A Diamond in the Rough

by Elisa Marie Hopkins

  I blink and take a deep breath. There is a short pause.

  “I’ve seen fools reach success out of pure commitment,” he adds. “If you don’t know what you want and who you want to be, someone else will decide for you.”

  “You think I don’t know what I want? You think I love the idea of relying on my looks for life? No, Oliver! It’s pathetic! In my head, I have a nice, quiet, normal job that involves me running my own business. I carry a briefcase around my office with important documents, I have a nice assistant who calls me boss, and people ask me questions—they ask for my advice because I matter! I’m important to them! I’m recognized as something more than a pretty face and a pair of legs. I have a brain and interests and thoughts about religion, and poverty, and economics. I’m not a miserable girl with a number attached to her chest, stripping her clothes off in a room full of people.”

  “If you want it, you have to make it happen.”

  “The way I see it, I have the choice of making sacrifices today so that I can eat, have a roof over my head tomorrow, and possibly a future in something else. Something else that actually matters. I’ve been saving up to go to college next year. I lose this job and I’m not going to be able to do that.”

  “I’ll pay for your school,” he says. “You shouldn’t have to make that kind of sacrifice. Let me help you.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t accept your money.”

  “That’s it, huh?” he says as if I’ve given up.

  “Look, I didn’t know the details of that shoot ahead of time. The male model came out of nowhere. I don’t usually work with male models, ever. The photographer was furious. The agency covers my expenses, but it’s all been adding up throughout the years. I felt like such a loser because Kim hadn’t gotten paid. You know what? It’s more pressure than you would ever understand.”

  “You want to talk to me about pressure?”

  “I don’t even know why I’m trying to explain this to you.”

  “Sophie, you ought to strongly consider a more respectable and admirable profession. A woman like you shouldn’t be involved in such vulgar travesties, all to live in penury.”

  I raise my hand and smack him hard on the side of his face. “You don’t get to speak to me like that! Like I’m some kind of cheap prostitute!”

  He stands face down. He raises his head a little and brushes his hand from his cheek across his mouth, caressing the red imprint I left on him.

  Alana pops her black head inside my dressing room—probably aware of the noise—and interrupts our heated conversation. She throws her arms around Oliver’s neck. “Well, hello! I overheard some girls saying you were here. What are you doing?”

  “He was leaving,” I say.

  Her eyebrows rise. “Oh. I see.” She looks at Oliver. “Can I get you anything?”

  “You can.” His eyes never leave mine.

  “But of course! Please, let’s talk in private.” Alana grasps his arm and pulls him out of the room, leaving us with nothing but a silent good-bye.

  This man can have me fired before I can change clothes.

  ***

  I DON’T KNOW exactly what was it about the discussion that insulted me, but it did. Had it been the ugly truth of it all?

  Oliver’s words stung like acid on an open wound. What does he know of my value as a woman? Who is he to say I’m this or that? To them, to the agency, to Alana, I’m just a number. I’m most definitely not a one, or a two, or a three. Maybe I’m a 2.9999—a fraction yes, a complete two but not entirely a three. I guess this is where I hang out, in the middle of being and becoming. I’m in limbo and I’m tired.

  Later, while I’m being photographed at a lavish Hublot timepieces stage set—fully dressed, fully miserable—I focus on my wardrobe. My white chiffon gown is so remarkable and I don’t even want to breathe at the risk of harming it. Not even this immaculate dress is exempt from the hassles and liabilities of life. Nobody is, clearly not me. It appears like the more I seek harmony, the more it eludes me. And here I am, prancing around in a one-month’s rent dress and a million-dollar watch, recalling the semi-war Oliver and I engaged in.

  “That’s a wrap people! Good job, Sophie.”

  All I want to do is go home, lock myself in my room, stare out a window, and order delivery food. For an entire week, just to be sure. I stop at a dressing room a couple doors before mine, as I overhear a cluster of girls laughing loud enough they can make the entire world self-conscious.

  “I just can’t understand what he sees in her. Sophie is such a drag to be around. She’s annoying!”

  “She’s a doormat. And Oliver, well, we all know he is used to manhandling his women.”

  I clutch at my chest. It feels like my heart will burst. I quickly walk away, trying to think of happy things like ice cream, bubble baths, and mozzarella sticks, but I feel myself fading away into a gray abyss. Feeling like the sky is on fire and angry people are tap-dancing on my heart, I storm into my dressing room. Kim is gobbling a plate of food as I stampede inside. It takes her a moment to mull over my existing mood.

  “Cavall. What are you doing?”

  I ignore her as I roughly slide on some pants, throw a hoodie on, and slip on some boots.

  “Are you listening to me? Where do you think you’re going?”

  I go about collecting my belongings and fling my bag over my shoulder.

  “I’m done for the day.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “I can’t take this crazy shit anymore.”

  “Hey, wait a second.” She blocks my way out through the door. “You have a fitting in ten minutes.”

  “Not anymore I don’t.”

  “Excuse me?” she growls back in shock. “I am not some fly on the wall you can ignore. Are you listening to me? Give me that!” she yells, snatching away my bag. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  My teeth are gritted and my grip on my bag is tight. I try regaining control of it, but Kim is ferocious and not letting go.

  “Give it back!” My voice booms harsh and shrill. Back and forth goes the resilient bag until I finally have it in my possession again.

  THIRTEEN

  ALONE IN THE bathroom of my apartment, I immerse myself under cold water from the showerhead. I just stand under the water thinking about this well inside me filled with anger and frustration, anxiety and fear. My heart cannot take the misery anymore.

  As I cinch my bathrobe tighter, a desperate bark rumbles through the walls. The hallway is lit just enough to show where I’m walking. It’s the neighbors’ dog, a feisty Chihuahua. They must be out, as I can tell the dog is yapping from their balcony. It keeps barking and growling, like a full-grown Great Dane, at something I can’t see. I think of going over there and finding out, but a sudden rise of terror crawls up from beneath the floors. There is a strong darkness in the room. My breathing speeds and my heart races faster. Spine-chilling thoughts dash through my mind.

  Hoping I’m delusional, I walk over to look for Jess in her room, or at this point even Eric, but the bed is made and there is no sign of them. There is no sign of anything else, either.

  Bark, bark, bark goes the Chihuahua. I fumble around the living room in the dark of the night to turn the light on. But then I hear soft, almost noiseless tiptoes in the distance.

  “Jess is that you?”

  The kitchen hardwood floors creak and complain with every step, continuing to the living room, and the walls murmur echoes of suspense. The noise suddenly stops without any logical explanation.

  The dog barks again.

  The sound of something breaking shakes me to my core.

  I need to get out of here!

  I bolt out of the building like an Olympian. Out on the street, running on adrenaline, my feet bare, I have no time for thought. I wave a hand out for an approaching taxi. I quickly get in before it has a chance to come close to the curb. A lively Indian man asks me where I’m going. I frantically tell him my destination.

&nb
sp; Several blocks south and some minutes later, I’m outside Oliver’s penthouse complex.

  “Could you wait here, please?” I tell the Indian. “I’ll be right back.”

  My body withers with uneasiness as I go inside the building, spot the man behind the reception desk, and announce, “I need to get to the penthouse!”

  The man blinks in vague shock.

  “Are you here to see Mr. Black?”

  Is there someone else living in the penthouse I don’t know about? I sigh and take a moment to steady myself. “Yes, I need to see Mr. Black. Is that possible?”

  “The elevator is accessed by a private key only and Mr. Black can have me fired.” You and me both, buddy. “Why don’t you try calling him? He can let you up from his personal access.”

  “As you can see by my attire, I’m having a really difficult night. Can’t you just let me up?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do that.”

  “Well, can I call him from here?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t let you use the phone.”

  “Why not?”

  “The phone is not for guest use.”

  “What an idiotic rule.” I slap my hands on the reception countertop in defeat, but then a light bulb turns up over my head and twinkles with an idea. “This is ridiculous. Do you even know who I am?”

  “Not really,” he mumbles. “This is just my first day.”

  “Well, I’m sure Mr. Black will have you fired if he finds out you didn’t let his own sister up.”

  “Sister?” His voice breaks to a higher pitch.

  “Yes. It’s cold out and late and he’s very protective of me. If he wakes up and realizes I’m not in bed, he’ll most likely—”

  He swallows, hard. “Say no more. I understand. I’m terribly sorry, Miss Black.” Him calling me Miss Black makes my head spin. “Wait one moment please.” He scurries back and fades away through a glass door. After a minute, he appears behind me and tells me he’ll lead me to the elevator and access it with his key.

  “Yes! Thank you.” I look at the nametag hinged to his red vest. “Richard. You are a life saver.”

  Inside the elevator, I gnaw the inside of my upper lip in trepidation. When the doors open up, I let myself into Oliver’s obscure palace and for a brief moment, I feel disoriented and foolish. What am I even doing? Will he be angry at my impromptu arrival?

  I tread lightly, afraid to make much noise, afraid that furniture or a wall will barricade my path. From out of a drape of blackness slinks Oliver; he stands a few steps down on the staircase, bare-chested and in his black bottoms. I rush down the stairs and stop just one step above him. I embrace his grungy, unkempt head without having to stand on tiptoes.

  “What is the meaning of this?” He studies my scanty rags with a stare that can cut through a diamond. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m scared,” I whisper. “I’m so scared.”

  “Scared of what?”

  “I was in my apartment. I heard something. I’m sure someone was there.” I put my hand on my forehead, feeling hazy. “I know I shouldn’t be here, Oliver. I know you probably don’t want me here, but you were the first person I thought about. I’m sorry if you are still upset about today but—”

  “You mean to tell me that you heard something in your apartment, that may or may not have been someone, and you ran all the way here in your bathrobe, without wearing any shoes?”

  “I was scared! I took a taxi. Speaking of...,” I pause, “could you...?”

  He makes a face of displeasure. “What is it?”

  “I left my bag in my apartment. The taxi is waiting outside.”

  He exhales, as in relief, reaches the wall-mounted tablet passing as an intercom system, and tells the man at the reception desk, Richard, to see that the taxi driver gets paid.

  “Thank you,” I say as Oliver nears me again.

  “Who let you up here?” he asks urgently. When I say nothing, he becomes more agitated. “Who let you up here, Sophie?”

  “Richard, the man in the lobby.” I swallow a lump in my throat. “Please, don’t have him fired. I told him I was your sister. It’s not his fault. It’s mine.”

  “My sister?” He crosses his arms as I’ve just bestowed amusement to last a millennium. “That is the most outrageous thing I’ve heard you say, and you’ve said some outrageous things.”

  “You’re not going to fire him?”

  “Should I?”

  I am not a doormat. I go over what I overheard those girls saying in my mind again. I am not a doormat. Suddenly, I’m fearless. I eye him with dauntless resolution. “No, of course not. You will not, Oliver. You will go about this in a methodical way like you usually do.”

  “You have my word,” he says and I instantly take calmer breaths. “As for what happened, we’ll take care of it in the morning. You’re safe here.”

  I look at him like he holds the wisdom of one who understands the world. “I’m sorry for waking you up. How did you know I was here?”

  “The elevator system warned it was being accessed. I didn’t know it was you. Come to bed with me.”

  I follow him all the way to the main bathroom. Why, I don’t know. I hang at the door, questioning why he led me here, and watch as Oliver begins filling the bathtub.

  “Get in,” he orders, looking at the tub.

  “What?”

  “Get in.”

  “Oliver, I don’t think now is the time to take a bath.”

  “You’re not getting into bed with me with the soles of your feet covered in filth from the street. Get in.”

  At this point, I go silent and do as he says. I put one foot in the tub, then the other. The water extends somewhat above my ankles. I carefully sit at the edge of the tub, studying him as he drops to his knees, dips his hands into the water, and begins to scrub my feet with a bath sponge.

  “Why do you think we’re so unstable?” I ask.

  “Unstable?”

  “Yes. So unable to keep it together.”

  In a matter of seconds, he’s done washing my feet. He gets up and hands me a towel. “Where is this coming from?”

  I pass the towel roughly across my feet. “One minute, we’re happy campers, the next, we’re at each other’s throats, and before we know it, we’re in bed. Not that I complain about that last part, but why do we have to fight all the time? Are we wrong for each other?” Wrinkles of worry form on my forehead. “Is that it?”

  “Sophie, everyone fights. It’s part of being human. This is how it is.”

  “Good then, because I felt like punching you in the face today.”

  “You did slap me, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right. I did. I’m not sorry.”

  “I deserved it.” His typically animated blue eyes are dull and glum as he looks down on me. “What do you want us to be, Sophie?”

  “Stable, of course.”

  “Even stable becomes unstable at some point. Neutral is the best option, what we should aim for. Neither positive, nor negative. Neither acid, nor alkaline. Neutral.”

  “I’m not looking for a chemistry lesson, Oliver. I’m being serious.”

  “Neither serious, nor becoming.”

  “For the love of God. Stop talking.”

  “Are you at my throat now?” he asks, mischief percolating through his voice all of a sudden. “You know what the following step in the cycle is...”

  I sigh tiredly. “Never mind. It was just a random question.”

  “Sophie, babe, do yourself a favor and relax.”

  I can’t relax. I’m a non-relaxing person. After he says it, we get into bed. He puts his lips on mine and I acknowledge him instantly, as if like a puzzle, they belong. My hands travel across his chest and I spread my fingers delicately over it like I’m blind and reading some kind of braille.

  I meet his eyes. “You remember this is how we met?” I ask as I’m hovering over him.

  He mimes a cunning smirk. “I could never forget.”


  ***

  THE KNOCKING ON the bedroom door disturbs Oliver and I in our sleep, making us come alive. I can hear Thea’s thick-accented voice on the other side of the door. The one situation I hate more than being provoked by a loud noise is waking up to one.

  “Hör auf zu schreien, ich bin gleich da!” He raises his recently awakened gruff voice, and I stare at him like he’s a math problem I can’t make sense of. Upon my puzzled expression, he reaches over and lands a kiss on my cheek. “Good morning.”

  “What was that?” I ask.

  “German.”

  “You speak German?”

  “Ja.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  The cynical way he laughs and the coquettish way he looks at me puts a smile on my face. He pushes to his feet, wanders inside the closet, and settles for a pair of shorts and a shirt.

  “It means yes.” I hear him say, all the way from the closet.

  “Why don’t you just say ‘yes’? It’s easier.”

  “Easy is boring.”

  Thea keeps on knocking at the door like there is no tomorrow. I put my hands to my ears, trying to block out her screaming voice. Oliver rushes toward the door. I bury myself under the covers while he keeps whipping his German all over Thea.

  “I’m sorry about the commotion,” he says, not far from the bed now. “Thea knows better than to wake me up.”

  My mouth compresses into a line. “It’s okay.”

  I braid my hair to the side and observe him as he paces around the bedroom, rummaging through his clothes, looking under the sheets, in every corner.

  “Are you looking for something?”

  “My phone. I need to make a call.”

  “You have impeccable memory but don’t know where your phone is?”

  “That’s different.”

  I shake my head, rolling my eyes. “It’s inside your jacket, left pocket.”

  He stares disbelievingly, reaching for his jacket. “And how would you know that?”