by Pratt, Lulu
“A man who loved me would wait.” This was what I’d been taught in Sunday school, and I thought it still remained true.
April sighed, and I could see worry on her face. “That’s not fair, Poppy. You can’t ask someone you love to forego all forms of physical connection for years, until you hit twenty-five–”
“Twenty-six,” I cut in.
“Whatever, whatever your ‘marrying age’ is. It’s not fair to ask somebody to live less so you can deprive yourself of a thing you want too.”
I began fiddling with the halo light set up across from my desk, not wanting to meet April’s eyes. “You don’t know that.”
“I’m your sister. I totally know that. Plus,” she said, pointing upward, “I’ve got a direct line with the man upstairs, and He says to ease up a little, to have some fun.”
“There’s just no time for relationships,” I whined. “At least, no time to find somebody I’m serious enough about that I would maybe, maybe consider… doing that. I’ve got to put up at least three make-up vlogs a week, plus maintain all my socials, network with advertisers, sort out location shoots. There are barely hours left in the day to do my charity work.”
April laughed. “I’ve devoted my life to charity and you spend almost as much time as I do giving back.”
“But I could do more.” There it was, that pestering feeling of guilt – I knew how lucky I was, to have everything I did, and every moment I didn’t spend doing good works for others made me feel inadequate.
See, at twenty-three, I had over three million followers on my YouTube channel, where I talked about all things natural beauty-related. I’d found a way to make my fairly narcissistic career – painting my face day in and day out – a positive action by tying the channel to animal welfare, which was one of my great passions. I used exclusively cruelty-free products and gave a portion of my proceeds from every sponsorship deal back to global organizations or any of my local animal shelters.
So, yeah, I was doing good. But was it enough good?
“Men will come along,” I sighed, needled by that ever-present pressure to ‘have it all.’ “There are plenty of guys out there.”
April grinned. “Well, I don’t know how young women meet men.” Her smile dissolved and she continued, “But I know it’s getting hard. And you won’t meet any sitting by yourself all day and working all night.”
The vise grip of my ‘timeline’ tightened around my throat, making it hard to breathe. I had three years to find a guy and marry him. Then we could begin having kids. I wanted at least three, and by the time we decided to close up shop, we’d still be fairly young, young enough to have the energy to chase all our little rascals around and both work full-time jobs. Even if my husband had money, I would never give up my “influencer” career. I loved it too much.
April took one look at my face, and knew I was spinning out.
“Okay,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“You know how anxious it makes me.”
“Yeah. It’s only cuz I’m your big sister and I worry about you.”
I shook my shoulders out, excising my nerves. I managed a smile, and said, “Thank you. I know you mean well.”
She smiled, her pink lips spreading apart to reveal endearingly crooked teeth. “I do,” she affirmed. “Now, how about we finish this video?”
I clapped my hands together, delighted that she was still cooperative in spite of my whining. Plus, I needed one last vlog before I flew off to New York City tomorrow. If April had left me high and dry, I would’ve been scrambling into the wee hours with a product review, how-to, Q&A or subscription box unboxing.
“Okay,” I began, sifting through my things to find a pale foundation. I had to buy specialty items for videos I did with April, who was far paler than my ever-tan booty. “Does this match? Hold out your arm.”
She obliged, brandishing her forearm as I swatched some of the make-up on. A perfect match, of course. “Good eye,” she said admiringly.
“Thanks,” I replied, and reached in front of me to turn the camera back on.
“One more thing,” she said. “Before you turn it on.”
My hand hovered above the little device, shaking just a teensy bit, and I gulped nervously, not sure I wanted to hear whatever she was about to say.
“Take care of yourself, all right?” April pleaded. “For me, if for no one else. Because I love you, and I need you to take care of my favorite person.”
My eyes welled up – I’m like a water fountain sometimes, I swear – and nodded, blinking desperately to keep the tears back. Oh, how I envy those girls who can just keep their composure.
“Sure thing,” I whispered, my throat choking with emotion. I loved my sister, would ford a million Rubicons for her, climb Kilimanjaro, murder a man in cold blood. Lord forgive me!
“Go on,” she said with a big, dopey grin. “Turn on your camera and don’t ruin your pretty make-up with all those tears. I ain’t worth it.”
I clicked the ‘record’ button and replied, “Of course you are, April.”
I dabbed under my eye with a tissue, coughed a little, then brightened up, putting on my ‘performance Poppy.’ “All right then, let’s get a move on. So today, I’m using my favorite BoaBuster Skin Tint in White Apple.”
April smiled that familiar, affectionate smile of pride that was both nurturing and free of condescension, and I felt my heart swell. If she wanted me to start living a little… well… well then, I would try.
Chapter 2
FINN
THE LIGHTS were low, the entire stage draped in a deep pink satin, feathers flying in the air and lace swimming before my eyes. In front of me, ten of the world’s most beautiful women danced around in their underwear, giggling and hitting one another with white pillows, their breasts jiggling with every smack.
And I couldn’t have been more bored.
“Lasses,” I called, my Irish brogue jumping out. They all stopped mid-pose to look at me. “Give me less slumber party, more sultry one-night stand. M’kay?”
They continued to stare blankly, their pouty mouths all hanging open with incomprehension.
“Less this,” I said, using my camera as a fake pillow and pretending to bash an imaginary girl over the head with it. “More this.” I pressed the camera-cum-pillow over my very imaginary breasts and bit my lip, growling as I did.
The models swooned. I’m sure for any other man, this would’ve been extraordinarily gratifying, but it barely registered with me. I was just a photographer, trying to relay directions, not some kind of playboy endeavoring to flirt my way into their beds. Besides, I’d already taken about half of them home – all the tall brunettes – and didn’t feel particularly pressed to sleep with any other supermodels.
“All right, keep fighting,” I announced, and the women went back to their mock pillow melee.
This had to be my… hm… fiftieth shoot? Yeah, that sounded right, my fiftieth shoot or so for Regency Lace, the world’s leading lingerie brand, famous for their yearly fashion shows, and for launching the careers of many a model. I’d done my first shoot with them maybe two years back, and ever since I’ve worked with Regency almost exclusively. They said I ‘brought out the right side’ of the women. That is, I turned the girls on, which is I suppose what they were looking for.
At first it’d been exciting, being surrounded by the glitz and glamour, the fabulous parties, the endless string of yachts, but after around shoot number twenty-three, I’d realized that working with Regency left me zero time to pursue more fulfilling photography, where I could shoot something besides half-naked young women. But the money was good and consistent, which is more than I can say for most employment in the arts, so I kept my mouth shut. Who was I to complain? It was certainly a far, far cry from my impoverished childhood.
“How about something like this?” one of the models called out, and I didn’t even need to look up from the display screen on my camera to know which one. Tha
t shrill tone, the cloying demand that underlay her words. It was Chrissy, all right. Fuck.
With a deep, ill-repressed sigh, I glanced up from the camera, and saw that Chrissy was bent over a sofa, her posterior wiggling right in my eye line.
“Subtle,” I muttered.
We’d slept together last spring, just once, and she wouldn’t let it go. I’d been exceedingly polite, explaining beforehand that I was only interested in a no-strings-attached, wild, sweaty fucking kinda night. She’d nodded and agreed, said that’s what she wanted too. We’d had zero chemistry in bed, and the following morning, when she asked if we could meet again, I explained gently that I didn’t think it’d be a good idea to see one another anymore. She hadn’t stopped hounding me since. Not because we were anything worth fighting for, mind you, but just because she was the sort of girl who hated to lose.
Pushing these thoughts of frustration and annoyance aside, I replied to Chrissy, over the thump of the music, “That’s a little much.”
She bent further over, the thong slipping deeper into her ass crack, the lips of her vagina almost visible. “How about now?”
The other models barely even noticed, and so much the better. I was embarrassed that, no matter how many times I told Chrissy ‘no,’ she never seemed to listen. It was like I was some sort of inanimate object whose words and feelings had no bearing on reality. It made me feel… invisible. Which is not something that I often felt.
“Lunchtime,” I hollered. I needed a break from this relentless slog. The music was promptly turned off, and some PA wheeled out a tray of salad and sparkling water while the models wrapped themselves in customized pink robes, their names embroidered across the back.
I set my camera down on the nearby desk, and turned on my booted heel, heading to my office of sorts. Years in the industry had taught me that, when there was food on set, it was going to be ‘model food.’ That is, food so watery and small that a hamster would be affronted by the offer. I’d become accustomed to bringing my own burger and fries, eating it out of sight of the models so as to not rub it in their faces.
Should’ve known I’d be accosted by Chrissy. What was I, an amateur? She darted in front of me like a skinny hyena, a big, leering grin on her face, her robe left open as if to tempt me. She curled a finger in one of my long locks of black hair, and I jerked back. Her face went cold, and she dropped the hand.
“Jesus, you’re touchy,” she scowled, before flipping open a silver ring on her finger, revealing a secret compartment.
I replied in a low voice, “No, I just don’t want to be touched.”
“Want some?” she asked coyly as she dipped a nail into the ring, lifted it to her nose, and snorted a small bump of coke.
“Fuck off,” I muttered, pushing past her and striding to my dressing room.
“What, you too good for me?” she laughed.
Yes, I thought to myself.
I’d told her a number of times I was clean, that I wouldn’t touch drugs – not information I usually volunteer, as it seemed to me that most of the fashion world is high at any given moment, but she wouldn’t stop hounding me about doing some rails with her, so I’d had to tell her the truth, hoping it’d be effective. Once again, I was invisible. The more I said I was drug-free, the more she offered me drugs.
I could hear her stomp a bare foot behind me, but I didn’t turn around to look, choosing rather to beeline for my dressing room. Damn models, I thought grimly. Fucking Chrissy.
I had a dirty mouth at the best of times, but my mind? Now that’s an absolute cesspool of sailor’s language.
After escaping Chrissy, I made it the five doors down to my space, walking inside and slamming the door behind me.
“Free at last,” I said under my breath as I grabbed a remote from a side table and clicked on my sound system. “Paradise City” began to blare through the room, and I yanked off my leather jacket, tossing it on the plaid couch which was taken from straight off the street. No matter how posh my industry was, I wasn’t above thrifting free shit.
I got a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and wondered if I wasn’t looking a bit old, bit past my prime. I was only twenty-seven, sure, but life wears you down. My signature black mane, which ran in pools down to my shoulders, was offset by the silver of my multitude of earrings and the silver eyebrow piercing that caught the light whenever my face made an expression. Was I getting too old for bullshit like Chrissy? I thought the answer might be a resounding ‘yes.’
Maybe I wasn’t old in any real sense of the word, but I was getting to the age where you have to either pursue your passions or relegate yourself to a life of drudgery. And of course, in theory, these shoots were my passion – I had the best of everything, human and object alike, at my disposal. But that wasn’t enough. I was hungry. Hungry for something more stimulating than the three same poses from the three same girls in almost the same three outfits. Regency wasn’t exactly known for its diversified design, or for its diversified models, for that matter.
I’d just placed my feet up on the counter and cracked open a Diet Coke when there was a knock at the door.
“Can I come in?”
“Always, Janice,” I bellowed back. “Why do you even ask?”
The door moved about an inch and my assistant’s eyes gazed through the crack. “You sure?”
With a sigh, I clambered out of my chair and moved across the room to my door, which I flung open. On the other side stood Janice in her usual cardigan and matching brooch.
“What are you doing, standing on ceremony for me?” I said with a grin.
She cracked a smile, replying, “It’s called being polite, Finn. Oughta teach you a thing or two.”
“Then that settles it, come on in.” I turned and walked back to my chair and Janice finally crossed the threshold, closing the door behind her.
Janice had been my assistant for years, before I even first booked Regency. A friend of a friend recommended her to me, and we’ve been working together ever since. Janice is probably my favorite person in the world. She’s about sixty-three years old, though she’d never let you say as much, and she’s the closest thing to a mother I have. Each day she sets her hair in curlers, applies the same shade of red lipstick she has since she was sixteen, and puts on one of her many skirt suit sets, all of which have a special matching brooch. Today’s outfit was a lemon-yellow cardigan and pencil skirt with a bee pinned to the lapel.
“Looking smashing as always,” I told her earnestly as I kicked my boots back up. “How do you do it, lass? What’s your secret?”
She let out a wheezy guffaw at this. “I’m hardly a lass, and my secret is that I couldn’t give a flying flip about fashion.”
Janice had made this clear more than once. She’d worked in the fashion industry as an assistant her whole life – for designers, make-up artists, models and obviously, photographers – but she’d never been cowed or impressed by trends. I think it is what’s allowed her to keep a level head amidst all this superficial nonsense.
“How’s the shoot going?” she inquired. She hates being on set, but often insists that it’s her job. It took a year of me convincing her I’d be fine without her presence before Janice finally cracked and agreed to sit in the break room during shoots. I could tell it still made her feel guilty.
“Shoot’s fine.”
Her red lips pulled back into a partial frown. “That’s not convincing.”
I sighed. She could read me like a damn book. “Well… it’s…” I struggled for words. “Chrissy. It’s Chrissy.”
Janice, who on my life is about as saintly as they come, retorted, “What’d that bitch do this time?”
I smiled with gratification. Janice hated the supermodel almost more than I did, in a fierce, lion mama sort of way. “Offered me coke. Again.”
My lovely, timid assistant just about growled, “Evil. Pure evil.”
I was inclined to agree. Janice was one of the only people in the world who knew about my mother
and her battle with addiction, knew how hard it was for me to be so often surrounded by substances. I try not to tell anyone – I’m not looking for pity – but sometimes, it made it challenging to explain why I was so vehement in my ‘no drugs’ policy.
“Shall I beat her up for you?” Janice offered, as simply as if she were offering to bake cookies for a child’s playdate.
I grinned, and leapt up from my seat, enveloping her in a hug. “Oh, not yet. But I’d like to keep that offer on hold.”
She smiled warmly. I think she is the singular person who sees through my bad boy persona to the weird, offbeat guy beneath it.
“Take my seat, please,” I requested, pushing her gently back to my chair.
“I can stand just fine, thank you.”
I rolled my eyes, and joked, “Come on, I know your knee’s been aching. Take a seat, you old bat.”
Reluctantly, Janice plopped down into the chair and pulled out her enormous iPad, on which she ran all my bookings.
“Okay,” she began, “I have you scheduled for tomorrow at one with Gwyneth–”
“Janice,” I interrupted, then immediately colored, knowing how much she hated interruptions. “My apologies. But do you think, just this once, you might ask Regency for me, just get on the line with them for a moment, and ask if I could do something a bit more avant-garde for this shoot? It’s really quite dull.”
She knew how antsy these shoots made me, but was also in no position to do anything about it. “Sorry, Finn,” she replied. “I’ve started asking before all of your bookings, like you request, if you can switch it up and do something a little edgier. And they said no. As per usual.”
Well, at least she was trying. That was something.
I appreciated all her efforts, but inside, I could feel I was beginning to boil. If I couldn’t be an artist, couldn’t expand my horizons and my abilities, then what the hell was I still doing here?
It was a question without a satisfying answer.
Chapter 3
