S.E.C.R.E.T. Revealed (Secret 3)

“Came and went. The beauty of Photoshop. We don’t have to pose together to look like one big happy news family.”

“Aren’t we?”

“Sure,” she said with a wink.

“Have you seen Erik’s work on that back wall?” I said. “Take a look on the way out. Astounding images.”

“I know. But have you see Erik?” Marsha muttered, nodding towards where a powerfully built man, easily six foot four inches tall, stood talking to his blond assistant.

“Um. That didn’t come up in our Google searches,” I whispered, noting his wavy brown hair, almost the same color as his skin. From across the room, you could also see his rock-climber forearms flinching as he carefully polished a large, round lens.

“Born in Kenya. Dad was a half-Japanese, half-Swiss diplomat; mom was some kind of African princess. Big scandal. Grew up in Paris,” Marsha whispered, peering at him over the top of her glasses. “Never married. Placed fifth in the ’98 Olympics. Biathlon. That is the sport where you ski, my dear, with a fucking gun. He represented Switzerland.”

“How did you find all that out?”

“He spent the better part of last winter documenting border skirmishes in Northern Afghanistan. Those pictures on the wall? They were nominated for a Pulitzer. He speaks Farsi. Oh, and he’s a Leo.”

“Bet he never guessed you’re a journalist.”

“God, if I were twenty years younger. Hell, ten.”

“Marsha! Are you objectifying this man?”

“I am.”

“But that’s against everything you stand for.”

“Yes. Right up against everything I stand for,” she said, softly cackling. Then she turned to me. “Do you know what happens, Solange, to your sense of propriety after you turn sixty?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Neither do I, and I do not care to know. Well, good night then. And try the canapés. They’re delicious.”

The blond assistant slid a glass of champagne into my hand. “Here you go. To relax you.”

“No thanks,” I said, carefully placing the glass back on the makeup table. “I’m already relaxed.”

Marsha looked at the champagne and then at me. “Oh, I could weep,” she said before kissing me on the cheek good-bye

. She turned on her heel and made her exit.

“Let me introduce you to Erik,” said the blond assistant, leading me by the elbow across the room, the remaining assistants giving the impression of seas parting as I entered Erik’s orbit.

“Erik, this is Solange Faraday. The weekend anchor.”

He was directing a gaffer high up on a ladder, the muscles in his arms tensing, his voice commanding and deep.

“To the left and down. I want the spotlight right … there … where the screen creases on the floor.”

“If this isn’t a good time—” I said to him.

“Nonsense,” he said, turning to face me, looking me up and down. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

Good lord, my breath actually caught in my lungs. Up close he was like an African/?Asian/?Nordic god, and though I hated the term exotic, I couldn’t think of another way to describe his almond-shaped, gray-flecked eyes, his thick wavy brown hair, his crooked, bratty smile, his brown skin, which looked partly genetic and partly the result of some death-defying adventure that took him way too close to the sun. He was closer to my age than I’d thought at first, something I found a huge relief, though I don’t know why it mattered. When did I start doing that? Comparing men’s ages with mine? After I turned forty? After I stopped feeling noticed by anyone under forty?

“Hello. Um, so … where can I change?” I asked, turning into a schoolgirl. Next to this man, I felt almost petite, delicate even. Pull yourself together, Solange! You’ve done important, dangerous reportage too.

“Use my bedroom.” He pointed to a door flush with a large white wall.