The Luckiest Girls Read online

  The fashion bloggers are just as interested in the models’ street fashion as they are in what we wear on the runway, so there are photographers and bloggers all over the place as we leave, eager to catch candid shots of us on our way to our next shows. A young blonde reporter stops me, flags down her camera man, and sticks her microphone in front of my face.

  “Maya, you were magnificent,” she says. She knows my name! I’m so excited that she knows my name! Then she continues with, “Don’t you just love all the diversity on the runways? The New York Times wrote that this is one of the most diverse Fashion Week seasons yet. Isn’t it exciting to see racism in fashion finally become a thing of the past?”

  She holds the microphone under my mouth, and apparently I’m expected to answer. I’m speechless for a moment, but not because I have nothing to say. There’s plenty I can say. I could point out that the Fashion Week shows only take place two weeks out of the year, and the rest of the time models of color have to compete for the very small percentage of advertising, commercial, catalog and editorial jobs available to us. I could suggest that this reporter pick up any fashion magazine and compare the number of pages depicting white models versus pages with black models. I could suggest she look not only at the photographs in the magazines, but also at the masthead, and see how many of the magazine’s editors and contributors are women of color. I could point out that girls like me who want to succeed in modeling need to be better and work harder, just to keep up.

  “Yes, the diversity on the runways is a start, but we still have a very long way…” I begin. But the reporter cuts me off.

  “There’s Christy Bennett! Oh, hey, Christy!” she cries, and runs off, camera man behind her, leaving me hanging in mid sentence. What an idiot, I think. It’s a rude awakening, after feeling like Wonder Woman on the runway, to realize that my opinion is of no interest to anyone, not even to the stupidest reporter who ever held a press pass. I shake off my anger only when Ling bumps into me and pulls me into a playful pose for the cameras. If all these people want me to do is smile, then fine, I’ll smile. I’ll smile until my face aches.

  At home I find Campbell sprawled on her bed. She looks like a train wreck.

  “You look like a train wreck,” I inform her.

  “I feel like one,” she grumbles. “How come you don’t?”

  “I only had one glass of wine at the party, and I didn’t finish it. What did you drink, anyway?”

  “Just some ice tea or something.”

  “There’s no ice tea in a Long Island ice tea, you half-wit, you know that, don’t you?” I tell her. “It’s a mixture of vodka and tequila and god knows what else. No wonder you’re sick.”

  Campbell moans as she covers her face with her arm, and then reaches out to me with a small piece of paper in her fist. “Here.”

  “What is this?”

  “Dry cleaning receipt for your dress. So sorry. It’s paid, it’ll be ready on Monday.”

  I take the receipt with a twinge of guilt.

  Just then Sophia bursts into the room. She is still in full makeup from her last show, and bubbling with excitement.

  “Guess what!” She announces. She pauses as though she actually expects an answer. She’s Sophia, so it could be anything: The Metropolitan Museum wants to carve her face on all the statues; she found the lost Faberge Eggs of the Romanovs in a taxicab; The Duke of Cambridge wants to renounce the throne to run away with her. Anything is possible, so nobody answers.

  “I just spoke to Theo, and he’s invited us to spend the weekend at his house in the Hamptons! All three of us! And Campbell, he saw our picture in the paper today and he said he’ll do a test shoot with you!”

  Campbell starts screaming with excitement, then clutches her head and grimaces with pain. This is a huge break, especially for Campbell. Theo Wolff doesn’t do test shots with new girls. Ever. He only works with the big stars. Even the models who pull in ten thousand dollars a day will work with Theo for nothing. I’ve met Theo on a go-see but I haven’t worked with him, but I guaran-damn-tee you that if he’s going to shoot Campbell in the Hamptons he’s going to shoot me too.

  Campbell, Sophia, me, and, for some reason, Jane, take a Jitney to Bridgehampton. I have no idea why Jane would want to spend a weekend at the beach in midwinter, but here she is. Maybe she asked Gigi if she could come to work on her film project. Or maybe Gigi just wants her out of the house. Anyway, Jane sits a couple of rows behind us, her nose buried in a book, even though they bus is nearly empty. I still don’t know what to make of her. Sometimes she seems nice, and other times she acts like she can’t stand us.

  At the bus station in Bridgehampton, Theo, wearing jeans, work boots and a fisherman’s sweater, picks us up in a silver Range Rover. He’s probably around forty, of less than medium height and sports a dark blonde ponytail. If you didn’t know who he was you’d never imagine the most beautiful girls in the world falling over themselves to meet him. When we pull up to the house, which sits on a small cliff overlooking the beach, the orange glow from the windows is so cozy and warm that it feels like home even though I’ve never set foot in the place.

  Inside, Theo helps Sophia off with her coat, while the rest of us wriggle out of our parkas. “You girls can decide who sleeps where,” Theo says. There are three bedrooms: The master is, of course, Theo’s, and then there’s one room with a queen bed and one with two single beds. Sophia and Campbell immediately snag the queen, which leaves me and Jane with the twin beds. When we’re all in the living room in front of the fire Theo brings out a platter of cheeses and crusty french bread.

  “Help yourself to whatever you want to drink,” Theo says, gesturing to the bar.

  “Theo, this is so lovely,” Sophia says as she pours herself a glass of white wine. “I would never come back into the city if I had this place. I’d just stay here forever.”

  “It can get a little dull in winter, but wait until you see the light on the rocks in the late afternoon. That’s where we’re going to shoot. We have about an hour until the sunlight is at its best.”

  While Campbell and Sophia are getting ready for their pictures, Jane wanders outside to explore the cliff with her video camera. From the window I watch her filming the grounds and the view. My makeup is done, and I don’t need to change clothes until right before my shot, so I follow her outside. She focuses her camera on the house, when suddenly she stops and stares. Over her shoulder I see what she’s looking at: Theo and Sophia, framed in the window of one of the downstairs bedrooms, as Theo taps the contents of a little vial onto the top of his hand. He offers a tiny silver tube to Sophia, who snorts the substance off of Theo’s hand, then daintily pats her nose while Theo snorts the rest.“So that’s how she keeps it up, then,” I say, and Jane, startled, turns to me.

  “I didn’t know Sophia did coke,” Jane says. “What would Gigi do if she knew?”

  “You think Gigi doesn’t know?”

  “Gigi’s famous for her anti-drug stance. She said she’d never keep a girl in her agency if she did drugs.”

  “And you believe that?”

  “Well, yes. She says so all the time in interviews and in her books.”

  “That’s her image, but she knows how this business works. Lots of models do cocaine. How do you think Sophia gets through twenty shows and all the parties during fashion week?”

  Jane just stares.

  “Let me tell you something that happened a few weeks before you arrived,” I continue. “There was this girl, Lauren, from Kansas. Pretty girl, but young. She booked a catalog job with this photographer, Daniel, and he and some of the other models were doing coke during the shoot. So Lauren, she gets a little freaked out, and she actually believes Gigi’s whole anti-drug spiel, so she tells Gigi all about it, like Gigi’s going to make it all better. And you know what Gigi does? She calls Lauren’s mother and says Lauren is too young and immature to work in New York and sends her home.”

  “But why?”

  “Becaus
e Daniel is a successful photographer who books lots of Towers girls.”

  “Gosh. Gigi’s kind of a bitch.”

  “Gigi’s a businesswoman,” I clarify. “As long as we stay thin, our skin is clear and we show up on time, Gigi’s happy. But if a girl starts creating problems, she’s out of here.”

  Theo emerges from the house.

  “Ready, Maya?” he calls.

  As I walk toward him I turns back to Jane and say, “You’re lucky, Jane. Gigi doesn’t care what you do.”

  That came out wrong, I realize too late. Sorry, kiddo. At least you don’t have to worry about Gigi putting you out on the curb. It’s something that I never let myself forget. It’s why I won’t be running to Gigi saying a photographer was wired out of his skull, or tricked me into letting him photograph my breasts, or copped a feel. Like Theo is doing right now.

  “Here, let me adjust this,” Theo says as I sit perched on a rock. He tucks a piece of my cashmere shawl between my upper arm and my breast, and then he traces the side of my breast with his fingers. I cock my eyebrow and shake my head every so slightly, as though he’s just a naughty kid and not some old pervert who thinks he owns my body.

  “Do you have a boyfriend, Maya?” Theo asks.

  “I do,” I lie with a sympathetic smile, as though my imaginary boyfriend is the only thing standing between me and a session of torrid lovemaking with Theo. That’s one thing I won’t do. I’m not sleeping with anyone just to get ahead. Nobody’s business, by the way, but I’m still a virgin. Not that I want to wait until marriage or anything archaic like that, but I do want to be in love.

  “Does that mean no you and me?” he says, with a sad puppy-dog look. “Well, if you decide to give me a second thought…” Ha. I didn’t even give him a first thought. He has graying bristles growing on his upper lip and he smells like cigarettes and stale wine and cologne and the mere idea of sex with Theo makes me stifle a gag. His claw of a hand is still cupping the side of my breast, and now he presses my nipple gently with his thumb. Oh, Theo, if you had any idea. If he wasn’t one of the top photographers in the world I would punch him hard enough to split my knuckles on his teeth. I envision myself landing a karate chop to his Adam’s apple, grabbing him by his saggy neck and shoving his arrogant ass off the rocks into the sea. Instead, I playfully swat at his hand, when what I’d really like to do is snap it off at the wrist.

  We start shooting, the light of the setting sun turning my skin to bronze as the wind blows my hair back in a mane of dark tendrils. He shows me some of the images on his camera in between poses.

  “Are you going to post those? They’re really beautiful,” I say.

  “Maybe,” he teases, “If you’re nice to me.”

  He thinks he’s being cute but I’m dead serious, he’d better. Theo has over two million followers. Everyone in the fashion world follows him, and whenever he tags a model in his pictures her number of followers skyrockets, and so do her jobs.

  “Look at this one,” he says. “So regal, so untouchable. Maya the Ice-Queen.”

  When we’re done with my pictures I stand to the side and watch as Theo photographs Campbell for a while. I’ll say this for Campbell, she’s not afraid of being sexy. Sexiness is completely natural to her. She’s like a young Marilyn Monroe, all curves and boobs and blonde curls, and she’s not at all self-conscious about her body, even though Gigi is always giving her a hard time about her weight. Now I’m worried about my own pictures. I mean I know I’m pretty, but am I sexy? “Maya the Ice-Queen”…is that a good thing? Should I try to be more seductive? I don’t even think I know how. Giggling and flirting and carrying on the way Campbell does, that’s a foreign language to me. What if Theo trashes all my pictures because he thinks I’m sexually repressed? He’s doing that same little move with touching her boob. Campbell doesn’t mind at all, she acts like she think it’s funny. They lean into each other, laughing, and she arches her back and runs her hands through her hair. She’s wearing a sheer V-neck sweater which hangs off her shoulders, no bra, and torn, faded jeans which fit her like spandex. If I wore that outfit I’d look like an androgynous nerd. Campbell looks like she belongs on the cover of Playboy.

  What Campbell does is her own business, but I hope she doesn’t give it up for Theo because she thinks he’s going to fall in love with her or change her life or something. Even she can’t be that naive.

  11

  Campbell

  It’s not enough to just be beautiful. If you want to distinguish yourself, you must cultivate your own special talent. Find out what you’re good at and make it your brand. Don’t be shy about sharing your special talent with the world! — From The Supermodel’s Handbook by Gigi Towers.

  * * *

  “This was the most exciting day I’ve ever had since I started modeling,” I say to Theo as we stand in the kitchen. “Working with you, I know we’re creating art, something beautiful and lasting.” I tilt my head as I gaze at him over the edge of my wine glass. He’s not totally repulsive, I decide. He’s got the weathered brown skin of an outdoorsman, and his eyes are very blue under his dark eyebrows.

  “It’s not hard when my subject is as beautiful as you.”

  Yeah, okay, I know — Some of the cheesiest, most absolutely vomitous lines ever uttered. But I know what I’m doing, I’m not as gullible as I sound. Here’s the thing: I can’t compete with Maya and Sophia with just my looks. I need an edge of my own. And I have that edge. I discovered it when I was fifteen, my very own superpower. Maya has brains, Jane has a family name, and Sophia has…well, everything. Me, I have the ability to make men completely stupid with desire. Some people think that makes me a slut, but I’m not a slut. I enjoy sex, and guys enjoy sex with me, so I don’t see what the moral dilemma is. But I only enjoy sex with guys I’m at least halfway in love with. Can I help it that I fall halfway in love so easily?

  I had the best teacher in the world in my mom. I watched her reel in countless men by sending the tiniest signals, letting them think it’s their idea, that they’re the ones doing the chasing. Now, leaning against the kitchen counter, I let my hair cascade over one shoulder and twirl a few strands between my finger tips. From there I absently let my fingers slide down the front of my chest, leading his gaze to the soft, dark spot between my breasts. I bat my eyelashes like a doe, and slowly take a sip of my wine, all the while gazing at Theo like he’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. He shifts so he’s standing so close his knee touches my inner thigh, and I don’t move away.

  A small smile creeps over Theo’s face. He cups my chin in his hand and, with his thumb, gently wipes a drop of wine off my lower lip. Then he leans in and kisses me. He holds the back of my head and his hand slips under my sweater, finds my breast and caresses it. Pretty soon he takes my hand, and I follow him to his bedroom. Just as he closes the door behind us I look over his shoulder, and in the darkness of the hallway I see Jane. She’s standing there with that damn video camera, silently filming us.

  In the early dawn, as Theo gets out of bed, I try not to look too closely. His butt sags and his genitals look gray and shriveled as he makes his way to the bathroom. If I look away, I can pretend he’s twenty years younger, and that he didn’t make disgusting gurgling sounds in his sleep and that his bristly beard didn’t remind me of a goat. I can pretend that we are just two people who find each other attractive and that what we’re doing is the most natural thing in the world.

  And I almost believe myself. When he returns from the bathroom and doesn’t look at me either, I wonder what it is that he’s trying to pretend that I’m not.

  Without a word to me Theo lies on his side, his back to me, and falls asleep again. But I can’t go back to sleep. I remember what it was that I was dreaming before I woke up: I was walking through the halls of my school and no-one would speak to me, everyone went out of their way to avoid me like something disgusting left on the floor, and I started to cry like a little kid but nobody paid any attention, and then my
skin started to wrinkle and shrivel, and I was shrinking like an old forgotten dried-up turnip until I woke up gasping.

  It’s too dark, too quiet, too lonely, even with Theo beside me. Especially with Theo beside me.

  I have to get out of this room. I get up and use the bathroom in the hall. There’s a scale on the floor, and, as though I wasn’t miserable enough, I stand on it. I’ve gained weight again. I’m now easily ten pounds over my target weight, and I don’t understand why, other than that this is just my body doing what it’s destined to do. Theo seemed to enjoy it enough last night. Disgusted, I step off and walk to the living room.

  There are a few glasses and wine bottles lying around, and there’s a light left on, but other than that there’s no sign of life in the house. Everyone is asleep. I turn on the kitchen light and open the refrigerator door, looking for a diet soda. A rustling noise coming from the bottom drawer of the refrigerator scares the living crap out of me for a second. It’s those lobsters that Theo bought us for lunch tomorrow! I didn’t realize they were actually alive. Slowly I pull open the drawer, and five brown lobsters, their claws held closed with rubber bands, squirm around inside. They wiggle across one another, clawing at the smooth white plastic sides , trying to climb their way out. Their little black eyes point upward and one of them, I swear to God, looks right into my eyes and spreads his claws in the air, like a small child pleading to be picked up, and the lobster’s fear and despair hits me like a truck. In a panic I yank the drawer out of the refrigerator and place it on the floor. Picking up each lobster I slit through every rubber band with a small carving knife and place the lobsters back in the drawer. I lug the drawer through the back door to the porch and step into the cold night air. The sky is dark navy blue and by the light of the moon I walk through the cold grass, past the still burning embers of the fire pit, to the edge of the cliff. The water crashes against the rocks below me. Standing on the rocks I fling the refrigerator drawer and its passengers off the cliff. Lobsters fly out of the drawer into the air and splash into the waves below. The white plastic drawer bobs on the waves for a while until it fills with water and sinks.