Page 77 of The Client
IZABELA
It’s beensix weeks since I left Rhys. Nine weeks since he texted to inform me that Zoric had agreed to sell my contract, for an amount not specified. Nine weeks since I started my life over.
Thankfully, I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had time to dwell on what I lost. Well, not during the day anyway. Nights are a different story altogether.
As soon as my passport was delivered to the motel where I was staying initially, I was able to check out and secure a long-term room rate at a nicer hotel in the theater district for less than it would cost to rent a studio apartment in this city. Since I pay weekly, it will be easy to pick up and move when an opportunity presents itself. For the moment, I’m happy enough with my new job, working for a boutique (aka fledgling) modeling agency as an event organizer.
One of their agents offered to represent me soon after I started the organizing job, and I agreed—but I refused to sign any contracts. Thankfully, Mariella was amenable to a handshake agreement, whereby either of us can terminate our working relationship verbally, at any time, for any reason. It was the only kind of “contract” I felt comfortable with.
So far I’ve been offered a handful of bookings, but I had Mariella decline on my behalf each time. I told her it’s not that I don’t want to model ever again, but the dust is still settling around me after leaving KZM and I’m not quite ready to put my face back out there. As a former model herself, who left the industry to start a family, Mariella understands. Ireallylike her.
Konstantin Zoric hasn’t reached out to me, and Eva hasn’t seen the mysterious man lurking around the house the last few weeks, but it would be foolish to assume that I’m completely free of Zoric and his influence. I try not to think about it, but at night, when the room is quiet, my mind conjures up all types of worries and what ifs. That’s also when I think about Rhys.
“Izabela?” my walkie-talkie crackles. “They need you in the back.”
I unclip the walkie off my belt and answer, “Thanks. I’m on my way.”
A rush of adrenaline floods through me. It’s almost showtime.
This isn’t some glamorous, high-profile gig featuring yours truly, however. Instead, it’s a tiny little runway show at the Oakbrook mall—the second biggest mall in Chicago—that I’ve spent the last month organizing, for a local designer whose spring collection will be featured in one of the department stores. It’s low-level, sure, but I’m proud of the work I’ve done. My new agency knew that I didn’t have experience producing runway shows, but I convinced them I could handle it, and I pulled from my experience as a model to design the set. Now, looking around at the basic black curtains and plywood stage and bright lights, I get a thrill knowing that I made all of this happen. And I did it on my own.
Before I duck backstage, I adjust the big urns of flowers that are set up on either side of the stage entrance. The models will walk over a long runner in between rows of chairs and then advance to the T-shaped stage, where they’ll showcase their outfits. The stage faces the department store, of course, and the designer’s name is printed on a glittery banner that hangs over the store’s entryway. It was the best I could do with my budget.
As for my paychecks, the money isn’t anywhere near what I made on the Idlewild campaign, but that’s fine by me. What’s important is that I don’t have to fly back to Poland in disgrace, and I can still send most of my paychecks home to Eva. Plus, I’m doing what I want to do, and on my own terms. And I have an agent now, one who won’t ever abuse me.
My freedom is worth the compromises I’ve had to make, and my current situation is just temporary anyway. Something bigger will come along. I just know it.
I’ve got my optimism back.
Two large offices in a utility hallway have been converted into dressing rooms for the models. The rooms are a flurry of chaos when I go there to check on everyone’s progress. The show starts in less than an hour and some of the models are still in chairs getting their hair done. I smile at them, remembering myself chatting and gossiping there in the recent past.
It wasn’t all bad.
And the next time I’m backstage with Diya, or Talia, or any of the other countless women I’ve walked next to, I hope we’ll all be free.
A stage assistant hurries over. “Miss Jasinski! We’re running behind schedule.”
“No we’re not,” I say. “Not yet, anyway. What’s left to do?”
I help models into their dresses, I touch up lipstick, I reset bobby pins supporting elaborate hairstyles. Spray hairspray, slick on glittery body oil, and find someone’s left shoe. I lose myself in the busyness of it all, exhilarated more than stressed. This comes easy to me. It’s different, being on the other side. I’m used to being handed off like a relay race baton between hairdressers, makeup artists, and wardrobe, but today I’m playing all three.
The models line up for a series of social media photos ten minutes before curtain call. I pull out my phone and snap a few pictures of my own, then send the best ones to my sister. I’ve tried calling her a couple of times the past few days but haven’t gotten ahold of her—my uncle said she’s been studying with friends, preparing for final exams. I know Eva will be excited about these photos when she sees them. She loves everything to do with beauty and glamour. I’m hit with nostalgia as I remember scouring stacks of women’s fashion magazines with her.
One day, I’ll bring her along to a show.
When I haven’t gotten a response from her a few minutes later, I take a chance and dial her number. I’m not surprised when she doesn’t pick up. I leave a message.
“Hey baby sis, it’s me. I just sent you some pics. My very first show is about to kick off! Wish you were here. I’ll send more photos soon. Love you and miss you so much. Bye.”
I’m still fussing with last-minute details when the show begins. The seats fill up, the overhead lights dim, and curious passersby stop to watch. The designer goes onstage and gives her little introductory speech, and then the stage lights go up and the music begins to thump.
One by one, my models start to walk the runway. The crowd is quiet at first, but as the third model makes her debut, people begin to cheer. The sound shocks me. I can’t say I’ve ever done a show to a cheering crowd, but apparently mall spectators take their fashion a bit less seriously than the audiences at Paris fashion week.
Clipboard in hand, I hover at the side of the stage. I’m hiding behind some giant potted plants, quietly monitoring my schedule as each of the girls takes her turn showing off her outfit. The designer presents each piece with a brief description and the crowd seems enthusiastic.
I let myself get caught up in the moment, riveted to each model, each outfit change, my pen making little check marks on my clipboard. It’s all going off without a hitch, and I’m so proud of my whole crew. I’m peripherally aware as someone comes close and then stops to stand beside me. I don’t look over my shoulder, though. I can’t tear my eyes away from the show.
Finally, the last model makes her exit. The crowd begins to clap, and the designer comes back out and takes a bow with all the models who are lined up on the stage, then begins to read her acknowledgments and the closing credits off a sheet of paper.
