What I see almost makes me gag on my pepperoni. My video has 2034 views!
That’s way more than I expected even with all the fashionistas in Italy!
“I’m actually really nervous,” Sheldon says, licking sauce off the back of his hand. “I haven’t gone out with a girl this hot—ever. I don’t want to screw up.”
I’m pretty certain that unless Sheldon’s Dad gambles the family fortune away, Sheldon can’t screw up.
“You can’t screw up,” I say, and he smiles, interpreting this statement in an entirely different way than I intended. He goes back to eating and I’m staring at my iPhone.
This many views means my video is being watched by more than only the men’s bookers in Italy. It’s like my video has gone viral in the fashion scene. That’s the only explanation for the high number of views. Maybe the Italian bookers are sending it out to their entire model board as an example of how to promote yourself. I begin wondering when I’ll be tapped for a TED talk for this inspiring innovation, when my iPhone dings.
Sheldon keeps yakking away regardless of his mouthful of cheese and pepperoni, but I’m not paying attention—I’ve got a new email message.
It’s from Adrian at 2morrow in Milano, an agency that has an even better reputation than Beatrice. I wonder how Damian’s going to feel when I tell him I’m on 2morrow’s men’s board. This is what I read:
Terry this is you right? LOL! Lightning before the thunder?!?!? How cheesy is that?! And that forehead wrinkle. You went too far with the slo-motion swimwear stuff at the end, that’s when I knew it was you. Nice try! HA HA!!
What the fuck is this horseshit about? I thought the slo-mo on my swimwear shots was tasteful and well done. I re-read the message and feel sick to my stomach. He’s laughing at my video.
“I don’t want to come off like I’m sheltered,” Sheldon blabbers, as he rubs a finger repeatedly over his bump-covered chin. “She may think that I don’t have enough friends, that maybe I’m not hot enough for her. I mean she is surrounded by guys like you all day—”
I’m tired of listening to Sheldon airing his insecurities like he expects me to hug them all away. I’m not his mother.
“Dude, you’re fucking rich,” I say, and he stops talking. “You want to be with this girl? Trust me, let her know how loaded you are. She’ll be there ‘til-death-do-you-part and all that shit.”
I have to take that fucking video off YouTube.
“I don’t want to do that,” Sheldon says quietly. “And, I don’t think Valina cares about money. We’ve got something between us. She’s hot, but that’s not the only reason I’m dating her. She’s got a great personality. I think she feels the same way.”
I glare at Sheldon. If he expects me to believe a long-legged blonde model is dating a zit-popping geek—whose skin has been bleached white by hours in front of a computer screen—because of his social graces, I’m going to slam my testicles in a car door.
“There’s electricity between the two of you?” I say. “Two kindred spirits that have found each other in this cold cruel world? Something like that?”
“Yeah,” Sheldon munches pizza. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“Come on.” I want to bludgeon Sheldon with reality, brutalize him with the truth, trample his idealism, skin it, and wear it as a fucking hat. “She’s dating you because she got a whiff of money and now she’s going in for the kill. If you’re happy, fine. But don’t lie to yourself.”
Sheldon puts the slice of pizza down and stares at the table. I take two slices, and with reckless disregard to calorie counts, fold them on top of each other and start eating and, though the pizza is suddenly like chewing cardboard, I don’t stop. The problem with modelling is that you can’t escape it. Unless you live in a shack on a mountain top, models are everywhere.
Walking through Pacific Place with Jasmine, my eyes are drawn to the girl wearing the flowing Lanvin gown in a storefront ad. That’s a model. A few steps away the guy in the Armani campaign is giving me bedroom eyes. Another model. In the centre of the mall is a big LCD screen showing a non-stop loop of three girls sashaying through the tall grass in a Gucci commercial. Of course, models.
“Thanks for coming with me on my first day of castings,” Jasmine says, her arm hooked into mine still eager as ever after five hours of crisscrossing the city battling jet lag. Then she frowns. “But, you know what I’m thinking?”
“What?” I say, as we exit onto the street and the first thing I see is a guy drinking Coke on the side of the bus. Model. On the bus shelter is a picture of a dentist saying he agrees with Tridents plaque-fighting ability. Model. Looking down, I step on a Citibank pamphlet with a family sitting on a couch, looking ridiculously happy to be earning 1.7% on their life savings. You better believe those idiots are motherfucking models. I shut my eyes and rub my temples.
“I was so concentrated on getting out here and modelling,” my sister says. “That I never thought about what I’d do if I don’t get any work. I mean, these other girls, they’re… they’re super-hot! And everyone’s so skinny! I knew it would be like this but… wow. It’s not like back home at all!”
“This is modelling, Jas,” I say. “The next casting is down here. I’ve been here before.”
“But not working at all. That’s a total model fail.” She shakes her head as I lead her toward a cluster of office buildings in Admiralty. On the side of a building a headshot of a girl advertising Burberry glares at me. More torture.
“That’s part of the risk of putting yourself out there,” I say, and when she sees the same Burberry ad her eyes light up like she’s imagining what it would be like to be up there. That’s how I used to look at fashion campaigns. Not anymore.
Now every Chanel poster, every Bulgari ad, each and every fucking magazine cover I pass is laughing at me. These aren’t advertisements for drinks, clothing, and perfume—they’re my own private torment. Billions in collective advertising dollars directed at punching me squarely in the cock. These models I see everywhere, I hate them all. Their success reminds me of my own lack of it.
It’s not like this for Jasmine. Yet. But if she models long enough, it will be. This makes me want to hold her tight and bring her home. But she won’t go.
“This is it,” I say, as we enter a cold grey office building and walk into an elevator.
One day into modelling, and Jasmine’s already starting to stress. And it was a pretty smooth day. All her appointments were go-sees with regular clients at production and catalogue houses. Not a single cattle call where the models are packed into the waiting room like sardines and everyone is judging everyone else. More importantly—for me anyway—at no point during the day have I felt the urge to throat punch any sister-gawking jerk bags.
When the elevator opens a sign with ‘casting’ printed on it points us to a set of doors. I check the time on my iPhone as we go through the door. Then Jasmine stops, glances at me, and whispers, “Is that who I think it is?” Looking ahead, I recognize both guys sitting behind the table and take back what I said about not wanting to throat punch anyone.
It’s the Vagrant and Maxwell Chen.
Maxwell motions Jasmine forward like a shopping mall Santa Claus inviting a kid to sit on his lap. She steps up and puts her book on the table.
“Cute.” He smirks, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses and tugging at his wispy mustache as he scopes my sister from her H&M knee-high boots, and her Mango mini-skirt, to her grinning face. “Very cute. I’m Maxwell.”
Maxwell is much friendlier to my underage sister than he was to me. “Jasmine,” My sister says. She does a little curtsy like Maxwell is royalty and not just some pervert photographer.
“Nice to meet you, Jasmine,” He says, turning the pages slowly in my sister’s book and leering at each photo in turn. He and the Vagrant make a show of rubbing their chins and wrinkling their foreheads like they’re thinking serious fashion thoughts and not just drooling over my teenage sister. “Jasmine. Jazzy Jasmi
ne. Can I call you Jazzy Jasmine?”
“Uh… ok,” Jasmine blushes. “If you want.”
“Oh, I want, cause nicknames are fun, aren’t they, Jazzy Jasmine?” He laughs, and then the Vagrant laughs, then my sister laughs—probably because she’s not sure what else to do—and I want to scream.
Maxwell keeps going through my sister’s portfolio, but it’s not long before he’s flipping through empty plastic pages. “You don’t have many photos, Jazzy Jas. Are you a brand-spanking-new little model?”
I’m standing right behind my sister and Maxwell is still talking to her like he’s hosting The World’s Creepiest Kids Show which makes me think if I weren’t here, his testicles would have made an appearance three minutes ago.
“Yeah,” My sister nods. “I’m trying to build my book to get a contract in Milano.”
“Good, that’s real good,” Maxwell says. “Maybe I can help. I want to help. How old are you?”
“Just turned seventeen.” Jasmine toys with her fingers. This makes Maxwell smile like a poacher that’s caught a rabbit in a snare, and all I can think of is Marek’s friend who became a monk because she was peed on. I have to stop this.
“Jasmine just flew into town and she’s had a full day,” I say, stepping forward. Maxwell and the Vagrant look at me like they hadn’t noticed me the entire time. “If we’re done here, she should get some rest.”
“I see, I see.” Maxwell is using his creepy grin on me now. “And you’re her boyfriend?”
“Brother.”
Maxwell and the Vagrant glance at each other and exchange a quick back-and-forth in Mandarin. I wish Taylor were here to tell me what these debauchees are saying.
“You don’t look alike.” Maxwell strokes his crappy mustache. “She’s a half-sister.”
“Right,” he says. “And what’s your name?”
“Colin,” I say, clenching my fingers into fists. “I casted for you a few weeks back.”
Maxwell angles his head and the Vagrant’s crow’s feet deepen as he narrows his gaze at me. They’re sizing me up. I stare them down using my Danger-Zone-Hot-Mercenary look, which is as good looking as it is intimidating. This is the hush before an old-west style showdown.
Then a girl barges in. She wears thin rimmed round glasses, a floral-patterned Jill Sanders high waisted skirt, and a plain black Valentino top but instead of looking chic and modern, she looks dowdy and judgmental like a hater art-critic. She’s holding a glass of red wine.
“Uncle Max,” she says not looking in our direction and I realize Maxwell is someone’s creepy Uncle Max. Fitting.
“Yes, Candace,” Maxwell says his tone changing. Suddenly he sounds less like a predator, less insincere, he sounds like a normal person.
“Do you have another pinot in the studio?” She holds up her wine glass. “This one is so pedestrian. Really that’s being kind. It’s atrocious. Simply atrocious.”
“Of course,” Maxwell smiles at her. “There’s a 96-point Baby Grange in the other wine cabinet. What you’re drinking is some freebie from a party at the Chilean embassy.”
“Oh, thank God,” Candace sighs. Then she notices us. “Casting for my Uncle? You probably think you’re lucky because he’s a good photographer.” I mash my lips together in a polite smile.
“But really you’re lucky because he’s a good person. And it is so easy to look perfect but be terribly flawed in your industry.” Candace says then scans us from top to bottom.
My lips stay mashed together in that polite smile.
“Oh, that’s sweet of you to say about me,” Maxwell says leaning his head on his hand. And Candace turns and leaves but not before dumping the contents of her glass on the concrete floor and muttering just ridiculous. “Little Candace is growing up to be quite the perfectionist,” Maxwell says like she just displayed her first finger painting instead of discarding her wine with utter disgust. “She’ll go far with that.”
The Vagrant nods. Then Maxwell turns back to us. “You know what, I do remember you,” he wags his finger at me. “Yeah, I liked your look but… What happened?”
“The client wanted a blonde,” The Vagrant says, his voice gruff like he’s been eating cigarette butts.
Sure, they did. These assholes don’t know Taylor told me everything. “Yeah, that’s right.” Maxwell smirks. “Hey, it’s cool you’re here with your sister. I get it. Candace is my niece, but she’s like a daughter to me— even though I only see her once a year. We’ve got to take care of the people we love, don’t we?”
“I respect that,” Uncle Max grins and then his tone and his look returns to his creepy perverted fashion self. “Colin, you know what I’m thinking? You and me, we should shoot something together.”
“What?”
“Yeah, homes,” Maxwell says, like I’m his boy from the block. “Let’s shoot some cool fucking shit.”
For a second, I’m not sure what’s happening, then it hits me. Taylor’s Mandarin must suck because if I were boring Maxwell Chen wouldn’t be asking me to shoot with him.
“Sure,” I grin. “That’d be great.”
Maybe I had Maxwell wrong. Jasmine and I are both grinning, Maxwell’s grinning, and even the Vagrant is grinning—dimples the depth of belly buttons forming in his cheeks.
“And Jazzy Jas,” Maxwell says. “I wouldn’t worry about not having enough photos in your portfolio. I’m going to book you, and after that… getting to Milan won’t be a problem.”
The elevator ride down is significantly brighter than the ride up. “That went well!” Jasmine says.
“It did.” I grin because shooting with Maxwell would go a long way towards getting me a contract in Milano, but I’m not stupid. I know Maxwell is still fantasizing about doing with my sister whatever twisted shit someone with such creepy facial hair fantasizes about. But I can handle that. I’ll just make sure he’s never alone with her, no matter how uber-cool he is. Stepping out of the elevator, I pull out my iPhone to clear my schedule for next week when it lights up in my hand. It’s Apple.
“Hey,” I answer. “I was about to call you.”
“You got the Mauritius job!” Apple says, and for a second I can’t comprehend what she’s saying. I’d already told myself I lost that job to champion back flipper Damian. “Congrats!”
“Awesome!” I say, realizing finally things are starting to work out like I knew they would.
“Bring your passport into the agency,” Apple says. “You’re leaving next week.”
I give my sister a big thumbs up and I’m so happy it takes me a second to understand what Apple just said.
“Next week?”
“Yep,” She says, and I can hear her grinning but I’m not smiling anymore.
Fuck my life.
I somehow snatched this booking out of Damian’s drunken clutches, but now I’ll have to leave my sister to fend for herself against urinating, nut-sack-exposing photographer Maxwell Chen.
I’m not about to let that happen.
When the pants are too short, the makeup artist doesn’t shade my cheeks just right, or any situation where things generally slide into the toilet, I prefer to deal with it face to face. This is why minutes after hanging up with Apple, I drop my sister at the humanitarian crisis she calls an apartment, and rush to the One Models offices in Wan Chai.
All the bookers are talking with phones pressed into their ears and I zero in on Apple sitting at the head of the communal booking table. “Passport?” Apple mouths the word as she clamps the phone receiver between her ear and her shoulder.
“No,” I say. She frowns and holds up one finger to tell me to wait. I pace with my hands on my hips, trying not to think about what kind of therapy my sister will need if she shoots alone with Maxwell.
“You didn’t bring your passport?” Apple hangs up the phone. “Did you know that you brought my sister into HK under contract?” I say.
“Your sister?”
I turn to the display wall where the comps of every mode
l One Models represents is lined up in rows. I see Wannabe Testino’s black-and-white headshot of my sister with her hair slicked back, and note it’s actually pretty good. Though it’s probably due to Infinite Monkey Theorem which states that an infinite number of monkeys snapping photos for an infinite amount of time will eventually duplicate the works of Annie Leibovitz. Or something like that.
“Jasmine.” I point at her. “Verano?”
“Jasmine Verano Hamilton,” I say. “She’s my half-sister.”
“Oh,” Apple says, staring at the comp. “Congratulations?”
I should be congratulating Apple for putting my sister in an apartment that rivals the hygiene of a refugee camp.
“I’m not sure Mauritius is a good idea,” I say, and Apple raises her eyebrows. “I can’t leave my sister alone.”
Apple smirks and shakes her head.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “Your sister is sharing rooms with Larissa. She’s the same age. We find that usually works best for the younger models. She will be fine.”
Suggesting that an underage teenager is going to play den mother to another underage teenager instead of encouraging them to do Jaeger shots and dance topless on a table is hopelessly naïve. And that’s only half the issue. Leaving Jasmine alone to shoot with Maxwell Chen is like dropping a drowsy koala into a shark tank.
The problem with Maxwell is, though I see him as a threat, the rest of fashion lets him operate with impunity. It’s like his publicly rumoured perversions are the price fashion happily pays to have his so-called genius as a photographer. I don’t want to bring him up to Apple unless I have no choice.
“What’s the exposure for the Mauritius thing?” I ask, attempting to re-evaluate the situation. Maybe, from a career perspective, the gig isn’t worth doing. “Print, internet, posters, airline magazines for one year,” Apple says. “But don’t worry, I think we’re actually overcharging them for usage.”
No mainstream magazines or billboards. I won’t even get a tear sheet out of this. Strip away the beach and the cash, and the Mauritius job is a glorified flyer shoot. That’s not a good enough reason to leave my sister alone.
Catwalk Fail Page 12
