SSMM Ch12

“I can take it,” Ava says, and Jane readies the tray.

“If you run into Karina or Belinda, check with them and see if they’re vegan or anything,” Jane says as she hands it over.

“Do we not know?”

“No, they aren’t supposed to be here. I had info for a couple of different women. Last-minute replacements, I guess. There’s a lot of that. You expect these people to have their shit together, but they don’t.”

“I know. Annette hired me today.”

Jane snorts. “The Swedes are by the boat.”

“Boat?”

“Picture of a boat. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Ava replies, a little alarmed at how crazy her feelings are being. She’s learned that the real struggle of being a gay woman isn’t fighting the patriarchy or even trying to figure out which other women are gay. It’s trying to tell the difference between girls that she likes because she wants to kiss them and girls that she likes because they should be friends. Ava is the first to admit that she’s always been terrible at this, and it’s probably why her first serious live-in girlfriend is serving coffee in Toronto now.

Oblivious to Ava’s thoughts, Jane turns away with a little swish of her dress. Ava gazes wistfully for just a second, then heads out. She showed up in a wet, slutty, probably slightly racist, Chinese-themed maid costume, so she’s not inclined to be vain or take herself too seriously. She doesn’t try to balance the tray on her hand like a professional; she just carries it up the stairs and into the hallway where all the guests are. This isn’t a hotel; the rooms don’t have numbers.

Ava was expecting paintings, but they’re all movie posters. There is one with a sailboat in the background, but it’s between two doors. Now she has to balance the tray to knock on the first door. She’s ready to apologize if it’s the wrong room.

There’s no answer. She knocks on the other door. Nothing.

Frowning, she goes back to the first one and tries again, then opens the door. It’s immediately obvious that it’s the wrong room; this one isn’t made up. There’s no bedding, and the smell of elegant cleaning products is strong. The curtains are wide open, and rain patters on the sliding doors that lead out to the little balcony.

Ava’s about to back out, but there’s something here that doesn’t belong: an open bottle of whiskey. It must have come from the bar downstairs. It sits on the dresser with the cap beside it. It’s mostly full, but Ava can actually smell it in the air. Puzzled, she sets down her tray and sniffs the bottle, then puts the cap back on. Beside it is a cute little photo album. Ava’s parents have some of these at home, filled with pictures.

She picks it up curiously.

“Oh, shit,” she mutters as she opens it. The pictures inside are all those weird, instant ones that are like square-shaped. And they’re all intimate. It’s not porn, although there is nudity. It’s super clear that these were all taken in private, and though they aren’t super high quality, Ava can put together a few details. The various bedrooms, beaches, and boats where these photos were taken all suggest luxury. The women are all beauties, and there are tons of them, all about Ava’s age. The photos vary in how explicit they are; one brunette smiles shyly in the sheets, modestly covered. Another gazes into the camera in a sultry fashion, legs spread, bush, and everything on display. The photographer is only in one photo, which shows the top of a blonde’s head; it’s clear that the photographer is on her back and the blonde is going down on her.

“Yeesh,” Ava murmurs, fanning her face with a hand. Most of the pics aren’t that spicy, but it’s a lot of skin and pretty faces. Genuine emotion and vulnerability.

Ava isn’t stupid. These are trophies. A record of Vivien’s conquests. It’s obvious that these women are all willing to have their pictures taken; they look happy, and these photos were not taken in secret. Ava scowls, unsure how judgy to feel. She’s also a little jealous of Vivien’s privilege and apparent ability to pull any cutie she wants.

She should put the album down, but she keeps turning the pages. More smiles, lipstick prints on smooth thighs, bare breasts, flushed faces, and disheveled hair.

“Yikes. Yikes, yikes, yikes,” she breathes, then stops. Her brows rise.

There’s a pic of a girl sleeping angelically. She’s naked, although the covers hide the good stuff. The curve of her bare hip is too sexy. But the years haven’t changed her face that much; this is Cristy Starr, the lady here with Karina.

Well… that’s no surprise. Ava could’ve put it together herself that from the way Cristy talked about Vivien, she had obviously folded to her at some point in the past.

Still, there’s something very sad about all of these pictures.

Ava closes the album and sets it down, then cocks her head.

She can’t really picture Vivien coming into this of all rooms and perusing this album while drinking whiskey from the bottle. Well, actually… that, she can picture. But not here. Why here? Or maybe this room has some significance. Maybe that’s why it’s unoccupied. No, lots of rooms are unoccupied.

In any case, Vivien probably doesn’t want her personal album out here where people can see it. She’s open about her lifestyle, but these photos really are private.

Should Ava return the album to Vivien?

Or leave it where she found it?