The Photographer, Mary Carter [the best novels to read .TXT] 📗

firm, and eventually made her his business partner. Somewhere along the way, they got married. Meanwhile, though Ian didn’t say it directly, I gathered that Amelia had risen quickly in terms of the demand for her work, and at this point she was the breadwinner, responsible for bringing most of the clients in. A reversal of power.

Ian was a veritable fount of information, and also mildly charming.

“I’m grateful for Amelia’s friendship,” I said. I’d finished a third glass of wine and a plate of spaghetti Bolognese. “She’s inspiring.” I had to raise my voice because the small restaurant had grown more crowded over the last hour.

I brought up the subject of babysitting Natalie and told him about the diorama contest for her school.

“Natalie’s a sweet girl,” he said. “But I worry about her. Sort of lonely.”

The comment sounded vaguely disloyal to Amelia and Fritz. Fortunately, our waiter delivered our cappuccinos and I didn’t have to agree or disagree with the notion that Natalie was lonely. Ian sipped his coffee.

“Maybe there’ll be another little Straub on the scene soon,” I suggested.

He cleared his throat. “Maybe.”

“It seems like something Amelia really wants. Don’t you think so?”

He shifted in his chair. “Well, they’re not secretive about it, but they’ve been trying to have a baby for a few years.”

“I had no idea.” I wanted Ian to believe that I was a trustworthy friend. Not someone who was fishing for information.

We didn’t order dessert, but our waiter forced a platter of petit fours on us.

I sipped my cappuccino in silence. “I wish I could help Amelia,” I said. “I wish I could do something for her.”

He studied the plate of petit fours and then took one of them. Apparently, his mind had wandered away from the subject of Amelia’s infertility. He inched the plate in my direction and pointed to one of the mini tarts. “This one’s really good.”

I took the mini tart to satisfy him, though I didn’t want it.

He cleared his throat again. “Amelia said you have a son.” He smiled at me, like he wanted to make sure I knew he was pleased.

“Yes. Jasper.” I pulled out my phone and looked up the picture of Jasper on the beach, playing in the ocean with a surfboard. I showed it to Ian. The photo was one of my best creations. “He’s in California with his dad.”

He smiled. “Beautiful picture. Is your ex-husband a photographer too?”

“No.” I tried to laugh. “Not professional, anyway. Jasper’s started surfing. Isn’t that crazy? He’s only five.”

“Adorable,” he said.

I put the phone away, and Ian paid for dinner.

Afterward, I wanted to walk a fine line in how I parted with him. Friends for now, but give him hope for the future.

We made our way to the coat check at the front of the restaurant, squeezing between tables and past waiters. “Listen, Ian,” I said, while we were waiting in line, “if you want me to photograph your mother’s apartment before she puts it on the market, I’d do it for free.” He clearly wanted to say yes but was too polite to show it.

He looked down. “I don’t want to take advantage of your time.”

I handed my tag to the scrawny coat-check woman behind the counter. “I could add your mom’s apartment to my portfolio.”

“I don’t want to impose.” He blushed but appeared pleased by the offer.

“When would be a good time?”

He paused. “Actually, she was going to put it on the market on Monday, but—”

“So, how about tomorrow morning?” I had a job the following day, but since it wasn’t a party, I was pretty certain I could push it back a couple of hours. I might not have another opportunity to ingratiate myself with Ian.

“It’s really kind of you.” Ian helped me with my heavy down coat. And then his own. Outside on the sidewalk, he leaned in toward me to say goodbye, but I shifted my weight and turned, as though I wasn’t aware of his intention.

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” I said.

He smiled, and I noticed dimples in his cheeks. “Thank you, Delta.”

Ian’s mother’s apartment had large windows and good light. I used my wide-angle lens. In the darker rooms, such as the master bedroom, which looked out on a brick wall, I compensated with Elinchrom strobes. In the living room, I ruthlessly cleared out all personal belongings if they didn’t materially contribute to the beauty of the image—removing 90 percent of the vases, trays, boxes, plates, baskets, and other knickknacks from the frame. Clutter inhibits lines and light. Years ago I’d learned not to ask permission in situations like this. As long as I was doing a “favor,” I intended to produce photos that would sell the apartment.

Once you see a photograph of an apartment, that image becomes the reality—like the pictures of my clients’ children. It’s actually more important than the reality of what you see when you walk in the door. Viewing an apartment in person is similar to looking at your own reflection in the mirror. The information your brain takes in is malleable. Whereas pictures are fixed. They don’t shift as easily, because it’s one point of view. One moment in time. We tend to trust pictures.

Ian and his mother, Paula, followed me around, observing my work. Occasionally I allowed them to look through the viewfinder. Paula asked me questions as we went along. I explained how to create more space, higher ceilings, a sense of grandeur. It’s about the angle and the light. I was shooting from a kneeling position, corner to corner. And almost every shot included one of the mirrors hanging on the walls. “If you shoot a mirror from the right angle,” I said, “you can create another window, or a painting, or a room that looks twice as large.”

That evening, I sent Ian and Paula a few of the best shots. I had taken an attractive but drab apartment and turned it into a showpiece. My photographs could have appeared in any shelter