Page 32 of The Client
I flash her a sympathetic smile. “I believe you. I’m Izabela, by the way. I think we worked together last month. For a jewelry store in Wicker Park.”
“The shoot with all the fake snow! I remember. I’m Stasya. What’s going on around here? It’s looking a little…spustya rukava.”
I have to suppress a laugh. Stasya basically just called the show “half-assed” in Russian. The woman doing my hair gives her a sharp side-eye but doesn’t say anything.
“They’re still trying to figure out the right hairstyle for me,” I say. “My first round of makeup wasn’t right either.”
Stasya frowns. “Don’t they have anyone around here that knows what they’re doing?”
The hair girl huffs out a sigh and turns to Stasya. “It’s not my fault the stylist changed up all the models’ dresses at the last minute! The hair has to match the dress!”
She coats my head in a suffocating cloud of hairspray and then stalks away.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure everything will come together soon,” I tell Stasya comfortingly.
She picks at a nail and shrugs. “It’s fine. We’re getting paid, so. Work is work, right?”
I nod. “You said they called you in last minute? Did the other model get sick?”
“Maybe.” Swiveling in her seat to face me, her voice lowers conspiratorially. “I guess that girl Vara was supposed to be here today? But, like, no one’s been able to get ahold of her for a few days. Have you heard anything?”
"I haven't spoken to her since we did a shoot together about two months ago. What do you mean, no one's gotten ahold of her?"
I recall one of my roommates mentioning another girl who disappeared off the scene without a word. I can't quite recall the circumstances surrounding that. If I ever knew them.
“Does anybody know if—”
But before I can get the words out, another frazzled assistant comes rushing over, waving his arms angrily as he skids to a stop in front of Stasya. “Why are you still in your jacket? Oh my God, could they ever send a model that knows what the hell she’s doing?”
“Someone put me in this chair,” she points out.
He huffs. “Just follow me!”
She rolls her eyes before following him out of the room.
I'm too distracted by Vara's disappearance to worry about it. Something about it won’t let me go. I've been afraid of what will happen to me if I don't cooperate with Mr. Zoric’s demands. Vara's situation reinforces that my fears are very valid. I can't walk away from the contract I've been forced into. No one's going to save me. Not from Rhys. Not from the men that come after him.
Soon enough, I’m led to the curtain behind the small catwalk that has been set up on the main floor of the bridal shop. I go through the motions of the fashion show, operating on autopilot as I model several dresses that are not quite tailored to my body. There are gaps where there shouldn’t be, bunching fabric in odd places, straight pins poking me and sequins falling off, but no one seems to care.
The rest of the day goes by in a blur, and I’m grateful when it’s over. I don’t even bother washing off my makeup before quickly getting dressed and slipping out the back door, where my car and driver are waiting to take me to Rhys’s.
It’s not quite seven p.m. and I’m surprised to find him waiting for me when I walk into the house. He approaches me from the front sitting room, his eyes moving over my body and then lingering on my face, as if assessing my makeup.
We make brief eye contact and I try to ignore the flutter in my stomach. “Hi.”
“Dinner will be ready shortly,” he says.
Is this his idea of an invitation, or am I being scolded for coming home so late?
“Okay…”
“Clean yourself up and join me in the dining room,” he says. “Be prompt.”
With that, he turns on his heel and walks away.
Ten minutes later I’ve changed, scrubbed my face of every last remnant of makeup, and done my best to brush the stiff layers of hairspray out of my hair. When I go down to the dining room, Rhys stands to pull a chair out for me at the table. Dishes of steaming risotto, steak, roasted asparagus, and green salad are set out, along with wine. Rhys serves both of us.
As I sit there watching him dish out the food, he asks, “How was the job today? You had said you were modeling gowns for a bridal shop.”
