Focus of Desire

by Kim Baldwin

  Getting soft in my old age. Kash glanced at her watch to note the date. One month and one day until she turned forty. Forty. She still couldn’t believe it. People who hung around models thought thirty was old. To them, forty was ancient.

  “I’ll get you an itinerary for tomorrow by late in the day, Isabel,” Kash said as the elevator slowed. “But I’d plan on leaving here at ten for the Eiffel Tower.” She turned to the concierge. “Claude, I can see myself from here.”

  “Certainly, miss.” He handed her bellboy the Josephine Suite’s keycard.

  “What do you want me to wear?” Isabel asked.

  “Your choice on this one,” Kash said. “Pick something that says you. That makes you feel good. See you tomorrow. Have fun.”

  Claude showed Isabel and Gillian into the Errol Flynn Presidential Suite, a spacious and sunny two-bedroom, two-bath suite with three televisions, a comfortable lounge area, and best of all, a private balcony with a view of both the Eiffel Tower and nearby Arc de Triomphe.

  Fresh flowers awaited them, along with the usual luxury amenities. And a card welcoming Natasha Kashnikova back to the Napoleon lay in front of a sterling-silver ice bucket, within which nestled a square bottle of Jewel of Russia vodka.

  “You’ll not mind, I hope,” Claude said, as he plucked the ice bucket off the table, “if I exchange this with the champagne that was meant to welcome you.”

  “Certainly not!” Isabel replied.

  “Is there anything else I may do for you at present?” Claude asked.

  “Answer a question, if you would.” Isabel stood at the doors leading out to the balcony.

  “Certainly, miss,” Claude replied.

  “How is this suite different from the other?”

  Claude smiled. “Our Josephine Suite is a bit smaller. One bedroom instead of two, with one bath. And it has a balcony that overlooks the inner courtyard. Otherwise the appointments are very similar.”

  “I see. Thank you, Claude.”

  He gave a small bow. “I am at your service, ladies.”

  After he had gone, Gillian and Isabel stood on the balcony.

  “God, what a view. Sure nice of Kash to switch with us.” Gillian leaned over the rail to check out the people passing by on the Avenue de Friedland below.

  “It sure was,” Isabel agreed. She didn’t have to do that. I wonder why she did. Would I give this up for strangers? “I want to have breakfast out here every morning.”

  “I bet room service here is a fortune,” Gillian said. “Will the magazine pay for all that?”

  “Yup. Three meals a day. It’s all spelled out in those papers they gave me. There are limits on the food, entertainment, and incidental travel expenses, but they’re all pretty high. I don’t think we have to worry about overspending.”

  “Cool.”

  “So…you ready to go hit the streets of Paris?” Isabel was so anxious to get going she was bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.

  “Man, that list of yours is burning a hole in your pocket.” Gillian laughed and put her arm around Isabel’s shoulder. “Sure, Izzy. Whatever you want.”

  “What I really want is for time to stop. Or at least drag from here on out.” She put her head on Gillian’s shoulder and sighed. “I’m afraid this will all be over much too quickly.”

  “Like I’ve been saying, you gotta live in the moment.” Gillian hugged her. “Don’t think about the last day until it gets here, or you’ll miss out on the here and now.”

  “Good advice.” She pushed Gillian toward the door to the suite. “Come on, then. Grab your camera and let’s get this party started.”

  *

  Since she’d given their driver to Isabel and Gillian, Kash hired a cab for the morning and had the driver take her to the places she planned to shoot Isabel the next day. She knew them well from memory, but she wanted to make sure there were no scaffolds or construction zones or the like.

  By early afternoon, she was stretched out on a chaise lounge on her balcony, fresh ice chilling the vodka. Claude always remembered her brand and was compensated accordingly. It’s all in the details. Her view was different than expected, but pleasantly serene. The inner courtyard of the Hotel Napoleon was an oasis in the heart of Paris, full of greenery and flowers. Still, she missed her old view. I’ve gotten way too used to being spoiled.

  After selecting the “Chill” playlist on her MP3 player, she closed her eyes, sipping occasionally from the heavy crystal tumbler. Coltrane. That’s better.

  She usually tried to avoid thinking too hard about her life and whether it was all she wanted it to be, but lately, with the calendar pages flipping inexorably toward another decade milestone, she couldn’t escape a certain amount of self-examination.

  Fucking birthdays anyway. It was impossible to be facing forty. Her last birthday seemed like only yesterday, and her thirtieth not all that long ago. Time had certainly begun to speed up in recent years.

  So far, her body had been pretty good to her, except for those lines materializing on her face. Need to think about doing something about those. Botox injections didn’t appeal to her, perhaps because she’d seen so many women come out of them resembling some macabre swollen twin of themselves. I wonder if those antiwrinkle creams and shit work.

  One of the things she dreaded most about aging was the inevitable changes to her body. And the tabloids will chronicle every flaw. She tried to console herself with the knowledge that she would still have all the other things that attracted women. The money, the celebrity, the star that you can make them with your camera. As long as she stayed on the A-list, she’d never have a problem getting laid.

  But that knowledge did nothing to ease her discontent.

  When she had decided to pursue photography, half her life ago, she had not been motivated by fame and money and sex. She had been into art and sharing her point of view, giving people a new way to reflect upon the world and themselves.

  Somewhere along the line, though, things had changed. Not overnight, and not in a way she had recognized as harmful. The changes were insidious, masquerading as encouragement and opportunities. Increasingly, people had known her on the street and asked for her autograph. Before long, she was offered the best tables in restaurants, the plushest suites in hotels. Everyone wanted to interview her, and invitations to every important party and function started pouring in, far too many for her to accept. She had eaten it up.

  Part of you wanted this. But where has it gotten you? To a place where you no longer recognize yourself and where nothing fully satisfies you. Nothing. You take whatever pictures you have to take, do what’s expected of you, and then, at the end of the day, return home to an empty house and sleep alone. She remembered what Dix, the tabloid photographer, had said. “You use your camera to get rich and get laid. What the hell do you think makes you better than me?”

  Though she despised the rag shooters and thought herself far above them, there was some truth to his accusation. If she didn’t watch out, the line between them would be even further blurred as time went on. How long has it been since you’ve taken a photo that really says something?

  What was incredibly ironic, she mused, was how different she was from the party-girl persona the tabloids had created. Not that she led a chaste life. Quite the contrary. She enjoyed sex and was often up for a quick tryst, if the woman was hot. But when she was out and captured by the tabloids she was usually fulfilling some obligation. Most evenings she spent in solitude, watching a film, reading a book, or working on her photographs. And that solitary existence was wearing thin.

  She poured herself another glass of vodka. When she had allowed fame to seduce her, she really had no idea the toll it would exact. Before you knew it, you were living a life you didn’t recognize. One where every woman she met wanted something from her. Most didn’t hesitate to reveal their motives, because they knew her reputation and didn’t expect to have a second opportunity. A few, thinking themselves more clever, appealed to her for
another fuck at another time, hoping to somehow grow closer to her and improve their odds of getting what they really wanted. You’ve created a world for yourself where you can get laid any time, but forget being able to trust anyone. How is that world going to feel when you turn fifty?

  Taking this photo assignment was a mistake. She was going to have far too much time to think about things. And damn poor scheduling to happen so close to her birthday. Why hadn’t she seen this coming? Because you’ve been too successful at avoiding such introspection.

  Maybe you should hang out with Isabel and Gillian, at least some of the time. Do you good to be reminded about what the real world is like, outside of New York and Hollywood. What genuine people are all about. At least they would distract you. And any distraction right now was welcome. She could take some candid shots of Isabel and maybe a few photographs for herself. See if that artist inside of her was dead, or in hibernation.

  *

  The first stop on Isabel’s lengthy itinerary was the Louvre, only a fraction of which they’d be able to see in the three and a half hours she had devoted to it. But they still would manage to hit all the most important and well-known exhibits because she had mapped out a route for them on the floor plan in the guidebook.

  “I thought you agreed to be more spontaneous,” Gillian chided, when Isabel insisted they had lingered at the Mona Lisa long enough and it was time to move on to the Venus de Milo. As they trekked to the famed statue she put her arm around Isabel’s waist. “Honey, you’re starting to sound like a drill sergeant from hell, and we’re only a couple of hours into the trip.”

  “There’s a lot I want to see!” Isabel replied, nonplussed, without slowing her steps. “And you do realize that the sooner we get through my stops, the faster we can get to yours.”

  Gillian put her hand in front of her mouth. “Oops. My bad. Forget I said anything. Lead on, Sarge.”

  “By the way,” Isabel said, “you’re welcome to take off on your own tomorrow while I’m tied up doing these photo shoots, if there’s stuff you want to see. Kash said it would take six hours—I have no idea how many stops that will involve, but you may be sitting around a lot.”

  “No prob, I’ll hang with you guys. None of the clubs get going until late at night, and you’ll be done long before then. And even if Kash is busy the whole time working, it should give me a chance to get to know her better,” Gillian said. “She sure doesn’t volunteer much, does she? Not really what I expected.”

  “Yeah, I’ve had that same thought.” Isabel slowed to briefly admire a life-sized sculpture of three nude women. “I pictured her being more outgoing and gregarious. But I guess we are strangers, and this is only a job for her. Maybe she’s more chatty with her friends.”

  “Probably right,” Gillian agreed. “She sure seems to know everybody. She’s on Oprah, and Ellen, and Letterman all the time. I’m probably dreaming to think she’d have any interest in me.”

  “Hey, don’t sell yourself short,” Isabel said. “You’re hot. You’re fun. And you have three weeks for her to get to know you.” They arrived at the Venus de Milo and she took her time admiring the sculpture from all angles.

  “Say, Izzy…” Gillian stood beside her and put an arm on her shoulder. “It’s interesting that you want to spend all day admiring paintings and statues of women rather than the real thing. I mean, wouldn’t you rather have the warm, breathing variety instead of cold, hard marble?”

  “These are some of the world’s greatest masterpieces, Gill,” she said defensively. “Art enriches the soul and inspires the creative mind. These things fulfill me in the same way that music touches you.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy that to a certain extent,” Gillian replied. “But do you think that’s really all there is to it?”

  The question gave her pause. “Well, maybe you have a small point,” she conceded. “I’ve had only disappointments with the real thing. And these always make me happy—guaranteed. They don’t appear to be one thing one day and turn out to be something else entirely the next. What you see is what you get.”

  “That’s true of some real women, too.” Gillian squeezed her shoulder. “But you gotta give them a chance.”

  “I’ll think about it. Now, Egypt exhibit next.” Isabel put her arm through Gillian’s and led her toward their final stop. “Then some lunch. And this afternoon…let’s see. Notre Dame and a walk through the Latin Quarter…and I’d like to get in the Père-Lachaise Cemetery before dinner.”

  “We’re going to a cemetery? You’re kidding, right?”

  “Oh, it’ll be great, Gil—it’s full of these unique old tombs and sculptures, and memorials to the victims of the concentration camps. And lots of famous people are buried there: Chopin, Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, Gertrude Stein.”

  “Izzy, you have such a weird idea of how to have fun in Paris,” Gillian said, shaking her head.

  Chapter Four

  “Hi there! Gorgeous morning, isn’t it? Mind if I join you?”

  The voice was gratingly chipper, much too loud, and entirely too close to her vodka-hammered skull. Kash struggled to crack open her eyes. They need to make truly opaque sunglasses for mornings after. She’d intended to have her coffee inside the hotel restaurant, in a quiet, dark corner. But the place had been packed and noisy, and she thought the fresh air might help her feel better, so she had carried her triple espresso to a quiet bench in the nearest park, at the Rue Balzac.

  Isabel stared down at her with an amused expression, her face flushed from jogging. Her long blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she wore navy blue running shorts, a baby blue T-shirt, and sneakers. “I was going to ask if you wanted to run a while with me, but I don’t think an earthquake could shake you from this bench.”

  “Quite the comedy routine,” Kash replied, shielding her eyes with her hand. “You should take it on the road, Pollyanna. And soon. Very soon.”

  Ignoring the suggestion, Isabel planted herself on the seat beside her. “Are you always this grumpy in the morning?”

  Kash glowered at her. “Are you always this perky?”

  The tone of her voice made the question sound undeniably like “go to hell and leave me alone,” but Isabel decided to ignore it. That’s some hangover. Under normal circumstances, she might be a bit more compassionate about someone in such a state. But it was a beautiful morning…she was in Paris…Paris!…and she was too damn happy to let Kash’s sour mood bother her. “Yup, guess I am. Most days I virtually leap out of bed. For me, sleeping is a waste of time.”

  Kash sighed and shut her eyes. I wonder if I can get the hotel to deliver coffee to me here? “Do you mind if we put off the shoot until this afternoon? Say, two o’clock?”

  “Whatever you like. I’m fine with skipping the pictures altogether.”

  Huh? Skip the pictures? Kash opened her eyes fractionally again, though the blinding glare stabbed at her hangover. She thought back to Isabel’s wooden performance at their first shoot back in her studio. “If you’re worried about how you’ll come off on camera there’s no need. I can make a star out of anyone.” That’s what you all want, so that’s what I do, she added bitterly to herself.

  “It’s not that. I mean…no disrespect intended, to you or the magazine. Like I told you that first day, I think you take amazing photographs, and I’m really grateful for this trip and everything—”

  “But?”

  “But this makeover and being in the magazine is really my least favorite part of the contest.” Isabel bent over and carefully retied her shoelaces as she talked.

  It was one of the dozens of gambits that women had used with Kash to gauge her interest in them—find some way to expose a part of their body and see if she was paying attention. Some were more subtle than others. Kash likened it to the preening displays of exotic birds during mating season, and she reacted as she always did, more out of habit than anything else. She let her eyes linger on the smooth expanse of pale skin exposed on Isabel’s lower back.
Nice ass.

  “I mean, you heard the story at the news conference. Gillian entered me in this—” Isabel stopped abruptly when she saw where Kash’s eyes were. She jerked up and felt a rosy blush of embarrassment color her cheeks.

  “I…uh…” Isabel was so surprised at the way Kash was openly leering at her, like she had in the limo, that she couldn’t continue for a moment. She was shocked as well by her own reaction. She liked it, very much. Perhaps a little too much. “I…” What was I saying? Oh, yeah. “I…I never tried to get on any cover. I’d never even picked up Sophisticated Women until after I got the letter saying I’d won.”

  “Still, you did win.” Kash frowned at her empty coffee cup, wishing it could refill itself and grudgingly admitting to herself that Isabel hadn’t intended to flirt.

  “I’d be deliriously happy to let someone else have my fifteen minutes of fame, thank you very much.” Isabel plucked the cup out of her hand. “Stay put. I’ll get you some more.” She jumped up. “I saw a place down the block. Black?”

  Kash squinted up at her. “Very considerate. A triple espresso, please.”

  “Coming right up,” Isabel called back over her shoulder as she jogged away. Now what was that all about? She was glad to put a little distance between them while she regained her composure.

  Kash slouched against the bench, head back, eyes closed. She was irked to think that anyone—let alone some naïve Middle America nobody—might decline the rare opportunity to be captured by her camera. Ninety-nine out of every one hundred women would jump at the chance. More than that, probably. She can’t be serious. This has to be some cockeyed, roundabout way to get my attention.

  She was still trying to figure out Isabel’s story when the subject of her ruminations reappeared with her triple espresso and an orange juice for herself. “Thanks.” Her head still throbbed. Caffeine alone would not be enough. “See any pharmacies nearby?”