God's Island

Chapter One

Don't get me wrong, I'm no expert when it comes to photography, but four hours of screwing around to produce almost nothing, seemed a bit much even to me. Then, to top things off nicely, the lamp in the key light blew from being on too long, causing Chuck's assistant to burn his fingers while trying to change the hot bulb. He ran howling to the darkroom and the nearest source of cold water.

At once I noted the look on Chuck's face. He split his attention between his concern over the boy's slim, pink fingers and the need to satisfy a bitchy art director from Galland & Lubbock.

Reluctantly the photographer stayed with the money.

I tried to concentrate and watch everything else at the same time. With the set lighting half diminished I could now see a little further into the background void of the studio. All this time I'd sensed someone new lurked out there, quietly watching—barely moving. It wasn't so unusual for the advertising agency's client to have at least one company representative present for an important shoot. The agency people had to accept the inevitable client handholding as a normal part of business.

That said, this individual's clandestine arrival and complete lack of participation seemed anything but normal.

Most times, when a shoot involved female models, a male client rep would get fully immersed in the proceedings, inserting his two cents worth, if only to secure a good close-up view of things and perhaps cop a sly feel. This rep did none of those things, so I concluded he either felt somewhat shy or resided on Chuck's side of the libido fence.

Off to my right a large glass-topped layout table contained the approved art boards. The pair from the agency pawed over the layouts, enrolling Chuck into the deliberations while his male concubine went about dunking his sizzling fingers in the hypo. I could hear the banter going back and forth, but paid little or no attention as I contemplated walking over to the refrigerator against the front wall to get both a Coke and a quick look at my shadowy admirer.

Two things stopped me.

Firstly I didn't much like wandering around off the set while mostly naked, wearing only a Hawaiian lei, shoes and a pair of waist-high panties that were rolled down out of frame around my crotch. My hair had been elaborately decorated with tropical orchids that wilted faster than they could be replaced, compounded by more fake tan on my skin than skin. Any attempt to drape a robe over this delicate mess would have given the agency boys a collective stroke.

My second reason outweighed the first. Obviously the guy didn't want to be seen—his prerogative. I'd learned quickly that executives who sign checks at the end of the line, make it possible for others to write checks—myself included. He could sit there in the dark and gratify himself any way he pleased, so long as somewhere along the chain someone paid handsomely for the privilege.

With the lamp replaced the voices to my right became more heated. I sighed. All they'd accomplished thus far were a few black and white Polaroid tests and enough discord to make a congressional debate sound like an exchange of marriage vows. The lighting still wasn't to someone's liking, nor the hair or the flowers or the amount of cleavage visible through the center of the lei. My feet hurt and I longed to kick off the shoes, but I'd have to endure more poking and fussing before the plates were inserted into Chuck's Linhof and the final shots got underway.

Chuck leant on the hydraulic camera frame and winked, knowing how fed-up and bored I felt, unable to intervene.

I tried to smile back. Faggy Chuck never bothered me; at least I wouldn't be fending him off at the end of the day. Despite working at Charles DeMoore Studios numerous times in the past two years, this shoot came as a complete surprise. There'd been no usual flesh out. Someone had me chosen for this from the start. Before it began I'd caught a glimpse of a name scrawled on the docket bag the agency used to transport layouts and shoot notes—Godsteen—it meant nothing. Nor did I have any idea what they were selling. With all the intense hair fuss I'd have bet on a shampoo promotion. "Introducing Hawaiian Cream Rinse with the scent of orchid blossom. Get it today." They were using a plain blue backdrop, and that meant something would be stripped in behind me when the thing finally showed up in print. The boys from Galland & Lubbock weren't receptive, so I buttoned my lip and took direction. Gina had been hired as pretty meat to hang things on, nothing more. Eventually I'd get a set of proofs and a check from my agent and that would suffice.

"Gina, darling, let's go back to the first pose, if you would please," Chuck's effeminate voice directed.

"No, Charles. We agreed the second pose, the right hand touching the garland. It accentuates the cleft. The other way we'll have to use adhesive tape," the art director countered.

Oh God, Not more of the Scotch tape tit routine.

"LET THE GIRL DECIDE!"

Everyone stopped in their tracks and turned to stare into the dark void beyond the set lighting. The shout came from somewhere near the front of the studio.

The art director muttered a condescending, "Excuse me?"

"What, are you deaf? I said, let the girl decide! Someone chose her for a reason!"

"With all due respect, sir. There are many considerations here that you don't appreci—"

"JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP AND DO IT HER WAY!"

I didn't mean to laugh, it just slipped out. Even Chuck had a twitchy smile on his face that he found hard to control.

The art director evaporated into the void. Everyone stood about silently as two arguing voices drifted back to the set.

Minutes later the art director reappeared wafting shoot notes, looking like his world had just caved in. "Okay everybody—change of plans." He tossed the notes aside contemptuously. "The client's representative feels that this is taking too long and would prefer that the talent make all decisions regarding the pose and how it relates to the layouts. I raised my objections, but it seems my experience counts for nothing. It's non-negotiable apparently, so we do it this way or not at all... Is everyone clear on that?"

We all glanced at each other amidst universal nodding and muttering.

He stabbed a finger at me. "Okay... er?"

"Gina."

"Yes of course, Gina... Okay, Gina, it's your show. Take direction from Charles, otherwise you're free to approach this as you see fit. I'm going for a leak. Let me know when you're finished." He stormed back into the void and a moment later we heard the studio door slam hard.

The one remaining agency type shrugged and gestured with an outstretched palm; as if to say, "you heard the man."

I found the two taped marks on the floor and positioned my feet where Chuck had indicated, then established a pose that seemed the most effective of all the variations we'd tried. After final focus touch-up Chuck's bandaged assistant handed him a film frame. Chuck slid it home and removed the mask. "Looks good, Gina. Hold that." I heard the hiss of air then the shutter tripped.

Everyone relaxed. Chuck beamed all over his face as he removed the exposed negative and slid home another frame. "Let's not push our luck. A couple of safeties, and we'll call it a day."

Ten minutes later Chuck announced, "That's a wrap everyone," and began stacking the precious full-plate exposures. The studio lamps were already extinguishing one by one as the art director returned, obviously still in a foul mood by the way he rammed the art boards into the docket bag and snapped at his number two.

I bent forward, flipped the garland of flowers over my head and let them fall to the studio floor. I found my robe and slipped it on, then, using both hands, tried to disengage the barrette that held the spray of orchid blooms. The overhead fluorescents flickered on.

Now I would finally see the man with the authoritative voice that seemed to have more confidence in the model than the model had in herself. The flowers snapped free and I looked up.

One half of the double door gaped open, and from the sudden draught of cool air entering the studio, the outer door at the end of the corridor had opened then closed.

Chuck passed in front of me carrying the plates, noting my puzzled expression. "So who's that bashful fan, Gina?"

I shook my head while still staring at the open door. "Beats the heck out of me, Chuck. If you find out, let me know."

Chuck's assistant took charge of the plates and Chuck watched intently as his tush wiggled off into the darkroom. "Seriously doubt he's my type, babe."