"But where will you go? What will you do?"
"I haven't thought that far ahead. Right now I just need some money to see a photographer. Then, I can take the photos to a printer, and the composite to an agent, and—"
"I have half a mind to tell Shaw about this," he interrupted.
"No, Marcus. It wouldn't do any good, and besides, I'm doing it for his sake. You just have to trust me about that. I wouldn't do anything to hurt him any more. He can go back to Lorraine and all her money and—"
"Now you really are talking nonsense." He laughed and Brandy thought he was trying to convince himself more than her. "Why anyone looking at the two of you couldn't help but see all the love between you."
"It's all an act, I tell you. He doesn't care one bit about me. I'm a liability. That's why I want to stop making him feel obligated to me. The only way I can do that is by modeling. I can stand on my own two feet, you know."
"Can you?" He paused, and Brandy's heart pounded waiting to hear what else he had to say. "If you could you wouldn't have to ask for a loan from me. Not that I wouldn't give it to you if I thought the reason were a good enough one. I just know how mad Shaw would be if he found out I had any part of this. So, I'm sorry, Brandy, but the answer is no. I'll help you anyway I can if you need me. But knowing what Shaw would say, I can't encourage your modeling."
Brandy's heart sagged. She had been so sure Marcus would help her. Now what would she do? Without realizing it, she began to run the possibilities over in her mind. "Well, I guess I can call Rex Henson. Some of the girls have mentioned him as being real easy to get around without much money, but he keeps strange hours. I'd have to get a babysitter for Eric. And—oh, never mind. I'll think of something, Marcus. I guess I can't blame you. I know how Shaw's temper can be. Thanks, anyway."
"Brandy—" His urgent voice made her stop from hanging up the phone. "Don't do anything without talking to Shaw first? Please? You might find you're underestimating him."
Chapter Eleven
Brandy gave Marcus' words some thought for a few days. She was finally convinced by the way Shaw glared at her whenever he came home, as if he couldn't wait to get her out of his sight. She felt as if he was plotting to get rid of her. He spent even less time at the apartment now, claiming work had him more bogged down than ever.
She called Rex Henson, the photographer some of the other girls had mentioned using, and arranged for a photo session. He kept odd hours, he said, and the only free time he had that week was at ten o'clock that night.
Brandy felt strange about traveling around the city on her own at that hour, but she needed the new composite, and Henson's price was within her means. She would have to get a sitter. She couldn't possibly ask Shaw to come home from his taxing business to watch Eric for one evening, not without explaining where she was going.
The more she thought about it, the more she realized how convenient the late night time would be, since Shaw, if he came home for dinner, would probably be gone again by eight o'clock and would never miss her.
Shaw seemed to eye her closer than ever that evening. She even caught him questioning Eric about what she had been doing lately, and what she was planning to do that night. Brandy was relieved that she had not told Eric the babysitter was coming. He should be fast asleep by that time, anyway.
After Shaw left, Brandy took her time packing a small suitcase with a variety of outfits to wear for her photos, and was ready to leave by the time the babysitter arrived.
It wasn't the usual girl, but the girl's grandmother. Brandy smiled at the dear little lady, thinking what a wonderful family her babysitter had: it wasn't the first time the girl had sent someone to pinch hit for her. Once it had been her mother, and another time her father. Brandy wished she and Shaw could make that kind of loving and caring family with Eric, but it was an impossible dream.
The photographer's studio was in the heart of the city, on one of the side streets off Peachtree Plaza. When Brandy drove past the address and saw the tiny entrance from an alley between two major buildings, she wished she had thought to bring someone with her. She was pushing the clock now at ten o'clock and he might be one of those temperamental photographers who thought his time was so precious he could not waste a minute of it.
She parked the car as close to the entrance as she could, retrieved her suitcase from the back seat, and tried the door. It was locked, but she noticed a tiny doorbell nearby and pushed it. The walls were too thick for her to hear the sound of the bell, so Brandy waited, then rang it again.
She was just about to knock on the heavy metal door when she heard someone undoing the bolts, and the door opened.
"Hello," her smile wavered on her face, "I'm Brandy."
He sized her up head to toe, shrugged, and said, "Come on in. Sorry about the door. I usually keep it unlatched when I'm expecting someone."
More than ever Brandy wished someone had come with her, but tried not to look nervous as he gestured for her to precede him through a warehouse-looking room dimly lit and stocked with everything from display posters to styrofoam mannequin heads—hundreds of them.
"What an interesting place," she gulped.
"It used to be a department store," he muttered and pointed her down a more brightly lit corridor to an open door on the left.
The room was large and filled with a photographer's studio equipment, backdrops, light stands, cameras on tripods, and shelves for accessories and film. She sighed and steadied her nerves a little. What could she expect for such a low price? she thought.
"You can change in there," he said curtly, and Brandy turned around, trying to see where he meant.
"The bathroom," he clarified when she didn't see any custom-made changing area.
"Okay," said Brandy, wishing now she had an ordinary job like a waitress or a nurse. She didn't like having to put her clothes on and off in cramped surroundings with a seedy little man standing just outside the door. She only hoped the lock worked.
It didn't.
Brandy propped her suitcase up against the door, so if he tried to make a pass at her, he might be stalled at least a few seconds by tripping over her suitcase before he could get to her. She shivered, picturing his hands as greasy as his swarthy complexion. She was letting her imagination run away with her, she told herself. It was the result of the past weeks of Shaw's overprotectiveness. Nothing had ever happened to her before, she thought, and there was no reason to think anything would now. Besides, she was too short.
She emerged wearing a pair of designer jeans and a western blouse in colors flattering to her complexion.
The photographer turned from loading one of his cameras with film, looked at Brandy, and asked, "When are you going to change?"
"I just did."
He shrugged again. "Could have fooled me. You look almost the same as when you came in. That outfit is as tacky as a sack. Don't you have something that will show off your—personality a little better?"
"I'll see," said Brandy, suddenly nervous again. They weren't getting off to a very smooth start. Maybe he was just difficult with everyone he photographed.
She took longer this time and picked out a dress with wide skirts and a narrow waist, making her resemble a Southern belle. It had a gathered neckline that could be worn slightly off the shoulder. She wasn't surprised at all when Henson asked her to slip the material off her shoulders a bit for a more revealing neckline. Brandy did as she was told out of habit. He was, after all, a professional photographer: it was his job to make her look good for the camera. She didn't want to look, as he had implied, like a nine-year-old.
He took a long time with the photos, teaching her different poses: skirt in her hands, bending over with her hands on her knees, and over the shoulder glances. As roll after roll of film clicked through his expensive cameras, Brandy began to feel she was getting more than her money's worth; he had quoted her a fixed fee for the time and rolls of film he spent on her.
"Let's take a break." He came to the end
of another roll of film and stretched. "Thirsty?"
"A little," she admitted. Studio lights were always blazing hot, except in the dead of winter when swim-suits were modeled.
"Why don't you go change into something else while I fix something? Orange juice okay?"
"Fine." She smiled, beginning to feel if not rapport with the man, at least less uneasy.
"Let's see something this time that shows off your legs. I have an idea that's going to be one of your assets."
Brandy wasn't about to argue with him. Everyone had told her she had lovely legs, but because she was so short, she was never called for the leggy style of fashion shot.
She changed into a sporty outfit of coordinated terry and hoped the photographer would find it satisfactory.
He didn't comment as he handed her a chilled glass of orange juice. He waited until she had finished her drink, looking at his watch frequently enough to make her feel again that she was taking up too much of his time. He shot several more rolls of film of Brandy in various poses, until she felt herself falling into a routine: front foot forward—hand on hip—quarter turn—throw head back—half turn—down on one knee —tilt head to the right—stand again—run tongue around lips—quarter turn—glance over shoulder. It was all rather dizzying, but fun. She was feeling looser with him, and he seemed to feel so, too, because he began mumbling, "Good, good… beautiful… that's it… a little more to the left… perfect." The film raced through the camera.
"Now—" He smiled, as he finished another roll of film. "Let's try something seductive. You have a sexy look that we could develop. It'll show that you have a variety of looks, which could be quite a selling point for your composite."
Brandy hesitated. "Well, all right." He was the professional, she thought. He had probably done hundreds of composites for models. He should know what he was talking about.
When she emerged wearing a wraparound gown that she thought was rather attractive, he frowned. "Terrible! Worse than a Hawaiian muu-muu! Don't you have anything more revealing?"
"Just a swimsuit," Brandy said.
He shook his head, indicating she had fallen out of his graces after his delight with the last few frames. "It'll have to do, I guess. Hey," he smiled, when he saw how disappointed she looked that she had not brought the kind of clothes he wanted, "how about another drink? I've been working you pretty hard."
Brandy smiled at his gesture of friendship. "Thanks. I'd like that."
Her swimsuit, for all that it revealed, was fairly demure. It was the one she wore in public whenever she had an invitation to go swimming; she had another for tanning. They went through the routine again, the photographer feeling more pleased with each whirr of his fast moving shutter. Brandy was becoming more confident in front of him, giggling at his jokes, until he straightened and said, "Let's try a bareback shot."
"A what?"
"Take your top off. Let's see what you look like. Glance over your shoulder at me. It should be very seductive."
Also very embarrassing, she thought.
"I don't know. Is this necessary? I don't think I'd like that kind of photo on my composite."
He sighed. "You're probably a little nervous, right?"
She nodded, glad that he understood.
He smiled a friendly smile. "If it makes you feel any better, most girls feel that way. But believe me, they all end up doing it sooner or later. The sooner they do it, the better their career becomes."
Brandy bit her lip. He was a professional. He dealt with models all day and all night. "I just don't know," she said hesitantly.
"Look—" His grin widened. "There's nobody here but you and me. Just turn your back on me and unsnap your top. I won't even see anything!" He paused. "Let's just try one. If you don't like it, we won't use it in the final composite."
That seemed reasonable enough. And what could he do to her from all the way across the room? She turned her back to him, hesitating, suddenly wondering why she felt so sleepy and dizzy. It was late. The sooner she did what he asked, the sooner they would be finished and she could go home.
"Come on now." He laughed to put her at ease. "Don't be shy. Just unsnap the thing and let it drop."
"Don't you dare!" An all too familiar voice shattered Brandy's haze and startled the photographer. She spun around to see Shaw standing in the doorway.
"Who the hell are you?" demanded the photographer, all pretense of friendliness disappearing as his brows furrowed at the interruption. "How did you get in here?"
"Walked in," said Shaw. "Brandy, get dressed."
"See here," bristled the photographer, "what right do you have to come in here disrupting a professional session?"
"It doesn't look like anything professional to me!" thundered Shaw. "Brandy, do as I say."
"Listen, buddy, this happens to be my studio, and as I see it, you're trespassing!"
Shaw took several steps into the studio. His angry glance at Brandy made her scurry for the protection of her clothes and the bathroom. She could hear his powerful voice even with the door slammed shut behind her. "One minute later and it would have been you who would have been trespassing, buster," he practically shouted. "That's my wife, and I have no doubt as to your intentions, even if she did."
"Your wife?"
"That's right—as in married—as in you'll be sorry if she so much as tells me you touched her. Did you?"
Brandy imagined Shaw hauling the little man up by the throat of his shirt, as she heard his next reply garbled. She struggled into her jeans and shirt, and stuffed her other clothes into her suitcase.
Whatever Shaw was doing, she knew he meant business, and she wondered half fearfully what sort of punishment would be in store for her when she got home. She knew he would treat her more like a small child than like his wife. She wasn't looking forward to the next moments alone with him. It was bad enough that he had found her here and was harassing that poor photographer. She would probably never get her composite done at this rate.
"Brandy!" He pounded on the door. "Aren't you ready yet?"
"Yes," she half whispered, and she opened the door, clutching her suitcase, which was jammed closed with a shirt-sleeve hanging out.
His hand grasped Brandy's like a vise as he hauled her across the room. She tried to apologize to the photographer for Shaw's behavior, but she was so shocked by the whirlwind of circumstances that all she could do was follow Shaw open-mouthed as he hauled her out the door.
He pushed Brandy into her car and tossed the suitcase into the back. "Now stay in this car until you get to the apartment—and don't try anything funny because I'll be driving right behind you. We're going to have this out once and for all."
Brandy nodded, still unable to utter a word in the face of his anger.
She was apprehensive during the drive home and amazed that she wasn't colliding with anything—her mind was on everything but driving.
He was tight-lipped and forceful as he hauled her through the lobby and into the elevator, as if she would dare try to go anywhere else, whether he was holding her or not.
He unlocked the apartment door and put on his kindest face for the babysitter, paid her generously for her time, and ushered her to her apartment in the building, his eyes warning Brandy before he left that she had better be on the sofa when he returned.
She had nowhere to go. If she were going to leave Shaw, she had to do it openly. No one would get away with fooling Shaw Janus about anything. She hadn't with this marriage. When he came back, she would tell him she wanted an annulment and she would not ask for any support or alimony from him. She would just have to give Eric to Louis and May. They, at least, could provide some semblance of a home for him.
When Shaw came back he continued to glare at her, and took his time pouring a drink before he came to stand in front of her. "Well?"
"Well what?" she snapped back, feeling very tired, very alone, very sad.
"What do you have to say for yourself?" he challenged.
S
he glared up at him, all the way to his taunting eyes. "I'm ready for that annulment."
He raised his brows, and she imagined that his color paled slightly. "Then you've changed your mind?" he asked.
"About what?"
"About what you told me the other night… about what you've told me all along about wanting to make a home for Eric… about needing a husband… about loving me."
Tears pricked behind her eyes, and she shook her head. "No. I meant every bit of that."
"Then why the annulment?" He finished off his drink and poured another.
"Because I'm destroying you. You don't want me. You never did."
"Don't tell me what I want or don't want!" he flared. "I never said I didn't want you, lady."
Brandy sniffed. "Yes, that was obvious, but what I meant was love. Love is important to me, but it means nothing to you. And it can't really be love if it's hurting those involved."
He sat down on the sectional sofa adjacent, but not near, to her. "That's true. I never wanted love. I didn't believe in it. I'd never known what it was."
She shrugged, tears dripping down her cheeks. "I know. I realize I can't expect you to magically feel the way I do. You either care or you don't."
He slid a little closer—close enough to take her chin in his hand and turn her face to him. "I care." His voice was husky. "I care a lot."
She shook her head, unable to believe him.
He forced her chin to stay still, and waited until she was looking at him. "But it's new to me," he continued, "I'm just beginning to feel alive. And I know it would kill me if you left us, Brandy."
"Us?"
"Eric and me. Marcus told me what you had in mind."
"Oh!"
"Don't get mad at him. He made me realize what you mean to me. Just the thought of you leaving has been tearing me up these last few days, but I've been so busy I kept telling myself I could put off talking to you. But when I came in tonight and found that strange woman here, and she said you'd packed a suitcase, I nearly went crazy. Marcus didn't know where you'd gone, but he remembered you mentioning that guy's name and I took a chance you'd be with him."
For Eric's Sake Page 14
