Heartless Few Box Set

by MV Ellis

  “Are you pitching a tent for me, or Dr. Campbell?” She nodded toward my swollen crotch before turning again to enter her classroom.

  Holy shit. I’d just been schooled by a freshman. So much for nobody noticing. I only hoped the principal hadn’t seen it too. Either way, I was more embarrassed than I had ever been. My cheeks were so hot, I felt like they’d been dipped in molten lava. Marnie smirked, knowing she had me backed into a corner.

  “Okay, thanks for showing me the way.”

  I did the only thing I could—bobbed my head in lieu of saying goodbye, looking anywhere but at her, and got the fuck out of there. But because I had no shame, and definitely no game, even after making that much of a fool of myself, I still couldn’t resist turning around to get one last look at her as she went into her class. I would forever be glad I had, as I was just in time to catch her staring at me as I walked away. Yes! I figured the redness in her cheeks put us just about even in the humiliation stakes.

  Despite the unpromising start, the next two weeks with Marnie were the most blissful of my life. Even with my initial shyness and her ability to make me feel like a fool, the two of us had clicked from day one. We’d had an instant bond and an easy connection. We just made sense. My words flowed freely, and I could talk to her like I could my brothers and the guys. It was as though we’d known each other for years. She was kind of like the little sister I never had, except really nothing like a little sister at all.

  Being with Marnie brought out feelings and urges in me that I hadn’t known existed. First there was the near-permanent state of crippling arousal that was a fact of life when she was around or whenever I thought of her—which was pretty much 24/7, especially at night time—I went to bed with visions of her running through my mind, and a boner to match, and woke up every morning the same way.

  However, I also felt insanely protective of her. Like the kind of protective that could push me to rip out someone’s jugular for looking at her the wrong way. It was completely out of character for me, and far more Arlo’s style, totally irrational. Not only that, but despite everything she’d been through with her parents dying, Marnie seemed to be this tough, smart, streetwise girl who needed nothing from anybody. Especially not me. Seemed to be.

  Whatever life threw at her, Marnie Harloe took it in stride. Being taunted and called Orphan Annie or Mile-high Marnie, rejection by the popular girls in her class, in fact most of the girls, it didn’t seem to matter—it flowed over her like water off a duck’s back. The two faces of Marnie Harloe—the smile and the snarl—always seemed to get her through.

  Except from day one, I saw something else when I looked at her. There was a third face, one that was hidden most of the time and to most people. The sadness that I noticed in the principal’s office was always there, just under the surface. Sometimes it was covered by a smile but more often than not, a frown. At other times it peeked its way through when she let the mask slip.

  That face made me want to scoop her up and keep her in a cabin in the woods. It made me want to tear anyone who hurt her limb from limb with my bare hands. That face had my heart from the very moment we met and always would. It was just a shame I couldn’t muster the words to tell her so right away. It was a failing I was going to live to regret for a long time to come.

  Three

  Marnie

  Present Day

  As the elevator doors slid open, I glided into the midtown offices of Wildefire Model Management. WMM had been my agency since forever. In fact, since the beginning. I was discovered by the owner and CEO, Sandra Wilde. It may have seemed like one hundred years ago, but I still vividly remembered the day she approached me and offered me a modeling contract on the spot as I stuffed my face full of chili dog at Luna Park—not the least of reasons being because my chin had been adorned with a giant glob of chili sauce throughout the entire exchange. The pain of that realization hadn’t dulled even after all these years, despite the fact that it hadn’t gotten in the way of me going on to have a successful modeling career.

  If I could reverse time, I’d go back and wipe off that sauce before I started a conversation with one of the most powerful figures in fashion. Still, sauce or no, here I was all these years later, still in the game. I kind of enjoyed these contract re-signing meetings. Yes, they were a chance to do the standard “let’s air-kiss, then pretend we give a fuck about what has happened to the other person since we last did this” charade, but on the other hand, as one of her “legacy”—read: old—signings, it was always good to see Sandra. She was a colorful character, to say the least, literally—what with her shocking pink hair and taste for blindingly bright and flamboyant clothing. Naturally, she had an effervescent personality to match, priding herself on being Wilde by name, wild by nature.

  I remembered feeling completely awed and overwhelmed by her that first time. She had approached me and immediately launched into a gushing spiel about my looks, and my limbs, and my hair, and my complexion, and my everything, all at one thousand decibels, and much to the amusement of passersby.

  That was probably why I had stood like a statue with sauce on my face. At least, that was my excuse, and I was sticking to it. It’s true that at that point I had never met anyone as “out there” as her, though once I’d started modeling, she was to become the first of many larger-than-life personalities I would find myself working for, with, or alongside. Little had I known, that in after a very short while in the industry, everything that had initially seemed so extreme, outrageous, and exciting would become old hat, expected, predictable, and even boring at times.

  Whenever I looked back on that time, I wished I could somehow bottle the naiveté-driven enthusiasm I’d felt. Of course, I had been deeply flattered that someone would consider me even remotely model-worthy. The irony of the fact that the very things about which I had been mercilessly teased at school, earning me the nickname “Mile-high Marnie,” —my skinny, flat-chested, gangly frame, my porcelain complexion, and my “weird” Eurasian features—were now being lauded was not wasted on me. Of the thousands of people at the amusement park that day, that Sandra had seen something special in me had been a huge boost to my nonexistent self-confidence.

  Twenty-twenty is most definitely a biatch. When I thought of that poor optimistic girl, clutching her chili dog and daring to hope that her luck was about to change, I just wanted to fucking cry. I remembered thinking that maybe I was finally going to be accepted, to find my tribe. Maybe I was finally going to be on the inside, instead of on the outside constantly looking in. What green-as-cabbage Mile-high Marnie didn’t realize was that as far as cliquey, bitchy, relentlessly unforgiving environments went, moving from high school to the modeling industry was like jumping out of the frying pan and into the blazing infernos of hell.

  I had been clueless and clutching at straws, so desperately wanting to fit in somewhere, anywhere, because the truth was, I never had. Not at home or at school. From day one at school, kids seemed to sense my vulnerability and went for the jugular every time. They were like a pack of wolves zeroing in on the smell of fresh blood. Even before the “incident,” I had always been the outsider, the outlier, and the onlooker.

  It’s no surprise, really. I had basically dragged myself up, assuming the role of mother and father just as soon as I was able. I’d cooked, cleaned, kept house, and kept myself washed and clothed, but I was sure people could tell from a mile away that I wasn’t like other kids, that my home circumstances were odd, to say the least. I had done my best, but looking back with adult eyes, I suspected my best had been nowhere near good enough.

  My parents had only had eyes for each other, and been too wrapped up in their own sick and twisted world of obsessive love and drugs, both legal and otherwise, to parent me in any real sense of the word. Their tunnel vision excluded everything other than themselves and whatever they could snort, inject, smoke, or swallow next. Then in the end, when they had no longer wanted to exist in this world, they had gone together to whatever lies
on the other side, leaving me behind without a second glance.

  It had been the ultimate act of betrayal. They had always wanted each other so fucking much, but although I was a product of the sick and twisted love they had shared, the light of its halo had never shone brightly enough to include me. They had needed each other more than they needed life itself, but they had never even wanted me.

  Nobody had ever wanted me, not in the real sense of the word. Sometimes people wanted to use me. They wanted me for what I could do for them, or what I could bring to them. They wanted me for the doors I could open, or the ways in which I could make their lives easier. People wanted me for what I had. Scrap that. They wanted what I had. Nobody wanted me for me. Except Mia and Luke.

  I grew up knowing I was unlikeable and unlovable. If my own parents could barely bring themselves to tolerate me, what hope did I have with the rest of the world? If the people who were supposed to love me unconditionally couldn’t see past their unhealthy fixation on each other, and on drugs, I wasn’t surprised that almost nobody else cared whether I lived or died, not speaking metaphorically. Unless I could help or was in some way hindering people, I was basically irrelevant.

  I was to find out that the modeling industry was the epitome of “us and them,” and I was never going to be us. Modeling just reinforced the fact that I was nothing and nobody. It was the bitchiest, most unforgiving industry of them all. Backstabbing, badmouthing, and generally hating on other people was an everyday occurrence, an expected way of life even, and I always seemed to be on the wrong end of it all. The big difference now was that, unlike high school mean girls, fashion people were the ultimate smiling assassins. Everybody was nicer than nice to your face, all “darling, so lovely to see you, mwah, mwah,” while at the same time plunging a Samurai sword between your shoulder blades. Somehow this was almost worse.

  The fact that the fake gestures were such a stark contrast to the real unpleasantness hiding behind every smile seemed to amplify the low acts. Still, the one small mercy of having been treated like shit for so long both at home and at school was that I was well equipped to let much of what happened to or about me as an adult roll over me like water off a duck’s back. I gave zero fucks—less than that in fact, most of the time.

  I strolled over to the front desk and greeted the receptionist. Kayla? Kylie? Karly? Something like that. In the biz we had so many standard phrases to avoid highlighting the fact that we had no idea who someone was that we never needed to worry.

  “Hey, babe, so great to see you. How are you?”

  “I’m good thanks, hun. What can I do for you?” The insincerity of her inquiry was standard procedure. I really loved to hate this industry. I plastered on a fake smile. Also standard procedure.

  “I’m here to see the great lady herself. We have our contract renewal meeting.” More smiles.

  “Oh. Uh… okay, yeah.” Her gaze shifted quickly around the room, looking anywhere but at me.

  “Yeah. She’s expecting you. I’ll just buzz her.” The whole thing seemed needlessly awkward, but I didn’t think too much of it.

  “Okay, thanks, gorgeous.” I drummed my nails on the top of the reception desk to the music playing in my mind, humming along tunelessly and moving my head from side to side in time to the beat I was creating.

  Kayla/Kylie/Karly pressed a button on her keyboard and waited a couple of seconds.

  “Hi, I have Marnie Harloe here for you.” She spoke into the almost invisible microphone attached to an equally discreet headset. I hadn’t even noticed she was wearing it. Another pause. “Okay.”

  She nodded as though unaware that the person on the other side of the call wouldn’t be able to see the movement. She looked up at me, carefully focusing on a spot between my eyes, rather than looking directly into them. Maybe she thought I was like Medusa. As in, if she looked into my eyes, I’d cast her to stone or something equally stupid. If only. I stifled a snicker. Sometimes the dumbest shit made me laugh.

  “Take a seat, lovely. She’ll be out shortly.”

  “Sure.” I sat and flicked through the glossy magazines that were on the coffee table. I didn’t feature in any of them, but they were a good enough distraction, regardless.

  Sandra appeared about fifteen minutes later, dressed in typically crazy style. Today the outfit of choice was a tracksuit made to look like a packet of ramen soup. Chicken flavor. She had topped that sartorial show-stopper with a flowing hot pink chiffon kimono the exact same shade as her crazy hair. The outfit was accessorized with a pair of gold high tops, a hot pink croc handbag, and enough jewelry to sink The Armada twice over. The weirdest thing was that anyone else in such an outfit would have looked ridiculous, yet somehow on Sandra, it just worked. Besides, having known her for so many years, I would have been disappointed were she to turn up in all black everything, like most of the rest of the fashion world, myself included. We all loved living vicariously through her crazy, but un-ironic style statements, knowing full well we’d never make the same choices ourselves.

  “Thanks, Kerri.” She motioned to the receptionist before turning to me. Ah, Kerri. Close, but no cigar.

  “There you are, my darling girl. Sooooo good to see you, as always.” She enveloped me in a smothering hug and air-kissed just to the side of my left ear.

  “Mwah. Mwah. How the devil are you?” Sandra really was one of the most “fashiony” of fashion people I had ever met, complete with an obnoxiously loud voice. She seemed to have two volume settings: broadcast and deafening. I smiled through the ear pain.

  “I’m good.” It was the truth. Kind of. “I haven’t seen you in forever. So great to catch up.” I meant it too. It was always fun to hang with her, and it had been a long while since we’d had an opportunity to do so.

  “Let’s go for lunch. My treat,” she offered.

  “Oh. Okay. Yeah, sounds great.” Great, but unusual. Alarm bells.

  “Perfect. We’ll go to Cincotti’s. You love that place, right?”

  She had a good memory. I did love it, not that I could ever recall having been there with her, but I must have mentioned it in passing at some point in the previous fifteen years. In fact, in all those years we’d been having these meetings, this was the first time she has suggested lunch. It made a nice change, but I knew not to take out-of-character behavior at face value. If my messed-up life had taught me anything, it was to be suspicious of everything and everyone, even the people you knew and trusted the most. Especially those people, in fact.

  Four

  Marnie

  Settled over lunch in a secluded corner of Cincotti’s—she a white sauce pasta dish, me a tricolore salad—Sandra turned to me.

  “So, I have news, and I don’t think you’re going to like it, so I’m just going to come right out and say it.” Oh. While I was still wrapping my head around the eerie familiarity of that statement, she forged on, not giving me a chance to ready myself for the imminent bad news. “We’re not renewing your contract this time around.”

  Wait. What?

  “What?”

  “Look, this breaks my heart. You know how fond I am of you. You were one of my first signings, and I love you like family, but at the end of the day, I’m running a business here, and I need to make solid business decisions, not emotional ones. Bernie and Geoff feel that we’re not getting the bang for our buck we once were from having you on our books. You’re just not getting the bookings like you used to.” This had to be some kind of sick joke.

  “I know in my heart that they’re right. We’re not. But on the other hand, if it were left to me only, I would just turn a blind eye to that fact and carry on with you regardless. I guess that’s why I have business partners on board, to help me make the hard decisions, even when I don’t want to.”

  “So they want me out?”

  “It’s not like that. Nobody wants you out, and this is most certainly not personal. What we want is a profitable and viable business, and unfortunately, at this time, that precludes u
s from keeping you on. The market has changed since I first signed you. Clients want a different look these days. You’re stunning, and always will be, but we have to follow the trends. It’s that or be left behind. You know the vogue right now is for a quirky or less mainstream look. The androgynous girls, the crazy red curls, the huge tooth gap, the tats, ethnically ambiguous girls, disabled girls, plus-size girls, or glasses, even. That sort of thing. It used to be that Eurasian was considered ‘different,’ but not these days.” All of this was boomed at a 1000 decibels, no doubt attracting the attention of our fellow diners.

  “So you’re dumping me in case I drag your whole business into the dirt with my out-of-date, plain, and boring ass?”

  “Marnie, dear girl, don’t be so melodramatic. That’s not what I said and definitely not what I meant.” The disapproval in her voice was matched by the hurt look on her face.

  “Well, that’s what it sounded like to me.” I tried to keep my voice down to avoid attracting any more attention than we already were. The last thing I needed was for the whole exchange to end up being replayed on social media, but it was hard to stay quiet when Sandra was so outrageously loud. I understood the whole lunch thing now. I guessed the adage that was no such thing as a free one was accurate. In true breakup style, she had brought me to a public place in the hope that I wouldn’t make a scene.

  “I can’t control how you feel or how you choose to interpret what I say—just know that it wasn’t my intention. But listen, sweetheart, let’s be real. You’re closer to thirty than twenty, and I’m sure you know that unless you’re one of the supers, the clock is ticking from here on in, anyway. Apart from all the quirky girls, you’re competing with twelve-year-olds. You can’t have failed to notice that bookings are getting thinner on the ground.”