Читать книгу Close Enough to Touch - Victoria Dahl - Страница 11

CHAPTER FOUR

GRACE WAS NERVOUS. She didn’t like being nervous. It made her grumpy and defensive, which wasn’t the best attitude for a job interview.

Not that this was exactly a job interview. She’d caught the bus to the other side of town and was now sitting in Eve Hill’s photography studio, waiting for her to finish reviewing proofs with someone. Or she assumed that was what was going on behind the closed door at the far side of the room. That’s what the sign on the front door had said. The low murmur of voices was a soothing sound, at least.

So far, so good. There were the obligatory bride portraits on a side wall, but for the most part, the pictures were a mix of landscape shots, publicity stills for businesses and some truly amazing fashion shoots that had been done with the mountains in the background and frost covering everything except the models.

This woman was good. Really good.

Grace smoothed down her tight black pants, wishing she’d had an iron. She’d hung her nicest clothes up in the bathroom and turned the shower to hot, but now she felt self-conscious about the slate-blue sweater. Maybe it was the wrong choice. It had been knitted to look ancient and torn apart and shot through with muted grays as if it had faded in the sun. Slightly risky for a job interview, but Grace was counting on the complex beauty of the wool to catch the photographer’s eye. The sweaters normally sold for three hundred dollars a pop at the upscale farmer’s market in La Jolla, but the knitter was a friend who’d given Grace one as a present. It was her favorite piece of clothing. Ever. But maybe it had been a mistake. Maybe in Wyoming a raggedy sweater was just a raggedy sweater that no one would pay two dollars for. Maybe it looked like something she’d pulled from the trash can behind an L.A. soup kitchen.

God. She should go home and change.

Grace stood up, but then froze without moving toward the door.

Change into what, exactly? The signed Dead Kennedys T-shirt she’d bought at a garage sale last year? The silk tunic with the hand-screened Vargas pinup girl that curved up the hip in vivid colors?

Actually, maybe. Maybe a photographer would appreciate Vargas. Or maybe she’d consider it no better than soft porn.

“Damn it,” Grace muttered softly. She didn’t like this. Trying to please people. Worrying how to make a good first impression. She’d put up with this sort of thing for the past year, thanks to Scott, but what the hell did it have to do with how great she was with makeup? And she was great. Anyone in L.A. would be lucky to have her as a makeup artist, much less someone in Jackson, Wyoming. So why was her confidence shaking like a leaf?

Maybe because this felt like a last chance.

It wasn’t, though. She could work at a restaurant. A gas station. She could clean hotel rooms. Anything. But those jobs would all pay minimum wage. How long would it take her to pay back an eight-thousand-dollar debt at that kind of wage?

The white door opened and a pair of female voices swelled through the room. Grace decided to bolt. This whole thing was a ridiculous idea. But when she started to move, her boot hit the portfolio she’d set on the ground. She caught herself, but wobbled on the four-inch heel of her nicest boots. In that moment, she had to make a decision, and instead of falling face-first in her attempt to escape, she settled on flopping back into her chair and staying put. She had just enough time to straighten up before the women glanced her way.

Grace took a breath to steady herself, then grabbed the portfolio and stood. A woman with a long brown ponytail offered a smile before saying goodbye to the older woman she was with. “I’ll call you with the numbers tomorrow, all right? Hi,” she said as she walked toward Grace. “How can I help you?”

“I’m Grace Barrett.” She held out her hand and thought very hard about the pressure of her handshake.

“I’m Eve Hill. It’s nice to meet you. What can I do for you, Grace?”

“Jenny from the, um, saloon? She gave me your name.”

“The saloon?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what it’s called. It’s right next to the…” She swallowed. “Stud Farm?”

“Oh, Jenny! Of course. That’s the Crooked R Saloon. After Rayleen, I think. Anyway, are you looking for a photographer?”

“No, actually. I’m a makeup artist. I don’t know how much work you’d have for someone like me, but I brought my portfolio, if you’d be interested in taking a look. I’ve been working in L.A. for almost ten years. I just got to Jackson yesterday.”

Eve took the portfolio. “You’re planning to stay?”

“I’m not sure yet.” It was a lie, but at least she wasn’t promising to settle down.

“Why don’t we sit down and I’ll take a look.”

“Sure. Thank you.”

She followed Eve to the conference room and sat across the table from her, watching as she paged through the book of photos. This part didn’t make her nervous, at least. Her work was good. So she was free to study the photographer. Eve looked about thirty-five. Pretty in an unassuming way. She didn’t wear much makeup, but didn’t really need it. Her dark hair contrasted nicely with her faintly tanned skin. Her hazel eyes were wide-set and interesting, though she looked the slightest bit tired.

“You’re really good,” Eve said when she looked up.

“Thank you.”

“So, what are you doing in Jackson?”

Well, she wasn’t subtle. Grace liked that. “I needed a change.”

Eve nodded, and her gaze roamed unself-consciously over Grace, taking her in. The wild hair. The tattered sweater. “I’m not sure I have steady work for you in makeup. Brides, sure. Right now they just get their makeup done at local salons, but they don’t always understand what’s best for photos. I spend a lot of time touching up the prints.”

Grace was nodding already. It was what she’d expected to hear, after all.

“But…” Eve said just as Grace was about to pitch herself for whatever freelance work she could get. “A lot of these are modeling shots and movie stills. You obviously know the industry.”

“Yes.”

“You know how the business works?”

“Yes.”

“So maybe you could do something more for me.”

“How so?”

“I do some work setting up shoots for the industry. Magazines. Movie stills. That kind of thing. Right now, I have a lot of that and then some. More than I can handle. You know the players. You know the language and politics. If you’d consider taking some of that on, in addition to the occasional makeup job, we might be able to try something out.”

Grace was too shocked to say anything for a few long seconds. This woman wanted to give her a chance? This woman wanted to take a risk on a girl with purple hair, a bad attitude and a completely unknown past? Why?

When Grace didn’t answer, Eve cleared her throat. “If you really don’t want to do the other work, I’d be happy to call you when I need a makeup artist for weddings. And sometimes there are big charity events that—”

“No! It’s not that. I’ve just never done that kind of work before, but I’d be happy to try.” Would she? She had no idea.

“How much do you charge for freelancing?”

“In L.A., I charged a hundred dollars an hour for freelance beauty work, but I’m quick, so I’m never more than thirty minutes. Usually less. But here…forty dollars a session?”

“I think that’s fair. You’ll be totally freelance. I won’t ask for a cut. But there’s no way I can pay more than fifteen dollars an hour for the office work, and the hours will be part-time.”

“That’s fine,” Grace said. Fifteen dollars an hour was a hell of a lot more than zero. And more than she’d make as a grumpy waitress. She knew that from experience.

“Great!” Eve said, reaching out to shake Grace’s hand again. “I’ll do a background check, so I hope that’s okay. With all this equipment and so much seasonal employment, I make it standard practice.”

“Of course.” In L.A., a criminal check was assumed. And Grace’s record was surprisingly clean, or it had been since she’d turned eighteen, anyway. But now… Oh, God. She hoped she’d been able to appease Scott. What if he’d changed his mind since she’d called him? What if he—

“Thank you so much,” she made herself say. “When do you want me to start?”

“How about Monday? Come in at nine. I can’t always promise you a lot of hours, but I’ve got an unexpectedly busy week, so can you stay until five?”

“Yes. Absolutely.” Grace left feeling…excited.

Maybe Wyoming wasn’t so bad. Maybe she’d have good luck while she was here.

Maybe the man she’d left behind in L.A. had been the last stupid mistake of her life.