“Calvin,” Lucia grinned, breezing past me. I choked on my coffee. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun and she was wearing a short dress she must have slept in. She was barefoot, drinking lemon-water and holding her phone in her hand.
“Uh…good morning, I guess?” I finally managed, aware of the coffee spilling down my shirt.
She didn’t respond, lowering herself gracefully into a makeup chair. Josie buzzed around her, setting up bags and brushes and a rainbow palette of makeup.
She chatted easily with the myriad of folks swarming around her: Ray, camera guys, a few people with sketchpads and pencils. I watched, mouth slightly open, as an army of superbly trendy men and women began to drag in rack after rack of clothing, shoes, scarves, hats.
Taylor strolled in next with an easy confidence, flashing me a winning smile. “Calvin, what’s up, man?” he said, shaking my hand and then draping his body over a black makeup chair.
I was taking it all in, my quiet Big Sur paradise suddenly filled with the busy hum of a Hollywood film set.
I ached, slightly, to imagine my grandfather here. He would have made everyone laugh, regaling them with stories of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton stumbling through the bookstore at midnight on a Tuesday in the late sixties, drunkenly mistaking The Mad Ones for their cabin They had stayed the night, chatting with my grandparents until the sun rose. A card was pinned up near the cash register—a thank you note, signed by them both.
But in so many ways this photo shoot represented what my grandfather hated the most, the reasons he lived in Big Sur with its rugged individualism: capitalism. Commercialism. Magazines that told you how to eat and what to look like and how thin you should be. Beauty ideals that made women hate the way they looked. The obsession to need things, buy things, own things, and the endless, incessant compulsion to compete with one another.
I swallowed, took another sip of coffee, and caught Lucia staring at me: one long assessment—my messy hair, my three-day stubble. The plaid shirt I had probably buttoned incorrectly.
“You’re not hiding a latte behind that Rilke, are you?” she finally asked.
I tilted my head, surprised again. Was she flirting with me? Just being friendly? Also, and maybe this was stereotyping, but I didn’t peg her for a reader of early-twentieth-century German poets.
So I begrudgingly left the comfort of the desk and wandered over to where the action was slowly developing. Ray was moving everything everywhere, cocking his head, examining light. I stepped around him, slid past tangled computer cords, and ended up in front of Lucia. She was perched in the makeup chair, one long leg crossed over the other.
“Um…what?” I asked, affecting a disinterested air.
Lucia Bell didn’t need one more man to slobber all over her, which is what I would have done if I hadn’t steeled myself for having to look at her every day for the next five days.
Without makeup, she looked younger, her eyes wider. Her dress hitched up her thighs, just stopping before the curve of her ass. She had, literally, just woken up, and my mind scrambled to fight off an image of rolling over in bed to find her next to me, my hand sliding beneath that dress, the other hand threading through that thick golden hair.
“Good morning,” she said, hand clutching her phone again.
“You know we still don’t have internet,” I said, pointing at the screen.
She scrunched her nose, sighing. “Force of habit,” she said. “It’s no big deal.”
I narrowed my eyes, arching an eyebrow.
Lucia’s smile tugged at those full lips. “What? You think I have an addiction to the internet or something?”
I smiled. “Nope. I mean, no worse than me when I first moved here. Want me to make up some news stories? Act out some Instagram drama for your viewing pleasure? Maybe a cat video?”
She was smiling broadly now. I was killing it with the jokes.
“What I want is a latte,” she said simply, snapping her phone down. I opened my mouth, closed it.
“Oh, right, we’re back to that again.” I sighed, looking around. “Don’t you have a craft services person to do that for you?”
“They haven’t arrived yet,” Josie said, glancing at me apologetically. “They’re stuck in some massive traffic on Highway 1. And Miss Lucia here is even more addicted to caffeine than she is to the internet.”
She released Lucia’s hair from the bun on top of her head, and as her hair tumbled to her shoulders I caught the scent of her shampoo again—something beachy, like coconut.
“Ahhhh,” I said, hand rubbing my jaw. Lucia was still looking at me, and I remembered our bizarre conversation last night—her love of Mary Oliver. The look on her face when she was surrounded by books—so different from what I expected. So interesting.
But now she looked disaffected and bored, a gorgeous model used to being waited on hand and foot.
“Ray, what’s the first look again?” Josie called back, rummaging through her makeup. A hair stylist walked up, arms filled with bundles of fresh flowers.
“We’re going to weave these through your braids,” she told Lucia, who nodded. The hair stylist began pulling at Lucia’s tresses, winding them around her finger.
“Beautiful,” Josie said. “And it looks like first look is that white dress thing.”
Another woman was now at Lucia’s feet, measuring the size against about 50 different types of shoes—all with stacked wedge heels. Another woman was pulling at Lucia’s fingernails, examining the cuticles and rattling off color ideas to her harried assistant, taking notes in a giant notebook.
Lucia arched an eyebrow. “It’s the Lucia Buffet. Everyone gets a piece.”
I laughed, which seemed to make her happy. “Let me call a few folks in town, see what we can’t do. What do you eat for breakfast?”
“10 small watermelon seeds. 5 almonds on the side.”
I paused, glancing back. Her face was as serious as a heart attack.
“Are you fucking with me?”
She unleashed a smile that would have killed a lesser man.
“Totally. I eat like a normal person, so, like, eggs and bacon? Bagels?”
“Got it,” I said, grinning. “I’ll see what I can do.”
A quick phone call and I activated what was affectionately known as the Big Sur Channel, the network of Big Sur locals who would step up and help any person in need, even a bunch of high maintenance L.A. models. Twenty minutes later and the bakery was delivering lattes and bagels and bacon galore.
I sat back behind the register and watched Lucia munch happily on a piece of bacon, laughing with Josie. Our interaction had used up every element of “cool” that I had, which meant I’d need to go back to ignoring her for the rest of the day and praying she didn’t talk to me—just like every interaction with a woman I’d had since the time I hit puberty.
◊
LUCIA
I woke to the sunrise—something I hadn’t done in years. Not unless it was stumbling home from some club opening, half-drunk in high heels, waving away paparazzi waiting for me at my doorstep.
No. This was different. As soon as my eyes opened, I sat up, yanked on a sweatshirt and pulled open the front door.
“Paradise,” I breathed, the fog like a blanket over the coast. The air wet on my bare legs—that scent of rain, the threat of thunder. I wanted tea and a good book. A fireplace and flannel. My fingers drummed against the doorway and I wondered where my notebook was.
And then, just as quickly, I grabbed my phone and went to open one of seven social media apps I used regularly.
No Service.
I contemplated chucking the phone right into the ocean.
I had probably lost another hundred followers—followers who were used to me posting sometimes hourly, a glimpse into Lucia Bell’s Glamorous Life. And this—this—was the kind of sunrise I needed to post a picture of.
Now, not an hour later, I was perched on a stool with ten different women touching t
en different parts of my body, intent on making me beautiful.
“Bacon me,” I said to Josie, who cheekily fed me a piece. I was getting a simultaneous pedicure and manicure, and the hair stylist, Joanna, was scrunching a thick gel into my hair.
“Latte me,” I said, and Josie held the steaming cup up to my lips.
I must have looked like a stylish invalid, and yet Josie had been my makeup artist (and best friend) for a decade and we’d done this song-and-dance a million times. As a model, the only way you could ensure you got to eat on set was to have your makeup artist feed you. That, and I also usually stuffed my face when they allowed me a rare five minutes to use the restroom.
“Calvin really came through, eh?” Josie said, tilting my head just slightly, her fingertips cool against my cheekbones.
“That he did,” I said, my gaze sliding towards the big desk he was currently hiding behind.
He was reading that Rilke like it held the secrets of the universe, barely glancing my way since our little interaction half an hour ago. I’d caught his eyes snag ever-so-briefly on my bare thighs before composing himself.
His self-control was intriguing—I’d been fawned over by rock stars and celebrities and European diplomats and even other models—younger women who want to worship at my feet.
But Calvin was content to ignore me.
Although it was nice to have someone on set who would finally laugh at my jokes (besides Josie).
“What are you thinking about?” she asked me as I let my eyes flutter closed.
This was my favorite part of modeling—closing your eyes and letting a group of people take total control of your body, their fingertips like tiny hummingbirds landing on your skin, over and over. Hands in my hair, on my cheekbones, on my ankles and wrists.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. “I was actually thinking about Cal. He’s…interesting.”
She made a sound of assent. “And this book store…I swear I got chills when we came in here. I wonder why all of those writers don’t come anymore, you know?”
“Mmmm,” I said, thinking about my own reaction. Even now, with Ray manhandling every piece of furniture in this gorgeous room, I felt the energy of all the books, the words and worlds waiting to be read. I think Cal had picked up on it, that and my ridiculous overreaction to his Mary Oliver story.
“Lucia,” I heard in my ear. Ray.
“Yeah?” I said.
“I’m estimating nine hours, minimum, today in this location. We’ll work through the first 35 outfits with you and Taylor.”
“Perfect,” I said, waiting for him to walk away and then heaving a giant sigh. Suddenly I was exhausted, and the thought of holding poses for nine hours through 35 outfit changes was the last thing I wanted to do.
Josie laughed a little. “See? This is kind of what I was talking about yesterday,” she said lightly. She knew I was unlikely to take it seriously, at least not while on set.
“I know,” I said. “I don’t think I’m unhappy, though,” I said, hoping Joanna and her assistant were ignoring me. “It’s just not as…I don’t know, thrilling as it used to be. And I’m not sure…” I trailed off, surprised at how quickly I was about to spill a dark thought that had invaded my mind a year ago and wouldn’t let go, spreading like a nasty weed.
“What?” she prompted?
What the fuck else am I supposed to do? I was 26, which was incredibly young in Normal Years but practically ancient in Model Years. I was like a Great Aunt to the new, younger faces, my time in the spotlight nearing the end. Those Instagram followers would find the next It Girl and want a piece of her glamorous life, not mine.
Which is why I needed the Dazzle contract.
“Estoy feliz,” I finally said, wincing as Joanna yanked my scalp. “Lo prometon.”
“I believe you,” she replied. “Estoy preocupada porque te amo.”
“Yo también te amo.”
I opened my eyes to find Josie grinning kindly at me, holding a mascara wand in her hand. “Look up, chica.”
I had been 15 years old when I landed my first modeling gig, and spent the majority of that first day longing to be with other 9th graders at my high school. It was weird, to be both the center of attention, but also surrounded by adults so much older than you.
Josie was 21 then and newly hired, an assistant makeup artist, and could see right away how brave I was trying to be. How cool I wanted to seem in front of the adults, even as I stood, half-naked and shivering, in the cold studio lights.
“Hablas español?” she’d whispered, holding a tube of scarlet lipstick like a weapon. Josie was fucking cool—nose pierced, lip pierced, a few tattoos already decorating her arms. Josie was born in Mexico but raised in East L.A., the youngest of five (and the only girl).
“No,” I’d said, miserable.
“Ah, no te preocupes, carina. Don’t worry, darling. I’ll teach you. It’ll take your mind off things.” And she had. My memories of my first year of modeling were colored with memories of conjugating Spanish verbs with Josie by my side. It got me out of my head, until at 16, I could walk onto a modeling set and feel like I owned the world.
“I’m really fucking happy about Paris,” I said as Josie coated my lashes with thick mascara, ignoring the tendril of doubt. “And I’ll be even happier when you come visit me.”
“Good,” Josie said, coating my lashes with thick mascara. “That’s the Lucia I know. I like seeing you happy.”
“I like seeing you happy,” I said, flinching at a memory of holding a prone Josie, picture perfect in a crisp white wedding dress, as she sobbed for hours. Even though it’d been two years, and even though she’d sworn, up and down, that she’d moved on—from Clarke, from the wedding, from the heartbreak.
“You don’t have to worry about that, mija,” she said, examining her handiwork. Josie was a goddamn cosmetics genius. “I saw you this morning, watching the sunrise. When was the last time you did that?”
I shrugged. “Never? Maybe…high school?” I held my hands together to stop them from trembling. I’d had a writing teacher once who told us to wake up with the sunrise every morning for seven days straight…to see if it affected our poetry.
It had.
“Hmmm,” she said with fake nonchalance. “That’s an interesting development.”
“Probably just jet-lag,” I said, but she arched an eyebrow at me and I capitulated. “Okay, I wanted to watch the sunrise. Take my L.A. Cool Kids card from me.”
She laughed, holding up eyeliner pencils like Edward Scissorhands, one stuffed between each finger. Josie was a trendy night owl like me, a frequenter of nightclubs and bars that only opened at four in the morning. We’d sworn to dance the night away at the darkened, scarlet-toned nightclubs of the L.A. underground, stopping only to have our picture taken by paparazzi.
Sunrises, we’d always said, were for suckers.
“It’ll probably never happen again,” I said, holding three fingers up, like a Girl Scout. But the look she gave me suggested otherwise.
“You know what would be fucking rad? Snapchat,” Taylor said, pulling up a stool and sitting next to me.
“I’d have to agree,” I said, my hand feeling naked without a phone in it.
Josie layered magenta gloss onto my lips.
“You ready, Tay?” I asked, eyeing his bored look. Earlier, Ray had been giving him some intense instructions and he’d looked stressed as fuck.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he said, stretching his arms overhead, exposing his perfectly sculpted six-pack. Everyone on the set seemed to stop, sneaking a glance at the hard ridges of his stomach. Sighing collectively.
But I wasn’t impressed. After a decade of sculpted abs everywhere I looked, I was losing interest. Instead, my eyes landed on Calvin, adjusting his glasses and turning the page in his book. Quietly reading. Totally absorbed.
◊
Hour six of this shoot and my neck was killing me. I was wearing my 26th boho outfit of the day—a black crop top,
with high-waisted, cut-off jean shorts. A wispy, see-through cover-up on my shoulders, my fingers dripping with turquoise rings. Joanne had given me lioness hair, with tons of tiny braids, daisies woven through to the ends.
And from the moment we started, for reasons I still wasn’t sure of, Taylor and I were just off.
Taylor was sitting down on one of Calvin’s chairs; the set designer had stylized it with flowers and lace. It should have been a simple first shot—Taylor seated, legs spread, looking directly into the camera. As usual, I was some type of human adornment—draping over his arm, straddling his leg, standing behind him. I re-arranged my face to appear both interested, and yet disinterested. Aroused, and yet irritated.
And yet…we couldn’t pull it off. In the first minute, Taylor nearly elbowed me in the face.
“Hey…watch it,” I hissed, pushing his arm back into place.
“Sorry, I just…gah, I’m sorry,” he whispered back, coughing awkwardly. We sounded like two high schoolers fumbling towards losing our virginity.
We changed poses. We changed outfits. Ray pulled Taylor off to the side and had a special “chat” with him—the kind every model has been given a million times: what’s going on with you? Why isn’t your face working?
Meanwhile, I was killing it and knew it—these were the times when being an Older Model helped—years of experience and endurance. But two hours in, Taylor was yawning again.
“Chin up, Tay,” I murmured, gripping his hair with one hand, my other drifting into his jeans (we’d moved onto the aggressively sexual poses). “We’ve got, like, at least seven more hours of this.”
“Whaaaaaa,” he’d said, creatively, and I’d fought the world’s biggest eye roll. I might have been currently less than enamored with modeling, but it was still a job that I took seriously. Sometimes It Guys like Taylor strolled onto a set, expecting just a bunch of standing around looking pretty.
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