Catwalk Fail

by Jason Godfrey

  Jasmine looks down at the USB stick in her palm. They’re a lot to give up. I need to explain to her that Maxwell’s shots will help, but they don’t necessarily mean success; that as models we fixate on what tear sheets could mean for us. I need to explain that she doesn’t have to go back into the room with him, because if my sister is anything like me, she’ll do anything to keep those shots.

  “Then take them,” she shrugs, and hands him the stick. “Maybe I haven’t been modelling very long but all your photos look the same anyway.”

  Maxwell’s eyes go wide, so do mine.

  “What did you say?” He growls, dropping his gentle sexual predator veneer.

  “You heard her,” I say, pushing past Jasmine and staring him down. “My sister thinks your pictures suck.”

  He’s glaring at me like he wants to hit me, and I’m flexing every muscle in my torso like I’m posing for the summer swim wear pullout of JC Penny. I’m physically stronger than Maxwell, but he’s the kind of guy that has no boundaries in a fight and will grab for nothing but throats, eyeballs, and testicles. If this goes down, we’ll going to be rolling around on the carpet until someone pulls a muscle. It’ll be that kind of fight.

  “Uncle Max?” Candace says emerging from the crowd looking as fashionably drab as ever and holding a glass of wine. She has a scowl etched on her face like being around this many models is leeching points from her IQ.

  “What are you doing to my uncle?” she glares at me taking a position next to him.

  “I’m not doing anything to him, it’s what he’s doing to us!” I say. Candace scoffs.

  “What is he doing to you?” She sips her wine. Standing there next to Maxwell, as if to shield him from harm, I almost don’t want to tell her the truth, to decimate whatever fake façade he’s crafted for her. Then she says. “What’s so horrible? Letting you appear in his photos? Helping your cruddy little career as a human clothes hanger?”

  And my urge to almost not say anything dies a fiery death.

  “I’ll tell you what’s happening,” I say, and her eyes are full of the kind of self-righteousness only the young or unbelievably naïve can muster. “Maxwell Chen is a pervert who gets his rocks off from exposing his sack to young models.”

  She frowns.

  “Yeah, that sack!” I clarify.

  The volume of the music has dropped. Candace glances at her uncle then narrows her eyes at me.

  “I don’t believe you,” she scowls, as every model in the room looks from her and back to me. We’re their own private reality show.

  “Fine,” I say, deciding that the show just went interactive. She wants proof? This room is full of proof. “Put up a hand if you’ve been on a shoot where Maxwell Chen pulled out his junk for no good reason?”

  The crowd of models stares back at me. None of their hands move.

  “Come on! Raise a hand if Maxwell Chen, at the very least, tried to make a move on you?”

  Nothing. I’ve miscalculated.

  What happens at a Maxwell Chen shoot—the power differential forcing new models to do what he wants—is the sort of thing that’s hard to admit even to a mental health professional. No one is going to admit it to a crowd during fashion week.

  Fuck.

  “We’re going to sue your ignorant ass into poverty for saying that,” Candace is glaring at me. “Right, Uncle Max?

  Maxwell starts to get this smug little smirk on his face. Jasmine’s eyes meet mine, then very slowly, she raises her hand.

  This slaps that annoying smirk off Maxwell’s face. Now his eyes are darting all over the room like a feline about to get neutered.

  Behind me, two girls glare at Maxwell and raise their hands. Then more hands go up to my right.

  And then a few more. Soon all over the room, girls with fauxhawks, girls with ponytails, girls who I thought were androgynous boys are raising their hands. I hear a sniffle and turn. Beside me Marek is holding his hand up. It looks like he’s going to cry.

  Candace rips herself from Maxwell, retreating to the bedroom. Her visions of wholesome Uncle Max shattered, like the innocence of every model he’s forced into his twisted little world, and I’m grinning. Maxwell glowers at me and chases after her, slamming the door behind him. I’ve just fucked up a decade of Christmas dinners at the Chen household.

  The music returns to thumping so hard it makes my heart skip. Oddly the models are energized—united by the realization of their shared abuse— and everyone goes back to drinking Maxwell’s alcohol.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Jasmine says, pulling me to the elevator, and as I look back, I’m thinking: Best. Fashion Week Party. Ever.

  On the street in front of the Hyatt, all I want to do is get out of here but Jasmine spots a trio of girls from the show. They all wear the same war paint inspired eye stripe, and warrior style faux-hawk as they stand before me looking like hot triplets.

  “This is Tunde and Sorina,” Jasmine says. Nodding at them in turn, I remember a time long ago—before my penile fracture—when I would already have been two steps into picking up one of these girls while laying the ground work to sleep with the rest of them later. Now all I can muster is a muted wave.

  I turn to nod at the third girl as Jasmine says, “And this is—”

  “Taylor,” I say.

  Taylor’s freckles have been completely covered in foundation, her light brown hair slicked black with product, but her green eyes gleam through her eye stripe.

  “Cool!” Jasmine says. “You guys know each other!” Taylor nods looking unimpressed.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Taylor is awesome,” my sister says, pulling out her phone. “She’s like my total runway inspiration. We opened fashion week together and we’re gonna close it together at Vivienne Westwood! It’s gonna be fun, girlfriend!”

  Taylor smiles at Jasmine.

  “How long have you known my brother?” Jasmine says.

  This time Taylor raises her eyebrows at me and leaves them there to defy gravity.

  “Sorry, give me a sec.” Jasmine taps the screen on her phone and puts it to her ear. “Eduardo and Larissa just got here! I’ve got to get them before they go to that d-bag’s crappy party!”

  She begins screaming ad hoc Portuguese into the phone and the other girls follow her, leaving Taylor and I.

  “Wait,” Taylor says, returning to her default beautiful expression. “Did Jasmine just say you were her brother?” I nod.

  “How does that work?” She says. “She’s a half-sister.”

  “Right,” Taylor says. “Do you have another sister?” I shake my head.

  “So, you don’t have another sister who is deeply troubled and wrecking her life?”

  I don’t, but right now I sort of wish I did. “Wow.” Taylor stares into the distance.

  “I am worried about Jasmine, I didn’t tell you exactly why,” I say, rubbing my neck. “I didn’t mean to lie to you. I… We spoke about her and afterward you seemed to open up.”

  “Cause I thought your sister was a drug addict or seriously ill,” Taylor says, squinting behind her eye stripe and looking like an angry warrior. An angry warrior I’d like to have sex with. “You let me think that so we could talk more?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I guess that’s one way to put it.”

  “And you know what is mind boggling?” Taylor says, bouncing her finger off her temple. “That you’re all freaked out about your sister—and it’s Jasmine.”

  “Hey, what’s wrong with my sister?”

  “Nothing!” She says. “That’s my point! Your sister is completely switched on. She’s fine.”

  “I know Jas is ok. It’s just the whole industry,” I say. “And guys like Maxwell Chen. Or like the hundreds of douchebags that prowl around clubs looking for models.”

  “Oh, you mean the guys like you?” Taylor says. “You’re worried that Jasmine is going to get taken advantage of by someone like you. Don’t you see that? You’re exactly like all those clubbin
g dickheads.”

  “No, I’m not,” I say. Besides the obvious difference, that I’m in Men’s Health calibre shape and those try-hards aren’t, I don’t treat girls like they do. I’m sincere.

  “Believe whatever you want,” Taylor says. “But you don’t have to worry about Jasmine because she’s not like you. She won’t do whatever it absolutely takes to make it in all this fashion crap.”

  I want to tell her she’s wrong—not about Jasmine—about me, but the all too recent images of G-string wearing Boyd on a shag rug and powdery face Vogue Bitch pop into my head, and I’m disappointed in myself. Then the images begin fornicating and I want to gag.

  “Maybe you should look at who you are,” Taylor turns to leave. “Maybe the problem isn’t your sister or the other guys. Maybe it’s you.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Colin Bryce Hamilton

  Doing Gucci. And then Milano. I hope.

  11 people like this.

  IT’S GUCCI TIME.

  I’m standing at the bottom of the white runway, as a crew member polishes the Gucci lettering on the back wall. Spotlights trace back and forth across the stage, and the DJ keeps stopping and restarting Left Hand Free by Alt J.

  I take a deep breath. The smell of fresh cut wood and paint from the newly constructed runway mingles with the scent of hairspray and make-up backstage. I grin, being on a new runway is like coming home for Christmas.

  “Colin,” a voice says. I turn and Giovanna, the IMD Italy booker, is sitting in the otherwise empty front row. “Are you ready for tonight?”

  “Of course,” I say, using my Deep-in-Thought-Sensual-Intentions look as I take a knee on the stage. I’ll admit for a while there, my iron resolve to get to Milano wavered, but Taylor basically saying we won’t be together because of who she thinks I am has put things back into perspective. I have to get to Milano. Milano’s all I got.

  And I know why Giovanna’s here. She’s come to test me, to see if I’ll rattle before the show. Dealing with these European fashion types is like trying to constantly impress the coolest kid in school, but I know how to handle her.

  “I’m looking forward to workin—”

  “Come down here,” Giovanna interrupts, averting her gaze like I’m shining a Maglite in her face. “I’m looking up at you, I prefer if we’re on the same level when we talk.”

  “Uh… Okay,” I say, and step down to the floor. But I’m still taller than her.

  “Lower,” she says. “My heels are in my bag.”

  I spread my legs double-shoulder width apart. I’m slightly above her eye level now.

  “Lower,” she says. “If you please.”

  I don’t please but bend slightly at the knees anyway. Now we’re painfully eye-to-eye.

  “Much better. Stay like this,” she orders, and my legs quiver holding a weird half squat like I may relieve myself on the floor. “Now, what were you saying?”

  I have no idea. Giovanna waits, pursing her lips and I wonder how many litres of restylene have been pumped into her fleshy pout. After a moment, it becomes clear that I’m incapable of speech, and she says, “Colin, you must bring the fire tonight on the runway. It is that inner spark that will get you a spot on our roster. That spark that lights into a flame that becomes a burning inferno when you are on stage.”

  Apparently, Giovanna needs to see me spontaneously combust. “Understand?” She half-yells into my face like I’m wearing noise-cancelling headphones. “You understand?”

  All I understand is if I don’t stand straight soon, I’ll need reconstructive surgery on my knees.

  “Yeah, I get it,” I say, newly subordinated.

  Giovanna waves her hand as if I’m dismissed. I creak back to standing and wander backstage, any comfort I’d felt entirely replaced by a lurking uneasiness.

  The makeup room is lined with models sitting on stools while squads of hair and makeup stylists buzz around us like bees around hives. I’m feeling off, and even when my own hair is combed up, blow dried, and sprayed back into a high pompadour that accentuates the square shape of my jaw, this uneasy feeling doesn’t dissipate.

  I’m wondering if I ate something bad and get a slight surge of model enthusiasm at the possibility of a quick bout of diarrhea prior to the show, but when Marek walks into the room the feeling gets worse and I know it’s not the food.

  He’s wearing an expensive looking slim-cut black suit and everyone is slapping hands with him and giving him high-fives, even though Marek’s presence here is only symbolic.

  He didn’t book anything at fashion week. Marek’s like some sort of mascot or spirit animal, like the old guy that retires but keeps coming into the mill until eventually no one remembers who he is. Marek’s holding on to the past because he’s got no future to look forward to.

  Maybe a lot of models do that.

  “Hey, bro,” he grins. “Check out the suit. It’s Armani!”

  “It’s cool,” I say, supporting his obvious need to overcompensate in front of a room of models when he’s the only one not about to hit the runway for fashion week. “It’s a great suit.”

  Marek stands there looking stupidly proud, wiping lint from the Armani. I’m about to ask him how he could afford it when I see something that makes that uneasy feeling in my stomach become downright dysenterian.

  Vogue Bitch.

  She’s standing at the door, powdery-faced and geriatric, tapping her toe like she’s waiting. A weird buzzing starts up in my head, tag-teaming me with the ache in my gut, and I know where Marek got that fucking suit. “It’s bitching, bro!” Marek says, glancing over his shoulder and noticing Vogue Bitch in the doorway. His smile fades and he gives me a sheepish look. “Hey, good luck out there!”

  As he nears the door, Vogue Bitch grins and the lusty old gal reaches out and squeezes his behind like she’s checking the ripeness of a cantaloupe.

  Every model is transitioning after fashion week. Some are going to Europe, others are being sent to China, some are stuck here, and it looks like Marek has made that other transition. From male model to unofficial gigolo.

  Poor fucking Marek.

  Soon, I’m loitering backstage with the rest of the models. The girls have their hair pulled back in elegant buns. Their eyes are smoky and their cheeks glitter with tiny sparkles. All the girls look the same. Actually, the guys—with a light streak of eyeliner, and dramatic pompadours—all look like carbon copies too. Fashion has made us all interchangeable. That buzzing in my ear gets louder, like a little metallic mosquito.

  Boyd appears wearing a Gucci suit, his head freshly saved. He’s marching towards me with a couple production assistants stuck to him like sucker fish on a great white shark.

  There’s nowhere for me to hide. Suddenly, the idea of being indistinguishable from the other guys doesn’t seem so bad. I’m hoping my hair and makeup will camouflage me. It doesn’t. Boyd stops in front of me, directing his minions to carry out his bidding and they scuttle off.

  “Colin,” he says, levelling his gaze at me like a stunted, snake-less Medusa. “Come here.”

  He leads me into the alcove of an emergency exit door. Though I’m at least a foot taller than him, I shrink away when he leans in to speak to me. “I wanted you to know,” he says, his eyes deep and cold like a still lake at midnight. “I didn’t want you here. My client forced me to take on your look when Damian’s grandmother passed away.”

  More like when Damian got caught fucking a woman who could be his grandmother. But I say nothing.

  “My client may have final say on the models, but this is my show. I will use you clothes hangers however I like.”

  A crappy grin plays across his mouth that makes me want to curl up in a hole and never come out.

  “Damian was going to be the opener for the men’s section. He had four outfits, my boy,” he says. “You have one. You will not open the show. You will not close it. You will be right in the middle with your one outfit. Enjoy.” One outfit means I’ll only be on stage twice,
once for the outfit and once for the finale. Boyd has made me invisible.

  He gives me a smug smirk and turns to go. I know I should treat this like a grizzly attack, just be happy I’ve got all my limbs and let him amble off into the shrubs, but I can’t.

  “Be fair,” I say, and Boyd stops. “I don’t care about what happened the other night, I only want what’s fair. I want what I deserve.”

  “This is what you deserve,” Boyd shoves his face at me. This is that scene in the horror movie where the snarling beast is sniffing and slobbering on the hero, and all he can do is stand there cringing and hoping for the best. Boyd is my own private Alien. I wish I had a flamethrower.

  “You think you’re special, don’t you? My boy, you are simply another model so convinced you’re destined for greatness that you’re willing to do anything to get it. I gave you an opportunity but you even managed to fuck that up,” he says, stepping back and adjusting my collar. “Enjoy the show, Colin because this is the final walk of your modelling career.”

  Boyd saunters away leaving me there, the shrill buzz in my ear making everything else sound miles away. The pain in my stomach sharp like I swallowed a box of tacks, and when a dresser hands me my first—and only—outfit, all I can do is put my head down, unbutton my pants and fall into line with the rest of the models stripping to their underwear on command.

  It’s minutes before the Gucci show starts and I’m at the back of a long line of models wearing my outfit: a brown suede three quarter length button-up jacket with grey slacks, brown shoes, and a huge leather man-purse.

  While most of the other models are enhancing their confidence downing champagne from a waiter carrying a tray of flutes, I wrestle with the shitty murse. It’s an added little fuck-you from Boyd, an insurance policy to sink my career. With this awkward oversized man-purse, there’s no way to get my walk right. Boyd really knows how to grab somebody by the nut sack and twist.