Lennox is very particular about the set and I just asked her to bring in impromptu props that she did not approve. Tough. Deal with it. I’m the boss. She designed the set, but I run the shoot. I handle the clients when it matters most. It takes a very special personality to run a boudoir photography business—zero snark, snickers, and judgment allowed. “Hustle, girl.” Shooing Lennox off the set, I grab a mini bottle of water off the break table toward the back of the room.
“Here you go, Mrs. Mattley.” I hand her the water bottle after I twist off the cap. “You’re doing really great. How about a little break?” Holding her elbow firmly, I help her off her knees and guide her to sit. “There. Better?”
She nods and rubs her aching knees.
Poor thing. I really didn’t take into consideration how difficult some of these positions could be on her body. Even the tops of her bare feet are red from pressing against the wooden floorboards for so long. I can touch up the photos and remove the angry red pigment, but while I’ll mess with lighting and background blurring all day, I try not to touch up the models too much and disturb their authentic beauty. That’s the point of all this. Natural.
Sitting down next to her, I rest my back against the bed’s wooden footboard.
“They don’t look good, do they? The pictures? Can I see?”
Turning my head, I look into her steel-blue eyes with wrinkles around the corners. Even at seventy, I recognize the vulnerability. Most of the women I shoot are at least topless. Some, fully nude. Of course, not Mrs. Mattley. She’s more on the modest side, so the sexiest outfit we planned for her was a cap sleeve leather catsuit with a very low-cut V-neck for a little edge.
“You know the rules.” I give her a little wink. I never let my clients see their photos until the shoot is over. Insecurity is evil. It creeps into their minds and poisons the entire shoot. They either become too shy or overcompensate by contorting their bodies into weird positions, trying to hide the bits they’re most ashamed of. The secret to this kind of photography is bold confidence. They can see the photos after I’ve worked my magic. “But for your peace of mind, you are by far the most beautiful woman I’ve photographed on this set.” I give her a dashing smile and she snorts out loud.
Patting my cheek with her dainty hand that’s a little too cool to the touch, she says, “Finn, sweetheart, you are such a sweet young boy…and so fucking full of shit.”
Now I snort in laughter. “Mrs. Mattley! Language,” I say, pretending to clutch my pearls. “I thought you were a classy broad. But I mean it. You look great.” I pat her knee reassuringly.
She shoots me a teasing smile. “My goodness, Finn. Are you flirting with me?”
Sucking in my lips, I level a stare right into her eyes. “Now, we both know Mr. Mattley would descend from above and kick my sorry ass for making a move on his lovely widow.” I wink.
Mrs. Mattley presses against her chest like her cackling hurts. “Ascend, honey.”
“What’s that?”
“Ascend.” She points down. “It’s sweet that you think Mr. Mattley is in heaven. That old grumpy fart is looking up at us as we speak.”
I can’t help but join in her playful laughter.
“But he was my grumpy man. His entire company hated him for being such a hard-ass, but he treated me like a princess. I was his soft spot.”
Mrs. Mattley booked the luxury package. Her late husband was a very successful investment banker, so she has all kinds of money she doesn’t know what to do with. So, for eight thousand dollars, over the course of three months, we’ve spent ample time together as we measured for her wardrobes for three different sets and had numerous meetings about her vision for the photographs. We hand-picked the final packaging—which for Mrs. Mattley will be a custom, white, Italian leather-bound photo book and three giant canvases. It’s been a genuine pleasure getting to know her over the past few months. I’d go as far as calling her a friend at this point. It’s nice. I never knew my grandmother. I sincerely hope she was half as delightful as Mrs. Mattley.
“What do you think he’d say about all this?”
She’s quiet for a moment, a touch of sadness coating her eyes. I can’t imagine how lonely she is. Her only daughter lives in New York. Mrs. Mattley is terrified of flying, so seeing her daughter Rose and her granddaughter is a rare treat when she can pull herself away from the office and fly out to Las Vegas.
She squeezes my shoulder and her lips spread into a devilish smile. “He’d tell me to take my top off.”
We both burst into laughter as Lennox walks back into the room holding two red velvet pillows, so large, they nearly hide her entire body.
“There we go!” I hop to my feet to relieve Lennox of one pillow.
“What are we laughing about?” Lennox asks.
“Oh, Mrs. Mattley was just telling me she’d like to try the second half of the shoot topless.”
Lennox’s jaw drops and she turns beet red. Still laughing like a loon, Mrs. Mattley waves her hand in our direction. “Oh, calm down, honey.” She winks at Lennox. “If I took my top off, Finny here wouldn’t be able to control himself, and it’s very unprofessional to get randy with your boudoir photographer.” She blows a kiss in my direction as I salute her.
“That’s right. Duty first. All professional here.”
Lennox chuckles. “I think you’re in the clear, Mrs. Mattley.” Lennox flashes me a half-smile with a conniving expression. “He can’t have sex.”
“What?” Mrs. Mattley asks as I pat the floor, instructing her to lie down. I prop her elbow up on one of the red pillows and fluff her white hair that has been fixed into soft, full waves. “You’re celibate? I thought that was a tradition that’s dying with my generation.”
Rolling my eyes, I grumble. “I’m not celibate. I’m abstinent. Here, slide your elbow forward just a bit.”
She adjusts and I’m satisfied.
“Good. Where do you feel the tension?”
“My back.”
I grab the other pillow from Lennox and tuck it behind her back. “How’s that feel?”
She sighs with a smile. “So comfortable, I could take a nap.”
“Good. You look great.” In this position, Mrs. Mattley looks relaxed, meaning her face won’t be pinched in torture as I take pictures. “Now pop that back knee up for me and let’s get back to it.”
“Wait, wait,” Mrs. Mattley protests, “why are you abstinent? That won’t do. You’re ruining my whole plan, Finny. I was trying to set you up with my daughter when she comes to visit next month. Do you like kids?”
I screw up my face as I adjust my camera settings. Distracted, I ask, “Isn’t your daughter married?”
“Separated. Soon to be divorced.”
“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that.”
Mrs. Mattley snorts. “I’m not. Her husband, like mine, is a grumpy asshole, except he has no soft spot. He treats my Rosie like garbage. If he didn’t treat my grandbaby so well, I’d fly out there and beat him with a crowbar myself.”
“So you’d finally brave a flight to beat a man up?”