Catwalk Fail

by Jason Godfrey

  “See? If they had booked Damian, it would have saved you the pain,” she whispers. Her mentioning Damian initially gets the milk curdling in my stomach, but I smile because I know Taylor is joking. I know, because since the sunset shoot, it’s been two days of faking intimacy with her.

  Romantic dinners with no actual eating, strolls on the beach that only last a few steps at a time, playing golf in ridiculously matching argyle outfits where neither of us even touched a ball, our every move scrutinized by a group of strangers led by a linen clad Frenchman. This is the story of our fake relationship. But faking affection for someone has a weird way of becoming real affection. Though it doesn’t hurt that Taylor is insanely hot.

  I realize this fake relationship has been made possible by half-truths. Taylor’s made the assumption my sister is laid up in a full body cast or languishing in a kidnapper’s basement, and I’ve happily shrugged and gone with it. I don’t know exactly what she thinks is going on—because I’ve managed to be pretty vague—but given Taylor’s tempered distaste of fashion, I suspect wholesale honesty about my sister’s situation might be met with a return of her alternately ignoring and ridiculing me.

  Anyway, I’m not lying, I’m just not being one hundred-percent fortyyear-old-virgin-honest. Yes, letting a girl assume something is the move of a desperate loser—which is definitely not who I am—but these are extenuating circumstances and I’ll take what I can get.

  “Any news on your sister?” Taylor asks, as makeup descends on us for touch ups.

  “Nothing good,” I say, which is true. Today is Jasmine’s Elle shoot with Maxwell and though I’ve messaged her multiple times she hasn’t responded. “It’s best for me not to think about her,” I say.

  Taylor nods, her green eyes focusing on the weathered planks under our bare feet as makeup agonizingly doctors a spot on her forehead. Which is pointless, since Marcel is at least ten meters away for a wide-shot, and there’s no way whatever needs to be dabbed fifteen times with concealer on Taylor’s face will be visible. But no one says anything, and the useless touch-up continues.

  “It sure takes a lot of work to make you pretty,” I say, changing the subject to stop from fixating on a variety of terrible possible outcomes for Jasmine’s shoot.

  Taylor rolls her eyes. “They’ve got to make me look as good as the male model, so it’s your fault.”

  I like it when she uses the guise of comedy to point out my handsomeness. I’m strangely content being Taylor’s pseudo boyfriend—a happy circumstance that’s about as permanent as a sunburn—and will be over after this final shot.

  Makeup finishes with Taylor, though she looks just as pretty as she did before. She steps towards me, smiles, and drapes her arms around my neck. “We hug way more than a normal couple,” she says. “Always hugging and staring at each other. We’re one of those touchy happy couples that makes me sick.”

  “It’s the honeymoon period,” I say, holding her around the waist before slipping my arms into the slight curve at the small of her back. “Two more weeks and we’ll hate each other like everyone else.”

  “Doubt it.”

  Marcel chugs towards us, making the wooden dock shake like it’s an eight point six on the Richter scale. The fifteen-second run has completely fucked him and he’s gulping air when he says, “Ok, kids. We saved the best for last. I need you two to get real close.”

  I inch my head towards Taylor’s.

  “Closer.” He pauses to take a deep breath. “Like you’re about to kiss, and hold it.”

  Marcel winks at me before chugging back to his camera. I’m surprised when he doesn’t flop face first into the sand after another fifteen seconds of cardio.

  “Whenever you’re ready!” Marcel yells, barely comprehensible as he sucks air.

  Taylor grins up at me and says, “You ready to nearly kiss?”

  “It’s better than actually kissing,” I say. “All that awkward tongue action and trying to coordinate how wide your mouth is supposed to be with a stranger who’s usually drunk? Nearly kissing is way better.”

  “You should stop kissing drunk people.”

  I smother a laugh, as I tilt my head and bring myself close enough to feel the heat coming off Taylor’s lips.

  “Is he shooting?” she says.

  “I have no idea. Camera’s too far away, I can’t hear the clicking,” I say, trying to ignore the moisture of her breath on me as she exhales softly. This close to her, I can smell her make-up, the sand in her hair, and lemongrass—always lemongrass. Eating Thai food will never be the same.

  Of course, my little speech about kissing being terrible and nearly kissing being better was complete bullshit. This close to her enticing pout, the only thoughts going through my mind are how her lips will feel against mine and imagining how she tastes. Being this close to Taylor without kissing her is a form of ironic torture.

  We’re frozen, forever about to kiss. With Marcel shooting from way over on the beach, it’s easy to forget he’s there and think this moment is actually ours—which makes things worse. The waves are still crashing on that distant reef, and my heart thumping sounds loud in my head, but one question resonates over everything. Before I know it, I’m asking, “What’s up with you and Damian?”

  What follows are a handful of seconds that feel like hours of listening to waves rolling over the reef.

  “Damian?” she says, like the name is a Zulu word she’s never heard before. Yes, Damian. The guy that makes you laugh five times a second, the guy who takes you for glamorous lunches at McDonalds, whose castings you feel the need to attend, who bombards your snapchat with dick picks—presumably. That stupid guy. I stare into her shut eyelids. “He’s really fun… but he’s just a friend.”

  Her answer is hollow like some half-hearted platitude out of a pharmacy greeting card.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say, and her eyes stay shut. If Taylor were any other girl, I’d take what she says at face value but I want more. “Just friends.”

  “Seriously.” Her eyes open and squint in the sunlight. “Does my being Damian’s friend bug you?”

  If her definition of being friends means swapping bodily fluids, then yeah, it bugs the shit out of me.

  “No, it doesn’t bug me,” I say. “Why would it?”

  “Dunno,” she says, and shuts her eyes again. Taylor readjusts her arms around my neck pulling me even closer to her—if that’s possible. I close my eyes and feel her lips almost on mine, her body warm against me. It’s disturbing to think this is the last time I’ll hold her like this.

  “I thought maybe you didn’t want to think about me with another guy,” Taylor breathes. “Since we’re dating and all.”

  I know she’s joking, that this is all part of our relationship role-play, but I don’t laugh when I say, “I don’t want to see you with anyone else.”

  We stand in our tableau so close that any slight wavering from trying to stand motionless seems enormous. I’m attuned to her every quiver. Then Taylor’s lips graze mine so softly, I wonder if it’s the sea breeze. I hold her tighter around her waist as her lips find their way to mine. She kisses me.

  The remote crashing of waves, the scent of the sea, Taylor’s lips pressed against mine—none of it seems real. It takes a moment before I kiss her back. After the tension building up over the past month, this entire excruciating week of holding her and pretending she’s mine, I thought kissing Taylor would be something else. Something earth shattering or time stopping—mouths gaping open, tongues flicking, exchanging enough saliva to get a DNA sample—but it’s not like this.

  We kiss in a soft, delicate way, as if this moment is the first snowflake of winter caught on your palm. Something fragile and impermanent that you want to last but know can’t possibly.

  “C’est finis! Let’s get hammered!” Marcel screams and begins bounding up the dock towards us like a giant slobbering French bulldog.

  That snowflake just got blowtorched.

  Taylor releases me and
clears her throat. Her face has gone bright red. “Electricity! Sparks!” Marcel claps. “Great stuff. Great film. Come see.” Taylor shakes her head and hurries past Marcel towards the beach.

  She’s leaving. The taste of her still on my lips, but for some inane reason, all I do is watch her go.

  It’s only lunch time but Marcel and Genevieve don’t miss a beat getting our wrap party started, though this drinking session is less due to wrapping and more to with habit. Marcel and Genevieve have been drinking at midday since we arrived.

  The pool water is lit cosmopolitan red, hip electronic music reverberates from palm-tree-mounted Bose speakers, and rich families sit around in overpriced Vilebrequin swim shorts while eating lobster bisque. Despite all this chic, it’s not long before Marcel is salsa dancing in nothing but a pair of tiny green tights stretched so thin at any second I expect his genitalia to explode into sight. I’ll never understand the French.

  Marcel dances towards me, sloshing margarita over the brown ricotta tiles. A mother passes, shielding her child’s eyes with her palm to block out the genital atrocity.

  “Where’s Taylor?” Marcel sounds strangely sober given what I’ve watched him drink.

  “Don’t know,” I say, replaying the last moments on the dock with her in my head. Maybe she wavered too close to my mouth and—like a sprung Venus flytrap around a juicy moth—my lips snapped shut around hers. If that’s what happened, I’ve hit a new low. Kissing the other model in a kissing scene is just pathetic.

  Marcel stops his salsa and leans on the table. His eyes bore into me, the sun reflecting irritatingly off his bald head. It feels like any second now, he’s going to try and kiss me.

  “Girls like Taylor don’t happen into this industry very often,” he says, giving me a knowing look and I want to slap the teeth out of his mouth. “She’s a rare find. Like a wild purple corn cockle in Provence.”

  Marcel gazes up into the blue sky, spellbound in a moment of inebriated reflection, but all I do is stare at him like what the fuck.

  Then Taylor appears at the edge of the bar, draped in a long teal beach dress, her ponytail swaying. As she gravitates towards Genevieve, her green eyes seem to find everyone but me.

  I must have kissed her.

  Marcel notices Taylor and says, “You want me to do you a favour?” Sure, do me a favour and castrate yourself with a spork. One less pompous photographer passing on his genes is a good thing.

  “I’ll take care of this,” Marcel winks at me. “Good luck, Colin.”

  He raises his hand, which I shake though I still have no idea what he’s talking about, and this time he didn’t even mention corn cockles. He does his waddling salsa all the way over to Taylor and Genevieve and I can’t help but notice his green tights having ridden gruesomely high into his ass crack making me wish I could repress memories at will.

  “Taylor!” Marcel yells, raising two gorilla haired arms. “Tequila shots for our fashion queen! She needs to catch up!”

  Taylor smiles politely and shakes her head but the bar staff at a five-star resort are nothing if not efficient. Before she can talk her way out of it, a tray lined with rows of shots appears at their table. From across the way, I watch as Genevieve and Taylor—with more than a little encouragement from Marcel—cringe and empty every shot glass in front of them. This tour de force of binge drinking makes me want to vomit for them. I pour my untouched margarita into the bushes.

  Marcel begins his drunken salsa again and Genevieve and Taylor somehow don’t burst into laughing ridicule. I should go say something to Taylor but can’t bring myself to do it. Then Taylor stands up and walks towards me.

  “Hey there,” she says, and I busy myself examining the salt on the rim of the empty glass. “Guess you’ve been drinking pretty hard yourself.”

  She nods at my glass. I shrug and nod back. Then she nods again and I fight the urge to nod before caving and nodding yet again. I note to never kiss somebody in a near kissing scene again because the awkwardness afterward is stifling.

  “Hey, sorry about on the dock,” Taylor says, her eyes dodging mine. “That wasn’t very professional. Got a little too into the moment.”

  I stare at her for a second.

  I didn’t kiss her. She kissed me. I’m not pathetic.

  “Yeah, moments can be intense,” I say. Maybe I’m a little pathetic.

  Taylor’s bikini straps are visible under her dress, and the end of her brown pony tail falls to the middle of her lightly freckled back. She looks up at me, her full lips parted and waiting. I want to tell her there’s nothing to be sorry for, that I wanted to kiss her so badly if she hadn’t, I would have.

  But before I can open my mouth, Marcel appears. His green tights seem to be shrinking around his testicles as more and more material is devoured by his ass crevasse.

  “More shots!” Marcel waves at the table behind him as he slaps Taylor’s shoulder with his paw. “Come on, it’s time to celebrate a job well done!”

  As he drags a protesting Taylor toward a waiting tray of tequila shots, Marcel looks back with a heavily dimpled grin, and gives me a hairy knuckled thumbs up that assures me everything is going according to plan.

  If only I knew what that plan was.

  Laying fully clothed on top of the bed, I stare into the overhead spotlights until my retinas burn. Then I shut my eyes and do it again.

  If Marcel’s brilliant plan was to not make it to sunset and pass out in the bushes with his green tights so deep in his crack they looked like they were trying to impregnate him, then bravo, fucking mission accomplished.

  Last time I saw Genevieve, one of the staff had her in a camel-clutch to keep her from vomiting in the pool. As for Taylor, I knocked at her villa but got no answer. She’s missing and presumed drunk.

  I still haven’t heard from Jasmine, though Damian sent a picture of him hugging my sister like a desperate koala gripping a eucalyptus tree— his smile wide, the sheen of his teeth horrifyingly white like a little raging blizzard in his mouth. All he wrote was: Shoot’s finished! All good, bru.

  It is so not all good, bru. If the Elle shoot is finished, then right now Jasmine is being left alone with Uncle Max. I pull out my phone and try to call Jasmine again. Once again, the call goes straight to voice message. Not a good sign. If I could only get her on the line, I need to get her out of that studio.

  The studio.

  I fumble with my phone to get to Maxwell Chen’s official website. There has to be a studio phone number there. I can call the studio and get in touch with Jasmine. Soon I’m dialing and the tone is ringing, but I don’t know what to tell my sister. Then the line picks up.

  Maxwell Chen’s Studio. We’re busy creating some mind-fucking art. Like you didn’t know.

  It’s the Vagrants voice followed by a beep. I realize there is no message I can leave that will convince him or Uncle Max to let my sister speak to me immediately. Fucking Uncle Max. Then I get another idea: the sweetest wine snob on the planet, his niece Candace.

  “Maxwell Chen,” I say, trying to sound official. “This is Officer…

  Chen… at the 23rd Precinct.”

  I pause, cursing myself for not being more creative with my fake name and also realizing that I should be trying to sound Chinese. But I can’t do a Chinese accent so I put on a French one.

  “We have your niece Candace in custody. She became somewhat violent at a wine tasting in Central after she detected cork taint in a Chilean pinot noir and had to be restrained. If you could come to the precinct immediately, we would like to clear this matter. 新年快!” I end by throwing in the only Cantonese I know, which means Happy Lunar New Year, and hang up.

  Laying back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, I’m immediately aware that my ad hoc impersonation of a Hong Kong police officer to a world-famous fashion photographer might be the single dumbest thing I’ve done in my life. Screw it. It’s a Hail Mary pass for sure, but I had to try something.

  Then there’s a knock on th
e adjoining door. Taylor.

  I spring from bed and yank the door open, completely forgetting to fix my hair or compose myself—which as it turns out isn’t a problem.

  Taylor slumps against the frame wearing only her lime green bikini. Her hair, a once perky and proud ponytail, now sags despondent and lopsided off the back of her head like an unconscious octopus. She smells like spring break in Tijuana.

  “Hey, you,” she says.

  Before I can answer, she saunters in, running a finger over the top of the oak office desk and plops herself on top of it. She turns her green eyes on me and smiles.

  Normally, a drunk bikini-clad model inviting herself into my room would be a welcome development. But Taylor, as gorgeously smashed as she is, is making me fear for my genitalia.

  “You know I’ve been modelling for eleven months now?” Taylor says, looking dangerously svelte with her smooth skin and swimwear seemingly made of dental floss. “Yep, been to Greece, Paris, and Milan and I haven’t hooked up with one male model.”

  “I did not know that,” I say, trying not to stare as she crosses her long sleek legs and leans back on the desk. My groin aches in response.

  “Not one.” She says. “You know why?”

  This question seems less important than the sexual tension in the room threatening to tear Taylor’s bikini from her body and set her privates on a collision course with mine. I step back. Narrowing her eyes, she continues, “Because male models are dickheads. They’re douchebags.”

  Not as much as male fashion photographers. But I keep this to myself. “And you’re a douchebag,” Taylor points at me. “But I don’t care. For once, I just want to have fun. I’m always thinking about what’s right and wrong, and what’s wrong with just having fun?”

  “That’s all girls wanna have,” I shrug, and she purses her lips somehow making them even more fleshy and kissable. This is getting dangerous. My groin is throbbing with pain. I step back until my calves are pressed against the bed.

  “You’re not a total douche.” Taylor advances with the slow inevitability of a glacier and soon she’s pressing against me as inescapable as a bikini-wearing ice age. “I mean you are sort of sweet sometimes.”