The Luckiest Girls Read online

  Mom was quiet for a moment. Maybe she actually heard me this time. Maybe my little speech got through to her. And just maybe, for once, what I want will matter to her.

  “All right,” she said finally. “If you insist on doing this, then do it right. Be a model, but be one of the best. Do you understand? If you’re going to sacrifice college then you better be getting the high-end work — couture shows, magazine covers, cosmetics campaigns. Don’t call me all excited because you’re modeling cat litter or something. Be someone I can be proud to call my daughter.”

  “Of course I want that, all models want that, but it’s an incredibly competitive…”

  “Are you already making excuses to fail? It’s your choice. Either choose to be a success, or be a failure. Like you said, you’re a grown-up. There are no participation trophies anymore.”

  And with the cold finality of her voice, the crushing sensation of panic crept back over me.

  I’ve had a few bookings since I arrived in New York, but mostly for minor catalogs or websites. Those aren’t the kind of jobs that do much to boost my followers. Right now I have more than three thousand followers, which isn’t too shabby since I’m still kind of a newbie, but Brigitte has almost as many, and when Ling’s tearsheets from Fashion Hong Kong come out in a couple of weeks she’ll pick up thousands of followers overnight. These numbers are laughable, though, when you compare them to Sophia, who has over a million followers. What I really need — what every model really needs — is editorial work. There are only so many magazines to go around, which is why most models spend several months out of the year in Europe — places like Paris, Milan, London, and Madrid — where the magazine market is bigger. I guess you could call my month in Milan a success. I was lucky to rent a room from one of the bookers at Towers Milan, so I didn’t have to share a tiny apartment with a dozen other girls. I got some editorial work, but Grazia and Amica are second-tier magazines. They’re not Vogue or Elle.

  It could be worse, though. Take Campbell for instance. Campbell only has a couple of hundred followers, and all she has are test pictures, plus some tacky newspaper inserts for some local department store in Atlanta. Her book isn’t even strong enough for Gigi to send her to Europe. So, by comparison, I’m doing okay. But I’m going to need more exposure, lots more. That’s why, when I learned this morning that Isabel had a casting for W that isn’t on my calendar, I called my booker Suzanne and asked her why I’m not being sent on it.

  “They’re asking for a specific look that is more like Isabel’s. Don’t worry, I’ve got several other castings lined up for you,” she said.

  I knew what was going on here. Isabel needs editorial work even more than I do, and the agency gave her an extra push at W. But if Suzanne thought I’d be placated by her answer then she doesn’t know me at all.

  Isabel’s casting appointment was at eleven. I arrived at the W Magazine office (which every model in New York knows is in the Condé Nast building, at One World Trade Center) at eleven twenty, and just as I entered the lobby I saw Isabel exit the elevator bank in the opposite direction, bundled up like a teddy bear in jeans, UGG boots and a puffy down jacket against the February cold.

  “Who are you seeing?” the receptionist asked me.

  “I forgot her name, I’m sorry. It’s for the casting,” I answered.

  “Lisa, then. Go ahead, third office to your left.”

  When I entered the office, Lisa, the fashion editor, looked up from a selection of composite cards beside Christophe Malinois, the photographer.

  “Hello,” she said. “I thought we’d seen our last girl. Are you sure you’re scheduled?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Unless someone at the agency made a mistake. But I’m here now. Can I show you my book?”

  Lisa nodded. I put down my bag and took off my Burberry wool coat, unveiling my strongest asset: this five-foot-eleven, former-ballet-dancer, varsity-athlete body of mine. My skin-tight mini dress and low neckline neckline showed off every curve of my body.

  “Very nice,” Linda said, flipping through my book.

  “Yes indeed,” Christophe said, looking me up and down. And right at that moment I knew that Isabel was screwed.

  When Suzanne called me this afternoon to confirm the booking I bounced around my room with joy. I almost called Mom, but then I hesitated. What if the booking falls through? What if they decide not to run the pictures? The tightening in my chest was back. I won’t do anything until I have the pictures in print, in my book. Then I’ll share them with Mom.

  Isabel’s eyes are red from crying. She thought she had it in the bag. I don’t think she knows I stole her casting, but she hasn’t looked at me all evening. I almost feel sorry for her, but I have problems of my own. One of which takes the form of this little waif across the table from me — who for some reason just spat out a potato, burst into tears and bolted from the table.

  Gigi sighs. “It’s been a difficult week for the child. I think I’ll have Abby Bernstein take her shopping tomorrow to cheer her up. She’s in desperate need of new clothes.”

  Abby Bernstein is one of New York’s top fashion bloggers. There aren’t many people in the world who can just beckon Abby Bernstein with a snap of their fingers to take their kid on a shopping spree. Kind of a waste, in my opinion — I bet Jane doesn’t even know who Abby Bernstein is. I’m not sure what that kid’s problems are, but Gigi is seriously clueless if she thinks they’re going to be solved with a shopping trip.

  The next morning is cold and damp, and as I enter Christophe’s warm, brightly lit studio it’s like stepping into another world. The smell of hairspray and coffee fill the air, a combination which for the rest of my life I’ll associate with photo shoots. I’ve checked off a thousand little boxes in my head to make sure everything is perfect today (in keeping with Gigi’s three P’s that she’s always reminding us of: Punctual, Poised, and Prepared). I ran fourteen miles this week, I did five hours of hot yoga, I took a diuretic last night, I used a teeth whitening strip, I brought my vouchers, two working pens, my foundation, eyedrops, toothbrush, I shaved all my bits and pieces, my phone is charged, each fingernail is shaped and polished to perfection.

  Ian, the hair and makeup artist, is a freaking genius. He does this exquisite Egyptian cat-eye thing to my eyes that I’ll never be able to replicate, and rubs some glossy conditioning stuff in my hair and blows it out. When my hair and makeup are ready, Annie, the stylist, helps me into my outfit.

  Which gives me a massive case of the creeps. It’s a fur coat, and it probably costs more than your average car, but all I see are hundreds of dead animals hanging off my shoulders. There was a time when I said I would never model fur. But, dammit, I need this job. I need it bad. Like Mom said, if I’m going to model, then I need to do it right. Even if it means selling my soul for a good picture.

  “Isn’t this a gorgeous coat?” Annie says. “It’s silver fox.”

  Foxes, Jesus. My thoughts scatter like marbles, and totally beyond my control my head fills with images of foxes bleeding in traps, gnawing at cages and writhing in death by electrocution, and my breath starts coming too fast and I think I might pass out.

  “Something wrong?” Annie asks.

  It must be that look in my eyes again, that one I get when a panic attack comes on. Chill, Maya. Breathe.

  Here’s what I’ll do, I tell myself: I’ll donate today’s paycheck to the World Wildlife Fund. Even better, once I make it big I’ll do one of those naked anti-fur billboard campaigns for PETA. That makes it okay, doesn’t it? That makes me just a little less of a scumbag excuse for a human being, right?

  “I’m fine,” I smile, and I take my place in front of the camera. Buried inside the coat, nobody can tell that I’m digging my nails into my arms so hard the pain takes over my anxiety.

  “Lean forward just a little, Maya, will you?” Christophe asks. “Look to your right so the earring catches the light. That’s right. Beautiful.” Clickclickclick goes the camera.


  I relax as the shot progresses. I can tell I’m doing better than the other model, Katie, did in the last shot. I heard Christophe tell her to loosen up, that she looked stiff. Nobody’s going to say that about me. I move like a cat and I know it, thanks to a lifetime of ballet.

  I thought this was a closed set. Who are those guys hanging out near the door? It seems they’re delivering equipment so I guess they’re supposed to be here. Still, that bald one needs to put his beady little eyeballs back in their sockets. I wonder if he can tell that I’m only wearing panties under this coat.

  “Nice. Lean back on your elbows, and arch your back,” says Christophe.

  What is my coat doing? I can’t tell with my head hanging back but surely they’d tell me if my boobs are falling out of my…oh, look at that, yes they are. Hold on, let me…

  “No, don’t move a thing, the light on the fur is perfect.”

  “But my breasts are showing.”

  “No they’re not. I can’t see from here. Don’t worry about it, you look fine.” Clickclickclick.

  He’s lying, my breasts are definitely out there. But you know what, they look pretty good draped in diamonds. I’m not prudish about showing skin, as long as it’s tasteful, and W is tasteful. I’ve always hated the patriarchic notion that women should keep their bodies under wraps for fear of cheapening themselves or some such dictatorial bullshit. Women’s bodies are beautiful and powerful, and art has celebrated the female body since prehistory. Every woman should do whatever she damn pleases with her body, as long as it’s on her terms. It’ll be interesting, though, to hear what Mom, who has written tomes about the empowerment of the female body, will think of her youngest daughter showing boob in a magazine.

  Then I realize that bald delivery guy is right behind me, craning his slimy neck to get a better look, licking his fat filthy lips.

  “Wait,” I say, and I sit up.

  “Don’t move!” Christophe yells. “Ah, merde, now we have to set it all up again.”

  “Sorry, but could these guys” — I point right at the creep’s face — “please leave? They’re making me very uncomfortable.”

  “You,” Christophe says to the guy. “Out of here.”

  “You want this stuff moved or what?” the guy drawls back.

  “Well, either get busy or get lost!”

  With an agonizing lack of urgency the men carry supplies through the studio, and Christophe takes a break while Annie readjusts the coat and Ian touches up my makeup.

  “All right, allez,” an irritated Christophe snaps, waving everyone else off the set. But just before the bald guy walks out the door, he snaps a picture of me with his cell phone. I want to leap up, yank the cell phone from his hand and smash it on the ground, but I’m scared of interrupting Christophe again, and if word gets out that I’m hard to work with no one will ever book me again. He might even send me home on the spot. I’m shaken and creeped out and it shows in my expression because Christophe barks at me to relax my eyebrows.

  “Lunch break,” Christophe finally announces. “Twenty minutes, everyone.”

  With a sigh I stand up and stretch my stiff, aching limbs.

  “Did you see that weirdo staring at you?” asks Katie when I enter the dressing room. “That was just wrong. You should complain to your agency.”

  Like hell I should. Katie knows as well as I do that if I ever want to work again I won’t be complaining about anything to anyone. I change into a robe. They got us sushi for lunch, and I’m so hungry I’m ready to shove that whole tray into my mouth. I reach for one of the tuna rolls, then hesitate. Is that too much? Half a roll, then. Just let me pick out the rice…too many carbs in rice. I’ll have some of the seaweed salad, just a small spoonful. Man, if Gigi ever called me out for my weight in front of the other girls, the way she does Campbell, I would never show my face in that house again.

  When we finish at three o’clock I feel confident that even Christophe is pleased with me. The samples of pictures that he shows me are some of my best ever. Next I have a fitting at the Jordanne fashion house, one of the designers I’m walking for in the shows.

  When I arrive at Jordanne I’m surprised to see little Jane there, in the company of Abby Bernstein. This must be Gigi’s idea of an appropriate shopping trip for a fifteen-year-old: a private consultation with one of the top young designers in New York. Abby flutters around in a big floppy hat, a scarf that reaches her ankles and a jacket made of feathers as she and a stylist pull clothes and accessories for Jane to try on. I exchange hellos with Jane, who, by contrast, looks entirely out of place in her own torn jeans, Led Zeppelin T-shirt with a flannel shirt and Converse sneakers.

  While I’m being fitted, I watch Abby and the stylist working on Jane.

  “Now, remember, she’s short,” says Abby. “No plaids or horizontal stripes.”

  “Ugh, take that off at once,” says Ethan as Abby zips Jane into a black drop-waisted dress. “Her body’s all wrong for it, it looks ghastly.”

  “No belts,” cautions Abby. “She has a waist like a tree trunk so we shouldn’t call attention to it.”

  It’s painfully awkward, watching them play with Jane like a defective doll that doesn’t fit into the clothes it’s supposed to. Not once does anyone ask her if she actually likes the clothes they’re selecting, and it’s evident that she has nothing to say about it. You’d think a girl being treated to a whole new designer wardrobe would be beaming like a Disney princess, but Jane looks miserable. When I have a short break I ask her what her favorite piece is.

  “None of these are things I’d pick out for myself, but I kind of like this one,” Jane says of a soft grey asymmetrical tee shirt. “What is it, silk? It feels like…Holy mother of hell, look at the price! It’s three hundred dollars!”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Abby interjects. “Everything is on Gigi.”

  “You sure are lucky,” I say, but Jane doesn’t look like she thinks she’s lucky.

  “I don’t even know how to wear some of these,” Jane says. “I mean look at this. Can I even go to the bathroom in this thing?” She holds up a suede pencil skirt that laces up the back.

  “Trust me, you’ll get used to it,” Abby says. “Ready? We have several other designers to see. Let’s go, we have LOTS of work to do.”

  As Abby and Jane exit I check my emails and read one from Mom.

  “I just saw the picture you sent me from your W shoot. You look very nice, although I think the red lips age you, but I suppose you have no say in how they make you up. Tell me, how much of the photos do they photoshop? Alexandra is doing marvelously at Harvard and has just declared her concentration, Molecular Biology (I’m sure you can imagine your father’s unbridled delight). She is still dating Douglas Evans, whose parents and younger brother we entertained last week when they came through DC to visit Georgetown U. Such nice people! Do give her a call, she tells me it’s been ages since you two spoke. Much love,

  Mom.”

  Why do I even open Mom’s emails? The whole thing is dripping with passive-aggression. Not one damn word about how proud she is of me, but plenty of gushing about wonderful Alexandra and her billionaire boyfriend. Nice people my ass, mom wouldn’t care if they were pirates as long as they’re rolling in money. I do owe Al a call, but I just don’t want to deal with her now. If you think I’m competitive, you’ve never met my sister, the queen of the overachievers. She’s so competitive she absorbed her twin in utero. It’s a family joke, “Alexandra ate her twin,” but when I was really little it seemed perfectly plausible that she’d devour me, too, one way or another, if I infringed in her space.

  3

  Campbell

  It’s more important for a model to be graceful than sexy. Who cares what men think? Men aren’t the ones buying women’s clothes. — From The Many Faces of Gigi Towers by L. M. Daly.

  * * *

  The streets are ankle deep in black icy sludge and sky is gray and cold but I don’t care, it’s the most beautiful, happ
iest day in the world because I just got off a video call with Sophia!

  “I miss you so much. I’m sick of everyone pulling at me in all directions,” she said. “I just need some chill time with my bestie.” I’m filled with warmth and I feel like I’m walking three feet off the ground. I’ve been sick with fear that, with everything that’s been happening to her, Sophia would forget all about me. But she misses me! I’m still her bestie! And she’s coming back on Friday! Seventy-six hours until her flight lands at JFK from Paris.

  At a newsstand I buy a pack of gum from an old man with an eye patch. Poor old thing, I hope he has a good day. I hope he goes home to a wife and that they’re kind to each other. I hope the darling man selling newspapers for the homeless at the corner has a warm bed waiting for him, and that the dear lady walking the fat pug is in love, and that the dear, dear little fat pug has everything his fat little heart desires. I want everyone in the world to be as happy as I am right now.

  I skip into the agency to drop off the voucher from the bridal fitting I did last week. However, as soon as I arrive, Marilyn, the head booker, tells me to come into her office, and poof, the bubble of joy I floated in on bursts like…well, like a bubble. Marilyn scares the crap out of me. There is only one person at the agency who I’m more scared of than Marilyn and that’s Gigi.

  “We got your pictures back from your test shoot with Petra,” she says. “I’d like you to have a look at them with me.” She motions me to sit down as she pulls a slideshow up on her computer.

  “Look at this one,” she says, pointing to the first picture. “What do you see?”

  I don’t know the answer she’s looking for. I mean, I see myself, wearing a pair of cut-off denim shorts and a black tank top, sitting in the sunshine on the floor of the studio. What does she think I see?

  “How about here?” she says, as though offering me a clue, pointing to my upper thigh.