Chapter Text
“Oh, he’s hot.”
“You believe every guy in a suit is hot, Emily,” Alex takes a slow sip from her mug and sighs with the taste of caffeine making its way through her blood, “Isn’t he... like... old?”
“Not that old but I would have never imagined he would take up the post since he has other degrees besides the study of art and stuff,” Emily waves her hand around. “He seems nice though. He came by the office to say hello to the staff yesterday and I drowned in his god damn blue eyes.” Alex rolls her eyes as Emily giggles like a schoolgirl.
“I’m gonna miss Cheryl.”
“Yeah, we all do.”
“Do you think he was just forced to take up the post because Howard wanted to keep it within the family?” Alex was bitter as she had hoped she was a candidate for the job. She’s been part of the Strand Creatives for over seven years and she knew she qualified enough for the promotion. While she was on a work trip, she was prepping to talk to Howard Strand, the CEO of Strand Creative, if she can take Cheryl’s job since this would be her last year. Alex didn’t expect Cheryl to leave six months before the year ended and didn’t even give a goodbye in person. Cheryl sent a mass email to everyone but Alex thought it was impersonal. She was bitter about that.
“I don’t think so. While you weren’t here, he made quite an impression on us with his decisions for the publication for next month. He wanted to add more flair to the articles; he says fluff pieces will be one to two pages and then he wanted to re-haul the branding and marketing for the Marcus Hotel,” Emily hums, stroking her chin, “So I don’t believe he’s incompetent and just a face for familiarity. But it makes you wonder why he has degrees in religion, mythology and psychology, which are remotely far from our field.”
“Jesus,” Alex mumbles, “This was just in the five days I was gone? What else did he do? Change our seating arrangement because his psychology degree told him so?”
Emily laughs, “That’s a bit dramatic and yeah he changed up the layout in our office.” Alex groans and had half a mind to hit her head on the table. “You’re still in your little office so don’t you worry! The layout is more open. Strand says having a huge table in the room's middle works better for creatives to feel connected and, well,” she shrugs, “he isn’t wrong.”
“You’re already brainwashed by this guy,” Alex sighs more and places a hand on her forehead, tipping her head back, “I have lost my comrade!”
“Give him a chance, Alex,” Emily gives her a small smile, “he’s not half-bad.”
At five-thirty pm, Alex has never felt this tense since helping with the re-branding of a large coffee-shop chain three years ago. She also hasn’t been this annoyed in a while.
“Give him a chance,” Alex mocked Emily’s voice, “Pft, dude is a douche. A pain in the ass, an asshole,” and continued to spout profanities as she angrily packed her things. “I’m Richard Strand and I have three degrees from Yale and I’m smarter than everyone and your photos don’t have that certain emotion and look and ugh, fucking prick!” She huffed and puffed her way out of the office to the elevator still mocking her conversation with Strand under her breath as she waited for the elevator.
“Hello, Miss Reagan,” the voice snapped Alex from her angry bubble and looked up to see Strand holding the door open for her.
She nodded her head as she stepped in, “Mister Strand.”
“Ah,” Strand clears his throat, “just call me Strand. Mister Strand is my father and I don’t feel comfortable with the honorifics.”
“Duly noted.”
The elevator ride was uncomfortable with Alex shifting her weight between her legs every ten seconds as she scrolled on her phone. During their first meeting, Strand talked to her about her recent photographs and she felt angry but a little embarrassed with her little tantrum… Even though he doesn’t know about the tantrum? Alex, displaced with her emotions, darted from the enclosed space as soon as the elevator doors opened, missing Strand’s goodbye.
Alex drove home annoyed however she can‘t help the tinge of hope that there’s a possibility the guy isn‘t much of a douchebag if he considered being called Mister Strand was a bit too much.
“Hey,” Emily poked her head in Alex’s office, “didn‘t see you for all day after our lunch break? How did it go with Strand? Isn’t he dreamy?” She leaned against the frame.
Alex could lie and say Richard Strand was ugly to her but knowing Emily, she could smell the hot pile of bullshit. Richard Strand was not ugly. The Strand family are a bunch of good looking bastards. If Alex could describe how the family looks, 18th century vampires of Transylvania comes to mind. The kind of vampires that have flawless skin, flawless hair, flawless voices. That‘s what the Strand family is; Richard is another living proof besides Cheryl that great genes come strong and will last through the test of time. It’s annoying how good looking they all are. “He’s not half-bad,” Alex dryly comments. “But yeah,” she sighs, “I was practically with him for the duration of my day going over my recent work and told me where I can improve and what not.”
Emily enters her office and slinks down on one chair in front of her desk. “Ooh boy, that’s a doozy,” Emily cups her face with one hand and looks at Alex, “how’re ya holding up, bud?”
Alex throws her a crumpled up post-it, “Fuck off Dumont.”
Emily laughs, clapping her hands. “I know you, Reagan. You,” she leans back on the chair throwing the crumpled post-it in the trash can, “don’t like criticism… Especially from older men.”
“That‘s because they always sound so condescending.”
“And Cheryl wasn’t?”
“Cheryl could be ruthless but at least with her, she trusted me… “ Emily cocks her eyebrow up, “She trusted us. Richard Strand sounds like a pompous guy. He doesn't even have a degree in marketing, at the least associates in it, and we’re supposed to follow this guy because his dad named him next in line to the throne?” Emily stays silent as Alex continued to vent. “He told me my photos lack emotion and tone. Tone? What fucking tone does he want? Tone sounds like something someone with three degrees in useless shit would try to hide behind from because maybe he doesn't understand art. Art is subjective.”
Emily hums and gives a breathy laugh. “What?”
“He probably meant your style of shooting for our clients,” and Alex felt a little of an idiot. Because that's what Strand meant and Alex was too annoyed to realize it during their session. “Don‘t get mad but,” Emily chews the insides of her mouth, “ever since your fall out with… You know who… Your photos seemed to lack the Alex touch.”
“Wh-What?”
“Well, you know, it changed. It’s subtle but, I’m your editor Alex… I saw a shift when you shoot now,” Emily doesn't look at Alex, she looks at everything but Alex and her frustration bubbling. “Your photos seem so robotic this year is all…” Finally, Emily meets Alex’s eyes and Emily looks guilt. “Your photos are still great! Oh my god, they‘re great but… Strand is right about your style not being there. Maybe he sees it, maybe he’s being stupid, but he’s not wrong that your photos aren't the same.”
Alex closes her eyes and tries her breathing exercises her therapist taught her to do whenever she realizes her emotions were overwhelming her. She doesn't want to yell at Emily. She doesn't want to get in a fight with her friend, colleague and editor. Alex can‘t let her emotions ruin another day for her. Alex opens her eyes, and she replies, “Duly noted.”
Emily gets up to walk out of the office and before she left Alex’s office, she pauses at the door frame, “You’re a fantastic photographer, Alex… We all know but give the guy a chance before you write him off as a guy with a ‘degree in being a fucking asshole.’” And Alex felt blood rush to her cheeks with Emily cackling as she closed the door. She has got to stop tweeting her thoughts. Most of her coworkers follow her on Twitter and someone can be a dick and share screenshots of her lapse in judgement and bye-bye Senior Photographer title.
Alex came back from her latest food session with La Roux Restaurant satisfied. She turned in her cards, packed up the gear, started her article for the magazine and wrote captions for the upcoming social media posts. She was back in her good mood. Alex delighted La Roux’s head chef with the images from the back of Alex’s camera and that was one perk of her job - knowing her photos sparked joy with people. She still had her Alex touch if the clients enjoy and rave with the results of her images she thought to herself.
Emily and Strand are deluded for thinking she’s losing her touch but come on, the clients are happy… Isn’t that enough? She stops typing, already lost in her own thoughts, reclining back to her chair in a slump. She turns her chair to face the window, watching the massive buildings and the ant sized people below hustling and bustling. If she was losing her touch, how come she’s not noticing it? Is she out of touch? Over-worked? Yes, but she enjoys the travel her work makes her do. Alex enjoys all the people she meets, the stories exchanged and the confidence boots when even the most awkward seem so relaxed in her photos. Alex is a natural with people and as a photographer, it was important to make them feel comfortable…
And so far in her seven years as a photographer for Strand Creatives, she’s had ninety-five percent success rate with their clientele. The other five percent? They’re just shitty people without a nuance for art.
Two knocks pulled Alex out of her thoughts and she whirled around just in time to Strand opening her door. “Miss Reagan, sorry to bother,” Strand says as he, Alex notes, took long strides towards her desk. “I’d like to discuss your upcoming project for the Marcus Hotel.”
“Shoot,” but then Alex halts, kicking herself mentally and looks at Strand horrified. “I mean, y-yes. Let’s discuss.” She nervously laughs as Strand sits down in front of her laying down papers. “I’m sorry, I’m still used to the way Cheryl and I would talk.”
“I see you are the reason that Cheryl used that term in passing.”
Alex shrugs her shoulders and smirks, “She’s taught me how to deal with difficult people so I taught her how to loosen up a little. It’s a nice trade off.” She sees Strand upper lip twitch up, but it isn't a full smile.
“I see,” is all he says and changes the subject back to the Marcus Hotel. “For the Marcus Hotel, I believe we need to re-imagine their branding. Cheryl was into photographing the architecture and I agree the Marcus Hotel is one of the few hotels in the country to have beautiful and ornate interior, however, I esteem that incorporating people interacting to the architecture would boast its appeal to contemporary and asynchronous audience. What do you say?” He lost Alex. Strand was using archaic words she’s only read in research papers and the look she had on her face betrayed her. He sighed, “Where did I lose you, Miss Reagan?”
“Um, asyn-asynch-,” Alex stumbled, “that word thing you said.”
“Asynchronous. The traditionalist consumer, which is in line with my father’s age group,” Strand chuckles under his breath. “Your photographs of the interior are masterful, but it lacked a certain tone.” Alex told herself to control herself because she can’t, as much as she wants to, tell her director to fuck off. She looked through the papers and half-listened to Strand drone on. “I’d like for you to research The W’s social media accounts and ad campaigns to get a sense of the tone they present. I don’t mean to copy but perhaps to inspire the next tone for the Marcus project.” Her hand stops shifting through paper mid-way.
“You mean style,” Alex says.
“What?”
“Style. Not tone. We use the term ‘style’.”
“Oh, okay.” There was a few beats of silence between them, Alex not taking her eyes away from the paperwork Strand laid before her. He clears his throat, “I was hoping you could spend your work day at the Marcus Hotel to photograph a couple models and some real guest interaction. If you approve of my suggestion, I will talk to Mister Dirk Abruzzi about our plans. I’ll also ask Nic to find the models and you two can build a style board. The Marcus Hotel isn’t until August so that gives us time to research and build up a style.” And if Alex heard the sarcasm, she didn’t have the energy to retort, but she re-classified Strand as little shit in her mind.
Strand leaves her draining out her small glimmer of happiness from her session earlier. She‘s left with a bubble of aggravation and wanting to chuck her mug when Strand closed her door but that’s a bit dramatic.
“Little shit,” was all she muttered.