The Luckiest Girls Read online

  “Hey,” I say, crouching beside her. When she looks at me her eyes are red from crying.

  “Did you see? I ruined everything.”

  “No you didn’t. It was just one glitch in an otherwise lovely show.”

  “Bullshit. They didn’t even let me go out in my second dress. They put it on another girl.”

  “Campbell? Are you okay?” says a familiar voice. We both look up, and to our surprise, see Jane.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask. I don’t mean it as unkindly as it probably sounds. “I mean, shouldn’t you be in school?”

  “I got a press pass to the show from Carol,” Jane says. “I’m here with my friend Niko.”

  “That was nice of her,” Campbell sniffles.

  “Campbell, don’t worry,” I say. “Some of the most famous models in the world have fallen on the runway.”

  “Not like I did.”

  “Well, go big or go home, right?” Jane gives a little laugh, but Campbell is so not in the mood.

  “Look, people are going to forget all about this by the end of the day,” I assure her. But Campbell gives a sob and shakes her head. The three of us walk toward the door together. A pair of models pass us and one of them pretends to trip in an ugly pantomime of Campbell’s fall, and they laugh like idiots.

  “Why don’t you come and do something fun with me and Niko?” Jane says. “We’re blowing off class for the rest of the day, and we thought we’d go ice skating at the Chelsea Piers.”

  “I can’t. I have a go-see on Sixth Avenue,” Campbell mopes. She murmurs goodbye and leaves.

  “Is she going to be alright?” Jane asks.

  “I’m not sure. Campbell needs a lucky break soon or she’s not going to last another month in this business,” I reply.

  9

  Campbell

  I’m not an unreasonable person. I don’t expect more from my girls than I do from myself. Unfortunately for them, I am very, very demanding of myself. —From The Many Faces of Gigi Towers by L. M. Daly.

  * * *

  Shitfuckhelldamncrap. This was my big chance and I blew it. God, I suck! What will Gigi say? I bet she thinks I’m a big, useless cow. I bet she never sends me on a casting again. I bet she’s terminating my contract this minute.

  “Somebody posted a video of you falling on youtube,” Maya says, seated on the floor and looking at my moment of glory on her laptop. “You’ve already got eight hundred views. Want to see?”

  “No thanks. I was there.”

  Sophia leans over to take a look, and she scrolls down the page. I peek over her shoulder, and even though I know nothing good is going to come out of it, I read some of the viewers’ comments. I was right, I shouldn’t have bothered. Some of them are really mean: “#Youhadonejob,” “What kind of a model doesn’t know how to walk in heels” and “Who let that clydesdale on the runway?” are a few examples. I pull up my knees and bury my face in my arms.

  Sophia floats over to me, sits down and puts her arm around my shoulders.

  “Never mind,” Sophia purrs. “What you need is to get your mind off of it. I’m invited to the Harper’s Bazaar party at the Turntable Lounge, and I can get you both on the list. Are you in?”

  “Oh hell yes,” says Maya.

  “No. I don’t want anyone to look at me,” I mumble from under my curtain of hair.

  “Oh, come on,” Sophia coaxes. “So what if they do? It’ll show everyone that you’re not curled up in a ball crying.”

  “I am curled up in a ball crying.”

  “Sophia’s right,” says Maya. “You’ll feel better, really. It’ll be fun.”

  “We have a curfew, remember? Nine o’clock on weeknights,” I say.

  “Gigi is at a party at the MoMA,” Sophia says. “She won’t even know we’re gone. We can be back by nine. Ten at the latest.”

  I sigh, but it comes out sounding like a snort.

  “Come on,” Sophia wheedles. “Please? I don’t want to go without you.”

  “I’ll lend you my Alaïa,” Maya says.

  I wipe my eyes with my sleeve and even though I know I look disgusting and my face is wet with tears and probably snot, Sophia gently kisses my forehead. For a moment I forget that I have just had one of the worst days ever and all I think of is how sweet Sophia is and how soft she feels and that she smells like jasmine. I feel a throb of adoration and gratitude and I know I will do anything for her.

  “Okay,” I sniffle.

  By the time I’m showered and dressed I feel a little better. As we get dressed, Sophia opens a bottle of wine - who knows where she got this one from - and pours us each a glass. Maya lends me a vintage Azzedine Alaïa that she bought from a stylist, a gray-blue sleeveless dress with a low-cut neckline that hugs every curve on my body. Sophia has on a little black dress with a plunging back while Maya wears a short flouncy white thing that makes her legs look like they go up to her rib cage. Sophia helps me with my eye makeup, lining the top eyelids with a smoky black edge.

  Outside the Turntable Lounge a horde of people surround the entrance, prepared to wait all night to get in or even just to get a glimpse at some of the VIP guests. Sophia, Maya and I step out of our cab, and the bouncers wave us through the crowd which parts like the Red Sea. Sophia loops her arms through mine and Maya’s, and under the bright bursts of flashbulbs we follow the red carpet up the steps and into the club.

  Inside, I do my best not to gape like a star-struck imbecile. I recognize other models, and actors, and all the people who are a hundred times more important because they are the ones who make the stars, who cast them and dress them and photograph them and keep them relevant.

  “That’s the creative director of Armani,” says Sophia. “And that’s the Editor-in-Chief of French Vogue.”

  “And there’s Frederick, who photographed Kylie Jenner’s Harper’s Bazaar cover,” adds Maya. “The naked one with the snake across her boobs.”

  “Sophia, look this way!” Cameras flash at us from all directions.

  “Sophia, over here!”

  “Sophia, who’s your favorite designer?”

  Sophia loops her arms through mine and Maya’s, and the three of us pose for the photographers in front of the Harper’s Bazaar backdrop with Sophia in the middle.

  “Can I get your names?” a young woman holding a tablet asks me and Maya. “I know yours, of course,” she smiles at Sophia. Maya and I oblige. A passing waiter holds out a tray with an array of drinks.

  “What are they?” I ask.

  “Chardonnay, Cabernet, Long Island ice tea, and vodka tonic,” he explains. I don’t really know anything about alcoholic drinks but I know what ice tea is so I take one of those. I sip it, trying to look like I have every right to be here, but the truth is I feel like a big fat fraud and that any minute someone is going to point at me and scream, “Who do you think you’re fooling, Campbell Tucker from Fayetteville, Georgia? Until last summer your idea of fashion was sequins on your jeans, and you can’t even walk on a runway without busting your ass.” Before I know it my glass is empty.

  “Let’s do a lap and work the room,” Sophia says, linking her arm through mine. I don’t even know what that means, but I follow her, and I absolutely love the way people just stop talking and stare at Sophia when she walks past. She’s not the biggest name in this room, but she is getting the most attention. Dozens of people want to say hello to her and take her picture, and meanwhile I help myself to another drink.

  Sophia isn’t one to stand around holding up a wall at a party, so as soon as there’s a lull in conversation she says “Come on, let’s dance,” and I put down my drink — is it my third? Not sure — and the three of us take to the dance floor. I’m a decent dancer, and so is Sophia, but neither of us can compare to Maya. She used to be really into ballet, and it shows on the dance floor. I feel dizzy with joy. But soon I realize it’s not joy that is making me dizzy. I’ve got a different kind of dizziness going on, caused by three drinks on an empty stomach.
I signal to the other two that I need to sit down, and I stagger off the dance floor.

  “You okay?” Sophia asks when she finds me sitting at a table.

  “My head feels fuzzy,” I say.

  “Want me to get you something?” Sophia asks.

  “You just need a little energy boost,” Maya adds. She leaves us, then returns with a can of Red Bull.

  “Here you go,” Maya says, popping open the can. “Drink this. It’ll make you feel a lot less groggy.” I drain the Red Bull. “Better?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” I say, but no, not really, and when I stand up my stomach flops around like a fish. The room begins to spin very fast and it must show on my face because Sophia holds me by my wrists.

  “Uh oh,” she says. “Are you going to…?”

  “Yes, she is,” says Maya. “Quick, this way.” The girls take me by the arms and drag me through the crowd, elbowing people out of the way and when I stumble into the restroom I collapse in one of the stalls where I throw up into the toilet.

  “That was close,” Maya sighs.

  “Taken,” Sophia snaps as she shoves the door to the restroom shut in someone’s face. “Campbell, are you alright? Can you stand up?”

  I don’t think I can. I think I’ve been poisoned.

  “God, Campbell, can’t you even hold your booze?” Maya grumbles as she props me up against the sink. She wets a stack of paper towels and wipes my face and the front of my dress while Sophia stands guard at the door, ignoring the protests of the people outside.

  “Uhh, I’m so sorry,” I groan.

  “We better get out of here,” Sophia says. “Hold it together, Campbell, okay?” She opens the door. With all the composure I can muster, I let them lead me to the exit.

  “I’ve called for a car,” Maya says, looking at her phone. “Shit, it’s going to be about fifteen minutes.”

  We lurk in the darkness of the entryway, and I pray that I won’t lose my guts again before we get outside, which by some miracle I manage. Finally our car arrives. We bundle into the car and Maya gives the driver Gigi’s address.

  “God, how’d it get so late?” Maya says.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “Almost midnight.”

  “What? Oh, crap, that’s it, we’re dead,” I cry.

  “No, we’re not,” says Sophia. “Stop it. Maybe Gigi isn’t even home yet. Maybe she came home and went straight to bed. Anyway, what’s the worst that can happen?”

  Easy for Sophia to say. Gigi would never kick her out of her house. But I bet Gigi’s just waiting for an excuse to send me packing.

  We arrive home, get out of the car and scamper up the steps as the car drives away. The night is bitter cold and none of us have coats on. We stand on the front stoop shivering while Sophia fumbles with the key in the lock.

  “Hurry up, I’m freezing my butt off,” Maya says through chattering teeth.

  “Uh oh. Shit,” Sophia says as she stares at the doorknob. “The deadbolt is locked. I can’t open the door!”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I wail.

  “No, seriously. Someone locked it. What should we do?”

  “Hang on. I’ll call Ling,” Maya says, and dials the number on her phone. We wait, huddled together to keep warm. “She’s not answering. Dammit. She must have turned her ringer off.”

  “What about Brigitte?”

  “Trying her now…oh, thank god…Brigitte, it’s Maya! We’re locked outside. Me and Sophia and Campbell. Can you come let us in? Okay, hurry up, will you, we’re freezing to death.” Maya puts her phone away. “Whew.”

  We bounce around with relief, then we bounce around for warmth, because Brigitte is taking her precious time getting to the door.

  “Where the hell is she?” Sophia chatters.

  “Maybe she fell back asleep,” I suggest.

  “If she did, so help me God, I will slap her in the face with a cactus.” Maya calls Brigitte’s number again. “Brig…dammit, voice mail.” There’s a brief pause, then Maya leaves her message: “Brigitte, you useless whore, where the hell are you? If you don’t open this damn door in ten seconds I’m going to gouge out your eyeballs and…”

  Just then we hear the click of the lock turning over and a sleepy-faced Brigitte opens the door.

  “Finally!” Maya hisses in a loud whisper.

  “You’re welcome,” Brigitte whispers back.

  “Does Gigi know we were out?”

  “Don’t know. I didn’t see her before I went to bed.”

  We tiptoe upstairs and I hold my breath as we pass Gigi’s floor. I peel off my wet clothes and put on a pair of flannel pajama pants and a T-shirt, then crawl into bed. For the first time I’m actually glad that I’m not booked for anything tomorrow. At least I can sleep in. Gradually I stop shivering and fall asleep.

  From very, very far away, a voice calling my name breaks through the thick fog of sleep. The morning light blinds me like a pair of icepicks jammed through my eye sockets and OH my head, it feels like there’s a rabid pit bull trapped inside my brain fighting its way out. I peer outside the covers. Maya is gone already; she had a show this morning. I guess the other girls have left as well. Sunlight is peering through the shades, and according to my phone it is only seven-thirty.

  “Campbell, come downstairs, would you?” Is that Gigi? What the hell does she want at this time of the morning?

  Somehow I manage to pull on a pair of jeans and a sweater and find my way downstairs, clinging to the railing. My stomach is so queasy that I’m worried the two Advil I swallowed aren’t going to stay down. I find Gigi in the dining room, having a slice of wheat toast with smoked salmon and a cup of coffee. Standing upright is a challenge, and I clutch the back of one of the dining chairs for balance.

  “There you are,” she chirps, laying aside her morning paper. “Good morning, Campbell. I came home so late that I didn’t get a chance to see you last night. I hope you girls were able to have a relaxing evening, after how busy you’ve all been.”

  “Um, yes, we did, thank you.” (Was that croaking sound my voice?)

  “I understand things didn’t go quite as planned at the show yesterday.”

  “I’m so sorry, Gigi, I tripped, it was an accident…”

  “I want you to work on your walk with our runway coach, Renata. She has time for you at eleven o’clock today. Oh, and I’ve added several other appointments to your schedule. It looks like you’ll have a busy afternoon.”

  Ugh. At least I don’t have to be at Renata’s until eleven. Maybe I’ll feel a little better by then. I just need to go back to bed and crawl under the covers for a couple more hours, at least until my head stops throbbing with pain.

  “Um, okay, good idea, thanks,” I say. I make a move to go back upstairs.

  “And you know, I have a wonderful idea.” Gigi clasps her hands together and smiles. “why don’t you take a fitness class this morning? Nothing is better for your coordination than a good aerobic workout.”

  Impossible. No way. I can’t think of anything in the world I want to do less. The blinding pain in my head flares up at the mere thought of exercise, especially in a class with blaring music and a screaming drill sergeant for an instructor. Gigi stands up, folds her newspaper and comes around to my the side of the table. Then she drops the paper on the table in front of me. Facing me is a picture from last night’s party: a half-page shot of Sophia and me, arms around each other’s waists, and I’m holding a drink as we laugh at the camera.

  “I’ll call Electra at the fitness studio and let her know you’re coming. Be prepared to work up a good sweat.” Gigi gives me a smug, knowing smile, just daring me to protest, and leaves the room.

  Somehow I make it through the day, even though I have a major head rush ten minutes into the fitness class and sit down right in the middle of the floor with my head between my knees. It’s unbelievably embarrassing getting my ass kicked in a fitness class, especially when most of the other participants are at l
east twice my age, and when I get home I have just enough time to shower and change and get across town to Renata’s, and after two hours of runway bootcamp I manage to squeeze six go-sees into the afternoon. I haven’t been able to eat anything all day, and when I get home I stumble up the stairs and collapse onto my bed. Point made, Gigi. Message received, loud and freaking clear.

  10

  Maya

  I was so angry when I left the house this morning that I kicked a dent into the trash can on the corner of Lafayette Street. I should have been in that picture with Campbell and Sophia! There were tons of pictures of us taken last night, including several of me and Sophia without Campbell. Why didn’t they use one of those? And that caption! “Campbell Tucker in vintage Alaïa…” That was my damn Alaïa! I only lent it to her because Sophia said she wouldn’t take us to the party unless Campbell came along, and I know Campbell loves that dress. And then she throws up in it! I’ll have to get it dry cleaned, and I bet she doesn’t even have the money to pay me back. I’m losing my grip on this whole situation. Okay, I expect Sophia to take center stage, she’s a natural superstar. But I’ll be damned if I let that little hick Campbell overshadow me.

  I have two shows this morning, and by the time I arrive at the first one I’m feeling the effects of last night. Fortunately I still have Alexandra’s pills. I swallow one while I’m having my hair done, and by the time I’m on the runway I’ve got my groove back. I feel like a superhero as I walk the runway, and the air is filled with flashbulbs and applause. I’m filled with joy, and I ride that feeling through the next show, high with exhilaration. It’s all over far too soon, and backstage the designer pops open a bottle of champagne and we all cheer and sip champagne and take pictures with our arms around each other as though we’ve all been best friends our whole lives.