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Egoiste!
Egoiste! Egoiste! Egoiste!
- Joined
- Apr 15, 2016
It had been a long, tiring flight and Peirce was glad that the last leg of his journey was drawing to a close. The crowded, noisy airport and the glare of the evening sun did nothing for his headache as he stood by the conveyer waiting for his bags. The photographer’s small entourage, his crew, waited with him, and in a few moments they were carrying their bags and equipment and lining up for the obligatory customs check. Thankfully the security was not so convoluted as in New York and the process was relatively swift. The six-person party were at odds with the others in the airport: holidaying families or couples and other pleasure-seekers whose casual dress and relaxed demeanour contrasted sharply with the four men and two women as they hurriedly made their way toward the exit carrying a substantial amount of baggage and equipment, all of them in dark, professional attire.
‘This is right isn’t it?’ Peirce said as he glanced between the exit and a pamphlet in his hand on the back of which was printed a map of the terminal.
A shorter, younger male nodded as he halted beside Peirce. He was carrying a suitcase in one hand, and a bag in the other whose length, over five feet, and narrow width suggested it contained something far-removed from holiday luggage.
‘Yeah-’ he took a step forward then turned part-way, ‘Yeah, he’s meeting us here.’
‘Good.’ Peirce said before he turned toward the four others standing behind him, ‘Who has the bulbs?’ he asked, his dark-eyed gaze flickering over the bags.
One of the two men behind him stepped to one side of a large black trunk with steel trim and patted the top of it.
‘I’ve already checked them,’ he said.
Nodding at that, feeling reassured that no heavy-handed airline staff had damaged the most fragile element of their equipment, Peirce waved his crew after him, and they strode through the automatic doors, and into the tropical heat outside.
A half an hour later and he was reclining in the front seat of a taxi, a large hand angling the vent of the air-conditioner on his side even as he fanned himself with the pamphlet he had been carrying since the airport. Meanwhile the young man and woman in the back seat, members of his crew, were muttering about the intense humidity, and he glanced at himself in the rear-view mirror and shook his head. His crisp, dark button-down shirt was in no way suited to the weather even with the cuffs turned back and the top two buttons taken down, but there had been no time to change. Their flight had been delayed on a stop-over and they were late, and tired. It had been a long trip. All the way from New York to the Canary Islands off the West African coast, but it was almost over.
‘Almost there?’ Peirce asked of the Taxi driver, while glancing at the meter and trying to remember what a Euro was worth in US dollars.
‘Yeah, almost.’ the dark-skinned taxi driver said, his bright teeth flashing into view as he smiled cheerfully. ‘We’re skippin’ the traffic this way,’
The driver’s laconic French accent reminded Peirce of being in Paris. The last trip had been about a year ago. It had also been the last time he'd worked on a fashion shoot, and it saw him wonder, with a touch of self doubt, whether he was up to the job now slated for him. There were a couple of women involved but one in particular was a personal friend, though he had not seen her in some time, and he couldn’t refuse her request. A part of him wondered though whether it might have been better to recommend someone else, but Peirce shook his head at this. He was looking forward to seeing her once more, and he knew the shoot was not going to be a challenging one. No difficult sets or rough deadlines. It was out of character for her though and he suspected that was why she'd requested he be involved. The island-resort that was being opened off the coast was a fairly big deal, and the billionaire property magnate who had built it from the ground up after purchasing the entire island was well-known for courting publicity. Thus prior to their official opening Pierce's party was one of a number of groups; photographers, high-end influencers, food critics, and travel-writers among them, being invited to stay. Some were there to work, taking publicity shots of the building and location itself, others to simply stay and sample the hospitality in exchange for giving a very public nod of approval, but the photographer suspected everyone would be getting the VIP treatment. His group were there to photograph a calendar. The owner wanted to establish it as something of a yearly institution and had brought in top-of-the-line talent to ensure it would be noticed. Pierce had been impressed when he saw who was involved from their stylist, head makeup artist and set designer, some of whom he'd worked with before, down, and although he did not think of himself in those terms he knew his own reputation within the industry was not a trifling one, and doubtless tongues would wag about why and how the job had pulled him back into the fashion world. The girls involved had evidently been chosen with care although having been out of the loop for some time he had been obliged to Google the youngest.
Jessica Miller was something of an up-and-comer with a rather impetuous social media rep who seemed to like dating rock-stars. Her current boyfriend had the couple making headlines but her resume was littered with more shows than shoots and he suspected she might not be easy to work with. The other girl, Lily Barton, was slightly older and a well-known New York socialite who was more often seen on red-carpets than runways and had recently made headlines for her marriage to a famous athlete whose name meant nothing to the photographer. His friend, Amy, was the veteran of the group, and - he suspected - the only one to have landed the job on the basis of talent rather than social media pull. His suspicion in this area had been reinforced when he saw that Lily's husband and Jessica's current boyfriend were on the guest list. That Amy's name was included on its own was both disappointing, and a relief. After all on one hand Pierce wished the best for her and would have liked to have seen her find someone. On the other hand part of him, although it was a part he tried not to listen to, disliked the idea of that someone being anyone other than himself.
The photographer was shaken back to reality amid these introspections when the vehicle lurched on its suspension as the driver came to a sharp halt. In front of them was a large marina whose pontoons stretched out into the deep-water bay, criss-crossed between numerous moored yachts and cruisers. Further out, in deeper water, was a sizable vessel - seventy or more feet from stern to bow - with the name ‘Saltshaker,’ emblazoned across the stern. Though Pierce suspected most guests would own their own boats this one had been commissioned to ferry passengers out to the resort. Though word was they also had a helipad, and were finishing up a small runway for guests who preferred, and could afford, to travel by air. The boat was going to serve as one of their sets, and as transport to the resort which would serve as both set, and home for the duration. There was apparently a second such vessel but it appeared it had already departed. As his crew disembarked from the taxi even as a second car pulled up behind it with the rest of the group who set about retrieving their bags and equipment the photographer dug out his wallet and paid the driver, and after stepping out of the taxi himself he shaded his eyes against the dazzling sunlight reflecting off the smooth water and peered at the large vessel. There was little talk among the small party as they made their way onto the marina. Six of them in all, each carrying a portion of their equipment and their own luggage, and too heavily laden to be in any mood to chat as a result. There were three men aside from Peirce, and two women. All were all younger than him and the entire group were attired in much the same way wearing fashionable, yet professional clothes as though en route to a trendy office somewhere. Walking in front Peirce frowned slightly at his leather shoes, shifting his toes and thinking how hot his feet were, while looking forward to a shower. A cool breeze blew off the nearby ocean at least and he savoured it as the air caressed his thin cotton shirt and dark trousers. He looked to be in his thirties, but the his symmetric features showed few signs of age beyond a sense of maturity and character. His large, dark eyes were fixed ahead as he approached a tender whose driver appeared to be waiting for them. The driver smiled as they approached and gestured for them to bring their gear on board.
Once they had finished packing their luggage and equipment into the small vessel, and had boarded themselves it took off, gliding swiftly over the glassy water of the still bay and cutting a v-shape into its surface as its outboard hummed. The larger vessel was not far, and the pilot was soon turning as they approached the stern, coasting towards it. One of the larger vessel's crew noted them approaching, and caught a line tossed by the pilot, while Peirce and his crew remained seated.
‘We’ll take care of your equipment.’ the crewman stated from on board as he fixed the line to a cleat.
Peirce stood up slowly on the unsteady platform, and it took him a moment to find his balance before he moved, heading toward the ladder-like steps on the vessel's stern. Frowning slightly after ascending them he gestured back towards their equipment while looking at the crewman.
‘Do be careful,’ he implored, ‘Some of our gear is fragile,’
‘Of course.’ the crewman replied before he gestured the photographer toward the door which led into the vessels interior. 'You're the second group of photographers we've handled so far, there's no need to worry. Your gear will be in the lobby when you arrive, and you can make arrangements to stow it somewhere with the concierge,'
The head of what he guessed were the third group of photographers Pierce had recognised on the guest list as one Mark Bowman, whom he knew personally. He was highly regarded for his landscape work and specialised in aerial shots, It would have made sense for Greg to fly in as he was mad about such things. He shook his head at the thought of doing such work as he'd always had a rather pronounced fear of heights although flying in a large jet had never bothered him, unless there was bad turbulence.
The voices of his crew could be overheard behind him as Peirce strode across the vessel’s open deck, noting that it was built more like a luxurious passenger ferry than a cabin cruiser, and he suspected he would not be able to find somewhere to lay down or take a shower until they reached the resort itself. Moreover based on their delayed flight they would likely be the last group to arrive. Behind him he could overhear his crew speaking with the tender's pilot, and caught him remarking that they would be departing soon, and that it was only an hour or so on to the resort itself. Their voices faded though the further he went as Peirce made his way down the port side of the large cruiser and found a large, unlocked glass door. Pushing it open and stepping through he raised an eyebrow at the size of its interior as it swung closed behind him. There was a white leather corner-couch against one wall which curved around a low, broad coffee table set opposite another, three-seater couch, and further along another, similar setup. It put him in mind of a plush cocktail bar and there was in fact a small, staffed bar right in front of him. Beyond this he could see through an open door into the galley, and in the other direction he noted staircases which led below deck and up to the second floor. Thankfully the interior was air-conditioned, and Peirce simply closed his eyes with a sigh, savouring the cool air before as he strode inside, making for the smaller, and further of the two nearest couches where he flopped down, his head slumped back tiredly. He hadn't noticed, but he had walked right by a young woman sitting on the opposite couch.
'Finally.' he muttered, 'Now-' sitting up, opening his brown eyes, his matching eyebrows shot up when he realised he was sitting opposite her, '-Oh, Amy, hey,'
Pierce ran a hand somewhat awkwardly through his untidy dark hair as he stood up to greet the young woman. She had changed, but these were small matters. Her nails were different. Her hair was different. He wouldn't have wagered big on it, but he thought the shape and thickness of her eyebrows had changed slightly as well, but everything else was just as he remembered. Impeccably groomed, of course, but she had the air of someone who was used to letting others make decisions about style, and thus kept such things fairly low-key. It did not matter. Something he tended to forget until she was actually around was just how unfairly good looking she was. After all Pierce had made a career of photographing what were, ostensibly, some of the most beautiful women alive not infrequently in contexts where excessive clothing was a kind of optional added extra. They weren't supposed to have this sort of effect on him. Outwardly though the photographer showed no sign of this inner frustration beyond the way he tried to smooth down his hair, and he smiled confidently. He had a good smile. In his youth Pierce had done a little modelling work on his own although even at the time he had always felt he was on the wrong side of the camera when he wasn't behind it, and - though he might not have admitted it - he disliked how much time it obliged him to spend in the gym, and the careful diet it required as the photographer was tall enough that it took considerable effort to bulk up in a way that was noticeable to others. He still worked out, but now it was more a matter of hours-per-week than hours-per-day. Still even if he did have a good smile Pierce seldom used it without provocation, and it's presence was often fleeting.
'I'd offer you a hug, but I'm all gross and actually, I forgot how much that annoys me-' his brow lined up he looked her up and down critically, '-you look fine, fantastic actually, and no one would know it was this hot if I showed them a photo of you, you're just sort of glowing slightly.' He tugged up the hem of his trousers after offering Amy his hand, and sat back down, 'Have you met the other girls? I think I met Lily once at a fundraiser or something. I swear she lives in a limo just constantly travelling between red carpets, that or she has a TARDIS somewhere. Actually I bet if I painted the floor red now, she'd appear instantly. Never met Jessica. Honestly, I have rolls of film that are older than that girl, but how are you-?' he leaned foreword, clearly interested, 'I saw the editorial you did with Sabine, that woman is so good with a camera, and you're so good on camera I knew it would be amazing, but did the makeup artist have a stroke or something? I think it was the fourth page, the red lipstick, whoever was responsible for that overlining should just be taken out behind a barn, and shot, I mean you made it work, but still,'
If he still had a headache, if he still felt worn out and jetlagged it no longer appeared to be bothering him.
‘This is right isn’t it?’ Peirce said as he glanced between the exit and a pamphlet in his hand on the back of which was printed a map of the terminal.
A shorter, younger male nodded as he halted beside Peirce. He was carrying a suitcase in one hand, and a bag in the other whose length, over five feet, and narrow width suggested it contained something far-removed from holiday luggage.
‘Yeah-’ he took a step forward then turned part-way, ‘Yeah, he’s meeting us here.’
‘Good.’ Peirce said before he turned toward the four others standing behind him, ‘Who has the bulbs?’ he asked, his dark-eyed gaze flickering over the bags.
One of the two men behind him stepped to one side of a large black trunk with steel trim and patted the top of it.
‘I’ve already checked them,’ he said.
Nodding at that, feeling reassured that no heavy-handed airline staff had damaged the most fragile element of their equipment, Peirce waved his crew after him, and they strode through the automatic doors, and into the tropical heat outside.
A half an hour later and he was reclining in the front seat of a taxi, a large hand angling the vent of the air-conditioner on his side even as he fanned himself with the pamphlet he had been carrying since the airport. Meanwhile the young man and woman in the back seat, members of his crew, were muttering about the intense humidity, and he glanced at himself in the rear-view mirror and shook his head. His crisp, dark button-down shirt was in no way suited to the weather even with the cuffs turned back and the top two buttons taken down, but there had been no time to change. Their flight had been delayed on a stop-over and they were late, and tired. It had been a long trip. All the way from New York to the Canary Islands off the West African coast, but it was almost over.
‘Almost there?’ Peirce asked of the Taxi driver, while glancing at the meter and trying to remember what a Euro was worth in US dollars.
‘Yeah, almost.’ the dark-skinned taxi driver said, his bright teeth flashing into view as he smiled cheerfully. ‘We’re skippin’ the traffic this way,’
The driver’s laconic French accent reminded Peirce of being in Paris. The last trip had been about a year ago. It had also been the last time he'd worked on a fashion shoot, and it saw him wonder, with a touch of self doubt, whether he was up to the job now slated for him. There were a couple of women involved but one in particular was a personal friend, though he had not seen her in some time, and he couldn’t refuse her request. A part of him wondered though whether it might have been better to recommend someone else, but Peirce shook his head at this. He was looking forward to seeing her once more, and he knew the shoot was not going to be a challenging one. No difficult sets or rough deadlines. It was out of character for her though and he suspected that was why she'd requested he be involved. The island-resort that was being opened off the coast was a fairly big deal, and the billionaire property magnate who had built it from the ground up after purchasing the entire island was well-known for courting publicity. Thus prior to their official opening Pierce's party was one of a number of groups; photographers, high-end influencers, food critics, and travel-writers among them, being invited to stay. Some were there to work, taking publicity shots of the building and location itself, others to simply stay and sample the hospitality in exchange for giving a very public nod of approval, but the photographer suspected everyone would be getting the VIP treatment. His group were there to photograph a calendar. The owner wanted to establish it as something of a yearly institution and had brought in top-of-the-line talent to ensure it would be noticed. Pierce had been impressed when he saw who was involved from their stylist, head makeup artist and set designer, some of whom he'd worked with before, down, and although he did not think of himself in those terms he knew his own reputation within the industry was not a trifling one, and doubtless tongues would wag about why and how the job had pulled him back into the fashion world. The girls involved had evidently been chosen with care although having been out of the loop for some time he had been obliged to Google the youngest.
Jessica Miller was something of an up-and-comer with a rather impetuous social media rep who seemed to like dating rock-stars. Her current boyfriend had the couple making headlines but her resume was littered with more shows than shoots and he suspected she might not be easy to work with. The other girl, Lily Barton, was slightly older and a well-known New York socialite who was more often seen on red-carpets than runways and had recently made headlines for her marriage to a famous athlete whose name meant nothing to the photographer. His friend, Amy, was the veteran of the group, and - he suspected - the only one to have landed the job on the basis of talent rather than social media pull. His suspicion in this area had been reinforced when he saw that Lily's husband and Jessica's current boyfriend were on the guest list. That Amy's name was included on its own was both disappointing, and a relief. After all on one hand Pierce wished the best for her and would have liked to have seen her find someone. On the other hand part of him, although it was a part he tried not to listen to, disliked the idea of that someone being anyone other than himself.
The photographer was shaken back to reality amid these introspections when the vehicle lurched on its suspension as the driver came to a sharp halt. In front of them was a large marina whose pontoons stretched out into the deep-water bay, criss-crossed between numerous moored yachts and cruisers. Further out, in deeper water, was a sizable vessel - seventy or more feet from stern to bow - with the name ‘Saltshaker,’ emblazoned across the stern. Though Pierce suspected most guests would own their own boats this one had been commissioned to ferry passengers out to the resort. Though word was they also had a helipad, and were finishing up a small runway for guests who preferred, and could afford, to travel by air. The boat was going to serve as one of their sets, and as transport to the resort which would serve as both set, and home for the duration. There was apparently a second such vessel but it appeared it had already departed. As his crew disembarked from the taxi even as a second car pulled up behind it with the rest of the group who set about retrieving their bags and equipment the photographer dug out his wallet and paid the driver, and after stepping out of the taxi himself he shaded his eyes against the dazzling sunlight reflecting off the smooth water and peered at the large vessel. There was little talk among the small party as they made their way onto the marina. Six of them in all, each carrying a portion of their equipment and their own luggage, and too heavily laden to be in any mood to chat as a result. There were three men aside from Peirce, and two women. All were all younger than him and the entire group were attired in much the same way wearing fashionable, yet professional clothes as though en route to a trendy office somewhere. Walking in front Peirce frowned slightly at his leather shoes, shifting his toes and thinking how hot his feet were, while looking forward to a shower. A cool breeze blew off the nearby ocean at least and he savoured it as the air caressed his thin cotton shirt and dark trousers. He looked to be in his thirties, but the his symmetric features showed few signs of age beyond a sense of maturity and character. His large, dark eyes were fixed ahead as he approached a tender whose driver appeared to be waiting for them. The driver smiled as they approached and gestured for them to bring their gear on board.
Once they had finished packing their luggage and equipment into the small vessel, and had boarded themselves it took off, gliding swiftly over the glassy water of the still bay and cutting a v-shape into its surface as its outboard hummed. The larger vessel was not far, and the pilot was soon turning as they approached the stern, coasting towards it. One of the larger vessel's crew noted them approaching, and caught a line tossed by the pilot, while Peirce and his crew remained seated.
‘We’ll take care of your equipment.’ the crewman stated from on board as he fixed the line to a cleat.
Peirce stood up slowly on the unsteady platform, and it took him a moment to find his balance before he moved, heading toward the ladder-like steps on the vessel's stern. Frowning slightly after ascending them he gestured back towards their equipment while looking at the crewman.
‘Do be careful,’ he implored, ‘Some of our gear is fragile,’
‘Of course.’ the crewman replied before he gestured the photographer toward the door which led into the vessels interior. 'You're the second group of photographers we've handled so far, there's no need to worry. Your gear will be in the lobby when you arrive, and you can make arrangements to stow it somewhere with the concierge,'
The head of what he guessed were the third group of photographers Pierce had recognised on the guest list as one Mark Bowman, whom he knew personally. He was highly regarded for his landscape work and specialised in aerial shots, It would have made sense for Greg to fly in as he was mad about such things. He shook his head at the thought of doing such work as he'd always had a rather pronounced fear of heights although flying in a large jet had never bothered him, unless there was bad turbulence.
The voices of his crew could be overheard behind him as Peirce strode across the vessel’s open deck, noting that it was built more like a luxurious passenger ferry than a cabin cruiser, and he suspected he would not be able to find somewhere to lay down or take a shower until they reached the resort itself. Moreover based on their delayed flight they would likely be the last group to arrive. Behind him he could overhear his crew speaking with the tender's pilot, and caught him remarking that they would be departing soon, and that it was only an hour or so on to the resort itself. Their voices faded though the further he went as Peirce made his way down the port side of the large cruiser and found a large, unlocked glass door. Pushing it open and stepping through he raised an eyebrow at the size of its interior as it swung closed behind him. There was a white leather corner-couch against one wall which curved around a low, broad coffee table set opposite another, three-seater couch, and further along another, similar setup. It put him in mind of a plush cocktail bar and there was in fact a small, staffed bar right in front of him. Beyond this he could see through an open door into the galley, and in the other direction he noted staircases which led below deck and up to the second floor. Thankfully the interior was air-conditioned, and Peirce simply closed his eyes with a sigh, savouring the cool air before as he strode inside, making for the smaller, and further of the two nearest couches where he flopped down, his head slumped back tiredly. He hadn't noticed, but he had walked right by a young woman sitting on the opposite couch.
'Finally.' he muttered, 'Now-' sitting up, opening his brown eyes, his matching eyebrows shot up when he realised he was sitting opposite her, '-Oh, Amy, hey,'
Pierce ran a hand somewhat awkwardly through his untidy dark hair as he stood up to greet the young woman. She had changed, but these were small matters. Her nails were different. Her hair was different. He wouldn't have wagered big on it, but he thought the shape and thickness of her eyebrows had changed slightly as well, but everything else was just as he remembered. Impeccably groomed, of course, but she had the air of someone who was used to letting others make decisions about style, and thus kept such things fairly low-key. It did not matter. Something he tended to forget until she was actually around was just how unfairly good looking she was. After all Pierce had made a career of photographing what were, ostensibly, some of the most beautiful women alive not infrequently in contexts where excessive clothing was a kind of optional added extra. They weren't supposed to have this sort of effect on him. Outwardly though the photographer showed no sign of this inner frustration beyond the way he tried to smooth down his hair, and he smiled confidently. He had a good smile. In his youth Pierce had done a little modelling work on his own although even at the time he had always felt he was on the wrong side of the camera when he wasn't behind it, and - though he might not have admitted it - he disliked how much time it obliged him to spend in the gym, and the careful diet it required as the photographer was tall enough that it took considerable effort to bulk up in a way that was noticeable to others. He still worked out, but now it was more a matter of hours-per-week than hours-per-day. Still even if he did have a good smile Pierce seldom used it without provocation, and it's presence was often fleeting.
'I'd offer you a hug, but I'm all gross and actually, I forgot how much that annoys me-' his brow lined up he looked her up and down critically, '-you look fine, fantastic actually, and no one would know it was this hot if I showed them a photo of you, you're just sort of glowing slightly.' He tugged up the hem of his trousers after offering Amy his hand, and sat back down, 'Have you met the other girls? I think I met Lily once at a fundraiser or something. I swear she lives in a limo just constantly travelling between red carpets, that or she has a TARDIS somewhere. Actually I bet if I painted the floor red now, she'd appear instantly. Never met Jessica. Honestly, I have rolls of film that are older than that girl, but how are you-?' he leaned foreword, clearly interested, 'I saw the editorial you did with Sabine, that woman is so good with a camera, and you're so good on camera I knew it would be amazing, but did the makeup artist have a stroke or something? I think it was the fourth page, the red lipstick, whoever was responsible for that overlining should just be taken out behind a barn, and shot, I mean you made it work, but still,'
If he still had a headache, if he still felt worn out and jetlagged it no longer appeared to be bothering him.
