Page 31 of The Lies I Told
He followed me up the stairs, which I opted for instead of the elevator. Never a fan of getting in a soundproof metal box with a stranger. I opened my door, stepped inside, and waited for him to pass by. He paused, studied my photographer’s studio. His expression remained grim and gave no hint of whether he found the space lacking. Ultimately, what mattered would be the photographs, so I didn’t bother to explain.
“How do you know my sister, Brit Stockton?” I asked.
He tugged at the cuff of his coat. “She and I are business associates. We’ve coordinated several real estate transactions before. She raved about you. And I’m now in need of headshots for a new website I’m launching.”
“Great. You mentioned real estate transactions. What business are you in?” Chatting up clients relaxed them and led to better pictures.
“Commercial real estate. I’ve hired a new office manager, and she’s pressing for the headshot. Most of our marketing is done online. Well, you understand. A headshot is worth a thousand words.”
“Understood.” I guided him toward the drop cloth, studied him a beat, and then reached for an iron-frame barstool with a polished wooden seat. It had an industrial vibe that felt like a nod to the past but was also sleek enough not to feel old-fashioned.
“There’s a mirror around the corner, and I’ve made coffee if you’d like some.”
He moved to the mirror, checked his hair as I checked the lights and my camera settings. As he returned, he noticed my pictures of the James River.
“Did you take these?” he asked.
“I did.”
“Are they for sale?”
“They are, yes. The prices are still on the back right corner from the art show I had in January.”
Paul folded his arms and leaned in toward an image that featured a large oak tree reaching out over the James River with bent, gnarled branches. “I know this spot.”
“It’s fairly popular.”
“I lived nearby and used to run down that road all the time. It always looked just like this in the winter.”
A runner had found Clare, and several joggers had run past me when I’d been taking these photos. “It’s a popular route.”
“I haven’t been down there in years.”
I motioned for him to sit on the stool. He settled and I adjusted his coat and tie. The advantage to being female was that men would let me fuss over crooked ties and bent collars. “It’s not really changed since I was a kid.”
“You grew up there?”
“I did. From birth to eighteen.”
“Mid-2000s?”
“That’s right.”
“We likely lived there at the same time.”
“Really?”
I issued directions: turn his head left or right, drop his chin, tilt it up. He complied easily, and the entire session took less than a half hour. I ended up with fifty photos, including several I knew would be usable.
I came around and showed him a few images on my viewfinder.
“Good,” he said. “You’ll email me the digital files?”
“I’ll set up a site for you, and you can access the pictures.”
He fished his phone from his pocket. “You’ll invoice me?”
“Yes.”
