Brothers of Paradise Series

“I did.” She doesn’t sound the slightest bit agitated. “And so what?”

“It’s like I’m shooting a bad perfume commercial.” I roll my neck, trying to work out an age-old crick. “A scene from Lady and the Tramp.”

She chuckles, pausing on the sidewalk. “I always liked that movie.”

“Of course you did.”

She fishes out a smaller bag from her larger one, a clutch this time, and hangs it over her shoulder. Fixes her hair. Rummages around after something.

“What are you doing?”

“The instructions were clear,” she says. “I’m supposed to transition to an evening look.” She pulls out a small mirror and a black lipstick tube. Her full lips part as she applies red lipstick, looking at her reflection through half-lidded eyes.

Christ.

I raise my camera and take a picture of her applying her lipstick, her hair a tumble around her shoulders and Rome the backdrop.

She glances past the mirror to me, a challenge in her eyes.

I take a picture of that too.

“I’m not posing right now.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Ivy closes her mirror with a snap, once again the woman who’d stood up for herself in New York. “Come on,” she tells me through newly painted lips. “I have an Italian model to meet.”

Right.

Paolo is every stereotype come to life. I hate him immediately, not in the least because he’s leaning suit-clad against the corner of a house, a cigarette in hand and the other clasping his phone.

He looks up and sees Ivy, and I see the exact moment the calculation crosses his mind. She’s gorgeous. I wonder…?

She extends a hand, but he pulls her in for a kiss on the cheek instead. “Paolo,” he says, his English softly accented. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Ivy rocks back on her heels and gives him a wide, blinding, thousand-dollar smile. “Want to go for a stroll?”

“I’d love to.” He takes her arm and tucks it under his, effortlessly, like this was the agreed-upon direction. The two of them begin to stroll up the trattoria-lined street like they’re a real couple just out together.

“Where’s the photographer?” he asks her.

Ivy glances over her shoulder. “Oh, he’s back there.”

All right, Ivy.

Perhaps she’s still pissed about the just a model comment from weeks ago. Or some of the other things I’ve said. And perhaps rightly so, but this is in no way a proportional response. I grit my teeth as the Italian runs a hand through his wavy, styled hair and smiles widely down at Ivy.

He looks like every Italian male model ever.

I shoot the two of them walking arm in arm from behind. Turning down little alleys, stopping as Ivy points at a trattoria sign. It’s all mindless, thoughtless pictures, meant to look enticing to the high-end clients Rieler attracts.

I hate that it’s working. Even just walking around, the two of them attract admiring looks from tourists and locals alike. Maybe it’s Paolo’s form-fitting suit. Maybe it’s the way they complement one another. Or maybe it’s Ivy’s wide, effortless smile. She’s aiming that thing around without a thought to who might get hit.

I gain small, vindictive pleasure from snapping a few shots where Paolo has his eyes closed.

Ivy looks over at me. It’s the first time she has given me a second glance since Paolo arrived. “Gelateria?” she asks.

I nod. It’s not on the list of shots or locations they want, but it’s a solid idea. I regret it five seconds later, though, as I’m forced to photograph Paolo feeding Ivy a scoop of lemon gelato.

Objectively, it’s a gorgeous shot. Ivy looks up at him with something akin to amazement, and he’s smiling crookedly, a dimple in his cheek.

He knows that’s the moneymaker.

People around us stop to watch as Ivy giggles, as they pose, as Paolo bends his head closer to whisper in her ear. My finger keeps moving over the shutter at a furious pace.

“Excuse me,” an accented voice asks at my side. “But are they, like, famous?”

I glance over to see a woman with wide eyes standing at my side, a map of Rome in her hand. A tourist.

“No,” I say.

She nods absentmindedly, but she grabs a picture with her smartphone regardless. And I can’t really blame her, not as Paolo has his hand on Ivy’s waist. They’re eating from the same ice cream cone.This is property © NôvelDrama.Org.

“All right!” I call. “We’re done at this location.”

And the bastards don’t look at me! Paolo just laughs and offers Ivy a napkin, and she blots at her red fuck-me lips.

“Vespa now?” Paolo asks me.

“Sure.” Why the fuck not.

So I shoot the two of them on a Vespa, as Paolo drives up and down the same, carefully chosen street. Ivy keeps her arms wrapped around his waist, her blonde, perfect hair flying in the wind. And just before they dip out of view, she turns and gives me the money-shot.

Gorgeous.

Over and over and over we do it.

I don’t know who’s more relieved when we’re finally by the tiny trattoria specified on the call sheet we’d received. This is where the agency wants the shot of the two of them sharing a romantic, candle-lit dinner.

I busy myself by rearranging the chairs and props, but their conversation is easy to overhear.

“You’re only here for a few days?” Paolo asks.

“Yes, we’re off to the next location tomorrow.”

“That’s such a shame,” the softly purring Italian says. I consider if he’d look better with a black eye. Now, I’m not a violent person-not usually, anyway. But I grew up with two brothers and one who was basically adopted, so I know my way around fists.

“Have a seat,” I tell them. Ivy sinks down onto a chair like it’s an art, crossing her legs and letting the silky fabric drape around her. Tanned legs and high heels on display, and I can’t fault her for them, not when they make her look like that.