My sister’s shoot may be happening on a different continent but I can still do something about it. I pull out my phone, dial and hold it against my ear. The long beep of the Hong Kong ring tone is cloaked in static, making it feel like I’m calling another world. I might as well be. The rhythmic rolling of the waves is broken as the other line answers but all I hear is thumping dance music.
“Hey,” I shout into the mess of music and garbled conversation on the other end.
“Bru!” Damian eventually shouts into the phone. “Thought you were in Mauritius!”
“I am,” I say, realizing I don’t know where to start asking him for help with my sister. It’s sad that this is what it’s come down to. Damian may be a chronic womanizer who would hit on a nun purely out of reflex, but compared to Maxwell Chen he’s a eunuch.
“Shit, bru!” Damian says. “You’re going to burn my prepaid credit calling me from Africa! What’s up?”
After he says this, he screams something away from the phone and I hear girls laughing. Damian’s still on his chlamydial quest, which makes me question him as my sister’s potential savour. Ideally, this person should not have chlamydia.
“Heard you’re shooting for Elle,” I say, watching my Havaianas sink into the flour white sand at my feet. “With Maxwell Chen.”
“Yeah, I am. It’s pretty cool!” Damian shouts over a guy yelling in the background. It sounds like Marek. “Guy’s a fucking legend!”
“Yeah,” I say, listening to him guzzling some beverage that is undoubtedly alcoholic. “You’re shooting with my sister on that gig.”
“Oh yeah?” Damian laughs. “That’s awesome, but next time send me a text!”
“Yeah, it’s just…” I start to say, while squinting into the sun knowing Damian’s probably squinting through strobe lights trying to get a better look at whatever girl is in his short-lived line of sight.
“It’s what, bru?” Damian shouts, and I hear Marek screaming something about getting off the phone. The music seems to get louder.
“You know Maxwell’s rep, right?”
“Yeah, bru, he’s the king of randomly whipping his balls out, isn’t he?” Damian laughs like he can’t wait for this to happen at his own shoot.
“But my sister is shooting—”
Then the music is loud and I hear more screaming.
“All right, I got you, bru!” Damian says, coming back on the line. “I get it!”
I hold the phone away from my ear. Marek is screaming and Damian yells something at him. I hear girls giggling.
“It’s your sister’s first shoot,” he shouts. “Don’t worry, bru. I’ll take care of her.”
“He’ll take good care of her!” Marek screams, sounding like he’s yelling over Damian’s shoulder at the phone.
“Quiet, bru!” Damian yells and I hear Marek laughing. “No worries, she’s in good hands.”
Then there’s a rustling so loud on the other end that I have to hold the iPhone away from my ear. When the noise on the other line stops, it’s Marek’s drunken voice that slurs, “She’ll be in real good hands. Don’t worry, he’ll be real gentle with her!”
All I hear is laughing and the line goes dead.
The wind rustles through the trees, the sea gleams bluish silver in the midday sun and as I walk back in the soft sand, I realize this isn’t a resort, this is a palm tree infested prison.
CHAPTER 16
Colin Bryce Hamilton – Active Now
Britney Lind: u there?
Colin Bryce Hamilton: yeah
Britney Lind: I’m in HK! Just got in last night. We should go for coffee or something.
Britney Lind: If u want.
Colin Bryce Hamilton: I’m on a direct booking in Mauritius. I’ll be back in a week.
Britney Lind: is that in China? Colin Bryce Hamilton: Africa. Britney Lind: that sux,
Colin Bryce Hamilton: yeah
Britney Lind: the agency put me in an apartment with three russian girls, I keep worrying they’re going to steal my sunglasses. Have you ever had russians steal your sunglasses?
Colin Bryce Hamilton: No Britney Lind: Cause I heard they’ll totally steal ur sunglasses. Britney Lind: r u ok? u seem bummed or something.
Colin Bryce Hamilton: I’m fine.
Britney Lind: I’m sorry about what happened that last night in Spain.
Britney Lind: One day we’ll look back and laugh at that night. Right?
Britney Lind: That snapping noise was crazy loud. I thought we busted the bed.
Colin Bryce Hamilton: A broken bed would have been better.
Britney Lind: LOL ur so funny!!!!!!
Britney Lind: r u mad at me? y so quiet… Colin Bryce Hamilton: I’m not.
Britney Lind:
Britney Lind: We’re ok right?
Colin Bryce Hamilton: what do you mean? Britney Lind: like you and I. We’re ok, right?
Colin Bryce Hamilton: We’re both alive, if that’s what you mean. In that sense we’re ok.
Britney Lind: u know what I mean. We’re ok, right? Britney Lind: like…
Britney Lind: …us
Britney Lind: I know we’ve been apart this past while and we haven’t really spoken. Colin Bryce Hamilton: we haven’t spoken at all. Britney Lind: we’re speaking now.
Britney Lind: I just thought it’d be nice since we’re in HK together if we could pick up where we left off. Colin Bryce Hamilton: pick up what? Britney Lind: u know silly.
Colin Bryce Hamilton: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?
Britney Lind: u and me! I don’t take every model back to my hotel room.
Colin Bryce Hamilton: I have to go to sleep. Have an early call time.
Britney Lind: poor baby. Ok, we can chat again tomorrow.
Colin Bryce Hamilton: The internet here is pretty unreliable. Not sure if I’ll be online soon or what.
Britney Lind: Ok, when you get back to HK we’ll meet up.
Colin Bryce Hamilton: night
Britney Lind: goodbye, xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox!!!! Britney Lind: love u!
Colin Bryce Hamilton Messenger Active less than a minute ago.
CHAPTER 17
Colin Bryce Hamilton
There definitely are palm trees in Hell.
5 people like this.
WALKING TO THE north shore beach just before sunset, I haven’t spoken to anyone but room service in over 48 hours. Taylor shot a single yesterday. One shot took one day. It’s like we’re shooting a Hollywood film and not a crap ad. I got messages to meet the crew for lunch and dinner, I didn’t bother going but now I’m needed to actually shoot something. I can’t skip that. Though I thought about it.
My iPhone buzzes, and it’s a message from Marek.
Bro, bro, this u, bro?
http://youtu.be/DTRcskwiRRA
As I click the link, I realize bro makes up roughly 60% of Marek’s sentence and that he might be leaning a little too much on its usage. A video starts to play and the music, the letters in impact font, the cool squiggly cross fade to the first cut, it’s all too familiar—and I know why.
It’s my YouTube video. And it’s got fucking 21,008 views. Terror engulfs me. This can’t happen. I deleted it.
I scroll down and see it’s not from my YouTube account. It’s been posted by someone called HI-Larryouz666 and the caption reads:
Reposted by popular demand! Catwalk fail with Model Idiot! I know I should close YouTube. I know I should text Marek back and deny all knowledge of this video’s existence. I know I should definitely not scroll down and read the comments section. But I can’t help myself.
Glancing, for no longer than a fraction of a second, this is what I read:
Shelly Conte: Hahahaha is this for real?!?
****STREETHOWITZER****: EAT A DICK BITCH!!
NUT HUSTLA6969: LOLZ wht a dum azz!!!! MODLEDS SUX!!!! HAMYOLO: BWAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAAHAHA stopid moron!
As I walk towards the beach, I pocket the phone te
lling myself this isn’t happening.
“Hi there, stranger,” Marcel says, taking a break from setting up his tripod. “Where’ve you been?”
I shrug, which quenches Marcel’s superficial curiosity. He’s the sort of guy that has to ask because that’s what Mr. Perfect would do. Deep down, I know I could’ve been maimed by thresher sharks and Marcel would make a concerned face, nod and go back to sorting out his tripod.
“Good, you wore your swim suit,” Genevieve looks me up and down with her arms crossed. “We don’t have wardrobe for you today. I want you to look natural, so no make-up or hair either. Can you jump in and out of the water and brush your hair back with your hands?”
Normally, this would be a perfect excuse to showcase my ripped body as I jog to the water. Yet, despite having nothing but time I haven’t done a single sit-up, save for sitting up in bed to reach for another piece of pork knuckle—which they do really well at the resort. I drag my fat ass into the water.
When I get out, Taylor is standing in front of the camera in a black bikini. She’s laughing at something Marcel is saying, and this confirms for me that she has had sex with him in the past two days. Genevieve is grinning too, and this makes me think threesome. I hate Marcel.
“Hey, what have you been up to?” Taylor says, a faint smile still on her lips from whatever witticism Marcel was barfing up.
My first instinct is to say something that elevates me. I should tell her I’ve been snorkeling with manta rays, or I’ve been examining the bohemian lifestyle of the Mauritian artists—anything but the truth that I’ve been sitting in my room trying to shadow my sister’s activities using a combination of WhatsApp and Instagram.
Which isn’t working very well. More disturbingly, both mediums have been unusually stagnant for me. I’ve received no new messages or comments in days. Even Sheldon, who I count on liking everything I post and is good for a couple admiring messages a week, has gone silent. No likes, no nothing. I’ve got no energy to think up a euphemism for what I’ve been doing.
“I’ve been doing nothing,” I say. “Sitting around.”
“Fun times,” she says.
Though I’m shirtless, I don’t make any effort to keep my muscles taut. I’m staring past Taylor at some sunglasses wearing couple who are whispering to each other and watching us wide eyed like we’re going to juggle axes or burst into flame once the shooting starts instead of just standing here watching the sunset.
“How about you?” I find myself staring into her green eyes. “Hanging out with Marcel and Genevieve?”
“Not too much,” she says, glancing at Marcel, who appears to be sharing a deep conversation with Genevieve about his unbuttoned linen shirt, which allows an unadulterated view of his curly-hair-covered gut. “Marcel’s nice, but he’s sort of crazy. After our double the other day, he and Genevieve got so drunk and stoned that she puked on herself and fell into the pool. It was a disaster.”
I glance at Genevieve looking every bit the stoic fashionista bitch in her cliché dark glasses, and realize, I would sell my sperm to see her vomiting in the pool.
“Staff had to fish her out and the entire time Marcel was doing this solo salsa next to the bar in a pair of fluorescent green swim tights that I think were women’s. It was pretty embarrassing.”
I begin to suspect that Taylor did not have sex with Marcel.
“All right, need you guys to hold hands and watch the sunset,” Marcel interrupts. “We don’t need to see your faces, just your backs. How’s that for easy?” Taylor and I face the sunset and my hand dangles at my side until her hand finds it. She clasps her delicate fingers around my palm. Her long elegant hand feels soft and small. And I can’t remember the last time I held a girl’s hand outside of work. I can’t remember the last time I held someone’s hand for real.
“That’s perfect, hold that,” Marcel’s camera starts snapping away.
The sun begins its slow descent into the ocean and everything is bathed in orange light. This is the magic hour—those last moments when the sun is taking the long way through the atmosphere and the sky acts like a giant multi-coloured scrim. Photographers love it. There’s also magic hour when the sun first pops up in the morning, but everyone in fashion is too fucking lazy to get up that early.
Taylor is squinting at the sun burning red on the horizon when she says, “You really did nothing these past two days? What’s up, don’t you like the beach?”
“Have a lot on my mind.” Like my soon-to-be-exploited teenage sister. “Really? Are you taking an online photography class or studying to be a personal trainer on the weekends?” She says, as Marcel shouts French commands to his assistants. “Aren’t those the textbook exit strategies for male models?”
“I’m not doing anything like that.” I’m wondering why I would need an exit strategy from modelling. I glance over and Taylor’s smirking at me. “It’s my little sister.”
She stops smirking. “Really?”
I’m focused on the horizon wondering what kind of minor injury Jasmine could sustain to stop her from doing the Elle shoot and not cause any long-term physical or psychological damage, when I realize Taylor is staring at me.
“You’re really worried about her,” she says. “Is she ok?”
“I’ll find out when I get back.”
”Oh.” Taylor looks down at the sand.
We stand there, hand in hand, as Marcel starts shooting. It’s a good thing standing still with our backs to the camera is passing for some stellar modelling because I don’t have the energy to do anything else.
I think about my sister and Maxwell; me and Damian whoring ourselves; Apple, who cradles my career in her hands, being much too preoccupied with Hello Kitty to be a well-adjusted adult woman, and how all I want to eat is fried everything. Fuck. My head feels like it’s going to shatter.
“Do you think we’re on our honeymoon, or just dating?” Taylor curtails my impending anxiety attack.
“What?”
“The people we’re supposed to be,” she says, not looking at me. “What’s our back story?”
“Probably dating,” I say, happy to have something else to think about as Marcel’s Nikon snaps away behind us. “I’m probably trying to impress you with an expensive beach vacation.”
Though I can’t turn my head, I’m concentrating on Taylor in my peripheral vision. She’s grinning. I think she’s flirting with me. Again.
“It’s working. Whoever I am is impressed,” she says, and her hand tightens on mine. “I wonder if that makes me a gold digger.”
Her thumb flits over the back of my hand. “Probably.”
Taylor laughs.
She’s definitely flirting.
The ocean breeze blows her hair in wisps across her face, the setting sun sparkles in her green eyes, and I’m not entirely certain why Taylor has suddenly warmed up.
Maybe it’s respect for my work as a model. Maybe she recognizes my dedication to the craft. Maybe she’s realized that in an industry of amateurs, I’m a rare professional.
“I hope your little sister’s going to be ok.” She says. Or maybe it’s pity.
CHAPTER 18
Colin Bryce Hamilton (no status)
Colin Bryce Hamilton: Hey Sheldon.
Sheldon Ferguson: It doesn’t say you’re online. Colin Bryce Hamilton: I’m hiding from a girl.
Sheldon Ferguson: guess that’s sort of an occupational hazard for you.
Colin Bryce Hamilton: hahaha! Yeah.
Colin Bryce Hamilton: So I’m still in Africa.
Sheldon Ferguson: Right.
Colin Bryce Hamilton: Yeah, it is pretty cool.
Colin Bryce Hamilton: How’re you and that Russian chick doing?
Sheldon Ferguson: Valina Colin Bryce Hamilton: Oh, thought she was Russian. I’ve never heard of Valina. Is that in Europe?
Sheldon Ferguson: her name is Valina.
Colin Bryce Hamilton: Right, you mustn’t have told me her name. Sheldon Ferguson: I did a
nd we’re doing really good actually. Colin Bryce Hamilton: Told you.
Sheldon Ferguson: Told me what?
Colin Bryce Hamilton: I told you things would work out. Sheldon Ferguson: you did?
Colin Bryce Hamilton: I totally did.
Sheldon Ferguson: that’s what you meant when you said I should just tell her I’m rich and she’ll be with me forever?
Sheldon Ferguson: is that what you meant by ‘she’s got a whiff of money and now she’s going in for the kill?’
Colin Bryce Hamilton: That sounds really terrible taken out of context.
Sheldon Ferguson: in what context would that sound nice? Colin Bryce Hamilton: That’s not really what I meant.
Sheldon Ferguson: you meant that as ‘you two are made for each other and you both should be very happy?’
Sheldon Ferguson: anyway if you had bothered to look at my instastory any time in the past week you’d know that I’m in a relationship with Valina.
Colin Bryce Hamilton: That’s good. Happy for you.
Sheldon Ferguson: And it’s not because of my family’s money. Colin Bryce Hamilton: Sure.
Sheldon Ferguson: What do you mean by that? Colin Bryce Hamilton: I mean sure.
Sheldon Ferguson: I have to go. Colin Bryce Hamilton: Ok, say hi to your Russian girl. I’ll see you in HK.
Sheldon Ferguson: Valina.
Sheldon Ferguson last seen less than a minute ago.
CHAPTER 19
Colin Bryce Hamilton
Everything’s coming together for one last day in the sun. #KnewItWould #AlwaysBelieve
14 people like this.
IT’S THE FINAL day of the shoot and I’m back where it started: the end of the dock. Just standing here makes my back tingle.
“Is this where you had your repeated backflip fail?” Taylor smiles, adjusting the sarong draped around her waist.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, watching Marcel on shore as he locks the legs on his tripod.
Catwalk Fail Page 15