Page 49 of The Client
“We look like sexy fairies,” she says. “I wish we were going out after this.”
I could drown beneath the wave of despair that crashes over me. This,this, is what I thought I won that godforsaken contest for. Dressing up like a depraved rockstar, partying after a great shoot with my new friends. Instead, I’ve been sold. Ravished. Confused. Blindsided, and just when I thought maybe Rhys and I could forge new common ground. Just when I thought I could see how to fit into his life.
“I found the glue, don’t look so upset,” says the makeup artist. I close my eyes so she can apply my lashes.
But in my head, all I can think about is Celine, Celine, Celine. Is he still in love with her? He hasn’t touched me since our fight on the balcony. Maybe he’s reconsidering our arrangement. God, I hope he doesn’t call Zoric.
“All done,” the makeup artist says. “Let me go grab a coffee and then I’ll start on you next, Talia.”
“So,” Talia says, raising her brows as she drinks from a bottle of water, “man troubles? I recognize that look.”
“I think he’s sleeping with his ex,” I blurt, and then I’m immediately horrified by my candor. I shouldn’t be talking about this to anyone.
But Talia just makes a knowing sound as she shakes her head.
“Poor thing,” she says kindly. “Look, I’m guessing you’re pretty new at this, so let me give you the best advice I received when I was in your shoes: Don’t confuse a client for a boyfriend. The man who bought your way into the shoot today is never going to ride in on a white horse and sweep you off your feet.”
My mouth drops open. “How did you—”
“How do you think I got here?” There’s no judgment in her tone, just sincerity. “This industry is a bitch, and a lot of us have to hustle on the side to get our foot in the door.”
All I can do is nod, grateful for her kindness.
After we’re all finished getting made up, an assistant escorts us to the set we’ll be using today. The director is this artsy, intimidating indie film auteur, some famous Hollywood producer’s nephew, who just won a bunch of awards, and demonstrates it by making us wait for him to have a long, loud phone call with his boyfriend.
It gives me a moment to close my eyes and center myself. Picturing the hills behind my uncle’s farm usually helps. It’s so green and vibrant in the summer and filled with cows lazily grazing over the rolling acreage. There is a narrow stream that runs through the back property. In the spring, snowmelt from the neighboring hills fills that creek so much it forms small rapids here and there. Pulling a slow, cleansing breath through my nose, I allow the sound of the water gurgling and tinkling over the rocks to fill my mind.
The meditation session is short-lived, but every little bit helps.
We all gather in a circle so our esteemed director can go over his concept for the first day of the shoot and what’s expected of us.
“Think snowy evening in Paris, think glamour, seduction, fantasy. The idea is that when someone wears this perfume, it transforms them into a creature of mystery and allure. Every head will turn your way, every door will open, no conquest is out of your reach. Got it?”
I nod along with the other models as the director goes on, glad that nobody is asking for my opinion. The whole thing seems a little silly to me. That doesn’t mean the photos won’t turn out looking incredible, though.
Once the director is done giving us our pep talk, we’re brought to the wardrobe area, where various outfits are tailored to our bodies. Two seamstresses flutter around us to nip and tuck the clothing so everything fits the models perfectly. If you can call our outfits clothing.
The backdrop for the first photo session is a winter night in Paris, yet we’re all wearing white bikinis with ostrich feather boas around our necks and armloads of fake diamond bangles. I’m arranged on a pile of fake snow, where I’m told to put on a pensive, mysterious expression while holding a giant globe of Idlewild perfume in one outstretched hand. Then the other girls drape themselves around me, our long limbs tangling so that we probably look like a heavily-scented hydra. An assistant sprinkles more snow on us from above.
No one explains why we’re wearing bikinis in the middle of winter. Creative license, I suppose.
Maybe I should give up modeling and become a director. Someone needs to design a scene that makes sense.
The next round of costumes works better. It’s the same backdrop, but this time there’s more light, warm like a sunrise, and pink roses are peeking through the snow. We’re dressed in elk skin skirts and suede halter tops with wide, fur-trimmed hems, elbow-length red gloves, and matching crimson boots. Then we are instructed to frolic in the snow, while also wearing mysterious frowns. Plain water is misted on us from above this time, sparkling in the light and simulating droplets of perfume in the air.
I don’t have to understand the director’s vision to enjoy the experience. By the time this session is done, clumps of fake snow have gathered in every nook and cranny of my outfit. Talia and I look at each other and try not to laugh.
Maybe I should suggest that my uncle invest in elk herds instead of our standard beef cows. I imagine elk skin outfits might make a furry debut at Fashion Week next year after these photos come out.
But then the pang at missing Rhys’s smirk when I describe this all to him reminds me this is just a temporary escape. When I go home—whatever that means—I’ll have to face the silence again.
At least Eva is going to love hearing all about it.
* * *
We break for a late lunch.Thai veggie wraps with peanut sauce, tofu satay, steamed edamame, and sliced mango. It’s the best meal I’ve ever had on a photo shoot.
“Who do you work for?” Talia picks the peppers off of her wrap and sets them on the side of her plate.
