Page 12 of How to Ruin Your Ex's Wedding
She licks her lips and winks at me.
I groan slightly.Oh, yeah. That does it for me.
Right there.
I take a dozen or so more shots, cooing to her all the way, before handing my camera off to Ryan, my assistant for the day.
“You are a goddess, E,” I tell the model. She stands and someone hands her a towel to wipe off the sand from her legs.
“We got it in that last bunch.” I turn to the editorial director and give him a satisfied smile, because those last few shots were fucking fabulous. There are some models I love working with, and Emmanuelle is one of them.
“Fantastic as always, man, thank you,” the director says to me, reaching out to clasp my hand in his, then turns to everyone else, clapping his hands to get their attention. “That’s a wrap, everyone. Good job. Let’s clean it up. Emmanuelle, great job.” Emmanuelle preens under the praise. The rest of the group follows in kind, wishing one another congratulations on a job well done with handshakes and half hugs.
Emmanuelle smiles at me before retreating to the wardrobe tent.
“Goddamn, she’s hot,” Ryan mumbles under his breath.
“Eh, you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all,” I tell him, only partially joking. I photograph models in swimsuits all the time and have done this particular calendar shoot nine years in a row. I’m not saying I’m tired of doing it, because that would be ridiculous. As Ryan said, it’s hot chicks in bikinis. And it’s my bread and butter.
But I can’t exactly be famous for shooting pics of bikini models and celebrities when both my father and grandfather were Pulitzer Prize, International Photography, and National News Award winners in photojournalism. Yes, both won all three awards. So, to avoidtarnishingthe family name withsub-pargigs, I created an alias and wore a disguise when I was first starting out. Which turned out to be a smart thing because thanks to the reality show,Keeping Tabs, that my ex-wife Tabatha and I were on, my real face was recognizable pretty much anywhere.
I use the name Matthew Hanhauser—my middle name and my grandmother’s maiden name—and wear a cheesy disguise that, surprisingly, has not once been questioned: glasses, fake mustache worthy of a 70s porn shoot, and a baseball cap with some shaggy hair attached to the bottom. Matthew takes pictures of models and celebrities, like today. And I, Pax Baldwin, do the moreseriousphoto shoots. Not even Tabatha knows I’m Matthew Hanhauser.
I’ll admit, it’s odd to go from capturing images of war-torn areas in Yemen filled with lawlessness and devastation, to the beaches of Southern California where excess and freedom abound with women posing wearing next to nothing as a means of making a living. It takes a major mind-shift to wrap my head around the dichotomy of the two worlds. And I don’t bounce between the twothatoften any more, focusing instead on getting the best shots possible in every situation.
In addition to calendar and celebrity shoots, Matthew is a highly sought-after celebrity wedding photographer. I don’t even know how it got started, but it’s ballooned into an extremely profitable side business. And I will forever call it a side business, even if I do make more shooting celebs and weddings than I do withNational GeographicandTimemagazine covers.
Emmanuelle exits the tent wearing yoga pants and a sports bra. “Hey, Matty, you around later?”
“Should be, why? What’s up?”
“I’m around too. You’ve got my number, use it.”
“I might just do that.” I smile and wink. I still have yet to understand how women find this getup attractive. The 70s ’stache alone would be a turnoff for me if I were a chick.
She turns and walks away. Ryan and I continue packing away my equipment. “That is exactly why I want to be you,” Ryan says.
“You don’t want this life, Ryan. It can be lonely, filled with different cities all the time, getting used to new time zones, constantly meeting new people, hardly ever the same girl twice in your bed.”
“That’s supposed to dissuade me?” He laughs.
“It’s not all models and bikinis.”
“I know, dude. I know.”
“All I’m saying is it can be hard to make connections with people. I have my friends back home, but I’m too busy to make new ones.”
“Emmanuelle is your friend.” He leers.
I laugh at him. I don’t blame him for getting excited. I was the same way with my dad, who was my mentor, when I was his age. Though my dad didn’t do a lot of women in bikini shots, the money wasn’t in it then like it is now. But when he was first starting out, he did studio shots of pin-ups for calendars. This was before my grandfather won the Pulitzer and the legacy for my dad wasn’t quite so daunting like it is for me.
We get everything packed away and Ryan helps me stow it in my rental car.
“You going to call her?” he asks me once we are at my car and out of earshot.
“Probably not,” I tell him.
“Why not, dude?”
