the shore, both Marc and Kip produced a couple of spliffs and passed them around. Cecilia, who came from the class of Jamaican family that frowned upon that type of thing, refrained. Furthermore, she’d had three tequila shots at the restaurant and her judgment was already impaired.
She was still sitting, somewhat dazed, in the sand when the others began heading into the water. The guys first, of course, disrobing haphazardly and galloping into the Gulf in various stages of undress. Boxers, briefs, the three Italians completely naked. “Last one in the water has the smallest penis!” Sandro yelled, which made them all laugh. But the moon was waning that night, crescent, and it was near impossible for Cecilia to see that level of detail.
“Men are always so competitive,” Rafaella announced, stepping out of her sundress. She was wearing a matching black-lace bra and panty set, and for a forty-four-year-old who had birthed two kids, Cecilia thought she looked fabulous.
Several yards out, Elliot whistled like an appreciative construction worker.
“Jesus, Rafaella,” Katrine cried, wriggling out of her miniskirt. “You could have warned us you were Sophia Loren.”
Rafaella snorted, shaking out her thick curls. “Ma certo!” she tossed over her shoulder, before plunging into the sea.
Katrine, and Paola and Elisa, the stylist assistants, followed soon after. Katrine in a hot-pink satin bikini and demicup bra that Cecilia recognized from the most recent Victoria’s Secret catalog. And the latter two in boy shorts. Paola in a racerback tank that became translucent the second she hit the water. And Elisa in a black Gucci microhalter that was decidedly too precious for salt water, and thus conveniently cast aside.
Cecilia was suddenly self-conscious. She could not recall what underwear she was wearing, but she was pretty sure it was not a matching set, nor lace. She rarely packed those for work trips. Plus, she’d eaten two shrimp tacos and a ton of chips and guacamole at the restaurant, and the idea of being in a bra and panties in the company ofsupermodels and free-spirited European types made her exceedingly anxious.
“Are you not going in?”
“Um… I’m not feeling so great,” she said.
