Caught on Camera

Chapter 7, Scene 2, Part 14

The camera pendant dangled between her breasts. With nowhere to hide it except in plain sight, she'd have to bide her time in order to take photos at the table under the noses of these sharp people. Or wait until they had too much to drink. Who knew taking photos could be so complicated? At least she'd managed to snap a few awesome poses at the rehearsal and successfully download them to her laptop despite the drenching her camera had taken thanks to Mopette. The day hadn't been a total washout so far in that respect.

Then there was Mickey. Charming Mickey with chiseled features and steel-hard muscles rippling under velvet skin she'd lathered with sunscreen. She'd messed up with Mopette twice under his eagle eye. He must consider her a complete ditz. An Ally McBeal calibre ditz. She bit her bottom lip unhappily. Just as well. Unwelcome attraction fizzed her insides, warred with heartfelt desire not to spend more time than necessary in his dangerously watchful presence.

Mickey lay down his fork, having made his salad disappear in four bites. She ruefully inspected her own small but artistically presented endive, pear and Roquefort salad sprinkled with walnut crumbs. In a normal day Rachel consumed carb-loaded meals to replace thousands of calories burned in a long, labor-intensive shift. That afternoon's light spa lunch and a shrimp on a skewer left her faint with hunger. She swiftly polished off the delicious salad, then squinted greedily at Tiffany's untouched plate.

"I admire a woman who enjoys food and doesn't mind showing it," Mickey murmured for her ears alone. "So many women at parties appear to survive on champagne and caviar."

Asta snagged one of the fresh baked multi-grain rolls from a silver basket and slathered it with a ball of iced butter. "Except Asta, of course," Mickey continued. "And now you." Cool fingers lightly tapped her bare thigh under the table cloth.

At the delicious contact, Rachel's brain emptied of all coherent thought. She blurted the truth. "We're working women. I'd fade away to nothing if I ate like this every day." She indicated her empty plate.

Mickey angled to face her. "What is it that you do, exactly?"

Oh my gods. She'd blithely set herself up for that question. She slunk low in her chair, quavered, "Do?"

"Yeah," Wade said to the table at large. "What does Candy's cousin do in Toronto?"

The men's attention fastened on Rachel. Tiffany's green-eyed glare spit daggers. 

Asta leaned forward, chin cupped in one palm. "Candy never mentioned you before today. But then Candy has been notoriously close-mouthed even about her own sister. Tell us about yourself."

Humiliated, stalling, Rachel licked a crumb of strong Rocquefort blue cheese off her upper lip. That spring she'd completed a two year community college Creative Photography program with top grades that garnered acceptance into Toronto's prestigious private film school. While studying, she'd supported herself on a minimum wage job as an evening room attendant in a three star downtown hotel. Candy'd be furious if she revealed that clue to who she really was.

She fiddled nervously with the cord holding her camera pendant. Her mother's rebuke in response to a childhood lie rang in her head: It's not proper to hold back information, but it's a thousand times worse to lie on purpose.

Rachel opted for the truth. "I've been accepted into Toronto Film School for the fall term to study cinematography. Wade, what do you do for a living?"

Wade chuckled, apparently amused by her transparent attempt to deflect prying questions. Good natured, he played along. "I'm a film lawyer. Producers hire me to secure rights to a property, negotiate equity financing deals, and vet distribution licenses for film projects. I have the satisfaction of helping independent films I believe in get green lighted. No money, no movie."