A Diamond in the Rough

by Elisa Marie Hopkins

  “Hey, buddy? Hey! Excuse me. I have somewhere I need to be and it looks to me like Adriana isn’t coming in anytime soon. Are you going to take shots of me or not? It’s the surface of Mercury out there and I’m wearing a sweater. So what’s it going to be?”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “It means it’s hot! And I’m dehydrated.”

  We despised each other automatically. Then, after doing other shoots with him, I began to warm up to him. He wasn’t handsome; he had crooked teeth and his eyes were big like a frog’s, but he had this tenacity about him and he detested losing.

  After three years in the relationship, countless visits to London, and a lifetime of bittersweet memories, I was no longer Sophie. I was someone Rex approved of and therefore not myself. It wasn’t something I intended to do—losing myself to him—but by the time I realized it I was madly, irrevocably, deeply in love with him, and confrontation is just a hassle.

  After a great week of work in Los Angeles, I was overjoyed to fly to London and spend my birthday with Rex. I showed up at his apartment and knocked and knocked and knocked. I waited for hours outside his door just to surprise him. Eventually, I called Rex on his phone and let him know I was standing outside his apartment with a large pizza and beer (it was our thing), but instead we had a conversation that felt like a blade was being stabbed into my chest. He was seeing someone. Another model. He didn’t want to talk to me again. I didn’t celebrate my birthday that year.

  What hurt the most was coming to terms with the fact that the person who once made me feel happy and loved and alive also made me feel entirely depressed and miserable. It hurt to suddenly let go of Rex and realize he had already let go of me a long time ago.

  As for the men before Rex, they are estranged. All of them. I suppose the common denominator here is me. I’m the one to blame for sticking around a relationship that was past its use-by date.

  “I don’t go out anymore,” I finally tell Jess. “I don’t have time.”

  “That is just a lousy excuse.” She practically calls me out on my bluff. “Angelina Jolie has the same amount of time in a day as you do. The woman is married to Brad Pitt and she has like fifteen kids. That’s gotta count for something. So make time.”

  “Okay, okay, relax,” I reply without attempting to mask my exasperation. “Are you hearing yourself? It’s like you’re selling me off. Oliver Black probably has millions of girls at his beck and call. I’m sure he wakes up in the morning and asks himself: ‘Hmmm...what mood am I in today?’” I mimic him, making my voice sound deeper. “‘Blonde? Brunette? Redhead? All of the above?’”

  Jess laughs. “You know that?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then why are you assuming?”

  I scoff. “I could ask you the same question. You don’t know anything about him and yet you’re rooting for him to come sweep me off my feet.”

  “How would you like it if he thought you were just another model with a pretty face and an eating disorder? Kind of stereotypy if you ask me.” I shake my head, rolling my eyes. “I’m just saying. Give him a chance.

  “What are you even talking about?” I’m bordering on impatience. “He’s not into me, Jess.”

  “He will be,” she says, a smile creeping across her face.

  “Jesus. I told you. I went to his office. We discussed work. Nothing happened. Where do you get your dreamy ideas from?”

  She breathes heavily and judging by the way her head is hanging, I think she’s surrendered. But then she speaks up. “I don’t know. You’re probably right. I just think it’s time that you got out. Meet some new guys. There are plenty of fish in the sea.”

  “Yeah, and the majority of them are your run of the mill cod. Where are the sweet-tasting mahi-mahis, the sea basses, the opahs?”

  “What the heck is an opah?”

  “See what I mean? They’re hard to find.”

  She snaps her fingers as if a thought suddenly occurs to her. “Here’s an idea. Why don’t you try better bait?”

  “You do realize I’m the bait in your metaphor, right?”

  “Think about it. Better bait means big fish.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with my bait?”

  “Nothing! Seriously nothing. You just always come up with excuses to not go out. And why do you know so much about fish?”

  I shrug a little. “I like seafood.”

  She lets out a breath, long and drawn out. “Well, anyway, I hope you have fun tonight.” Before she heads out of my room, she says, “Just to remind you, my parents are flying in tomorrow. They should be here around noon.”

  “Thanks for reminding me. I’m going into overdrive.”

  “Don’t sweat it. They’re looking forward to meeting you. Eric...eh, well...not entirely.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  I decide I should make peace with the cream-colored, feathery dress and slip it on.

  ***

  IT IS E MODELS’ anniversary celebration, a major event where there will be a showcase of some of the newest models at the agency. It wasn’t supposed to be for another month, but the agency had it hurried up to keep investors interested and give the media something to cover on their own terms.

  On whose recommendation? I wonder.

  The lounge is called Kastel and it is tragically swanky. The DJ is spinning popular dance favorites at a level I’m not completely irritated by. Notable socialites mingle at the posh bar and some girls are already dancing in a woozy groove. Everyone is playing a role. I wave at Kim when I spot her, then stomp my golden Jimmy Choos and make my way through the dimly lit lounge.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is New York’s very own style icon, Sophie Cavall,” Kim introduces me to a crowd, waving her hand in the air as if she’s displaying the latest product on demand. Sitting down at the banquette, I engage in small talk while I secretly scan the room.

  “I’ll have a vodka and tonic,” I tell the server.

  People are overly concerned, or just prying, about what happened to me a few days ago. I’m not a person to them. I’m a victim. Reporters are lurking around, cloaking themselves behind dresses and fancy suits. I want to tell them I’m doing fine and wasn’t even kidnapped, but instead I tell people what Kim wants me to say. No doubt, it’s what Oliver would want me to say.

  “Well, it’s tragic. It has been a terrible experience, but I accept it now. I feel I’m a stronger, more compassionate and motivated person because of what happened. I’m just truly grateful for the support I’ve been receiving by E Models and all I can say is I’m ready to work. I’m ready to go.”

  A couple of hours later, I’ve participated with insincere curiosity in discussions with other models and new acquaintances. I pray one of them is a reporter. I figure I have lubricated enough social interaction gears for the night. My idea of conversation this evening is pathetic. My simple goal: establish my sanity, work up some good public relations, and circumvent elongated silences.

  I walk up to the bar and order another vodka and tonic. When I get my drink, I raise a toast to the bartender and turn around, tipping the glass of alcohol up to my lips. Something happens just now and everyone suddenly splits like the Red Sea. At the far end, I see Oliver looking haughty under a shining white light.

  He’s chatting with Alana Edelman and a few other people. He holds a glass of what looks like scotch in his hand. He’s dressed in an unapologetic fitted suit of gray fabric. No tie. The man dresses like it is nobody’s business but his own, and he oughta know it.

  An awful ache grips my chest as my eyes turn to the tall, twiggy brunette circling her hands around Oliver’s other arm and staring at him like he holds the answers to the mysteries of life. The understanding is almost shocking; Oliver is Liam Neeson! I swallow. Choke. Jerk awake. This twiggy person is the same boyfriend-distressed model whose spirits I lifted backstage at the runway show. Only now, she doesn’t appear edgy at all, not while awe-inspiring Oliver keeps her safe.

&
nbsp; “Vodka, eh?” A seductive, fierce, and compelling voice says. I turn to see Mona, a pale-skinned model with flowing crimson hair running down her shoulders—one of the few girls I can tolerate in this business. She presses her back against the bar, alongside me.

  “Yup,” I reply, popping the P. “Want to join in on the fun?”

  “Oh, no. I can’t do vodka anymore. I’m emotionally allergic. I think I’m in love with everyone. I’m talking about everyone from fourteen to seventy-five, straight, undecided, all of the above. Last time I tried vodka I almost married my doorman.”

  I smile. “Oh yeah? Is he good-looking?”

  “George? He’s like ninety! But he’s so sweet. Every time I enter the building, he says, ‘How many hearts did you break today, Miss Mona?’ He can always tell when I’m having a bad day. Bless his good heart.”

  “Cheers to that guy right there.” I lift my drink for a toast, then pour several sips into my mouth like I don’t care about calories.

  Mona presses her back against the bar and fiddles with her flawless red hair. “Anyway, how are you holding up?”

  I light up a cigarette. “I’m good.”

  “With the kidnapping thing.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Is it true?”

  I nod and look at her. I can’t help but notice her perfect nose job. Mona isn’t a reporter, but at this point, I’m thinking just about anybody will sell me out to one. “Yes. It’s tragic. It has been a terrible—”

  “Cut the crap, So”—she calls me So—“I know that’s just publicity talk. How are you really doing?”

  I look straight at Oliver as I report my answer. “I don’t know. I’ve been keeping myself busy. Trying not to think about it.”

  She must’ve followed my gaze, because the next thing I hear from her is, “Jesus. Stop staring.”

  “What?”

  “I get it. You’re into Oliver Black.”

  I put my drink on the bar and take a moment to speak. “Is it that obvious?”

  “More than obvious.”

  I don’t want to ask the question because I’m sure I don’t want to know the answer, but I go ahead anyway. “Who is that?” I look at the skinny minx next to Oliver, almost reprimanding myself for having motivated her to walk down the runway. I want to take back everything I said to her that day, because it has all started to make sense now. It takes me a second to put two and two together. Oliver had been there when I was first attacked, because he had been at the runway show to enjoy the sight of his girlfriend, Twiggy.

  “Why?” Mona asks me back. “Want me to take her down? Just say it.”

  I shake my head, mentally disapproving of Oliver’s cunning ways, not of Mona’s request.

  “Oh, come on, So! Two and a half out of three girls want into Oliver’s pants. You can cover it up with masking goop, but at the end of the day, you know it.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me and him? No way, never,” she replies on the spot. “A man like him needs someone twice like him. Twice as stubborn. Twice as strong. A woman who can handle all that he is and all that baggage he’s carrying around. I’m a sloth. I’m not that devoted.”

  I’m familiar with the term “baggage.”

  I blow puffs of cigarette smoke and watch them swirl into the air. “You mean like he needs more than one woman to satisfy him?”

  “More like a woman who’s not afraid to stand by him, face things, take what he dishes out, and throw it right back at him.”

  I’m certainly not delighted with the way the conversation is going. “Wow. I didn’t peg you for the poetic type. Looks like you know all about him.”

  “And you should too. Get out more. Meet people. This girl Tracy from my yoga class dated him a few years back for like two months. He’s very intense, from what I understand. I’m gonna say hi to some VIPs. It was nice talking to you, So.”

  “Yeah, you do that.” I take a puff off my smoke. “Go and flourish your social black belt.”

  She chuckles with a mild shake of the head. “That’s Madison Wolfe, by the way. She’s a recent discovery around here. Her father owns a lot of shit. I’m guessing he owns Alana, too.”

  Wolfe? That rings a bell. Comprehension is the best dissolver for the ego.

  Chatty Alana rises to speak on the DJ’s platform—all five feet of her—while the DJ tweaks the music to provide a more suitable atmosphere. Now there goes the white light shining on Alana’s glossy black bob. Oliver and Twiggy stand beside Alana with a few other fresh faces.

  “Hello everyone. Thank you for joining us in our annual celebration. It has been a privilege and an honor...”

  The rest of her words pass around me like air, and I forget them as I’m distracted by the twiggy-looking figure leaning over to whisper something into Oliver’s ear. They look at each other. They laugh. She puts her hand on his shoulder. I wouldn’t say that makes me mad, because I like knowing where I stand with people even it’s not where I want. And right now, I know where I stand: at the bar, by myself. I wouldn’t say I’m ecstatic either, but I have no doubts, so now I can move on. Forget even the most remote possibility of him and me. What am I saying? There was never any possibility. Sure, I’d been having conversations with him, but mostly they were just long monologues in my head.

  Somehow, between the lights, the shadows, and my mind ranting, Oliver’s stare lands on me. Our eyes lock on each other across the crowded room. I feel drunker than I can handle. The room spins. My vision blurs. My ears explode. I put my smoke out quickly, pretending I didn’t see him. Then, I lead my quivering legs to the restroom to slap some sense into my face.

  I push myself through the intoxicated guests, but my knees give out as some girl accidently bumps into me. “I’m sorry! Are you okay?” she shouts.

  In what seems like the blink of an eye, gentle hands seize my arms, pull me up to my feet again, and try to hold me steady. Recognition breaks over my face as I see Oliver, failing to keep me upright, at least emotionally. I dissolve like an Alka-Seltzer tablet in water. My head falls to his chest. His pulse is racing. He smells of overpriced liquor. His hands press me farther into the roughness of his chest, and I have either given him permission or I am too inebriated to act on my own behalf.

  “Why are you swimming along with this mass of highly intoxicated people?” he asks without a smile, just the distance of an eyelash away from me. “Let me take you home.”

  A loud grumble escapes from my lungs. “Nuh-uh...no. I’m fine,” I say incoherently, pulling away from his chest.

  “Is ‘no’ the only word in your vocabulary?”

  “No.”

  “Sophie, I consider myself a patient man, but even I have my limits.”

  Where is Reed when I require his services? “Excuse me, just who do you think you are?”

  “I’m the guy telling you to call it a night.”

  “Ah...” I raise my eyebrows. “You’re a real contribution to society.” An excess of alcohol has distorted my reasoning, so I go on heedlessly. “Let me rephrase my question, who do you think I am?” I hush his response with my fingers, as he is about to part his lips. “No, no. Don’t. I’ll tell you myself, since you obviously don’t know me. It’s actually funny that you think you do. You might know my name, who I am, what I do, where I live, but one thing I can tell you—” I suddenly hiccup, putting my big speech to shame, “is that you don’t know my story.”

  He grabs my wrist firmly as I’m walking away. “Let me stop you right there.” Uneasiness catches up with me, and the effects of several alcoholic beverages bear me along in ungraceful postures.

  “Why are you stopping me?”

  “I’m trying to talk to you.”

  “No,” I say, provoked. Don’t do it. Don’t get my hopes up. “Return to your friends.”

  “What friends?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Whoever it is you invited to accessorize your arm. To cling to it like a grapevine. A girlfriend, maybe?”

&
nbsp; He draws his brows together and frowns with perplexity. “Girlfriend?”

  “There you are!” Twiggy slices through my cloud of unhelpful thoughts, and what do you know? She latches right onto his arm like a grapevine. She clears her throat, maybe gagged by a combination of my presence and the sparkly choker decorating her neck. Her pale skin plays up her green eyes while sprightly highlights streak down her sandy hair.

  “Sophie, this is Madison—”

  I quickly persuade my legs to go anywhere where I don’t have to endure the sight of Oliver or his companion. As I force myself out, Reed, with military dignity, opens the rear door of his car for me.

  I’m about to get in when somebody pulls my hand. “Sophie. Wait a second.” My back is pushed a little against the car. Oliver leans into me, making it almost impossible for me to move out of his way.

  “Do you mind?” I put some space between us.

  “Would you like to tell me what that was about? I don’t believe you are as insolent and uncivil as to stomp off without letting me finish a sentence.”

  “That’s your problem, Oliver. You think you know me.”

  Reed intervenes. “Is this man bothering you, Miss Cavall?”

  I reach for his chest, attempting to contain his beastly ways. “Reed, it’s okay. I can handle it.”

  “Sophie, pick a number from one to ten,” Oliver demands and I stand in all-inclusive uncertainty.

  “What? Why?”

  As I meet his imposing stare, his confident demeanor, I can only obey. “Fine. Three.”

  “Reed, I fully appreciate the concern you hold for the security of your client. In the interest of keeping your client safe, I will raise your pay by thirty percent per day, if you immediately answer to me.”

  Reed’s eyes almost shoot up like dollar symbols. That unreliable jerk.

  “Thank you, Reed. I will be taking Miss Cavall home. You are dismissed.”

  He nods and backs off to leave me on my own.

  “What the hell? Did you just bribe my bodyguard?”

  “No. I simply guided his conduct in a direction more to my own liking.”

  “That’s the same thing!”

  “No, if it were, I would’ve said so.”