by Kimmy Love
Four hours and three rejections later, Sierra felt her confidence slowly ebbing away, just like yesterday. These were the smaller agencies she had gone to, the smaller presentable agencies that had given her reasons. The reasons ranged from “we don’t need your looks for anything at the moment” to “you’re too exotic.”
Too exotic? She was American, for cryin’ out loud. Sure, her father’s and mother’s parents had mixed heritage, but wasn’t America founded on that? She stopped walking and found herself sitting on a bench in a pocket park, just a few blocks away from Wilhelmina Models. She was running out of portfolios and resumes for today, which was bad because she was still in desperate need for a job.
She looked at the people passing by, lost in her thoughts, wondering if Tyrone had remembered her today, wondering if her mother and father were thinking about her (she was eighty-percent sure they were). Her stomach grumbled, and she realized it was nearing lunch time. She had checked her face earlier in a previous modeling agency’s bathroom and saw she looked stressed out rather than fresh-faced. That was bad, and it was barely noon. Would they approve of a model with the shiniest T-zone in all of New York?
A man passed by her, talking irately on his phone.
“I already said I don’t care how much it costs, can’t you tell that idiot to do what he’s supposed to do?” he snapped.
Sierra looked away, knowing it wasn’t her business to intrude.
“The point is, this launch is only days away,” Ben said. “Correction, it’s two days away. Wait, why am I having problems over lights? You’re my secretary. You should be coordinating this with the people I’m paying a lot for. Jesus.”
Ben continued walking toward a building with bronze letters spelling out his grandfather’s name. It was a four-story edifice, a satellite office that wasn’t in the Upper East Side where he normally held office. This had been Orion’s first showroom in New York, nearly forty years ago, and despite the glitzy, newer building, Claus Eriksson kept it for sentimental reasons.
Ben didn’t want to take it down either. This building housed other offices and a few other establishments that were connected to the company. The security guard saw him and greeted him while he was on his phone. He gave a quick wave and stepped into an elevator, pressing the button for the fourth floor.
He was met with a busy office scenario; it was an eclectic mix of Swedish furniture, American industrial architecture, and bonsai plants by the windowsills. Ben liked to keep plants around; it calmed him. He saw another secretary that stayed in this office, and he told her to call his other secretary.
He then closed his office door, trying to breathe in heavily to calm himself down. There wasn’t much to do in this building, but he needed to check on the other companies. He checked emails and saw a deal had pushed through for their tire company. Now the tires were going to be made in Indonesia with European standards for a fraction of the cost.
He nodded to himself. Well, at least that was something positive about the day. His phone rang, and he picked it up.
“Yes?” he said as he read through emails on the computer screen again.
“Would you prefer blondes or brunettes this time?”
“What?” he sounded distracted. “Why is that my problem? You’ve already discussed—”
“Just to make sure,” the secretary from the other building prodded.
“Mix them up for all I care, just make them prettier than the last time. Pick smart girls we can drill a bit of car sense into. How’s that for a change?” he muttered, placing the receiver down.
An hour had passed when he received another call.
“Sir, your car is here.”
“Why is it so early?” he began to get annoyed.
“Your mother’s dinner, sir,” the secretary reminded him.
Ben sighed and thanked the secretary. He had almost forgotten about that. Grace wouldn’t like it if he missed dinner with her. He got into the waiting car and called his mother, telling her he was on his way.
Grace lived near Central Park. She lived alone with a few maids or with her sisters who often visited her. It was a ten-million dollar purchase Claus had made many years ago, in the hopes that she would be distracted from his infidelity. Ingrid also slept in the house once in a while if she got bored living with her son.
He arrived at half-past six in the evening and saw his mother setting up cutlery in the formal dining room.
“Ma,” he greeted.
She smiled and stretched out her arms. “And there’s my favorite son.”
“’Cause you only have one,” he replied, embracing his mother who stood at five feet and three inches as opposed to his six-foot three-inch frame.
“Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me,” Grace laughed. “Your grandma’s just changing,” she said, dressed in a loose, pastel-colored dress that reminded him of flappers from the 1920s.
“You look nice and I look like crap,” Ben remarked.
“Go wash your face and hands,” Grace tutted. “I made meatballs with lingonberry jam.”
Ben grinned, feeling like a child all over again. There was nothing like a home-cooked meal and a traditional meal he had enjoyed ever since. His mother, although American, learned how to cook Swedish cuisine perfectly, which was perhaps why Ingrid adored her even more.
His grandmother walked in and her eyes lit up, seeing her first grandson. “Ah, there’s the handsome pojke.”
Ben kissed his grandmother’s cheek. “Mama, Hur mår du?”
“Fine, of course. As usual,” she replied as her grandson helped her sit down.
Dinner went well—they discussed current events, asked him how the company was, how he was managing… until they reached the topic of Denise.
“So, I heard you and that pretty girl Denise broke up,” Ingrid began slowly.
Ben’s eyes narrowed, and he took a sip of wine. “Well, you heard right.”
“What happened?” Grace quickly asked.
Ben sighed. “Look, we broke up.”
Ingrid was studying him intently. “You mean to say you broke up with her.” She didn’t ask. She stated the obvious. Ben knew this and tried to defend himself, a futile effort really.
“Why do you always think it’s my fault?” he asked as he scooped some mashed potatoes.
“Hasn’t it always been?” Ingrid sounded critical of her grandson now. Heaven knows she would take a bullet for him, but the boy never seemed to settle down. “That was the longest relationship you’ve ever been in, and we liked her.”
“You’ve always liked my girlfriends.”
“I didn’t like the gold digger.”
“We just had a few dinners out. She wasn’t my girlfriend.”
“Fine. But I liked Denise,” Ingrid told him.
“There’ll be others,” Ben said brusquely.
“And there you go again,” Grace exhaled. “Sweetie, can’t you just give me a grandchild and give your mama a great grandchild?”
“I’m not a factory, you know. And I think my life is alright as it is.”
“We were thinking,” Grace began, and Ben didn’t like the sound of it already. “We were thinking if you settled down, you’d be more at ease—”
“Because I’m not right now?” Ben replied testily. “Mom, you know how work gets me all antsy. Denise added to that. She was demanding so much from me, something I couldn’t give.”
Ingrid shrugged and took a gulp of wine. “Ben, there’s nothing more we want than to see you happy. And not end up like your father.”
“I don’t plan on having a stroke anytime soon, well not like I can plan to not have it. But yeah, I have a feeling I’m far from some crippling illness.”
Grace’s hand covered his. “I don’t want you overworking yourself. There are so many things to enjoy. Relationships are one. I think they’re important.”
Ben shook his head, remembering his mother’s tears upon discovering her husband’s first affair. “I don’t think I’m meant f
or relationships right now, especially marriage.”
“You probably haven’t found the right girl yet.”
“I don’t plan to,” Ben replied.
“Ben, I’m not going to live forever,” Ingrid suddenly told him in a soft voice.
“Mama, please don’t say that,” Ben said, hating that he imagined his grandmother dead the moment she said it.
“If I could just see you truly happy in a relationship, then I think I can die happier than most horrid, boring old people.”
“You’re not horrid, and you’re not boring; you’re not even old,” Ben told his grandmother. “Look, if I find her, I’ll never let go of her.”
Ben said this in the most sincere way he could. He wouldn’t hear the end of this, he knew. Especially when they’d liked Denise so much. They’d do anything so that he’d get back with her, lauding her as a potential daughter-in-law. He took a silent, deep breath and controlled his temper. He had just seen his mother and grandmother, and this wasn’t the time to get all riled up about how great Denise was as a girlfriend. He steered the conversation into something else, which he regretted later on.
“So, Aunt Julia told me about the reunion in Nice this December.”
“Ah, yes. Just a tiny reunion. Glad you were still able to check your messenger,” Grace said.
Julia was his father’s younger sister, who still maintained close ties to his mother despite the separation.
“I remember she asked if you were going to bring Denise,” Grace continued.
“Well, if she’s that curious, you can tell her I’m not bringing Denise. Someone else maybe.”
Ingrid’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve met someone else already?”
Ben shrugged. “You’re good at finding things out, Mama.”
Ingrid laughed. “Well, well, well. This is an interesting development.”
“I hope we meet her,” Grace added.
Ben forced a smile.
Chapter4
Sierra took a deep breath, mentally going over the notes she had studied in less than fifteen hours. It was no fashion brand, but Tyrone had pulled a few strings to get her in as a replacement auto show model.
“I’m gonna have to do what?” Sierra said in surprise.
“You’re going to stand beside a car for six hours straight and get a hundred and fifty dollars. Simple as that. Oh, and you should know about the car, too.”
“Ty!” Sierra gasped.
“Don’t whine on me. I got you a temp job. Now use that brain of yours and stay pretty, too. Look for Joan Miller tomorrow at this address. Hey, you got a pen? Good. 555 W 58th Street.”
“All right,” Sierra said.
“I gave your email to Joan. She’ll send you a few lessons about Orion’s latest car. Dang, they got expensive cars.”
Sierra nodded to herself. “Uh-huh.”
“Don’t let me down, I overdid my praises for you,” Tyrone told her.
“I won’t.”
And that was that. She had gotten a job; a job was a job, even if it was temporary. The gig was for three days, with international magazines and auto enthusiasts covering the event. This was her ticket to surviving for another week. Today, she was down to her last fifty dollars, and she thanked God silently, closing her eyes.
She arrived at the venue an hour ahead of the event’s opening. She walked to the backroom and saw a few tall girls dressed in skimpy clothes. This must be it, she thought.
“I’m looking for Joan Miller, please,” Sierra said, approaching a tiny woman.
“I’m Joan Miller,” she replied quickly. “I haven’t got all day.”
“I’m the replacement. Tyrone said—”
“Tyrone, he came through. Good. And you’re not half bad to look at,” the lady with the thick glasses and extremely curly blonde hair said. “If you do a good job at this, you could become a regular at the agency. Here, this is your uniform. You studied the 7 Iris? You know, just in case. The owner’s a bit of an ass.”
She nodded.
“Good. And put on some lipstick.”
Sierra grabbed the paper bag, glad she’d brought along her midnight blue strappy heels to pair with the midnight blue dress she was to wear. It had the Orion logo on it. She headed for the changing area and saw the other models readily stripping down to their underwear, talking in hushed tones. Sierra gave a shy smile and a few smiled back, while two others didn’t.
“Can’t believe she’s getting paid $300 for six hours while we’re doing the same job she is and we’re paid half,” a brunette complained to her companion.
Sierra overheard this and quickly changed, avoiding their glances. So she wasn’t paid much, at least she had a job. Perhaps these models had been here longer, hence the complaints. Sierra approached a vanity mirror and put on some red lipstick.
“You’re Stephanie’s replacement?” a blonde girl with a friendly smile came up to her. She had a smattering of freckles all over her face and neck which she tried to cover up with foundation.
“I guess,” Sierra replied. “Are you part of the agency?”
She nodded. “I’m Cecile. Been with Fresh Faces for a month now. It’s not much, but the owner’s nice and we get constant bookings.”
“I’m Sierra,” she replied. “Nice to meet you.”
“Oh, you have pretty eyes,” Cecile told her, moving closer.
Sierra smiled. “Got the same eyes as my mom.”
“I inherited the same amount of freckles from my mom,” Cecile told her.
Sierra decided she liked Cecile already. “Are we really required to study the company that booked us?”
“Owner’s quirks. He’s too good looking to say no to.”
Sierra shook her head. No one could be that good looking. One of her first impressions was that models were kind of like high schoolers, gossiping and exaggeration were pretty common place, except these were really attractive high schoolers with the height to match.
“So, he’s been booking the same agency for his events?”
Cecile nodded. “From what I’ve heard. That’s why a few of the girls get paid more than what we earn.”
“Oh.” And that was all Sierra said. The gossiping models eyed her critically as she wore her designated dress, then they spun around and headed down the hall for the toilet.
“Who were those?” Sierra asked Cecile.
“Oh, they’ve been with Fresh Faces for about six months now. It’s best to avoid them; they’re kinda mean.”
Sierra nodded. High school feels were present. The mean girls had to be everywhere. She took a deep breath as Joan Miller called everyone for one last briefing. The client was extravagant, as most multi-million dollar companies were. He’d invited many members from the press and from multi-national companies, which meant the models could outshine the cars when they wanted to and if they could.
“Try not to act too dumb,” Joan reminded them. “Remember, we’re in an androgen-filled event—” she paused, looking at one model who had a quizzical look on her face. “We’re in an event with a lot of men,” she corrected.
The models nodded, even Sierra found herself nodding. She certainly didn’t want to be stereotyped. She was new. What did ‘try not to act too dumb’ mean? Cecile saw Sierra’s face and explained this to her later on as they walked out of the changing room.
“It means you can’t be too stupid to think they can just harass you because you’re a model. Some guys will really ask for those annoying pictures and will sometimes hold your ass. And you can’t be too smart ‘cause you might intimidate a few clients. So I put it in my head to think like I’m in high school,” Cecile grinned.
Sierra had been salutatorian in high school, but she nodded. Whatever it took to finish this, she would do it, but she wouldn’t dumb herself down. She could stay quiet and smile and be pleasant and that would be it. She hoped.
Fifteen minutes later, people began flooding in the spacious glass and cement finish showroom. Bright lights shone ove
rhead, and upbeat house music played from the speakers. There were four cars on display, cocktails were served, and ten models paraded about or stood beside the cars. Sierra found herself under the warm lights, and she desperately hoped she wouldn’t sweat despite the air-conditioning. This first event was making her feel nervous, and all she had to do was stand there and smile at the people with constant flashing from cameras and mobile phones.
“He’s here,” someone murmured in the crowd.
Sierra saw the majority of the crowd move to the entrance, the media in a frenzy to get a glimpse of the newcomer. Who in the hell was this? A celebrity? Some model? Sierra continued to smile for the remaining passersby.
“Sir, can you tell us what your company’s plans are for the next year?”
“Under wraps,” the charming man replied.
“Is it true you’re getting married?” another asked.
“This is an auto show, not a noon-time talk show,” the newcomer grinned. It drew appreciative laughter. “Now please, ladies and gentlemen, enjoy the rest of the day. Feel free to have some champagne. I hear it goes well with auto shows.”
Laughter again. The man moved on to speak with a few staff as Sierra looked away. He was obviously the owner, but she didn’t get a good look at him. This apparently bothered the other models who tentatively approached him to ask for photos. He nodded and smiled without teeth.
Sierra concentrated on her job, confused if the owner was also some Hollywood celebrity she didn’t know. His profile certainly looked the part, with his blond hair, steely blue eyes, and patrician nose. He was dressed in a casual suit with leather sneakers and dark jeans. The cool CEO.
From across the room, Ben noticed a model standing beside the platform where the 7 Iris was. She was the only darker-skinned model in the room and had wavy, shoulder-length black hair. She had a thin nose and a wide smile with perfect, white teeth. She also had a deep dimple on her left cheek when she smiled. Her features reminded him of some Victoria’s Secret model he had met but had been unable to date because he’d had to fly out for Germany that night.
“Hey, miss, can you tell us what this car is about?” a journalist jeered at her. Ben overheard this, and he knew the journalist wanted to embarrass the model. Some were born idiots.
