Page 31 of The Client
Rhys departsthe townhouse before daybreak, leaving me alone in the lofty space. I lay there for a while after hearing him leave, toying the covers between my hands, and listening intently for any sound.
It was silly to be afraid considering the amount of security in the house. But after growing up in a house with only three rooms and then sharing the small apartment with my fellow models, it’s overwhelming to be the only person in all this space.
Well, alone except for the staff. So far I’ve met Rawlings, an older gentleman who seems to manage the day-to-day goings-on of the house and the coordination of meals, as well as occasionally checking to see if Rhys needs anything; and Mrs. Dunham, who constantly bustles around cleaning things or carrying folded laundry or tea trays. They’re much more at ease under the command of Rhys than they were when his father brought me here for the first time. No wonder they seemed so panicked that night—the elder Mr. McConnell just barged in with a strange woman on his arm and it’s not even his place.
I finally get up and turn all the lights on to make myself feel better while taking a hasty shower.
Then I go down to the dining room in my robe and find a carafe of hot coffee waiting on the table. After pouring myself a cup, I start to wonder if I’m supposed to go to the kitchen to put in my breakfast order or make my own meal. I have no idea what the protocols are in a house of this size, especially for a long-term guest like myself.
But just as I’m about to go find out, Mrs. Dunham comes through the door with poached eggs, sliced fruit, yogurt and granola, and fresh cream for the coffee.
“Good morning, Miss Jasinski.”
“Good morning. Is this all for me?”
“It is. If the selections aren’t to your liking, I can have the cook prepare something else,” she says. “This is what Mr. McConnell usually has during the week.”
I lean back in my chair as she sets everything out on the table. It all looks wonderful, but I miss what’s not there: my uncle’s apple pancakes served with slices of fried kielbasa, fresh milk, hot rolls with honey and walnuts. Mealtimes are often when I miss my family most.
“This is great. Thank you, Mrs. Dunham.”
With a curt nod, she sweeps from the room. I like her—I think—but I can’t tell if she disapproves of me being here, or if she even knows the full extent of what my arrangement with Rhys is. Her manner is a bit cool, but I can’t tell if it’s borne of judgment or simply efficiency.
I dig into the food, knowing I’ll need my energy for the long hours ahead. The last job I booked before Rhys took charge of my career is happening today. He agreed that I should meet this prior obligation, so I didn’t have to argue with him about the merits of the assignment.
Which is good, because it’s not a very prestigious gig. It’s a cheesy little runway show at a bridal shop downtown. I have a feeling it’s going to be a day filled with lots of tiny pearl buttons, a lot of tightly cinched corset waists, and a lot of squished boobs. And alotof tulle.
Still, work is work. This is my career, and I have to take the lows with the highs. Besides, as far as “lows” go, I’ve recently gained a whole new perspective thanks to Konstantin Zoric.
As soon as I’ve eaten my fill, I go back upstairs to get ready. I don’t need to worry about my hair or makeup since professionals will handle that later, but I still like to look as put together as possible. Thank God for all the free clothes I’ve been given on my shoots. It’s easy to look fashionable when all your outfits come from next season’s cream of the crop.
I pull on a pair of jeans, an embroidered cream blouse that’s a little bit bohemian, and a cropped leather jacket. Eva would be proud of me. I never used to pay attention to clothes, unlike her, but now it’s practically second nature for me to assemble something decent.
I hear a knock at my door and dash across the bedroom to open it.
“Your driver is here, Miss Jasinski,” says Rawlings.
“Thank you. I’ll be right down.”
“Very good.”
Rhys assigned me a personal driver and forwarded the man my schedule, along with explicit instructions that I’m not to be driven anywhere that’s not listed on the daily planner. It’s annoying, but I know it’s all part of being a kept woman. This is what Rhys paid for, right? So I just have to suck it up. Though I admit, having my own car and driver is a lot more luxurious than taking Ubers or the L all over town.
When I arrive at the May Queen Bridal Shop, I have to put my game face on. The location is downtown, and the place looks legit enough, but it looks a little…Vegas. There’s a hot pink-and-white striped awning over the front façade, and the window displays are crammed with frothy, glittery, costume-y gowns and a flashing sign that says “Brides, Brides, Brides” like some kind of strip club advertisement. It’s glam, but not very classy.
I know I shouldn’t judge. I should be happy that I’m here at all, considering Rhys threatened to take my work away from me. And yes, I am glad to be working. I just wish the job was a little more upscale. More of an asset to my portfolio.
The second I step through the door, I’m whisked away to change into several gowns, one after the other, all of them straight off the rack and not my size. The wardrobe assistant is stressed out and impatient as she pins and clips the best she can, trying to make them fit me. Usually, the clothes at my shoots are exactly my size, or else they’re tailored when I arrive. But that’s not the case today. This fashion show seems to be flying by the seat of its pants.
People are running around, speaking frantically into their headsets, wardrobe is struggling to fit me into these gowns, and hair and makeup can’t seem to agree on how to style me. The first attempt at my makeup is a disaster—the look is more overdone beauty pageant than glamorous and romantic—so it has to be done all over again.
As the tornado unfolds around me, I sit quietly like the voiceless, moldable model that I am. It’s the fashion producer’s job to figure out all the logistics. My job is merely to walk out there and help execute their vision. I’m having my hair pulled, and not in the good way, when another model walks in with a bewildered look on her face.
“You’re an hour late!” the fashion producer yells.
Seconds later, the new model gets shoved into the chair next to me. She looks familiar. It takes a second before I remember seeing her at another shoot. She’s a KZM model, too.
She slides me a skeptical gaze and whispers, “I’mnotlate. I got called in last minute.”
