Chapter 30
Six Days, Six Hours, Forty-Six Minutes
"Lose the attitude, Ulrika, or you're not going to get the photo shoot."
Indiri Farris quickened her pace across the agency floor. Around her, the business was abuzz with activity – file clerks rushed to and fro with stacks and stacks of portfolios, photographers toyed with their cameras to make certain everything was in order for the next assignment, beauty queens strutting their stuff from desk to desk in heated conversation with other agents. The industry was changing – what with the state of terrorism in around the world today – and Indiri was pleased to know that she changed with it. Despite some critical setbacks on photo sessions cancelled from taking place in some of the most beautiful yet dangerous locations on the planet, Indiri kept her models at work, busily working at altering contract locations and suggesting alternative locales. In most cases, the adjustments were warmly appreciated. In some cases, Indiri threw in the white towel and pulled the plug on the deal. She wasn't about to risk her talent – or their good looks – by sending them to a Homeland Security flagged 'hot spot' ... not even in Victoria's Secret demanded it. As far as Indiri was concerned, danger was off the table, and all of her clients – whether they agreed or not – respected her for such tenacity.
"Milagro is such a poop," Ulrika pouted, racing to keep up with her agent.
'Milagro?' Indiri wondered. 'What kind of a name was Milagro for a photographer? Milagro? Wasn't that a coffee bean or something? Didn't Robert Redford make a film with the word Milagro in the title?'
"Milagro is doing his job," Indiri insisted. "He happens to be very good at it. His parents were both photographers, and they passed their gift along to him. Unfortunately, they didn't have as much sense when it came to picking out baby names."
"But he gives me the creeps!"
"Why is that?"
"He is always staring at me!"
"He is a photographer," she argued. "That's what he does."
"Must you always take his side?"
"He's a professional," she countered. "Quite frankly, he's the best right now, at the top of his game, and you should be personally flattered that he wants to spend his time photographing you."
"If you say so."
"He also guarantees you a magazine cover shot, Ulrika, and neither of us can afford to be so particular as to pass up some a great possibility," she explained, rushing past her secretary – the woman held up several pink- colored telephone message slips like they were hundred dollar bills – and taking a seat behind her desk. "You don't understand what this could mean for you down the road in your career, and I think that's something I need to tell you ... as your agent." She fixed a stare at the woman, softening her tone but intensifying her eyes. "Milagro, for the record, is currently at the top of his game right now. He's the most sought after cameraman out there. He's the fashion jock. He's our industry's hot ticket. His work is largely considered art, not filler. I'm not talking about glamour shots or bargain sales advertising. I'm talking about the fact that his photographs are hanging on the walls of some of the most creative geniuses of our time, Ulrika." She decided to play the career coach and said, "He's caught Hollywood's eye. That means a great deal for any model – male or female – whom he chooses to photograph. This kind of exposure can open the doors that we've talked about, young lady. You might be looking at an entire photo spread and interview for Maxim Magazine. Or – what's that new one? FHM? There's also Razor to think about. Razor is getting tremendous word of mouth right now."
"I don't like Razor," Ulrika spat.
"What's wrong with Razor?"
"I think the magazine's name promotes violence."
Indiri frowned. "I think the name promotes personal hygiene."
"It is an ugly word."
"Unemployment is an ugly word."
"But it is my career we're talking about," the model bantered moodily from the stuffed chair. "I'm not interested in working with the best. I'd like to experiment, you know? I'd like to get out there and really find out who I am ... visually."
"If you want work," Indiri cautioned, "then talk to me. If you want to find yourself, then get yourself a therapist."
"I would hope my opinion counts for something."
"When you're in my office, sweetheart, it counts when I say it counts."
The secretary appeared in the doorway, still clasping the telephone message, and Indiri replied, "Not now, Iceland."
'Iceland?' she thought. 'There's another absurd name! What's wrong with this world today? Why don't parents just name their little showgirl Barbie any more and get the therapy started?'
Quickly, Iceland disappeared.
"So ... you're saying that I have to go with Milagro?"
"Yes, you have to go with Milagro."
"There is no discussion."
"Not as far as I'm concerned."
The beauty queen huffed, crossing her arms in a contained tantrum. "Tell me why again?"
"I've told you why plenty of times already, Ulrika," Indiri denied her the courtesy. "But I will add one more salient point: his last three models landed their first acting jobs in their career. Now, those three ladies are looking at serious crossover potential onto the silver screen. If they do well – if they play their part and do as their managers, their directors, and their agents tell them – then there might even be a brighter future for them as bona fide actresses." Dismissively, she began shuffling several files on her desk. "So, yes, you will go with Milagro to Cabo, and you will have your several hundred pictures taken, and he will sort through them for the absolute best with the editors of Splash Magazine. Count your blessings, young lady, and stop counting your complaints."
"Yes, mother."
"I am not old enough to be your mother. You, on the other hard, are old enough to be fired."
"Whatever you say ... mother."
Indiri passionately loathed being mistreated by the fashionably- inclined. All of her hard work gave these ungrateful 'children' the opportunities of a lifetime, and all they could offer up in return was cynicism. "Ulrika, for the last time, I am not your mother."
"Yes, father," the model cooed.
"I am not your father, either."
"Then what am I supposed to call you when I'm being sarcastic?"
Indiri sighed. "When you're being sarcastic, you can speak with Iceland." Curtly, she waved toward the door. "Now, out. Mommy and daddy have work to do."
Giggling, Ulrika rose and swaggered out into the busy agency.
"Oy," the agent muttered.
Suddenly, she felt the vibration of her cell phone ringing at her hip. She reached down, still fumbling with the file folders, and flipped the device open. "Indiri Farris," she said.
"You have such a beautiful voice," came the reply – obviously, a man's voice – on the other end of the line.
She stopped. How did this industry pig get her cell phone number? Regardless of who he was, she wouldn't tolerate it. Today, she wasn't in the mood. "This beautiful voice presently earns about $300 dollars an hour on a good day. Today, it's a good day. So, if you have no better opening line than that, I'm not sure you can afford this beautiful voice today."
"Tsk, tsk," he scolded her. "Is that any way to treat a stranger in your very strange land?"
Something about the tone of his voice seemed familiar. Coyly, she relaxed in her leather chair, smiling, and brought a finger to her red lips. "All right. You have sixty seconds."
"Would you like to hear all of the things – each and every one of them more memorable than the last – that I can do in sixty seconds?"
Whoever he was, she decided he was smooth.
"Who is this?" she asked.
"I will give ten seconds to guess, madame."
"Is this ...?"
She couldn't believe it. She guessed that Richard DeMarco was half her age as she studied the smooth lines of his face on the airplane last night. She assumed that he flirted with her only in the interest of passing time. Still, she offered him her business card, and he said he'd call ... but Indiri Farris was hardly used to miracles happening so readily in her life.
"Richard DeMarco?" she asked.
"Very good!" he replied, laughing. "And you guessed correct on the first try! You American women amaze me! You are so much smarter than I ever possibly imagined."
"Our wisdom is our greatest strength."
"If you would not find this too presumptuous, might I add that I have always personally found intelligence in a woman very, very sexy, Miss Farris."
She smiled. "It is such a pleasure to hear that from a man world- traveled."
"I am only thinking of local travel today, Miss Farris."
"Please," she interrupted, her voice sultry. "Call me Indiri."
"Very well."
"What kind of local travel were you considering?"
"Someplace very local," he continued.
"What for?"
"I am hungry."
"And again it begs the question: what for?"
"I would like for the two of us – you and I – to visit someplace where two people – both consenting adults – might enjoy a wonderful evening meal. The meal must be exquisite, and the atmosphere must be perfect. Afterwards, I would very much like for the two of us to perhaps share a peaceful walk under your bright American moonlight."
She laughed. "You are very smooth, Richard."
"You are too kind."
Biting her lower lip, she said, "If that's what serves as an invitation to dinner, then I accept."
"I would very much like to have dinner with you, Indiri."
"Somehow, I was hoping that you'd call."
"Your prayers have been answered, my lady," he told her. "As I am new in your country, however, I do not know of any appropriate restaurant that might lend itself to – shall we say – the proper atmosphere? I was hoping you could make a suggestion."
"Where are you staying?"
"Heston Tower," he replied.
"Really?" she said. "Heston Tower has a lovely restaurant off their lobby."
"I did notice a name on the marquee."
"Yes," she agreed. "It's Abendessen. If I know my German, I believe it means 'supper.'"
"So simple?"
"Yes, it is."
"Then I would like to join you for dinner."
"That would be nice."
"Need I arrange for a car to pick you up?"
He was such a gentleman. And, as he was staying at the Heston, she knew her original instincts on the plane last night were correct: not only was he handsome, but he was wealthy also. Farris knew that she would be working for a few more hours, but an early dinner sounded wonderful.
"Why don't I meet you there?" she offered.
"Are you sure? I don't want this to be any bother."
"I have a few afternoon appointments," she explained, glancing at her day planner. She would have Iceland cancel one or two of the latest meetings so that she would have plenty of time to prepare. "I'll shuffle a few things around in my schedule, and I'll meet you in the lobby. How does seven o'clock sound?"
"Indiri," he crooned, "any time of day coming from you sounds absolutely delightful."
Again, she grinned. She couldn't suppress feeling like a love- stricken school girl, but, were she lucky, she would feel more like a woman tonight.
"Then, it's a date."
"Oh, let's not call it a date," DeMarco replied. "I hate the word. It sounds ... it sounds so provincial. Let's agree that you and I have unfinished business to attend to. That sounds far more adult. Wouldn't you agree?"
End of Chapter 30
Six Days, Six Hours, Forty-Six Minutes
"Lose the attitude, Ulrika, or you're not going to get the photo shoot."
Indiri Farris quickened her pace across the agency floor. Around her, the business was abuzz with activity – file clerks rushed to and fro with stacks and stacks of portfolios, photographers toyed with their cameras to make certain everything was in order for the next assignment, beauty queens strutting their stuff from desk to desk in heated conversation with other agents. The industry was changing – what with the state of terrorism in around the world today – and Indiri was pleased to know that she changed with it. Despite some critical setbacks on photo sessions cancelled from taking place in some of the most beautiful yet dangerous locations on the planet, Indiri kept her models at work, busily working at altering contract locations and suggesting alternative locales. In most cases, the adjustments were warmly appreciated. In some cases, Indiri threw in the white towel and pulled the plug on the deal. She wasn't about to risk her talent – or their good looks – by sending them to a Homeland Security flagged 'hot spot' ... not even in Victoria's Secret demanded it. As far as Indiri was concerned, danger was off the table, and all of her clients – whether they agreed or not – respected her for such tenacity.
"Milagro is such a poop," Ulrika pouted, racing to keep up with her agent.
'Milagro?' Indiri wondered. 'What kind of a name was Milagro for a photographer? Milagro? Wasn't that a coffee bean or something? Didn't Robert Redford make a film with the word Milagro in the title?'
"Milagro is doing his job," Indiri insisted. "He happens to be very good at it. His parents were both photographers, and they passed their gift along to him. Unfortunately, they didn't have as much sense when it came to picking out baby names."
"But he gives me the creeps!"
"Why is that?"
"He is always staring at me!"
"He is a photographer," she argued. "That's what he does."
"Must you always take his side?"
"He's a professional," she countered. "Quite frankly, he's the best right now, at the top of his game, and you should be personally flattered that he wants to spend his time photographing you."
"If you say so."
"He also guarantees you a magazine cover shot, Ulrika, and neither of us can afford to be so particular as to pass up some a great possibility," she explained, rushing past her secretary – the woman held up several pink- colored telephone message slips like they were hundred dollar bills – and taking a seat behind her desk. "You don't understand what this could mean for you down the road in your career, and I think that's something I need to tell you ... as your agent." She fixed a stare at the woman, softening her tone but intensifying her eyes. "Milagro, for the record, is currently at the top of his game right now. He's the most sought after cameraman out there. He's the fashion jock. He's our industry's hot ticket. His work is largely considered art, not filler. I'm not talking about glamour shots or bargain sales advertising. I'm talking about the fact that his photographs are hanging on the walls of some of the most creative geniuses of our time, Ulrika." She decided to play the career coach and said, "He's caught Hollywood's eye. That means a great deal for any model – male or female – whom he chooses to photograph. This kind of exposure can open the doors that we've talked about, young lady. You might be looking at an entire photo spread and interview for Maxim Magazine. Or – what's that new one? FHM? There's also Razor to think about. Razor is getting tremendous word of mouth right now."
"I don't like Razor," Ulrika spat.
"What's wrong with Razor?"
"I think the magazine's name promotes violence."
Indiri frowned. "I think the name promotes personal hygiene."
"It is an ugly word."
"Unemployment is an ugly word."
"But it is my career we're talking about," the model bantered moodily from the stuffed chair. "I'm not interested in working with the best. I'd like to experiment, you know? I'd like to get out there and really find out who I am ... visually."
"If you want work," Indiri cautioned, "then talk to me. If you want to find yourself, then get yourself a therapist."
"I would hope my opinion counts for something."
"When you're in my office, sweetheart, it counts when I say it counts."
The secretary appeared in the doorway, still clasping the telephone message, and Indiri replied, "Not now, Iceland."
'Iceland?' she thought. 'There's another absurd name! What's wrong with this world today? Why don't parents just name their little showgirl Barbie any more and get the therapy started?'
Quickly, Iceland disappeared.
"So ... you're saying that I have to go with Milagro?"
"Yes, you have to go with Milagro."
"There is no discussion."
"Not as far as I'm concerned."
The beauty queen huffed, crossing her arms in a contained tantrum. "Tell me why again?"
"I've told you why plenty of times already, Ulrika," Indiri denied her the courtesy. "But I will add one more salient point: his last three models landed their first acting jobs in their career. Now, those three ladies are looking at serious crossover potential onto the silver screen. If they do well – if they play their part and do as their managers, their directors, and their agents tell them – then there might even be a brighter future for them as bona fide actresses." Dismissively, she began shuffling several files on her desk. "So, yes, you will go with Milagro to Cabo, and you will have your several hundred pictures taken, and he will sort through them for the absolute best with the editors of Splash Magazine. Count your blessings, young lady, and stop counting your complaints."
"Yes, mother."
"I am not old enough to be your mother. You, on the other hard, are old enough to be fired."
"Whatever you say ... mother."
Indiri passionately loathed being mistreated by the fashionably- inclined. All of her hard work gave these ungrateful 'children' the opportunities of a lifetime, and all they could offer up in return was cynicism. "Ulrika, for the last time, I am not your mother."
"Yes, father," the model cooed.
"I am not your father, either."
"Then what am I supposed to call you when I'm being sarcastic?"
Indiri sighed. "When you're being sarcastic, you can speak with Iceland." Curtly, she waved toward the door. "Now, out. Mommy and daddy have work to do."
Giggling, Ulrika rose and swaggered out into the busy agency.
"Oy," the agent muttered.
Suddenly, she felt the vibration of her cell phone ringing at her hip. She reached down, still fumbling with the file folders, and flipped the device open. "Indiri Farris," she said.
"You have such a beautiful voice," came the reply – obviously, a man's voice – on the other end of the line.
She stopped. How did this industry pig get her cell phone number? Regardless of who he was, she wouldn't tolerate it. Today, she wasn't in the mood. "This beautiful voice presently earns about $300 dollars an hour on a good day. Today, it's a good day. So, if you have no better opening line than that, I'm not sure you can afford this beautiful voice today."
"Tsk, tsk," he scolded her. "Is that any way to treat a stranger in your very strange land?"
Something about the tone of his voice seemed familiar. Coyly, she relaxed in her leather chair, smiling, and brought a finger to her red lips. "All right. You have sixty seconds."
"Would you like to hear all of the things – each and every one of them more memorable than the last – that I can do in sixty seconds?"
Whoever he was, she decided he was smooth.
"Who is this?" she asked.
"I will give ten seconds to guess, madame."
"Is this ...?"
She couldn't believe it. She guessed that Richard DeMarco was half her age as she studied the smooth lines of his face on the airplane last night. She assumed that he flirted with her only in the interest of passing time. Still, she offered him her business card, and he said he'd call ... but Indiri Farris was hardly used to miracles happening so readily in her life.
"Richard DeMarco?" she asked.
"Very good!" he replied, laughing. "And you guessed correct on the first try! You American women amaze me! You are so much smarter than I ever possibly imagined."
"Our wisdom is our greatest strength."
"If you would not find this too presumptuous, might I add that I have always personally found intelligence in a woman very, very sexy, Miss Farris."
She smiled. "It is such a pleasure to hear that from a man world- traveled."
"I am only thinking of local travel today, Miss Farris."
"Please," she interrupted, her voice sultry. "Call me Indiri."
"Very well."
"What kind of local travel were you considering?"
"Someplace very local," he continued.
"What for?"
"I am hungry."
"And again it begs the question: what for?"
"I would like for the two of us – you and I – to visit someplace where two people – both consenting adults – might enjoy a wonderful evening meal. The meal must be exquisite, and the atmosphere must be perfect. Afterwards, I would very much like for the two of us to perhaps share a peaceful walk under your bright American moonlight."
She laughed. "You are very smooth, Richard."
"You are too kind."
Biting her lower lip, she said, "If that's what serves as an invitation to dinner, then I accept."
"I would very much like to have dinner with you, Indiri."
"Somehow, I was hoping that you'd call."
"Your prayers have been answered, my lady," he told her. "As I am new in your country, however, I do not know of any appropriate restaurant that might lend itself to – shall we say – the proper atmosphere? I was hoping you could make a suggestion."
"Where are you staying?"
"Heston Tower," he replied.
"Really?" she said. "Heston Tower has a lovely restaurant off their lobby."
"I did notice a name on the marquee."
"Yes," she agreed. "It's Abendessen. If I know my German, I believe it means 'supper.'"
"So simple?"
"Yes, it is."
"Then I would like to join you for dinner."
"That would be nice."
"Need I arrange for a car to pick you up?"
He was such a gentleman. And, as he was staying at the Heston, she knew her original instincts on the plane last night were correct: not only was he handsome, but he was wealthy also. Farris knew that she would be working for a few more hours, but an early dinner sounded wonderful.
"Why don't I meet you there?" she offered.
"Are you sure? I don't want this to be any bother."
"I have a few afternoon appointments," she explained, glancing at her day planner. She would have Iceland cancel one or two of the latest meetings so that she would have plenty of time to prepare. "I'll shuffle a few things around in my schedule, and I'll meet you in the lobby. How does seven o'clock sound?"
"Indiri," he crooned, "any time of day coming from you sounds absolutely delightful."
Again, she grinned. She couldn't suppress feeling like a love- stricken school girl, but, were she lucky, she would feel more like a woman tonight.
"Then, it's a date."
"Oh, let's not call it a date," DeMarco replied. "I hate the word. It sounds ... it sounds so provincial. Let's agree that you and I have unfinished business to attend to. That sounds far more adult. Wouldn't you agree?"
End of Chapter 30