The receptionist smiled brightly at us. ‘Can I help you?’
I tried to speak, but nothing came out. I stood gaping like a drowning fish. Esmerelda stepped up beside me.
‘Yeah hi, we’re like, here about a job,’ said Esmerelda, who had zero trouble speaking, no sign of a waver in her voice.
‘We are,’ I suddenly blurted out. ‘Yes. We are here. For the job. The job here.’
The receptionist continued smiling, glancing from me to Esmerelda and then back again. ‘So you’re together?’
‘We are,’ I said. ‘Yes. We are together.’
As soon as the words came out of my mouth I wanted to stuff them back in again.
‘I mean, we are together, but we are not together. Not together together.’
‘What she means,’ said Esmerelda jumping in, ‘is that we’re like, friends.’
I vigorously nodded my head up and down in agreement. ‘Yes, friends. Just friends. We are friends. Just friends. Nothing else. Friends.’
Smooth.
The receptionist’s eyes widened just a fraction, but she continued to smile, nodding in agreement with me. ‘Okay then. And what are your names?’
I looked up at Esmerelda and pursed my lips tightly together. There was no way I was going to say it. As if my life were not already packed to the brim with humiliation.
Esmerelda pulled herself up straight, glanced sideways at me for a second, then smiled her most endearing (and phony) smile and said proudly, ‘She’s Violet and I’m, like, Crumble.’
The receptionist’s eyes grew wide and her smile wavered for the first time, replaced momentarily with what appeared to be a genuine grin. ‘Violet and Crumble?’
Esmerelda and I nodded in unison. Dear God, kill me now, it cannot possibly get any worse.
‘Violet Crumble?’ she repeated.
More nodding.
‘But you’re not together?’
We shook our heads.
‘You’re just friends? Friends called Violet and Crumble?’
And my humiliation was complete.
‘O—kay,’ she said, stretching the word and fixing her professional smile back into place. ‘Well, that’s just fine. Why don’t you have a seat while I call our manager Abby.’
We walked as quickly as possible to the lounge. As soon as we were seated and out of earshot, I leant in to speak.
‘It’s only a name, dude,’ Esmerelda said quickly. ‘Like I’m sure she’s heard a lot weirder things.’
That was undoubtedly true and I was never going to be able to eat a Violet Crumble again, but, ‘Did you see it?’ I whispered.
She regarded me blankly. ‘What?’
‘The missing photo?!’ I blurted while checking the receptionist was still out of hearing range. ‘Behind the desk!’
Esmerelda turned and scanned the rows of beautiful faces behind the desk. Crickets … crickets … then understanding registered in her face.
‘Huh,’ she said. ‘Not expecting her back at work then.’
‘I guess not,’ I said, my eyes catching the light of the candle flame.
Esmerelda pinched me.
‘Ouch!’ I said. ‘What did you do that for?’
‘You were totally staring at it,’ she reprimanded. ‘Don’t look at it.’
I dragged my eyes off the flame and looked down at my feet. The pink varnish on my toenails was chipped. I desperately needed a pedicure. Okay, Indigo, try to think of something pleasant. I examined the strappy gold Jimmy Choos I had borrowed from Mother’s wardrobe. They were beautiful, but they were a size too big. I pressed my heels back against the lounge in an attempt to make the shoes fit more comfortably and, inadvertently, pushed the lounge back an inch or two. A flash of colour caught my eye. I could see the corner of a glossy magazine on the floor hidden beneath the lounge. I slid it out and picked it up. It looked the same as the glossy magazines on the coffee table. The cover title said MM.
There was a head and shoulders shot of a gorgeous brunette on the cover, but I had never seen her before and I had never heard of MM magazine. I fanned the pile of MM magazines on the coffee table out. They were all the same edition, the same gorgeous brunette on the cover.
I flicked my magazine open. I expected to see the usual multitude of full-page ads finally giving way to a contents page and then articles and fashion spreads. However, this magazine had a strange format. There were no cosmetic ads. No watch ads. No perfume ads. No brands at all. It featured an ongoing series of double-page spreads, each one highlighting a different model. One close-up head shot, one full length, Victoria’s Secret-style body shot, their first names printed in a bold, elegant script and what looked like a brief bio beneath.
Some models looked familiar, but others I could not place. Then I got to a page featuring a willowy, contact lens-enhanced blue-eyed redhead. It was Crystal. Gears in my brain began to grind. I looked up at the wall behind the receptionist. Each girl from the wall had a corresponding feature spread in the magazine. I flipped to the front cover. MM. Of course, Magic Models. It was a lookbook.
Esmerelda was flicking through the same magazine. Except it was not a magazine; it was a bizarre lookbook-come-shopping catalogue, for escorts and, I suspected, other things. I quickly moved closer to Esmerelda on the couch and took her copy off her.
‘Dude,’ she said. ‘Read your own.’
‘Shh!’ I hushed.
I began flipping through her magazine, but when I got to the pages where Crystal should have been, there was nothing. The pages had been removed. I gave it back to her.
‘Dude!’ she said again, irritated. ‘What’s your problem?’
I shushed her again and checked on the receptionist. She was busy on the phone. I moved quickly on to the magazines on the coffee table, rapidly flicking through each one. Crystal was not featured in any of them. The pages featuring Crystal had been removed from every single copy. Except my copy from under the couch.
‘Like hello?’ Esmerelda said briskly.
I showed Esmerelda the picture in my magazine. ‘That,’ I said pointing at the redhead, ‘is Crystal.’
She tensed up. ‘Seriously?’
I nodded.
‘Get out,’ said Esmerelda slowly, and flipped through her magazine.
‘She’s not in your copy, I already checked.’
‘And those?’ she said, motioning to the now dishevelled stack on the coffee table.
I shook my head, ‘No.’
We both looked back down at the page. Next to Crystal’s name was a brief bio; it said she was a former model, a part-time actor and kept fit with spin and yoga. Half the people I knew matched that description. Underneath her name was a fleur-de-lis symbol; it matched the motif on the wallpaper and the vicuña wool rug.
‘I wonder what the symbol means,’ I mused, pointing to it on the page.
Esmerelda swiftly examined her own magazine and soon found several other women with the same symbol. Some had one, some had two and some had three. The remaining women in the magazine also had symbols, either red hearts or gold stars, and again they had one, two or three.
‘I dunno,’ said Esmerelda. ‘Maybe it’s like stuff they do.’
I mentally blocked that. ‘And the number of symbols?’
She shrugged her shoulders again. ‘How well they do it?’
No more questions.
I looked up. The door behind the reception desk had opened. An attractive woman in her fifties was speaking to the receptionist. She had pitch-black hair, dark eyes and wore a black satin pantsuit with a double strand of pearls. I guessed she was the manager.
I turned to Esmerelda. ‘Quick,’ I said, handing her my copy of the MM magazine, ‘hide it.’
She gave me a deadpan stare. ‘In this?’ she said, motioning to her very fitted, one-piece crêpe de chine jumpsuit.
‘Yes, in that!’ I said, keeping one eye on the manager and one eye on Esmerelda. ‘Put it somewhere, anywhere! Quickly!’
She was a
hardened criminal for goodness sake, how hard could it be to shoplift one magazine?
Esmerelda looked down at herself, then at the two tiny black Chanel clutches I had insisted we use. ‘Dude, you gotta give me a little more to work with.’
The manager was nodding her head: she had finished her conversation with the receptionist. Hot panic rushed through me and I had an out-of-body experience. I took the magazine and slid it up under my baby-doll dress. I had no idea what to do next. The moment I stood up it would simply slide off my lap and onto the floor. I looked to Esmerelda for help.
She looked highly amused.
‘Oh my God, oh my God,’ was all I could say. I could feel the blood rushing to my face, my vision starting to blur. All I could hear was the distinctive click-click of high heels on tile coming towards me.
Esmerelda’s arm wrapped around me and I found myself turned around, my back to the reception desk, my front facing the back of the couch seat. Thank God, I thought, she’s going to get rid of it.
But instead of taking the magazine out, she slid it further up my dress until it crashed into and then slid under the bottom of my push-up bra. She used the wire in my bra like the clip on a clipboard clasping it into place. I sucked in air as her hand pulled the front of my high-waisted knickers out and tucked the magazine neatly back into them. The magazine stood rigid, wedged into my now-panicked and sweating stomach and my new lace La Perla knickers. I had just been violated by a glossy magazine. I was considering throwing up when I realised the clicking had stopped. It had been quietly replaced by the almost imperceptible sound of stilettos on vicuña wool carpet.
‘Hello ladies,’ said a voice above us. ‘It’s nice to see you’re so comfortable here at Magic Models. However, we do not encourage that type of activity in the lobby area.’
Esmerelda and I turned slowly in unison to face the voice. I felt sure every inch of my skin was as red as my wig. Earth open up and swallow me now.
‘So sorry,’ said Esmerelda in her most acculturated voice, not missing a beat. ‘We just had a little wardrobe malfunction.’
The manager stared pointedly at Esmerelda’s hand, which sat like a guilty, frozen appendage, hovering high on my thigh, and said, ‘I see.’
I flicked Esmerelda’s hand away and blurted out, ‘There’s no Violet Crumble. Honestly. Just Violet. And Crumble. Two separate entities. Entirely different.’
The woman smiled and said, ‘There’s no need to be embarrassed, dear. I’m quite sure I’ve seen just about everything.’
I believed her.
She held out her hand and as I stood to shake it I tried desperately to keep the MM magazine from falling out. Esmerelda stepped in front of me and took her hand, shaking it vigorously, giving me a moment to adjust myself.
‘My name is Abby,’ she said. ‘I’m the manager, and owner,’ she paused for effect, ‘of Magic Model Escorts.’
‘You?’ I asked, shaking her hand, forgetting momentarily about the magazine tucked precariously into my La Perla briefs. ‘You’re the manager and the owner?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Abby, and motioned us to follow her across the room towards the door behind the reception desk.
I scanned her as we walked across the room towards the giant reception desk. I seriously doubted that Abby was the owner of this … establishment. Each one of the Italian tiles we were walking across cost over $3000. If I had to guess, I would say that her entire outfit cost $300 at the most, including shoes. Even her pearls were fake. Either she was very cheap when it came to her wardrobe—a sin in itself—or she was a liar.
Abby slid behind the reception desk and opened the door. We both followed her through the doorway and down a bare corridor. There were no Italian tiles here, no expensive wool rugs, just cheap ageing carpet.
She entered a room at the end of the corridor. It was an office. Nothing fancy. More old carpet, a white laminated desk with a nondescript computer, three large filing cabinets, a large black office chair behind the desk, and two smaller wheelie office chairs in front. The walls were a pale pink, which must have been Abby’s choice because no man, in my experience, would ever paint a room pink. Unless it was a nursery.
There was one surprise—a fax machine, which was perched on the filing cabinets. I could not recall the last time I had seen one. I thought they had gone the way of the dodo.
She settled herself behind the plastic desk. ‘Please take a seat. I’m glad you could come. We’re always looking for new talent.’
‘Ah yeah, thanks,’ said Esmerelda settling into her budget chair.
‘So,’ said Abby, hands on desk, ‘how did you hear about us?’
I looked to Esmerelda for an answer only to find she was looking to me for one. Evidently her part of the plan did not extend past this point. The extent of my planning had come to an end the moment we got past the boom gate.
‘A friend referred us,’ I said with a calm I did not feel.
Please, please, please do not ask which friend.
‘Which friend?’
Damn. I tried to catch Esmerelda’s eye, but she was looking at Abby. I willed her not to say Crystal.
‘Crystal,’ Esmerelda said, flashing her best smile.
I felt like the magazine under my dress was glowing neon, I was certain that Abby knew what we were up to and at any moment would demand we leave. Or worse, call a tabloid and tell them the Hasluck-Royce heiress and her insane personal shopper were applying for a position in her brothel.
Instead Abby’s cheeks coloured ever so slightly and she said in a falsely chipper voice, ‘We don’t have anyone by that name working here.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Esmerelda rolling forward slightly on her chair. ‘It must’ve been a long time ago she worked here. Haven’t seen her for ages.’
‘Or perhaps you have the names mixed up?’ Abby asked, all smiles.
‘Yeah totally, that could be it,’ Esmerelda said, nodding sincerely. I nodded with her.
‘Good,’ said Abby, happy with that answer.
An uncomfortable silence filled the room for a moment while Abby assessed us. She looked at me, eyes tightening at the corners. ‘Do I know you from somewhere?’
That was it, she had figured it out and knew who I was. It was over. I was ready to bolt when she spoke again.
‘You’re a model, aren’t you? I’m sure I’ve seen you in a high-fashion magazine.’
‘Yes,’ I nodded enthusiastically.
Technically it was only half a lie. While pregnant with me Mother had graced the cover of every high-end fashion magazine from British Vogue to Italy’s Grazia. In every photograph she was absolutely gorgeous and absolutely naked, with only strategically positioned hands for cover. So, by extension you could say that I had literally been modelling since before I was born. I just had not done any modelling since. It was also true I had been in countless fashion magazines. However, the shots were of me watching runways shows, not walking them.
Abby smiled broadly.
‘Well, that’s excellent! That will move you straight past the stars and hearts and into the fleur-de-lis range.’
I looked at her blank-faced. I knew she was talking about the symbols from the magazine, I just had no idea what those symbols meant. She didn’t register my dumbfounded expression and continued, talking about ‘necessary training’ and ‘apprenticeships’. Both frightening concepts.
I cleared my throat, ‘You will have to forgive me Abby, Crumble and I are quite new to all of this.’ Esmerelda nodded in agreement. We were new alright.
‘Could you tell us,’ I continued, ‘what does it all mean? Heart? Star? Fleur-de-lis?’
‘They’re client-rate scales, or for you, pay scales. The stars are our new stars, the new girls. The hearts are the girls who have had training in creating the “girlfriend experience”. Finally, for those who have been published in print or appeared on television we have the fleur-de-lis level.’
I was speechless. No wonder some of the
women in the MM magazine looked so familiar. I knew the modelling and acting industries were brutal, but this was new information.
‘Like,’ said Esmerelda rolling forward, nonplussed by Abby’s disclosure, ‘what kind of pay scales are we talking here?’
Abby looked at both of us in slight disbelief. ‘You’ve really had no experience in this industry, have you?’
We both shook our heads. It was the first genuinely honest thing we had uttered since we arrived at the boom gate.
‘Well the lowest level, a single star, new, basic training only, demands just $1500 for two hours. We have a two-hour minimum,’ she said gesturing with her hands. ‘On the other end of the scale, our trained and experienced level three fleur-de-lis models, published or well known, command $20,000.’
‘For two hours?’ said Esmerelda, her mouth wide in disbelief. ‘Twenty k for two hours?’
Abby nodded, satisfied by the shock. ‘That’s right.’
Even to me that seemed like a lot of money. Much more than up-and-coming models or actors made.
Esmerelda continued to be amazed, ‘Like, I could buy a car for that.’
I was astonished. You could buy a car for $20,000?
‘It doesn’t quite work that way,’ said Abby, fake-smiling. ‘The house, that is Magic Models, of course take a percentage. After all we do much of the work.’
I was fairly certain that the actual Magic Models, whoever they were, were doing ‘much of the work’. Certainly, all of the ickiest work. I doubted anyone paying $20,000 for two hours was going to look like Ryan Gosling or behave like Richard Gere. There was a reason it wasn’t a career advocated by mothers or guidance counsellors.
‘So, then, like how much do you get?’ Esmerelda asked.
If I did not know better, I would have thought Esmerelda was genuinely interested.
‘Well,’ said Abby, shuffling some papers on her desk, ‘the average is around 25 per cent.’
‘So,’ I found myself saying, ‘you take 25 per cent?’
Abby looked at me and laughed. ‘No dear, you get 25 per cent.’
I could have sworn I heard Esmerelda exhale the words ‘fuck that’ under her breath. It was the first time I had heard her use the expletive without a sanitised version uttered immediately after. I felt in this instance it was justified and I echoed her sentiment. What a complete rort. Abby did not seem to hear. Perhaps I imagined it? Perhaps I was the one who said it? Or thought it?
Heiress On Fire Page 14