Patricia Gaffney Read Online Free

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    “You’d think. What’s her number?”

     

    S ock does her business three times on the two-block walk from where I finally find a parking place to the studio. “Good girl,” I lavish on her all three times. I think it’s working; she’s only gone in the house once in two days. I really think she’s getting it.
    My studio is over a jewelry store on Ontario Road. The sign on the side of the building says Bateman Photography, and has for about fifteen years. If Andrew and I really split up, should I change it to McGugin, my maiden name, or would that just confuse people? The red brick facade and faded awnings don’t promise much, but I like to think the interior is a happy surprise. Somebody once told me people actually prefer seedy-looking photo studios, and the iffier the neighborhood the better. Whatever you charge, they think it’s a deal, plus you seem more like a fine artist than a commercial one. I wave to Mr. Federman, the jeweler, through his shop window, and unlock all the locks on the door to the stairs. That always takes a while, and by the time I finish, Sock’s got her leash wound around my legs twice. She’s scared of the steep steps; I have to pick her up and carry her.
    I turn lights on in the lounge, the echoey studio, my little office. The answering machine is blinking like mad, which is good, means business, but it’s probably just clients making sure their prints will be ready before Christmas. After the holidays, things will slow down a bit and not get hectic again till Valentine’s Day.
    I make a few calls, tidy up the lounge and the bathroom, start getting the studio ready for the shoot. I keep checking my watch. One of Elaine’s freelancers didn’t answer and the other one said he was busy and couldn’t make it, but the third one, the one Elaine had reservations about, naturally she was free and promised she’d be here by a quarter to twelve. Greta Cantwell is her name. She sounded very young, and like I woke her up, but also eager and grateful and enthusiastic—which are the things you want in an assistant anyway, I’m telling myself, more than a look at her portfolio or her degree. With Barb out of commission indefinitely, it’s better if this Greta person is unformed; that way I can mold her in my own image, so to speak. All photographers operate differently, and I want an assistant who operates like me.
    Greta shows up at twelve-thirty.
    “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she keeps saying as she strips off her wet coat. “My car’s in the shop and I missed the bus and then I just missed the subway, and then I had to walk from Dupont Circle because there weren’t any cabs because of the rain. I’m really, really sorry.”
    “Never mind, that’s fine. Can you bring your coat over here? I like to leave the lounge area clear for customers’ stuff,” I say, leading her through the studio to the office.
    “Oh!” She spots Sock on her pillow in a corner of my office. “Oh, a puppy!” She drops down on her knees, and Sock licks her nose. “What a beautiful dog. How old is he?”
    “She. I’m not sure, a couple of months, I think. Okay, so are we ready?”
    Greta jumps up, coloring a little, as if she’s suddenly remembering she’s a professional. She’s got on a short, tight skirt, no stockings, and platform boots. She’s blonde, I can tell by the roots, but she’s dyed her hair a dazzling, comically vivid carrot orange, done up in cornrows tied off with beads. She crosses her bare arms in front at the wrists. I can see gooseflesh; I think, Honey, why didn’t you wear a sweater?
    We go out to the studio. I start to explain the layout I’ve got in mind. “It’s twins,” I tell her, “six-year-old boys, and it might get a little dicey because of the grandmother.”
    “Oh,” Greta says, “the mother’s dead? My mother died when I was six, too.”
    “I’m sorry. But—no, the mother’s not dead, but it’s the grandmother who’s commissioned the