Out of Frame
Among the world's female models, Julian Vance once again ranked first as the photographer they most wanted to spend a night with.
And yet he had never taken a single photograph of me.
When reporters asked about it, he could never hide the fondness in his eyes. "My wife is for my eyes only. No one else gets that privilege."
On my birthday, I happily changed into a lace nightdress and, for the first time, asked him to record me with his camera.
Several minutes passed. The shutter never sounded. Behind the camera, Julian's expression had gone stiff.
"Forget it," he said.
My joy collapsed into confusion. "What's wrong?"
"It's just..." He laughed dryly. "Photography is work. I don't want to mix you up with work."
Then he put the camera back, turned around, and went into the bathroom.
The door to the darkroom where he developed his photos was half open, red light spilling through the crack.
I walked inside and saw an album on the worktable titled Vivian Blair's Private Diary.
I opened it.
Inside were photos in every degree of intimacy and every kind of pose.