The Fire Witness

63

Elin is looking in the huge bathroom mirror and watching her eyes sparkle in the indirect light. She’s taken two Valium and has had a glass of Alsatian Riesling. Out on her large terrace, Nassim DuBois, the young photographer from French Vogue, is setting up. The interview was done last week, when Elin was in Provence for a charity auction. She auctioned off not only her collection of contemporary French art, but also her Jean Nouvel-designed house in Nice. She’s donating the proceeds to a guaranteed fund for microloans to women in North Africa.

She moves away from the mirror and picks up the phone to call Jack. Even though Jack’s lawyer has told her that any contact regarding Vicky Bennet should go through his office, she wants to tell Jack that the car Vicky stole has been found in the Indal River. She won’t care if he seems tired or irritated. She’s no longer in love with him, but at times she feels the need to hear his voice. Before he can answer, she changes her mind and ends the call.

She steadies herself, resting her hand against the wall as she leaves the bathroom. She walks through the living room, to the glass doors leading to the terrace.

She steps languidly outside. Nassim whistles.

“You look absolutely wonderful,” he says with a smile.

She knows she looks good in her copper-colored dress with its thin shoulder straps, and her necklace of hammered white gold. Her gold earrings-a gold so deep it’s almost bronze-cast reflections over her bare skin.

Nassim wants her to stand with her back to the terrace wall and drape herself in a flowing white Ralph Lauren shawl. She lets it billow in a beautiful curve behind her body.

The photographer moves a silver reflecting screen so that her face is filled with light and photographs her from a distance with a telephoto lens. Then he comes closer. He sinks down on his knees. He’s wearing tight-fitting jeans. He takes a series of shots with an old-fashioned Polaroid.

She notices the sweat breaking out on his forehead, but he never stops praising her. Still, she knows his concentration is elsewhere: on composition and light.

“You’re dangerous, you’re sexy,” he mumbles.

“You really think so?” she answers with a smile.

He gets to his feet, nods, and then breaks into a wide, self-conscious smile. “Though more sexy than dangerous.”

“You’re sweet,” she says.

Elin is not wearing a bra and she feels her nipples harden in the cool breeze. She’s hoping he’s noticing and realizes she’s tipsy.

Now he’s lying down beneath her with an old Hasselblad camera and he’s asking her to lean forward and pucker her mouth as if she wants to be kissed. “Une petite pomme,” he says.

They smile at each other and Elin feels happy all of a sudden, almost giddy from the flirtation. His thin, tight T-shirt has come untucked and she can see how firm his body is.

She pouts a little and he keeps taking her photograph, keeps mumbling that she’s the best, she’s just like a top model, then finally he lowers his camera and looks at her.

“I can keep going all night,” he says. “But I can see that you’re freezing.”

Elin nods. “Let’s go inside and have a glass of whiskey.”