The Photographer

could show me the town house they’d just finished renovating. She wanted to spend time with me—to share her work with me. She’d already shared her drawings with me, but the invitation was an indication of our growing intimacy. It was a significant step forward in our relationship.
Wednesday night, I spent more than an hour choosing an outfit for my lunch with Amelia. I wanted her to be proud of me if she had occasion to introduce me to someone. I wanted to look like I belonged to the same socioeconomic class that she did. She might choose to take me to a fine restaurant, so I needed something slightly elevated but effortless. After trying on most of the clothes in my closet, I ended up choosing a gray cashmere sweater and black slacks. It wasn’t a unique outfit, but Amelia would certainly notice that the pants and sweater were both very expensive.
When I arrived at the job site at noon the following day, three workers were finishing final touches on the house, installing the kitchen cabinetry, hardware, appliances, and light fixtures. I spotted Amelia. She was wearing a stylish brown coat and a silk scarf around her neck. “My beautiful Delta,” she cried. “I’m so happy you’re here!” It was freezing cold, but Amelia’s words heated every inch of my body within seconds.
I noticed how the workers looked at her, the supreme respect they accorded her. They worshipped her. Her eyes darted to every corner of the kitchen, assessing what needed to be done. “Line up the pull and the hinge.” “Center the sconce.” “Raise the lantern two inches.” When she gave a direction, her confidence and expertise were palpable.
She finished speaking to the workers, then led me through the parlor floor, describing the paths of circulation and the use of space. Not only was the renovation finished, the home was almost completely decorated. It appeared that many of the original walls were intact, as opposed to the first floor of the Straubs’ home, which was largely open.
We entered the library in the back of the house. “The clients wanted to keep all the dark wood and the paneling,” she said. “They think they’re respecting history. I tried to tell them it was added in the sixties. And even if it was original, it’s ugly.
“They saw our website,” she said. “And I told them, listen, you say you like our work. Well, it’s not going to look like that if you leave all the heavy wood everywhere.” Amelia was surprisingly practical when speaking about her work. Yes, she was a true artist, and it was this aspect of her, above all else, that drew me to her. But she acknowledged the commercial side of her job without apology. Amelia and I had so much in common.
I found the home handsome—though not in the same league as the Straub house. Amelia led me up the stairs, pointing out details with which she was pleased, such as the design of the black iron newel posts, the steel balusters, and the gracefully curved mahogany handrails. The house didn’t completely represent her aesthetics, but I could tell she was proud of it.
She showed me the master suite on the second floor and the children’s bedrooms on the third floor. “We’re submitting photos of our work for an award we were nominated for,” she said. “The photographer we normally use totally flaked.” We were about to head back down the stairs when she stopped and turned to face me, her eyes bright. “You know, I just had an idea,” she said. “Would you take photos of the house for us?”
It took a minute for me to register what she’d said. When I did, I felt a hollow pit in my stomach. She’d asked me to lunch for this particular reason. I’d believed she was interested in spending time with me.
“We need someone brilliant who can fight against all the dark,” she said. “Of course I’d pay you anything you ask.”
I told myself that the request was flattering. She liked the photos of Ian’s mother’s place. Real friends do favors for each other. Just because Amelia had asked me for a favor, that didn’t necessarily mean anything about our friendship.
But I felt foolish, and at that moment, when I tried to see myself through her eyes, I saw Natalie’s babysitter and a party photographer. Not an artist. Not a peer.
When it came time for the shoot the following week, I overcame my despondency and was able to enjoy myself, largely because I had Amelia’s undivided attention and her admiration. She followed me around like a puppy dog, just as Ian and Paula had done in Paula’s apartment. Occasionally I allowed Amelia to look through the viewfinder. “How do you do it?” she said. “You’re not misrepresenting the space, but you’re interpreting it in the best possible way. You’re a genius.”
I hesitated when she asked what she owed me. If I were to take her money, then I would be solidifying an employer–employee relationship. But if I did not take her money, then I still wouldn’t know if our friendship was purely one of convenience for her.
She’d been paying me to babysit Natalie and she wouldn’t have it any other way. However, I considered the photographs to be in a separate category. For one thing, I typically charged a lot for my photographic skills. And something told me that Amelia was looking for a deal. She would be put off if I said my price was fifteen hundred for the day. But I couldn’t devalue my work. It was all or nothing. I chose nothing.
In early February, Amelia and Fritz had a business trip. They were going to Rome for four days to meet with their biggest client. They asked me to stay with Natalie, and of course I agreed.
For those four days, each morning I made breakfast for Natalie and we walked to school together. Then I’d spend the majority of the day