Trashed (21 page)

“Gone.”

I wait, but no more information is forthcoming. “Gone where?”

“Did you see the magazines?” She takes a drag and speaks around the smoke. “Reporters hit you guys up, hard. She was in a dozen different magazines.”

I shake my head. “I don’t read that shit. Never have, not before I got famous, and sure as hell not now. It’s all lies and bullshit. Ninety-nine percent of it’s as fictional as fucking
Star Wars
.”

“Yeah, well, they still had pics of you two. Not just at the dinner, either. After. One where she was wearing your clothes the next morning.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

I let out a frustrated breath. “Did she get harassed or some shit?”

“No.” Ruth is definitely guarding her friend’s back. Good for her.

I step close to Ruth and uncurl my posture, standing straight and flexing to look bigger, more imposing. “Ruth. You’re avoiding my question.”

Her eyes widen and she tilts her head back, defiant and bold. “Yeah, I am. I don’t know you, and I don’t trust you.”

“I remember our conversation, before you let me in, you know. I didn’t hurt her. I was good to her. I took care of her.”

Ruth smirks, and then it’s gone, replaced by the same hardness. “Yeah, I’ll say.”

I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean, goddammit. Where
is
she?”

She contemplates my question, taking three long drags of her cigarette, and then she tosses the butt to the ground and steps on it. “She moved to New York.”
 

“What? New York? Why?”

“Some modeling agency saw those photos of her and offered her a contract. She took it. She’s gone, dude.”

“Which agency?” My mind whirls. She’s modeling?
 

“Sam Weaver or something like that. I don’t know.” Ruth hikes her backpack higher on her shoulders. “I gotta go.”
 

“Hold on a second. What’s her new address? I have to find her, Ruth.”

She rubs at her lower lip with a thumb. “I don’t have her address. She still doesn’t have a phone either, to answer your next question. She calls me every couple days and we talk—and no, I don’t know that number, it’s unlisted. All I know is she’s staying with a couple other models somewhere in Manhattan.”
 

I think fast. I dig my Sharpie out of my pocket. “Have a scrap of paper?” Ruth pulls a notebook from her backpack and hands it to me. I write my name, phone number, and email address neatly on the top line and hand it back to her. “Next time she calls, tell her I’m looking for her. Give her that information.”
 

“Okay, I’ll let her know.”

“And Ruth, I just have to say this: do not share that information with
anyone
except her. If I find out that you’ve spread my shit around, it will
not
go well for you, okay? I’m not trying to threaten you, but this is serious to me.”

She nods. “I got it, dude. I wouldn’t do something like that.”
 

I lean in and give her a one-armed hug. “I know. You seem like a really cool chick, Ruth. Thanks.”

She goes stiff. “Cool. Now get off me.”
 

I back away. “See ya.”

“Yeah, probably not. But I’ll pass the message along. No promises though.”
 

The car I hired is waiting for me, and I slide in and ask him to take me to the Metro Airport. I have a first-class ticket on the next flight to London, which is for early the next morning, so I get a room at the airport hotel and wait.

The night is long, and the flight even longer.

A week of filming in London, two weeks in Prague, and another two weeks in Tokyo and no call, no email, no nothing.

I stop in Manhattan on the way back to L.A. from Tokyo, and spend two days looking for her. I try the modeling agency, which I’d heard of, but they stonewall me. The receptionist won’t even tell me whether Des works for them or not. Short of causing a scene and possibly getting arrested, it’s a dead end.

Finally, I go home to L.A. and begin the long, painful process of trying to forget her.
 

Again.

Chapter 10

“Good! Good! Now turn this way. Great. One more. And now try to look aloof—pretend you’re too important for this shit. Good, perfect. Now turn away and look at me over your shoulder. No, don’t smile, just…look at me. No expression. YES!” The photographer spews a non-stop stream of instructions, encouragement, and sometimes meaningless babble, just signifier words like
stellar
and
fantabulous
.
 

I’m standing in front of an exposed brick wall in an old warehouse somewhere in the far lower end of Manhattan, wearing a tight pair of jeans and a flowing, low-cut top. There’s a huge industrial fan blowing from my left, making me look windblown. There are a dozen people all milling behind the photographer, some of them the photographer’s assistants, others for hair and makeup, and others from the clothing line. And there’s Rochelle, a glamorously beautiful woman about thirty years old with straight, fine blonde hair hanging just past her shoulders and hard, intelligent brown eyes. She’s always perfectly attired, usually in slim slacks of either black, brown, navy blue, or khaki, and tops of varying cut and color. She never wears dresses or skirts, and she never smiles. But she’s hideously, frighteningly efficient at her job, which is getting models from one place to another, making sure they’re ready for the shoot, and that they look their best. Since most of the models I’ve met are usually a little on the…flighty side, this can be a challenge.
 

She also acts, in some cases, as a buffer between the photographer and the model. Some of them are…yucky.

This guy, for instance. I can feel his gaze through the camera, feel his leering stare even though I refuse to look right at him, and refuse to interact with him any more than necessary. He’s middle-aged and balding with a shoulder-length ponytail, weak blue eyes, and a potbelly. But, apparently, he’s one of the best photographers in the business, and I’m lucky to get him.
 

He’ll make me look incredible…or so Rochelle and Sidney claim, at least.

I turn, pose, smile, don’t smile, smolder, and look mysterious. And then I change outfits behind a screen, assisted by two girls no more than eighteen and a flamboyantly gay man with black hair going silver at the temples. And then I pose again, smile, and repeat the whole process over again. Change, repeat. Change, repeat. Hours, and hours, and hours. I’ve been at it since seven this morning, and I’ve had three bites of a Caesar salad and half a bottle of water since then, and it’s now past six in the evening.
 

Judging by the rack of clothes, I’ve still got three or four outfits to go.
 

I stifle a sigh and change outfits yet again.
 

I hear Rochelle’s phone ring—which happens at least once every ten minutes—and she pokes her head around the screen. “Des, I’ve got to step outside and take this. You okay here?”

I give her a thumbs-up as Mark tugs a tank top over my head and then drapes a short-sleeved button-down sweater over my shoulders. I stuff my arms through and step out of the jeans. At that moment the photographer, Ludovic, steps around the screen. He acts surprised, like he forgot where he was going, but I see his eyes rake over me, calculating, hungry. Mark shoos him away, and the shoot resumes.

Finally, after two more changes of clothes, I request a break.
 

Rochelle waves me away. “Ten minutes. Ludovic’s time is more valuable than yours, dear.”
 

Yeah, but Ludovic gets to sit down and smoke cigarettes while I change clothes, and while the stylists check my hair and makeup. I get to stand there and be tended to, not sitting, not eating, not drinking, not even given a moment to breathe.

Quickly I head outside, grabbing the clear plastic box that contains my six-hour-old salad and the half-empty bottle of warm water. It’s all I’ve got till I get home, and I’m getting faint with hunger. I perch on an overturned milk crate around the corner and force the salad down my throat.

I feel him before I see him. “Here you are. I wondered where you’d went.” Ludovic.

I glance up at him and offer a tight, small smile, hoping he’ll go away.

He doesn’t.

“You’re a lovely girl, you know.” He crouches beside me, his back to the wall, and lights a cigarette. His eyes flick sideways and rove up my body and then down. “With the right help, you could go places impossible for you, otherwise.”

I ignore him and keep eating the flat, limp, disgusting salad.

“I’m doing a beach shoot next week. Down in Florida. I have spoken to Sidney about this, and she has arranged for you to be in the shoot. Many lovely girls, a big beach. A good time, I think.” He eyes me again. “Bikini shoot. You…you will be the sexiest, no?”

I have to stop eating now and respond. “A beach shoot? Sidney didn’t tell me about this. I’m not doing a beach shoot.”

He smirks, and his eyes latch onto my cleavage. “She has not told you yet.” His tongue slides across his lower lip, and he flicks the butt of his cigarette. “If you are nervous, perhaps we could do a…private shoot. Yes?” He grins suggestively.
 

I fight against the revolt of my stomach. “Let’s just finish this shoot.” I stand up and move toward the door.

 
He’s in front of me, too close, and he reeks of cigarettes and body odor. His hand grabs mine, forces my hand against his crotch. “Be reasonable, beautiful Des. You help me, I help you.” He leans close, his lips touch my neck. “I can make your career, you know. All you have to do is go with me, for drinks, and maybe some
dessert
in my apartment later. Yes?”

I back out of his reach, jerk my hand free, and suppress a shudder. I’m saved from having to respond by the appearance of Rochelle. “It’s late and I have a date. Come on, Des. Quit holding me up.” I don’t argue, god no. I’m grateful she showed up, and something tells me she did so on purpose, judging by the way she floats between me and Ludovic and herds me inside. “Come
on
, Ludo. Let’s go.”

We finish the shoot and Ludo hovers as his assistants pack his gear. He glances at me, and even winks once when he thinks no one is looking. I change back into my own clothes quickly, and then grab Rochelle and pull her aside.

“Ludovic, he—”

“I know. He does that with all the models. He’s a nasty old horn dog, that’s all.” Rochelle’s phone trills and she pulls it from her purse, glances at it.

“Can he make trouble for me for refusing to go along with his offer?”

She shrugs. “Trouble? No, not unless you make a scene or do something stupid like outright insult him. Just avoid him and don’t worry about it.” She eyes me over the top of her phone. “He
does
have a lot of influence, though. He knows people. He can get you places…if he likes you. Just saying.”

“Rochelle! I’m not going to—”

“And I’m not suggesting you do,” she interrupts. “I’m merely informing you of the facts. Your job is to be a model. You’ve done that. What you do on your own time is your business.”

I shudder and wipe at my neck where his nasty mouth touched me. “He said something about a beach shoot.” I shake myself and grab my purse. “Do you know anything about that?”

“I don’t know, let me find out.” Rochelle types a text message, her fingers moving so lightning fast it seems impossible. I hear her phone buzz in her hands a few seconds later and she reads the message, then looks at me. “He did indeed book you for a beach shoot next week. A very exclusive group, from what Sid is telling me.”

“I don’t want to—”

Rochelle’s eyes flick to me, hard as stone. “Refuse his advances, avoid his groping hands, whatever. I don’t care. But you
don’t
deny work. Not when it’s Ludovic Perretti.” She lowers the phone, indicating how serious she is. “He’s a nasty old horny dirtbag and he’ll try to fuck you if you’ll let him, but he’s the best damn photographer in the business.”

“Okay, Rochelle. Okay. I get it.”

She softens. “Good. Now go home. Tomorrow we find you a bikini.”

My stomach twists into a knot and rises into my esophagus. A bikini? Hell to the fuck no.
 

But I don’t have a choice, it seems. Not if I want to stay in New York and continue to get modeling work. Which is what I want, right?

I head home, grabbing a sandwich from a bodega on the way to the subway. It’s not enough, but if I’m trying on bikinis tomorrow, I’d better go easy on the calorie intake. None of my roommates are home when I get there, so I take the opportunity to call Ruthie on the landline.
 

“Des, hey. How are you?”

I groan and flop into the beanbag on the floor beside the phone. “Tired. Hungry. And feeling violated.”

“Violated? What happened?”
 

“The photographer at today’s shoot, he propositioned me. Said he could further my career. For a price, obviously, and the price was very explicitly implied.” I shudder, feeling his hands and lips all over again. “God, he’s so nasty. And worse, he’s basically forced me into working a beach shoot with him next week.”

“A beach shoot? Won’t that be fun, though?”

I snort. “Yeah, when was the last time you saw me in a bikini?”

“Oh.”

“Exactly. Oh.”

“How can he force you?”

I sigh. “Because he’s ‘the best photographer in the business’.” I lower my voice to make the phrase into mockery. “You don’t turn down work. You just don’t.”

“Will he try something again?”

“Without a doubt.”

“So what are you going to do?” Ruth asks, a blender whirring in the background.
 

“Do the shoot and try not to let everyone see that I’m going to feel like a fucking whale wearing a stupid bikini.”
 

“God, Des. Are you sure you’re happy there?”

“No.”

“I thought modeling was supposed to be…I don’t know, good for your self-esteem?”

“I thought so, too. Only it’s not. It’s the opposite, if anything. Everyone else I work with is skinnier than me. More tan than me. Higher, tighter boobs than me. Better facial structure than me. Better at posing than me. More willing to suck off the photographers than me. And the unspoken but very real pressure to keep my weight down really does a fucking number on my psyche. No one’s outright said in so many words ‘Des, you have to lose five pounds.’ Not yet, at least. What they do is measure me and weigh me and second-guess my food choices and cluck and tut when I have to wiggle myself into jeans so tight I feel like a stuffed motherfucking sausage. I just want some goddamned cheesecake, Ruthie! I’m in New York City and I haven’t had one single piece of cheesecake. It’s ridiculous. You know what I’ve eaten today? Limp, warm caesar salad, a
small
one at that, and a pre-made turkey and swiss sandwich. You know what I had yesterday? A handful of veggie sticks and half a bagel, no cream cheese.”