Secret: The Maid And The Sheikh

by Lara Hunter

  The makeup artist arrived beside her, and Kate flung the magazine onto the counter, ashamed at being caught staring at the photographs so intensely. “Hey,” she said. “I’m sweating like a cow. I’m so sorry—”

  “Not to worry,” the makeup artist replied. She was older, in her mid-to-late fifties. She lifted her bony, angular face, and her eyes met Kate’s in the mirror. “In this heat, we’ll all waste away before long. It’s like this director has forgotten we’re all people, too.”

  “I haven’t been viewed as a person in years,” Kate said. Her comment, meant to be flippant, fell flat, revealing the truth behind her words.

  “I probably don’t have to be the one to remind you that you chose this industry. No one is forcing you to be here,” the woman said curtly, lifting her makeup brush. “I’m sure you remind yourself of that every night before you go to sleep; all you older models do.”

  Kate fell silent, feeling the wisps of the makeup brush over her face. She smelled only the dank air around her, filled with cigarette smoke, and longed to return to her tiny apartment, where she could blast the air conditioning.

  The woman ordered her to close her eyes before applying eyeliner with speed and precision. Kate allowed her thoughts to fall away as the black liquid swooped over her lids. Meanwhile, in Manhattan, Panama, or anywhere else in the world, the Prince was doing precisely what he wanted to do, without a single care. He didn’t need a job. He didn’t have to listen to someone call him an “aging model” as he sat in a skimpy bikini, the straps digging into his shoulder blades.

  After nearly thirty minutes more, during which the makeup artist tugged at her hair and piled mousse into it, Kate heard the director’s cries. “Call it off!” he called. “I can’t work like this! Tell the model to go home.”

  Kate’s eyes snapped open and met with the makeup artist’s in the mirror. Her painted lips parted. “Did he just say—”

  “Happens all the time,” the woman said, snapping the lid back on the mousse bottle. She lifted her makeup bag to her shoulder and was gone in an instant, leaving Kate alone in the makeup tent.

  Kate lifted herself from the chair, feeling woozy, dehydrated. She ripped her heels from her feet and stood, bending her knees slightly to stretch. She listened as the photographers and their assistants began to close down the set, shutting cameras and lights back into cases and grumbling about another lost day.

  But all of these people would continue to have jobs regardless of age or status. They were behind the scenes, with the skills and talents to keep them employed. But Kate? She was expendable. She could be traded in for a younger, brighter, less made-up model in an instant. She wrapped a cardigan around her thin shoulders and marched toward her car, her heels dangling in her left hand, feeling tears join the sweat dripping down her cheeks.

  She had no idea what she was going to do with her future, no real clue if she’d still have a job in the coming days. Rent day was approaching quickly, and the world no longer seemed to spin in her favor. Once, she’d been linked to handsome celebrities at Manhattan clubs. Now she was considering ageing moisturizing creams and, perhaps, another career entirely. But Kate was twenty-four, with only a GED to her name, and bills to pay.

  She had nowhere else to turn.

  TWO

  Kate drove home in just her bikini, without shoes, lowering her windows to let the air blow over her face, drying it off. She passed countless restaurants on the way back to her Miami apartment, eyeing the ads out front—the burgers, the fries, the milkshakes—and reminding herself that she had a salad waiting for her at home. Kale would have to do.

  As she drove, she tightened her grip on the steering wheel, anger coursing through her. She’d wasted an entire day at that shoot when she could have been searching for a better gig. The previous week, when she’d gone to visit her agent at her downtown office, she’d been introduced to three models who were headed to a casting for a major new perfume campaign. As Kate had already agreed to take this job, she’d been out of the running by default—and had steamed at the missed opportunity.

  After parking behind her building, Kate slammed her door closed and gazed down at the white sports car for a moment, remembering the day she’d purchased it. “Well,” she’d told her mom over the phone, “I might not be in New York anymore, but that means I have the money for a nice car. And I look pretty stylish in it, I have to say.”

  “Kate, you should save that money for later. You might need it,” her mother had said, almost pleading with her. Kate had pictured her mother, a driver of minivans for countless years, in her suburban Ohio home. And she’d congratulated herself, inwardly, on the purchase. In her mind, it differentiated her from her Ohio past, and even her glittering, New York model life. This was Florida, and she would drive a car in style.

  But now, of course, she regretted it. The car represented a time of wealth and prosperity that she felt had passed her by, almost completely. Not to mention that it looked gaudy next to the other cars in the apartment parking lot: the Chevy Cavaliers and the pickup trucks, all of them clearly utilitarian. At this point in her lackluster career, Kate just needed something that got the job done.

  A wolf-whistle rang out across the parking lot, then, shaking Kate out of her reverie. She frowned at the older man up on his balcony, smoking and gazing at her, his lips still forming the whistle. She spun on her bare feet and stomped toward the steps that led to her third-floor apartment, incredulous that her day had somehow managed to get worse.

  She entered her apartment, a two-bedroom with a fine white couch that stretched out near the window, and immediately flumped onto the carpet, feeling tired and deflated. She took her cellphone out of her purse and dialed her agent, Monica, hoping a complaint or two about the day’s events might yield better projects. By industry standards, Monica had thus far been quite supportive of her, going as far to tell Kate that her post-New-York career was one of the most successful she’d overseen. “No one sells a billboard like you, Katie,” she’d said.

  But Monica’s voice was prissy and high-pitched when she answered. “Hello?” she said. “I’m in the middle of a meeting.”

  “Oh,” Kate murmured, feeling deflated. “I can call back later—”

  “No, no. One moment.” Monica covered the mouthpiece of her cellphone and squabbled with the people in her office for a moment before returning, allowing Kate a few moments of silence. She sat, biting her still-painted lower lip, feeling anxious.

  “Kate, so sorry about that. How was the shoot today?”

  “That’s why I wanted to call you,” Kate said. “I wanted to tell you that I can’t work with that director any longer. He’s awful. He treats all of us like animals, and after hours of waiting around he just called off the shoot. I wasted an entire afternoon on nothing. And anyway, I want to do more commercial stuff, I think. I know there’s quite a market for that down here—”

  “Kate, let me interrupt you there,” Monica said. “Now, I’ve been kind to you over the past few years, since you moved here. I haven’t used the ageist terminology you probably hear all over your sets, day in, day out.”

  “And I appreciate that—”

  “No. Listen, Kate,” Monica said, her voice annoyed. “I need you to understand. I don’t have time to listen to you telling me that you’re better than these little jobs. See, there are new girls starting out all the time. The girls who are moving here from New York and LA are younger than you are, even if they’re too old there. You understand?”

  Kate didn’t speak. She swallowed, feeling a mild sense of panic.

  “What I’m saying is this, Katie: you need to start lowering your expectations and be grateful for the jobs you’re offered, no matter what they are. I had a twenty-seven-year-old model hold a bucket of fish in a commercial last week, and she thanked me a dozen times for getting her that job. That’s the kind of thanks I should start receiving from you, Kate.”

  “I understand,” Kate whispered, her stomach clenching.
“I really do.”

  “Good.”

  “So, does that mean you have any other jobs in the pipeline for me?” she asked, after a pause.

  “I do, in fact,” Monica said, sounding haughty. “And I can tell you already that you’re probably not going to like it.”

  Kate stared out the window for a moment. The sunlight draped over her still-naked belly, and she suddenly longed to take off the extraordinarily tight bikini and take a long, hot shower. Perhaps that would make her forget.

  “Just tell me what it is, won’t you?” Kate said.

  “All right,” Monica said. “I need a model to attend a private party overseas.”

  Kate scoffed. “What, just to make old, rich guys feel like they’re still wanted?”

  “Not quite,” Monica said, suddenly secretive.

  “Then what?” Kate asked, incredulous. She sensed that Monica was growing impatient with her. She needed to backtrack, to sound more open to the idea. Despite not being keen on the offer, she needed the money. She could count on one hand the days until her next rent check was due.

  “If you accept, you’ll be attending a private party for a rather exclusive client. A client who would rather not be named.”

  “Is he some kind of creep?” Kate asked. “Can he not get his own friends?”

  “You know the scene, Kate,” Monica said. “As you said, men want pretty women around them to up their social status. I’m sure your life in Manhattan was like that before you came here.”

  Kate blinked around her semi-empty apartment. She hadn’t bothered to fill it with many appliances or furniture, thinking it would be a temporary fix until she could return to Manhattan. She remembered the women in the magazine, glued to Prince Francesco’s arms. Had they been paid to do that?

  “But I did Ralph Lauren,” she said, her voice weak.

  “I know you did, sweetheart,” Monica said, her tone still hard. “But unfortunately, that doesn’t mean you can avoid things like this at your age. But don’t lose hope just yet. You’re still hot in person. And all this client wants you to do is sign an NDA, don a bikini, and stand around and look pretty for a few hours, all for a fat paycheck. Doesn’t that sound fine? A few hours of torture and then payment. That’s essentially what all jobs are, after all.”

  Kate hesitated, recognizing that she was up against a wall, just running into it over and over again—each time rent was due, at least. “I suppose I have to tell you that I’ll think about it?” she said, feeling the weight of the offer.

  “Of course,” Monica said. “Take a day or two. Remember how many zeros this man will put on your paycheck just to be half naked for a few hours—”

  “Not just half naked,” Kate said. “Almost fully naked. And it’s not even art—”

  “Still, darling, we can’t pretend that your modeling career has been nothing but Ralph Lauren. We all end up in the gutter sometimes. You know that by now.”

  Kate drummed her fingers across the rug on the ground, remembering that it had cost nearly six hundred dollars and she’d bought it on a whim. She swallowed. “You said this was overseas? I haven’t been overseas in years, not since a shoot in Paris a few months before I came to Miami.”

  “Right! Overseas. If you like to travel, this is an enviable opportunity to see Panama. And think about it, darling. Only one famous celebrity in the world lives in Panama. Only one famous celebrity willing to shell out thousands of dollars to an aging model just for her to stand around looking pretty.”

  Kate allowed this description to sink in and didn’t comment right away. She tilted her head, flashes of Prince Francesco coming into her brain. “One famous celebrity? In Panama?”

  “Oh, yes,” Monica said, her voice suddenly hushed. “Only one celebrity, with rather infamous hosting abilities. One celebrity who recently trashed an entire hotel in Manhattan. One celebrity who cannot return to Monaco for reasons that can only be related to his debauchery.”

  “Prince Francesco?” Kate said, realizing she could party alongside the very man she’d just been reading about.

  “The very one,” Monica said. “The man who seems to bleed the world dry and then beg for more. A fascinating creature, if completely vile. And you could be one of the women on his arm. Can you imagine it?”

  Kate shook her head, the movement almost imperceptible. “Doesn’t he sometimes set fire to places?”

  “Just a couch, once,” Monica said, blowing it off. “But it wasn’t a big deal. These princes, these billionaires—they have endless money, and they like to play with the world like it’s their toy.”

  “And now I’m like his Barbie doll?” Kate asked.

  “No, darling. You’re pretty, sure, but you’re not one of the blonde bimbos he normally goes after. And all the better for you, truly. You’re home free. Get in, get out, collect the check. You won’t be forced into conversation with him. You probably won’t be looked at twice.”

  Kate hummed, still unsure but feeling rather tempted, especially given that she wouldn’t be one of the main models at the party. She’d be a part of the set, a plant people would walk past without recognition. At least, she hoped so.

  “Okay. Let me think about it, will you?”

  “Sure, darling,” Monica said. “If you’ll let me get off the phone. I’ve given you far too much of my time already.”

  Suddenly, the call clicked off, leaving Kate in silence.

  She stared down at her phone, her bare legs crossed beneath her, feeling confused. How in the world could she validate this job to herself—to stand around mostly naked just to be gawked at? And how in the world could she turn it down when she’d been filled with such passionate jealousy for the Prince’s lifestyle only hours before?

  She swept to her feet and stripped the bikini from her body. She scrubbed her face of makeup and then sank into a bubble bath, closing her eyes and inhaling the perfume. She tried to relax, to meditate. But in the back of her mind, she felt the aching truth: she was pushing back against the calendar. She was running out of time.

  And perhaps this party in Panama would be her last hurrah before it all ended, before reality punched her flat in the face and she was done.

  THREE

  Kate stayed in the bubble bath for over an hour, until deep wrinkles began to form on her toes and fingers. It was past six in the evening, and her stomach was growling beneath the water. She hadn’t eaten anything but that pretzel she’d snuck from the snack table, and she was woozy, ready to slip beneath the sheets of her bed and pass out until morning.

  She wrapped a towel around her thin frame and crept toward the mirror, where her bare face reflected back at her. She shivered and lifted her phone, seeing a message from her best friend in Miami, Ella.

  “Dinner tonight? I’m guessing you haven’t eaten in ages, bikini girl.”

  Immediately, Ella’s message put a smile on Kate’s face. She was grateful for her journalist friend, whom she’d met through Monica at a networking event for Miami models and actors. Ella had been there to interview Monica about her tactics in the Miami modeling field, but she had ultimately ended the night at Kate’s side, inhaling mojitos and giggling.

  Kate’s friendship with Ella was unusual, given that Kate often had a difficult time making friends. Her friendship pool had shrunk in the last few years, especially since she’d begun her career in the Miami modeling world. She’d retreated into herself, in many ways, understanding that she needed to do some soul-searching in the coming years to figure out what her next career move should be. But Ella was her backbone, her strength.

  She typed a message back to Ella with spongy fingers. “YES. The new Mexican place on Manchester?”

  “You read my mind,” Ella’s return message said. “See you there at eight.”

  Kate bounced on her toes, feeling light, happy. She tapped toward her closet, watching as the humid afternoon gave way to evening out her window. She slid a figure-hugging white dress over her shoulders and eyed herself in the mirr
or, noting that her thighs were slimmer than they’d been a few months before. She’d pushed herself through countless boot camp classes at her gym since then, sweating endlessly in hopes to achieve this exact result. And still, the view gave her only fleeting pleasure. She knew, in the back of her mind, that any chocolate cake, or pie, or—yes—piece of cheese would have probably given her more long-lasting pleasure.

  With another hour to go before she needed to leave, Kate opened her laptop and typed “Prince Francesco Monaco” into the search bar. In a moment, his face appeared, smiling, his eyes drunk. He was wearing an immaculate tuxedo and had a girl latched to his arm. As Kate peered at the photo, she realized it had been taken at an after-Oscars party. A famous actor was standing behind the Prince, laughing, his mouth open outrageously wide, his new wife looking on. Behind that actor, an actress who’d won an Academy Award was eating cake.