Free A New Lu by Laura Castoro

with you.” Tai smiles as if it’s a bit of an effort, and moves quickly past me and out the boardroom door. “Babs!” She sounds efficient and annoyed as she moves down the hall.
    Rodrigo and me. The absence of caffeine in my new morning routine makes me sit down with a little thump when I reach my office.
    I wait thirty whole seconds, watching the sweep of thehand on my desk clock, before I pick up the phone and ask Babs to connect me with Rodrigo’s.
    â€œYes, a spring cold.” I pinch my nose for a congested affect. “The seasonal swing in temperature gets me every time. Heavy clothing, really? Denies the body healthy circulation and sunlight. Who knew? Vitamin C, one thousand milligrams? And B12? Hold on, I’m making a note. Yes, thank you, Rodrigo. I’ll call when I’m better. Oh, and can this be our little secret? Tai is anxious for me to start. I wouldn’t want her to think I’m not equal to the task. She asked you for weekly updates on my performance? You can tell her I won’t release them for thirty days.” That should buy me a few days. “Oh, you’re a doll. Bye, Rodrigo.”
    Meanwhile, I try out a few of these beauty remedies. I select a box at random and pull out a blue pearlized tube. The going price in retail for this three-eighths-of-an-ounce serum is a cool one hundred and thirty dollars. But free to me! Now that’s an assignment I can handle.
    Tai signed off on Curran’s desire to use black-and-white film, mostly because he convinced her that it would compensate for my newly acquired tan.
    Curran is standing over me, adjusting what seems like a full set of interrogation spotlights placed in sunflower array.
    I reach up to swipe away a drop of perspiration. “I’ll be done in thirty minutes, if you baste me.”
    â€œToo hot, huh?” He flips a switch, which douses most of the wattage. They will flash as he clicks, now that he has them set up correctly.
    I feel pretty silly, sitting in a pair of gym shorts, for comfort, and an off-the-shoulder portrait top Curran says he found in a flea market.
    â€œIt makes for a retro forties
Photoplay
look,” he assures me.
    â€œI’m not that old,” I grouse.
    Acting as his assistant, KaZi has used body foundation to even out the tan lines on my shoulders from my swim-suit. My hair, usually worn loose and wavy, has been pulled back into soft poufs on either side of my face, held with big tortoiseshell combs. In place of lipstick she’s dabbed baby oil. A little more on my cheekbones and eyelids. “Except for two applications of mascara, that’s it,” KaZi says.
    â€œStay natural,” Curran has kept repeating under his breath.
    We begin with classic poses. Chin not quite resting on the back of a lifted hand. The lean-in pose in three-quarters profile, eyes gazing upward. Full-face smile. No smile. Head down slightly, to the side, pensive. “Think Bette! Veronica! Marlene!” he encourages.
    Again and again, we move through the repertoire in Curran’s mind as he changes cameras, changes lenses, dancing around me as if I were a block of marble whose grain he is trying to memorize. Ten, fifteen minutes tick by as I’m repositioned, tugged and tucked. Then another set begins. Another break for prop changes, a genuine cashmere shawl, and then still more shots. Curran’s burning up film like a pro. I hope Tai bankrolled him.
    The weight of the last few days drops back on me from nowhere.
    Suddenly I feel like crying. Tension trembles my chin. The torque of will on muscles pulls the corners of my mouth down. I shut my eyes against the flash of lights. Try to shut out Curran’s elated, “Yeah. Yeah. You’re doing great, Lu.
Ms.
Tallulah! Head back. That’s it. Think profile. Neck. Ah! Sweet!”
    This is so foolish, unnecessary, so ridiculous. As if I will really go through with this. Any of this!
    All at once my eyes