by R.S. Grey
“Where the hell is Gillian Grace?” a man spat, spinning in a circle and flailing his arms wildly. “Do these models think contracts are a joke?!”
He was short and completely bald with circular framed glasses perched on his nose. He was dressed in all black, like me, except his clothing probably cost more than all of my organs combined would go for on the black market.
He clapped his hands and started yelling again.
“So help me god, if she doesn’t arrive in three seconds, I will murder her entire family.”
I reached for my broom and took a step back, lest he catch sight of me and direct his anger at me.
Wrong move.
He whipped around and narrowed his eyes on me. I froze as if I were trying to fend off a bear. Don’t let him smell your fear! He scanned over me once, all the way up and all the way down, and then he took a step closer.
“You,” he yelled, pointing in my direction.
Every single person in the area paused and turned toward me. I whipped around to see if there was someone behind me; there wasn’t, only a black concrete wall and craft food services. (Which I’d been sneaking food from for the last ten days. What? It’s not like the models ever touched it.)
“Don’t play dumb. I’m talking to you,” he said, stepping another foot closer.
I gripped my broom tighter and smiled tentatively.
“Uh, yes?”
“Who are you?”
His question felt philosophical, like I was supposed to respond with a treatise on existentialism. Instead, I just replied with my name.
“Josephine.”
He waved his hand with impatience. Clearly my name wasn’t what he was looking for.
“What are your measurements?”
I glanced from him to all the other people watching me and waiting for my reply. I was supposed to say my size in front of a room full of models? I should not have eaten that Chipotle burrito last night.
“Uhh—it depends on what I’m wearing. Usually I can pull off a smaller size in pants—”
His patience wore out somewhere between the “u” and the first “h” in “uhh”.
“You’re literally boring me to death. Enough. I need you to model. Take off that heinous uniform and see Nikki for sizing. Tell her you’re filling in for Gillian Grace.”
I laughed. Cracked up, in fact. Wow, this was a really bad reality show. He wanted me to model in a Marc Jacobs fashion show during the finale of New York Fashion Week? I didn’t even know where to begin with my protests, so instead I stood mute, with deer-in-the-headlight eyes.
He wasn’t pleased by my reaction. “I know. Believe me, I wish this were a joke. Now stop sweeping and go get changed. I don’t have time for this.”
With that, he turned and walked away. His departure acted like an on/off switch for the insanity in the room. The second he walked away, the room returned to chaos and I determined that my life had taken a sharp turn into Crazyville.
I was still clutching my broom when a short Latina woman with purple cropped hair and dark lined eyes stepped up in front of me and pursed her lips.
“I’m Nikki,” she said, giving me a onceover, much like the other guy had just done.
“Josephine,” I said, pressing my hand to my chest.
“Are you like a custodian or something? What’s with the hat?”
I reached up to feel the brim. I knew the bright white NYFW letters illuminated my lower-middle class status.
“Yeah. Uh, I work here and I don’t think I fully understand what’s going on.”
She popped her hip out with a touch of attitude. “Martín is down a model, so he’s enlisted your help. We’ll get you fitted and push you through hair and makeup as quickly as possible.”
“No. No. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“So you’re turning down $3,000 and the chance to model in New York Fashion Week? What, do you love your current gig that much?”
Hold the phone.
No one said anything about three grand! I’d do a whole hell of a lot for three grand and most of it was illegal in Texas and New York. Walking in a fashion show for money hadn’t even seemed like an option.
“You’ll receive a check before you leave tonight. They hand them out before the after party. I’m sure someone will fill you in on everything, but there’s no time for me to explain it all right now.”
Nothing she was saying made sense to me and worst of all, I had no time to argue. In a straight up movie montage scene, ten things happened around me at once: someone pulled the broom from my hand, another person ripped the shirt off my head, a measuring tape appeared around my boobs, and two women crouched down in front of my legs. HEYO.
“Nice tits,” one assistant said as she finished measuring my chest.
“Uhh, thanks,” I replied as she ran in the opposite direction, having acquired the measurement she needed.
“Is this your natural color?” a hairstylist asked as she ripped the hat and ponytail from my head.
“Yes,” I said, squinting from the pain. Well, it was my natural color before you ripped all of it out
She ran her fingers through the tangles, yanking as she went.
“It’s beautiful. Yes, we’ll leave the color. No time to change it. I’ll freshen up the cut and style it while they do your makeup. Let’s go.”
She wrapped her hand around my bicep and began to pull me after her.
“Hold on!” the woman between my legs protested. “I’m getting her inseam.”
Her hand was two millimeters from my vagina and I’d never seen her in my life.
“What exactly will I be wearing?” I asked the gaggle of people swarming me.
No one appeared to hear me.
In ten seconds flat, I’d gone from Josephine to Cinderella. Except, while Cinderella had evil stepsisters and one fairy godmother, I had Martin and fifteen bitchy birds flitting around me.
There was no time to reflect or consider the sharp turn of events my life had taken. While one woman did my makeup, another woman attacked my haggard nails. I had a woman sizing my feet as another sewed me into a dark blue couture dress.
“I don’t actually know how to walk down the runway,” I admitted after being sewn into the dress. I’ll be honest, a part of me purposely waited to tell them until after they’d sewn me in so that they’d feel pity and let me keep it.
“Honey, how old are you?” the makeup artist asked.
“Twenty-four.”
“So you’ve been walkin’ for at least twenty-three years. Keep your head up, take confident steps, and look where you’re going. Don’t look down, you’ll only trip yourself.”
“But my gown is really short.”
She met my eye in the mirror and shook her head. “They just tailored that dress to your body specifically. It’s the exact length it should be for you to walk just fine. Now stop complaining.”
Alrighty then. That was that. I stayed quiet, trying to conceal my nerves as they finished up working on my face. When I opened my eyes after they’d finished with my eye makeup, Nikki stood behind me in the mirror. I met her eyes and she smiled, seemingly impressed with how I looked.
“It’s time to line up, let’s go.”
I tried to talk some reason into her one more time.
“Are you sure there’s not an actual model they could get for this? I am honestly the least qualified person in this place.”
She laughed. “Yeah, well, when you’re gorgeous, people forgive you. They sure as shit ain’t puttin’ my ratchet-ass cankles out there.”
She yanked me to the side and I almost tripped in my three-inch heels.
“This is your spot.”
I looked to where she was pointing and my heart leapt in my chest. I was positioned among half a dozen super models I stalked on Instagram at least once a day. Charlie Whitlock stood in front of Gigi Hadid. Cara and Giselle were taking a quick selfie. Me? I looked back toward Nikki to find that I was now utterly alone; I
wanted to throw up everywhere.
“Places, everyone! The show is about to begin!” Martín yelled from the front of the line. “Walk slow. DO NOT SMILE. Own that runway and then line up quickly for the finale. There is no time for delays.”
He glanced down at his clipboard and I took a final breath as deep bass started bumping through the speaker system. I loved the song.
“Oh!” Martín yelled, drawing our attention once again. “Most of all, remember that you’re all fucking supermodels.”
I felt the vomit rising in my throat.
There’s no way this could end well.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Julian
I skimmed my hand over the breast pocket of my suit, right where my phone lay hidden away in a pocket. I knew as soon as I pulled it out, the show would begin. Even still, I itched to pull it out and check in on Josephine. All day I’d tried to come up with some sort of casual way to reach out to her: How is your Saturday going? Hey, that song you like just came on the radio. What’s up with the unrest in the Middle East?
Thanks to my better judgment, I’d yet to send any of the texts I’d drafted throughout the day. She’d see right through my veiled attempt to pull her back to me. I had to give her space and hope that by Monday, she’d be ready for things to go back to how they’d been before. (That is, us pretending to be friends while subtly eye-fucking the shit out of each other.)
My sister and I were front row center at the Marc Jacobs fashion show. I was mostly out of my element, but I was wearing a new navy suit and Lorena assured me that I fit in just fine. She’d conveniently left out the fact that I’d be one of only a handful of men in attendance. There were beautiful women surrounding me, celebrities I recognized from the latest blockbuster hits, pop stars, and other faces I vaguely recognized from TV, but all I cared about was the phone in my suit pocket and its lack of text notifications.
“You look really handsome,” my sister said from the chair beside me, nudging me with her shoulder.
I peered over and smiled. I may have preferred to be watching a basketball game, but at least I was in good company. My sister looked like her old self for the first time in months. She’d spent the entire afternoon getting ready with people in my hotel. I’d stayed down in the hotel bar, far away from the smell of hairspray and nail polish. They’d delivered a dozen dresses up to my room and she’d picked a beautiful, long green gown that was as unique as she was.
“You look beautiful,” I said, wrapping my arm around the back of her chair and kissing her forehead. Maybe I’d made a mistake staying so far away in Boston. Lorena needed family support, and while my mother appeared to be coming around slowly, there was no replacement for a big brother.
“Thanks,” she smiled. “Are you going to come with me to the after party?”
I frowned, thinking of all the alcohol and other substances that would surely be supplied in abundance at an event like that. “Do you think that’s a good idea on your first night?”
She pressed her hand to my arm as reassurance. “I won’t go for long. I just want to say hello to the designers and then I’ll get a cab back to my apartment. It just feels like I’ve been away from the fashion world for a while and I don’t want people to forget about me.”
I nodded. I could see why she wouldn’t want to miss it. It’d be a good networking event for her, especially in a world that thrived on relevance, but it definitely wasn’t my idea of a fun Saturday night. I could imagine someone asking me about my favorite look from the show and me having to scramble for the name of some fancy item of clothing. What exactly is a blouse? A fancy shirt?
“We can go for a bit,” I relented.
She beamed and then her gaze darted to the front of the theater.
“The show is starting soon!” she said, clapping her hands with excitement.
I sat back in my chair and scanned the room. The first few rows were dominated by young women, some of them probably bloggers like Josephine. They were dressed to the nines, some in eccentric outfits that I couldn’t quite wrap my head around.
The woman on my right was an older woman with sunglasses on. Lorena had whispered about her being the editor of some big magazine. Everyone seemed to be impressed by her—a few young women had even asked for her photo—but all I cared about was the amount of perfume she’d sprayed on. I was starting to get a headache from the overwhelming scent of roses.
There was a convoy of photographers near the end of the runway, shouting over one another to be heard. At least a dozen of them had lenses the size of my head, all lining up to get a good shot of the runway.
I was still watching them when the house lights dimmed around us and loud music started pumping through the speakers. There was no real introduction before the first model started down the runway with an angry expression on her face. She looked skeletal in a white gauzy dress. Maybe her face was so scrunched up because her dress was so tight. Seriously though, soaking wet she couldn’t have been more than ten pounds.
The photographers went crazy, snapping away as she approached the end of the runway. The next few models that strolled out after her were just as lithe with sharp cheekbones and confident walks. Some of the outfits were sexy as hell, but most of them I didn’t understand. Some of them wore hoods not attached to anything. What was the point of that? Everyone around me was oohing and awing, including Lorena, but I just adjusted my suit jacket and pretended to be interested. Lorena was going to owe me after this one.
And then Josephine walked out from backstage.
Wait.
My mouth dropped.
What the hell?
Josephine.
Why was Josephine walking in the fashion show?
I blinked and then squinted to confirm that she wasn’t some kind of mirage. She looked different, more made up than usual, with a polished edge to her usual girl-next-door beauty. She was in a midnight blue strapless dress that cut off way too short. She had on heels that strapped up around her ankles and made her long tan legs go on for miles.
Maybe to everyone else, she looked like a standard model, but I could see the nerves lurking beneath the surface. She clenched and unclenched her fists as she walked and every few steps, she glanced down at the runway as if to ensure it wasn’t going to slip out from beneath her.
As she passed in front of me, I resisted the urge to reach out and touch her, to pull her close and ask her why she was modeling in a fashion show. She’d never once mentioned the fact that she was a model.
Instead, I sat in shock, following her walk down the runway in utter awe. My heart was beating in step with the up-tempo bass. She walked to the end of the runway, propped her hand on her hip, turned toward the cameras, and then strutted back just as quickly as she’d come. She’d been on stage for less than a minute, but I could have sworn time had stopped all together.
Lorena leaned in and whispered, “That model looks just like your assistant!”
I nodded and followed Josephine’s figure as she walked off the stage.
“It was.”
Suddenly it looked like I had a very good reason to accompany Lorena to the after party.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Josephine
I’d walked in my first—and most likely last—New York Fashion Week show and I could hardly wrap my head around the insanity of it. I’d been sewn into a dress, had my makeup done and my hair professionally styled, and then they’d shoved me out from backstage like a mama bird pushing her baby bird out of the nest…and I’d SOARED.
I didn’t trip once, I posed at the end of the runway, and a ton of photographers from giant magazines had snapped my photo as if they were actually going to do something with it. (I’ll probably share the next US Weekly cover with Kate Middleton and her new baby.)
A few of the kinder models had adopted me into their group and I’d made sure to snap a ton of photos with them for my blog. My readers wouldn’t believe the story when I finally got around to sharing the juicy
details about my night. Of course, I’d probably dedicate an entire month to posts about the show. Oh that picture? That’s just me and GISELLE, chillin’ in designer duds like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
And the dress? I wasn’t ever going to take it off. Ever. The sturdy midnight blue material was structured and tailored to my body so that it emphasized my curves. It accentuated my breasts without needing a bra (which, for us well-endowed females, is practically a miracle in and of itself). The fabric wrapped tightly around my waist and there was a sharp slit that ran up the center of my left thigh. It was seductive and beautiful, and as I walked into the after party, I actually felt like I belonged.
I followed the group of models to a table off to the side, taking in the party as I went. Drinks were flowing and waiters were carrying around silver trays of hors d’oeuvres that I stared at longingly but didn’t dare touch.
We crowded around a small cocktail table and I listened to the other models discuss their own versions of fashion week. They tallied up the shows they’d walked in and the number of couture outfits now sitting in piles back at their apartments. I listened with wide eyes, practically melting on the spot. I considered bragging about some of the more picturesque dust piles I’d swept up in my prior NYFW experiences, but I feared that most of the models didn’t share my sense of humor.
I was about to combust at the sheer awesomeness of the night when I felt a hand wrap around my arm, just above my elbow. I knew the grip, knew the feel of those fingers on my skin.
I stepped back to turn just as a seductive voice whispered against my ear.
“I didn’t realize you moonlighted as a model.”
Goosebumps bloomed down my arms as I registered the familiar voice. I inhaled a breath and glanced over my shoulder to find Julian standing there. A sharp navy suit stretched across his broad shoulders and chest. Black hair framed his sharp features and his eyes shown like two fiery embers in the club lighting. Desire spiked my veins as my eyes slid over him.
