Page 18 of Tilly in Technicolor
“If she could stand just there—”
“Shehas a name,” Tilly cuts in with a growl.
I let out a deep, controlled breath.Ifshecould stand there and stop being so damn combative, maybe I wouldn’t want to ram my head through a wall,I want to say.
But instead opt for “IfTillycould stand right about there…” I take a few steps toward the spot along the river walkway. “And lean her forearms on the railing at an angle, I think we could get an excellent shot of her hands holding the Pret cup with Westminster in the background. Might as well get the big landmarks out of the way.”
“Love it,” Mona says, giving Tilly a little shove closer to the railing.
Tilly looks out over the Thames, eyes zipping around the sites across the river. “I can’t believe youlivehere, Mo,” she says, turning and grinning at her sister. “It’s so beautiful I want to scream.”
“Yes. It’s great. Can we focus, please?”
“Like, do you ever think about how you live in a foreign freaking country?” Tilly continues, her words coming faster. “Cleveland who, amiright? You don’t see stuff likethatin Ohio,” she says, pointing at Big Ben across the way. “I seriously can’t get over the fact that I’m here. It’s just so cool and everything is so—”
“Tilly!” Mona claps her hands together so loudly both Tilly and I jump. “For God’s sake, shut up and focus.”
Tilly’s mouth slams shut, her face falling.
That seemed a bit… harsh. But I’m also not going to contradict the person cutting my paychecks.
Tilly’s eyes glisten. Oh Christ, is she about to cry? I absolutely cannot handle it when people cry. She blinks a few times then shuffles over to the railing, stiffly propping her arms like I had explained.
She’s not looking at us, her head turned toward the river, shoulders hunched around her ears.
Mona’s phone rings, and she pulls it from her bag, glancing at the screen. “Gotta take this,” she says, without looking at me. “Go ahead and get started. Amina, did that email come through?”
“Looking now,” Amina says, walking away toward a bench with Mona, their eyes glued to their phones.
I set my coffee on the ground, then pull out my camera, taking a moment to adjust the settings before looking through the viewfinder. The angle’s off.
“Tilly, would you mind moving a bit to your left?” I ask.
She takes a small step backward, eyes still firmly on the river.
I check again, but it still isn’t right. I let my camera hang around my neck, grab my coffee for another sip, and walk over to her.
“Mind if I…” My hand hovers over her wrist. Her head turns slightly, and a teardrop rolls down her cheek to land on her arm.
Damn. I absolutely don’t know how to handle this. I’m supposed to be taking pictures, not comforting crying people.
I panic.
And drop my hand to her skin.
“The city is… er… cool,” I say. Which is possibly history’s greatest platitude. London is amazing. It’s bursting at the seams with colors and details. Every street offers a new, decadent surprise for my eyes, and it makes me happier than a kid in a candy shop.
Tilly nods rapidly, still not looking at me. I take the rather obvious hint that I’m not really helping.
Okay. I can’t do this. I have literally no clue what comforting words to offer.
I grab the cup from her grasp, and she looks down at her hands, eyebrows furrowed. I place my own coffee between her palms.
“Little boost,” I say, trying to ignore the wide-eyed stare she gives me. “Now, set your hands… yes. Perfect. Stay like that.”
I move back to my original spot, bending my knees and angling the lens to center her grip, Big Ben and Parliament standing proudly behind her.
I get a few great shots that instantly spark ideas on how I’ll edit them to highlight the colors of the background, tie them closely with a polish color in the foreground.
