Emerald City by Jennifer Egan

shots I styled.”
    Jann nods. “It’s like looking through someone else’s photo album.”
    Bernadette twists around to look at him. He has a sweet face, she thinks. “That’s right,” she says. “That’s exactly how it is.”
    She stubs out her half-finished cigarette. She wishes she had left ten minutes ago. She will stay another half hour, she thinks.
    She lies back down, her body facing Jann’s. His shoulder smells faintly sweet, like beeswax. She places her palm on his stomach, but when she tries to move her hand, Jann covers it with his own.
    “Of all those places you’ve been,” he says, “which was your favorite?”
    Bernadette sighs. She is tired of questions. Strangely, she cannot remember anyone having asked her this one before. Is that possible?she wonders. Surely someone asked, surely she had some answer. She tries again to move her hand. Jann holds it still.
    “I liked them all,” she says.
    “Bullshit.”
    She feels a surge of regret at finding herself still here, at getting caught in this discussion. Jann moves her hand from his stomach to his chest. The skin is warmer there, close to the bone. She can feel the beating heart.
    “There must be one that stands out,” he says.
    Bernadette hesitates.
    “New Orleans,” she says. “My honeymoon.”
    It is the only place she can think of. She feels suddenly that she might begin to cry.
    Jann lets her hand go. He turns on his side so they are facing each other. Their hips touch.
    “It must be quite a place.” His voice is gentle now.
    Bernadette moves against him. She cannot stop herself. Jann takes her head in his hands and makes her look at him. “Hey,” he says, “what does this remind you of?”
    He is playful, teasing. A thin silver chain encircles his neck.
    “Nothing,” she says. Something is caught in her throat.
    For a moment neither moves.
    “Okay,” says Jann, pulling her to him. “Here we are, then.”
    The next morning they stagger through the dunes, giddy with exhaustion. It is still early, and the light is pale, frosted. It bleaches the waves. Jann is unshaven. Bernadette can’t stop looking at him.
    They’re late. The rest of the group mills restlessly near the shore, turning to check on their progress across the sand. The models’faces look ghostly in this bloodless morning sun. They will probably guess, thinks Bernadette. She hopes they do.
    “It’s strange,” she says. “Going back.”
    “To them?” Jann gestures at the group. “Or back?”
    “Both,” she says.
    Later today they will fly to Nairobi. Tomorrow morning, New York. Two weeks from now she leaves for Argentina.
    “Everything fades the minute you’re somewhere else,” Bernadette says. It’s a mistake to say these things. “It fades.”
    Jann switches his camera case from one shoulder to the other. The stubble of his beard glints with perspiration.
    “Some things have to last,” he says, grinning at her, “or there’d be nothing but pictures you styled and I shot.”
    Hair and Makeup are waving. The others stamp the sand with mock impatience. It is too soft to make a sound.
    “They’re not enough,” says Bernadette.
    “No,” says Jann. “They’re not.”
    She tries to catch his eye, but he is hurrying. He said it once, she thinks. But she cannot let the conversation go. “It’s not enough,” she says again.
    They reach the group. Everyone eyes them alertly. Bernadette enjoys this attention in a shameless, childish way she cannot remember feeling since high school. There is something exquisite in being wondered about.
    The first shot is of Alice. She wears a black one-piece, skimpy, woven with gold threads. It is Bernadette’s favorite.
    “Better on you than on me,” she says, snipping a loose thread. The girl’s breasts are so small that Bernadette must pin the suit in back. Alice doesn’t smile. Her eyes are funny today, as though she hadn’t slept.
    Nick, the makeup man, can’t put enough shadow on. “You’re puffy,”