Free Eight Girls Taking Pictures by Whitney Otto Page B

observation—when she heard the handsome young man say, “How can I be expected to write anything for the paper when there isn’t a single person here who seems even remotely interesting?”
    At that moment, the young man turned to see Amadora, almost by his side, remembering her from when he’d first arrived.
    “Pardon,” he said, “I’m writing a piece for The Guardian on Miss Charles’s studio change. I’m wondering if you can direct me to someonewho may work for Miss Charles.” With that, he handed his empty glass to Amadora, thinking her the help, and she accepted it because she wasn’t quite sure what else to do. “Apologies,” he said, noting the look on her face. “I mean someone who works for Miss Charles in a professional capacity.”
    “That would be me,” said Amadora.
    Now it was the young man’s turn to look confused. “Oh, dear,” he said. “Sorry.” He took his glass back. “I didn’t realize.”
    “Why would you when you came in and decided who everyone was without even speaking to them? How would you know the difference between a serving girl and a photographer? But, then, I know what a burden it must be to be the smartest, most captivating person in the room.” Amadora snatched the glass back from the young man and made her way to the kitchen.
    “Please,” he said, following closely behind. “Allow me an honest mistake and to apologize once again. I’m not usually this boorish.”
    “Yes, you are,” said Amadora. She stopped and turned so abruptly they nearly collided.
    “Pardon?”
    “I saw you—with your friend—one day in the park. I was the girl with the little dog in pearls—you know, me and my pretensions.”
    “I do seem to remember something like a dog in pearls . . . but I don’t recall you—”
    “You don’t even remember those you insult? Well, if I’m not mistaken, that’s even more insulting.”
    “I—” He took a deep breath, then shut his mouth.
    As they stood in the kitchen, Amadora could see from the way he held his body and his struggle to say the right thing that his awkwardness was a result of trying not to compound his gaffes. His confusion at attempting to remember her was sincere. It crossed her mind that his proud, difficult demeanor masked a social discomfort, that is, she thought she could detect his decency despite everything.
    She burst out laughing.
    “Oh, God, it is more insulting, isn’t it?” he said, laughing along. “Itseems my pomposity knows no bounds. Look, may we begin again? Would you like to join me for supper tonight? You can tell me all about dogs in pearls and Miss Charles.” He offered his hand. “George Clifton.”
    “Amadora Allesbury.”
    “Amadora.”
    “George.”

    “Like a cheerful young rat deserting, I departed, but I felt sorrow, regret, and love for the sinking ship.” This is what Amadora said to George as she gave him the cut-rate tour of her modest Victoria Street studio. “I actually left just before Miss Charles’s studio closed, and have not yet quite come to terms with my departure, inevitable though it was to be.”
    He walked around, taking in the camera with the Dallmeyer portrait lens (all brass and glass), lamps, chemicals, developing trays, and fixing tanks. Hypo tanks large enough for twelve-by-fifteen plates took up floor space. There was a old stove and ratty curtains and a darkroom with the dimensions of a phone booth. There were bottles of liquid, a dry-mounting machine, a desk, and a pink velvet sofa as a prop, along with a brass floor lamp, its shade made of opalescent glass sculpted to resemble fish scales.
    He stopped at the sofa. “I see you’ve decided to continue on with the decorating theme of pink.”
    “It was left over from the previous owner—a photographer. I bought everything.”
    “You did well under Miss Charles.”
    “My father,” she said as financial shorthand. Though Amadora had done a pair of pictures at Miss Charles’s, she had knowledge in lieu