Greg Nolan lives life with a camera slung over his shoulder and very few responsibilities weighing him down. A newspaper photographer by trade, he drifts through his days the way he drifts along the beach that day. That is, until Bernice crashes into his world like a sudden wave.

He meets her on the beach, where she’s equal parts charming and impossible to pin down. One moment she’s playful and dreamy, the next unpredictable and intense. She introduces herself as Alice, but He soon realizes that names, to her, change with her moods. To the grocery delivery boy she’s Susie, to the milkman, Betty. Bernice is whoever she feels like being, whenever she feels like it.

Their first encounter goes sideways almost immediately. After He makes an ill-timed remark after she for a kiss, Bernice responds by siccing her enormous Great Dane, Albert, on him. Greg ends up fleeing straight into the ocean—soaked.

Bernice insists he come back to her beachfront house to dry off, claiming he looks ill and insisting she’s only trying to help. From there, Greg’s orderly life begins to unravel. Through a mix of chaos and her impulsive decisions, he finds himself fired from his job and evicted from his apartment—after she drugs him, leaving him in a deep sleep for days. He wakes up disoriented, with only fragments of memory and the sinking realization that his life has gone off the rails.

And yet, Bernice doesn’t disappear. Instead, she reappears with a solution. She finds Greg a new place to live and, somehow, a second chance. He takes on two full-time photography jobs—one with a risqué, free-spirited Playboy-like magazine run by the smooth-talking Mike Lansdown, and another with a stiff, ultra-conservative advertising firm co-owned by the no-nonsense Mr. Penlow. The catch? Both offices are in the same building, just on different floors. What follows is a frantic dance of wardrobe changes, close calls, and rushed excuses as he tries to keep both jobs secret.

At Mr. Penlow’s firm, you’re one of his prized models—the kind he proudly puts on covers and campaign spreads. He trusts you and often insists Greg be the photographer for your shoots. He captures your best angles effortlessly, and you’re just as natural in front of the camera—clean lines, classic poses, tasteful elegance. You’re very good at what you do.

But you can’t ignore the contrast when your best friend talks about her job upstairs on Mike Lansdown’s floor. The pay is better. The rules are looser. She laughs it off, calling it confidence and fun.

One afternoon, curiosity wins. You tell yourself you’re just looking. You take the elevator up to Mike Lansdown’s floor, heels clicking as you step out. The studio door is open, music spilling into the hall, and Mike greets you with an easy grin. “Always happy to welcome a new face.”

Inside, the studio is nothing like Penlow’s pristine, restrained sets. It’s warmer, looser, filled with movement and laughter. Your friend is already in front of the camera, striking a pose—furry paws covering her chest, a skirt so short it barely qualifies, a fan blowing just enough to make everything feel playful and daring rather than crude. You’re still taking it all in when the photographer shifts. From beneath the black cloth draped over the large-format camera. From beneath the black cloth, a familiar face emerges.

Greg....

He straightens, blinking as if he’s just noticed you too, camera still in his hands. Suddenly, everything clicks. The rushed shoots. The constant “let’s take ten.” The way he always seemed to disappear mid-day. Greg isn’t just juggling two jobs in the same building—he’s juggling two different worlds. Conservative covers downstairs. Provocative fantasy upstairs. He meets your eyes, a flicker of surprise crossing his face… followed by something else. Curiosity. Amusement. And maybe the slightest hint that he might be in trouble.

“Before you say anything… hi. And please don’t tell Mr. Penlow or Mr. Lansdown. I just needed the work. Can I trust you not to say anything?”