05 • Camille

“You and you, switch spots!”

Morgan Pierce’s clear tenor rang through the Museum of Modern Art’s Sculpture Garden and a Canon camera hung precariously in a limp-wristed hand as the two girls he’d spoken to obeyed, changing positions just like he’d told them to.

“Yes, yes,” the photographer said with a satisfied smile. He squinted, raised the camera to an eye. “Now pose!”

Click. Click. Click.

Morgan stopped, looked up.

“Give me life,” he ordered. “Give me sensual. Give me avant-garde!”

Click. Click.

“Perfect!”

He continued to speak as his shutter went off.

Camille found she could not stop the gut reaction that came only so naturally to her at that point: an eye roll.

Two years as Editor-in-Chief of Bon Vivant New York had still not desensitized her to certain requirements her position called for—an example being how she continued to dread the tedium of supervising cover-shoots, especially if they ran several hours longer than they needed to.

She’d called in one of her numerous favors to have the Sculpture Garden cleared out for this photo-shoot when the deal at the original venue, a picturesque but deserted mansion deep in the outskirts of New York, fell through, and here they were, all gathered.

Around half a dozen of Morgan’s casually-attired assistants dabbed at beads of sweat on their foreheads with handkerchiefs and breaks were called at regular intervals for touchups on the makeup of the five girls around whom this flurry of activity converged.

The heat wave had started up a few days ago and to her it felt as if Manhattan especially bore the brunt of it.

From the very beginning it’d been clear that the shoot was set to conceptualize a statue garden of sorts and dressed in outfits from Valentino’s latest spring collection, the five members of ROUGE: Seohyun, Eunjoo, Livy, Stacy, and Nan—arguably the world’s biggest girl group—looked like goddesses in every sense of the word; a vision made more evident by the strands of limited-edition Bulgari diamond chokers, bracelets, and rings they each had on.

These served to further accentuate their brilliant skin, fine-boned faces, and rosebud lips.

A single look at them was all the assurance Camille needed to know that her decision to contact their PR team after watching the viral thirty-second clip of their Coachella performance had been a good one, and it warmed her to think of the reaction of her peers at Vogue and Harper Brazzers, balled fists and shuttered eyes when they heard that copies of the September issue sold-out as soon as they hit the stands.

“Okay, timeout,” Morgan called, snapping a finger as he handed his camera over to an assistant. “Somebody get me an ice tea or I’ll drop down dead from a heatstroke and this shoot will never be finished.”

He tucked a strand of his curly black hair behind an ear before delving into a series of elaborate finger snaps until finally; a girl in sneakers, jeans and a crop top hat held out the requested beverage to him, at which point an incredulous expression settled on his face.

“Oh, honey no”—he pronounced it henny—“no, no, no, no, no.”

All said in quick progression. Then he asked, “Are you new here?”

The girl blinked nonplussed as slowly everything action quieted down, including the members of ROUGE who’d looked preoccupied with whatever conversation they’d been having.

She hesitated. “Yes sir.”

A note of profound pity settled over Morgan’s face, and then he sighed.

“Nobody told you.”

All eyes were on him.

“I said, did nobody tell this poor girl the one rule she was never supposed to get wrong?”

A long stretch of silence followed, and realizing he was unlikely to get an answer, Morgan turned to the offender who’d already begun to quiver.

“A straw,” he announced finally. “I take my beverages with. A. Straw.” He smiled sweetly.

“Now is that so hard?”

The girl shook her head, eyes wide as she apologized profusely and made to double back and get a straw for him.

“I forgive you, but don’t bother yourself dear heart, you’re fired,” the photographer said, taking the cup of iced tea as he brushed past her, headed towards Camille.

For a second nobody knew what to make of this public display, least of all the girl who’d just been fired. Her jaw hung slack, lost for words as she tried to process the events of the last minute.

“I need that straw like yesterday,” Morgan said, sing-songy. “But take your time, it’s not like I’m going to fire everyone here. That would be crazy.”

That were what did it, his words. It felt like watching a spell lift, as almost everyone in that vicinity immediately began to rummage around the untouched mini buffet table a few paces away from where she stood.

Morgan sidled up to her just as one of his assistants stopped in front of him with a straw held in a paper napkin, which he accepted smilingly.

“You’re a darling Damien,” he said beaming. “Don’t change.”

“I won’t Morgan.”

Camille watched their exchange from the corner of her eye though she kept her gaze fixed on the girls who giggled at some inside joke they’d probably just shared as they were herded for costume change and more makeup touchups. This reminded her that beyond the couture dresses and expensive jewelry they had on the oldest among them, Nan, was nineteen; and the youngest, Stacy, had only just turned sixteen.

They may have looked older and worldlier but they were girls, and a small part of Camille mourned at the thought of how fast they would need to grow up if they intended to remain relevant in the way they currently enjoyed, regardless of talent.

“Is that Zimmermann you’re wearing?” Morgan asked, and Camille came to, turning to find him pointing an elegant finger at her white eyelet dress.

“Mmhmm,” she said, one side of her lips tugging up in a half smile. “How did you know?”

The photographer ignored her question, apprising her from head to toe.

“Louboutin’s too,” the photographer murmured, his apprising eye taking her in. “My, my, the Queen of New York strikes again. You know, your taste is to die for.”

She cracked up, unable to stop herself from punching his shoulder lightly as he winked and then returned to slurping noisily on his iced tea.

“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“There is no other way to take it, love.”

A brief pause followed.

“I love your outfit too,” Camille stated, already knowing the part she was to play in this conversation.

After all, working around people with huge egos came as part of the job description.

“Oh, this old thing?” he asked, thumbing at his shirt with false modesty. “It’s a vintage Perry Ellis. I almost didn’t wear it today, but if the Editor-in-Chief of Bon Vivant insists that it’s chic then who am I to say otherwise?”

“So, your assistant,” she started after a while, fixing her gaze on him, “the one you fired just now, c’mon Morgan, a straw?”

“Oh, that,” he said, waving dismissively. “I may be a drama queen half the time but I’m not a tyrant. I was just hazing her. It’s tradition for every intern who starts out at my place to get fired on their first day. I’ll have Damien shoot her an email this evening welcoming her to the family.”

His words took a short time to register, but when they did she was unable to stop the snort that followed and Camille masked it as a light cough, then coughed gain for added effect; this time more seriously.

All of her facial muscles begged to fall apart, and it was only by strength of will alone that she managed to keep the laughter which threatened to bubble out of her contained.

As one of the most sought after photographers in America, Morgan Price (born Mickey Joseph Jones at St. Thomas Hospital, Texas, June 1989) was one creative she continued to collaborate with, though it wasn’t because he happened to be a genius whose pictures held a cinematic quality to them—not in a Spielberg sense per se, but in the sense that his images always seemed gave a sense of constant motion, almost as if his models would strut out of their frames at any moment long after they’d been captured, though this played a part in it.

And it wasn’t because of oblivious sense of grandiosity which came across as hilarious especially when you got to talking and found just how seriously he took himself, though this played a part too, because if you were going to have a ten hour shoot then the least you could do was surround yourself with people around whom you could laugh.

No. The answer was simpler than any of these. It was because he was one of the first people who’d approached her looking to strike a deal.

Camille didn’t have to think too hard to recall the events of that night, three years ago, where at the after party celebrating the launch of the vegan-based makeup beauty line whose parent company fell into debt quickly after, Morgan had sidled up to her in fashionably distressed Levi’s and a forest green silk shirt, asking if he could get her a drink. Of course she’d turned him down at first because she had a boyfriend, but when he explained that he was gay and had no such intentions she’d slowly thawed, until she found herself dancing the rest of the night away.

She remembered that night because she hadn’t wanted to go without Milo, her boyfriend, who insisted she not miss out just because he wasn’t there; and because the Salvatore Ferragamo heels she’d worn that evening had been too narrow and she had to walk barefoot to her apartment from 111th Street and Broadway—but not before exchanging numbers with Morgan, who called and texted frequently in the days that followed until finally he came clean, admitting he’d known who she was when he walked up to her, and that he wanted to strike a deal: she’d make an introduction then he would take it from there, and in exchange if he ever made it big she would always be a priority client.

Their relationship had never recovered, whether or not he would ever admit this to was yet to be seen; but she’d accepted, recognizing the all too ambitious glint in his eyes.

Fast-forward to the present, where his big break was probably far larger than he’d anticipated it would be: An internship at James Maher, which quickly led to him striking out on his own in a studio right in the heart of Manhattan, and then the international acclaim that followed as photo after photo from his editorials were shared and re-shared until the Ariana Grande Vanity Fair shoot, which had been the turning point of his career.

Just last week she’d stumbled on an post on his Instagram page in which he’d been posed beside Michelle Obama, which was no big deal as it fell under the category of a day in the life of Morgan Pierce.

A sudden flash of color in front of her caused Camille to stiffen and she looked up to find a member of ROUGE, Anastasia—or Stacy to her fans—Baek shuffling from one foot to another.

She’d zoned out when Morgan’s drone turned monotonous, retreating into a corner of the corner of her mind that put her on autopilot. She hadn’t been paying attention when he drifted off, and had definitely not noticed the girl until she literally stood in front of her.

“I’m so sorry,” the girl apologized, one arm crossed over the body of her new dress, a red chiffon confection, holding the other arm. Her eyes darted nervously. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Her accent was crisp, clear American, which came as no surprise as she’d spent fifteen of her seventeen years in New Jersey, where she lived until she got scouted by YPD Entertainment from her YouTube channel and flew to Korea to join their trainee program, finally debuting by the time she turned sixteen.

“No, you didn’t scare me,” Camille said, “I was just startled. It’s okay. Do you need anything?”

Stacy blinked, saying nothing, and must’ve realized she was staring as she quickly pulled herself together.

“Um, I’ve been a fan of yours since I was really little.”

Camille cocked her head to one side. “Is that so?”

“Y-yes,” she cleared her throat, “yes. I have, well, my sister was first and she freaked out when she heard I’d be meeting you. She follows all your socials and tries to hand sew anything you wear if it’s possible. She wants to be a fashion designer.”

She said the last two parts sotto voice.

Of its five members Stacy was ROUGE’s It Girl. With the most fans across Europe and North-America combined, she was known for her powerful soprano and distinctly bold fashion choices, which even now the stylist had tried to embody by giving her a dress which flared in glorious ruffles from the midriff down, and no jewelry save the diamond teardrop necklace she had on.

To see the look of pure hero-worship on her face disconcerted Camille and also made her a little suspicious but she soldiered on, making small talk until their manager, a pudgy little man who’d told her to call him Hoonie, cut in to remind them that they were on a tight schedule, at which point Stacy gave a shy wave before running off to join the rest of her friends.

“Alright, alright girls,” Morgan said, clapping his hands together in quick succession, obviously rejuvenated from the short break. “I know we’ve been here since seven a.m. and now it’s—”

“Eleven-thirty a.m.!” one of his minions chirped.

He snapped his fingers. “Right, what he said. And now we’re drawing to a close. This is the last lap. We don’t do basic. We start with a bang and end with a bang. Am I right?”

“YES!” the girls answered straightening, eyes blazing, epitomes of glamour each of them.

“We give them a serve they did not know they needed. Am I right queens?”

“YES!”

“We look alive!” he said, repeating the most popular line from the lead single of their debut album, a Billboard chart topper.

The girls went wild as the rest of the crew began to clap, and Camille felt a flutter start in her heart as she got pulled into the moment too and applauded with the rest of them.

This ability of Morgan’s, this gift he had of living in the moment and pulling you into it along with him had been the first thing she noticed about him, the only reason she’d gone on to take a chance on him later on. And her gamble had paid off.

A skilled fighter puts himself in a position to make defeat impossible.

The shoot continued on schedule after this little pep talk, and a few minutes passed before a line from Morgan’s speech struck her. His intern had said it was 11:30 a.m., and she pulled out her phone which she’d put on silent that morning to find a reminder that read:

     HAPPY HOUR W. TAVY!

Along with three missed calls and a text she’d received fifteen minutes ago.

     TAVY: YOU ARE DEAD TO ME!

It was eleven forty-seven a.m. and she was over fifteen minutes late.

“Shit,” Camille hissed, groaning as she beckoned to the pretty young woman that was her first assistant, Eva Martin—who hurried forward looking unnerved, though this was an expression she always had on when Camille called her.

“I need you to finish things up here.”

The girl gulped. “Excuse me, Miss?”

“Finish things up here, I have an appointment.”

A knowing look crossed Eva’s face at the mention of this, as they both knew what eleven a.m.’s on Tuesdays meant, and after an instant she gave a determined nod.

“I won’t disappoint you.”

“Oh I don’t expect you to,” Camille said, shoving the phone into her sleek Chanel purse and saying goodbye to everyone on set before hurrying out and hailing a cab, which she immediately got into.

If she was lucky her best friend wouldn’t kill her.

She didn’t hold her breath though.