Catwalk Fail

by Jason Godfrey

  I’m here to hit the reset button on me and Taylor. I’m here to squash the awkwardness caused by a tequila-induced failed hook up. I’m here to silence the unflattering rumours spreading through the fashion industry concerning my genitals. It’s time to stop being a passenger on the runaway train that has become my life.

  When I spot Taylor standing near the bar, her brown hair pulled back showcasing a delicate jawline, eyes green and gleaming in the strobing lights, I begin elbowing my way harder through the crowd of designer-clad torsos. Then I see Damian.

  He’s double-fisting bottles of Moet and grinning like he’s in an awful Sears Sunday flyer as he takes his place next to Taylor. Fuck it. The only way Damian wouldn’t be here sponging free alcohol, is if he’d been crippled by syphilis. Not even the appearance of this man-whoring alcoholic can faze me. “Colin, is that you?” a sickly-sweet voice says behind me.

  I turn and Vogue Bitch, wearing a black Gucci dress that hugs her with a conviction I’m sure she hasn’t been hugged with in years, is standing there clutching a flute of champagne. Though I try not to, I’m pretty sure I wince.

  “I haven’t seen you in a while,” she smirks, detaching herself from a circle of similarly rich, unimpressed looking fossils compensating for their empty emotional lives by wearing expensive dresses. “I do hope you’ve been taking care of yourself.”

  Her eyes meander to my crotch when she says this, and I wish I had an economy-size canister of bear repellent to empty into her face.

  “I have been, thanks,” I say, craning my neck to look over my shoulder at Damian and Taylor who are laughing as they’re corralled for a photo by some stupid event photographer.

  “I’ve still got your Armani suit at my place,” Vogue Bitch says in my ear, and I pause. Showing up at the Gucci casting in a five-thousand-dollar suit, even Boyd would have to be impressed. “Why don’t you grab a drink and stay a while. You remember Marcy and Esther from that night at my place?”

  I really don’t, but nod at them anyway and it makes me feel that much shittier knowing these two saw me shadow Vogue Bitch into her bedroom like a needy sponge. Fuck the Armani. I wish I could say that with sincerity.

  Lingering beside Vogue Bitch, I glance back at Damian and Taylor. She’s puckering her lips, leaning into his cheek like she’s going to give him a big kiss and he’s wearing this idiotic grin while giving the camera a thumbs up. Nothing is lamer than trying to be candidly fun in a seen-around-town photo, but when the flash goes off they collapse into each other laughing like they invented good times.

  “Well, how about it?” Vogue Bitch’s chalky face brings me back to my own harrowing reality. “Have a drink, Colin.”

  She’s shoving a flute into my hand and my stomach is in my throat because that rollercoaster is suddenly diving into a motherfucking abyss.

  “How about a photo?” A photographer appears holding up his Nikon. We crowd together. Vogue Bitch and her rich bitch posse standing proud, with me next to them dead-eyed like a prize marlin caught on a fishing expedition. The flash whites everything out, and when my eyes readjust my world has become a montage of geriatric laughs and clinking glasses. Taylor and Damian are gone. And so is my new-found confidence.

  All I can salvage from this wasted night is nabbing that Armani. My self-esteem has plunged so low that whatever degrading sex act Vogue Bitch mentioned before—a Dingy Llama or an Untidy Unicorn—suddenly seems doable.

  “We’re going to have fun tonight,” Vogue Bitch says, her lips forming an unintentional sneer, and I’m reminded that it’s a Sloppy Aardvark.

  Fuck.

  My iPhone buzzes. It’s a message from Jasmine.

  Maxwell just called! Getting my prints tonight! On my way to his place!!

  I stare at my phone in a stupor. I have to go. I put my drink down and turn.

  “What are you doing?” Vogue Bitch says with a hand on her hip. “I’ve got to go,” I say, texting Jasmine for the address.

  “Well, that’s a little rude,” Vogue Bitch turns to her friends. “That’s the problem with models, girls. They can be a little flighty.”

  “Sorry…” I apologize, mostly out of reflex, as kicking Vogue Bitch in the shin and calling her a cunt probably wouldn’t be very socially acceptable.

  “That’s fine, Colin, you’re dismissed.” She looks away. “I hope you’re not having a flare up—you know, down there.”

  Vogue Bitch gestures to my crotch like she’s pointing out a dead cockroach in a wet market, and her clique giggles. Whatever. I can get another chance at the Armani, but I’ve only got once chance to save Jasmine from Maxwell Chen.

  Bursting out of the elevator and into a long corridor of an industrial building in Aberdeen, I hear talking around the corner.

  “Thanks for dropping by,” someone says like they’re talking to a kid, and I know this is Maxwell.

  “No problem!” Another voice blurts, barely able to contain their excitement, and I know this is my sister. I stride around the corner as a red metal door at the end of the hallway is closing. Running, I kick one of my Onitsuka Tiger’s into the gap and the door hits my sneaker rather than bolting shut.

  “—hope you’ve brought an appetite, I know I did,” I hear Maxwell laugh as I hold the door ajar. I pause to take a breath so it looks like I didn’t sprint from the taxi to get here, which is exactly what I did.

  “Hey,” I call, as I swing the door open. “Sorry, I’m late.”

  Banks’ Drowning (Dave Glass Animals Remix) is playing and the door opens on a dimly lit lounge area with wide leather sofas. Across the room embers burn orange in a red brick fireplace. There’s even a grey fur rug in the middle off the floor. This place is like the set of some high-class European porno.

  Maxwell’s eyebrows raise above the gold rims of his glasses when he sees me.

  “Hey,” Jasmine grins. “You remember my brother, right?”

  “Yeah,” Maxwell says, momentarily stunned before he cocks his head and points his finger at me like it’s a barrel of a gun. “Conrad, right?”

  “Colin,” I say, and Maxwell stares at me. “Nice place. Is it yours?”

  “Sort of,” Maxwell nods. “It’s a private kitchen I own with a couple of friends. Just a fun venture. Not a big deal.”

  It must be nice to open a restaurant—oh sorry, private kitchen—in one of the most expensive cities in the world just for fun. Maxwell leads us out of the make-out cave and into a larger room where dishes line a long marble counter top backed by a wooden shelf filled with glass jars of ingredients.

  “I had our chef prepare some tapas before he left. There’s probably not enough food for three.” He waves at the dishes. “I didn’t know you were going to crash things, Connor.”

  “Colin,” I say, and he smiles at me caressing his decrepit mustache with one hand. On the counter is a bottle of red wine and two glasses. I wonder how often Maxwell lures underage girls into his no big deal restaurant sex trap. “I didn’t mean to surprise you, but you mentioned shooting with me. I figured this would be a good time to talk details. After you give Jasmine her prints, of course.”

  “Jazzy Jasmine,” Maxwell says, still smiling this eerie fucking plastic grin as his gaze turns to my sister. “I hope you won’t be upset, especially after our special shoot didn’t last as long as I would’ve liked.”

  “Oh, that’s ok,” Jasmine says.

  “I actually got a strange call concerning my little niece that night.” Maxwell frowns for the first time I’ve ever seen. “That’s why I had to leave. Someone had told me something terrible had happened. And about Candace. She has a yearning for the simple things in life. Sophisticated wines that indulge her palate, an education that elevates her above the masses, a prestigious address in Manhattan, Hong Kong, or Paris. The simple things. It’s sick the things some sad little people will do to get your attention. It turned out, my niece was fine, thank God.”

  “People are animals,” Jasmine says. I nod.

  “Lo
oking back, the call was quite obviously a fake. Though the infraction they described sounded credible. Candace does become livid with a bad pinot. But clearly, whoever called wasn’t very intelligent. It was probably someone whose mother had submerged them for too long while bathing as a child,” Maxwell says, and I bite my tongue. The call was pretty good considering I came up with it on the fly. Cut me some fucking slack. “Well, Jazzy Jasmine, I apologize for that mess, and I must apologize to you yet again because, silly me, I realize I left my prints—your prints—on my laptop in my place in Soho.”

  “Oh,” my sister says, her face dropping.

  “But it’s nothing we can’t fix. Come with me now and I can give them to you.” Maxwell starts for the door. “And Colin, about that shoot. Let’s go for it! There are a couple British GQs in the lounge, I shot the fashion spread in both. Let me know which ones you like and we can do something similar for you.”

  Maxwell Chen saying this is the fashion version of Elon Musk handing over a blank cheque and shrugging when you ask him how much. “Enjoy the tapas, have some wine and little Jazzy Jasmine and I will jet over to my place and be back soon,” he says, moving to the door. Jasmine gives me a giddy finger wave, all too happy to step into oblivion.

  “Why don’t we all go,” I say jeopardizing my fashion blank cheque. “Split a cab.”

  “Taxis? Who takes those?” Maxwell says. “I’ve got a Ducati.”

  “A motorbike? Cool!” Jasmine says.

  “I can follow in a taxi,” I say.

  “Well, I ride real fucking fast.” Maxwell smirks and Jasmine’s eyes shine a little brighter. “Doesn’t that sound like fun, Jazzy Jasmine?”

  “I’ve never been on a bike,” she nods. I watch my sister turning to putty in Maxwell’s perverted hands.

  “And the address is hard to find,” Maxwell says. “The signs are all in Chinese, so I can read them… but you’ll never find it. Don’t worry. Relax here. We’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

  “It’s okay, Colin,” Jasmine says. “We’ll be quick. I’m sure Maxwell’s going to drive faster than a taxi.”

  “But, Jas,” I say, mining my brain for an excuse. “You know, motorbikes are dangerous.”

  Maxwell raises his eyebrows. I know I’m about to burn whatever goodwill I have with him but I can’t let him ride off into a urine-stained night with my sister.

  “I’m sure Maxwell is safe,” Jasmine says.

  “You don’t understand,” I say, fabricating as I speak. “I never told you but when I was a kid, I saw a motorbike accident.”

  Jasmine and Maxwell stare at me.

  “This guy was on the highway weaving around on his motorbike and got sideswiped by a car. He launched off his bike. Airborne,” I say. “He smashed down on the pavement and the poor guy landed right in front of a tractor trailer. There was no time to react.”

  I ram my palms together mimicking this fabricated demise.

  “Even worse, the trailer was one of those double-decker kinds hauling a load of cars. So, in effect, this guy got run over by six cars and a truck all at the same time.”

  Jasmine puts her hand over her mouth. Maxwell just stares. “Then he caught fire.”

  Maybe that last part was too far.

  “Oh god,” Jasmine says. “That’s horrible.”

  “It was. I don’t like to think about it,” I say. Maxwell crosses his arms and furls his brow like he smells bullshit. “I don’t like motorbikes. That’s why I’ve never bought one.”

  Also, because I’ve never needed to lean on a vehicular extension of my penis to impress girls. Lame ass, Maxwell.

  “Dude. We’re not going to get run over by a tractor trailer hauling cars,” Maxwell says. “And then catch fire.”

  “But if anything ever happened,” I say, as Jasmine stares at me like I just revealed Uncle Bert used to play sock puppets in the closet with me. “I’d feel like I was responsible. Let’s all take a taxi. It’s safer.”

  “Maybe we should just take a taxi,” Jasmine turns to him. “For my brother.”

  Maxwell is squinting at me from beneath his gold-rimmed glasses and I’m actually wishing he would turn his focus back on my sister. Being watched by him, his eyes full of untold buckets of perversion, it’s like I’m being watched by pure creepiness. Then he checks his Tag Heuer.

  “Clearly, this isn’t going to happen tonight. I need to be up early and a taxi at this time will take fucking forever.”

  “But the prints,” my sister frowns.

  “I’m having an opening night party at fashion week,” Maxwell says. “That’s the next time slot I’ve got free. Jazzy Jasmine, you’re invited. I’ll get you your prints then.”

  “Okay,” She says.

  “Cool, we’ll be there,” I say. “And I’ll text you about that test shoot!” But Maxwell doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even look at me, and I know I’ve traded that fashion blank cheque for a momentary delay of the inevitable.

  CHAPTER 24

  Colin Bryce Hamilton

  Sometimes modelling really does suck.

  #LoveMyJob #ItsComplicated

  27 people like this.

  EVERY MALE MODEL should carry a make-up compact, for those jobs where there is no makeup artist—yes, that shockingly happens—or when the makeup is layered so thick you look like a cheap strumpet. My compact is from MAC because the black design and clean logo match my portfolio, but also because their powder puff is gentle on my skin. Make up is a necessity for all models, no matter the gender.

  Staring at myself in the mirror as I thump along at a frantic pace on the treadmill at Volume Fitness, I make a note to use my powder puff on the dark circles under my eyes. The stress is really getting to me, and I’m seeing the signs.

  Fatigue is plastered to my face, my eight-pack is fading into a disgraceful six, and I can still taste the oily pastry from the three quiches at breakfast. I tap the console on the treadmill, increasing the speed, and now I’m not as much jogging as I am sprinting for my life. I’m sweating so badly, my clothes are so drenched, it looks like I was caught in a typhoon. A guy passes giving me a look like I’m trying to commit suicide by treadmill— and he might be right—but this punishment is necessity. The Gucci casting is fast approaching and getting Boyd to book me is going to be a grinding uphill battle.

  This is why over the past four hours at the gym, I’ve worked my bi’s, tri’s, pec’s, glutes, back, shoulders, and of course my abs. This is also why when the treadmill beeps to a stop at the one hour and thirty-minute mark—and I come off feeling so rubber legged that for the first few steps, I’m walking like a new born deer—I’m still not finished.

  Being diesel isn’t just about being ripped, it’s about performance. I need to work on my runway walk.

  After catching my breath and using three towels to stem my sweating, I walk to the centre of the long entrance hallway. I’m happy I’m in Volume working on my craft and not Physique. Guys in nut hugging shorts and little tank tops steal glances and give me approving nods. This is exactly the kind of supportive atmosphere an artist needs to create.

  I take a deep breath. Then I start.

  I’m marching down the corridor playing with my walk. Exaggerating the sway of my shoulders, I move left to right like I’m in a hip-hop video. My legs are shaky with fatigue, but I fight past it. Next, I try walking straight up and rigid as a stick. I toy with my stride lengths making them ¾ the norm to see where that brings me creatively.

  As I walk back and forth in the hallway. I maintain one tiny change, one single thing the average person wouldn’t notice, but in the fashion world is the difference between opening the Gucci Show or staying home watching reality TV.

  I pout to change the feeling in my face, slow my strut, and something clicks. An artist knows a eureka moment and I know I’m on the verge of model innovation, when someone taps my shoulder.

  “Hello,” says a husky Russian accented voice that takes me out of my concentration, and the train of insp
iration leaves without me. This saddens me, but when I see who tapped me, an enormous pout takes over my face like I’m in one of those shitty paintings of sad-hobo-clowns.

  It’s Svetlana. She grins at me.

  “I think you avoiding me, but see you walk by my yoga class many times,” She cocks a hip. “Maybe you need something?”

  Yeah, and maybe not. I heard the only offer Svetlana has after Hong Kong is from an agency in Mumbai. On the fashion hierarchy that is way down there. This makes me feel embarrassed that I tried to have sex with her.

  “I’m a little busy,” I say, focusing ahead to regain my concentration. “Doing what?” She says, and I keep walking. She gets this smirk like walking away from someone is a Russian flirt. “What you busy?”

  “I’m—just—I’m doing stuff.” I say. I get to the end of the corridor and turn trying to concentrate on my head tilting.

  “What stuff? You walking.” She shrugs. “Only walking.”

  I sigh and speed up. Svetlana speeds up to match, her pony tail bobbing with each step.

  Then I slow down. She does the same.

  “You funny guy.” She grins. “I like.”

  It’s common knowledge that ignoring girls makes them rabid for attention, but I never knew practically running away from them is an aphrodisiac. I glance at her, and the extreme sex deprivation is making me more delusional than I thought because—whether it’s her little running shorts and sports bra, or me being pumped with testosterone from blasting my body today—I’m starting to think hooking up with Svetlana could be a good idea. And I really know it’s not.

  I need to get out of here.

  Without saying anything or even looking at Svetlana, I head towards the change room.

  “Now you finished,” Svetlana says. “I change too.”

  She says this like she thinks we can hang out after. I keep looking over my shoulder as I walk away, waiting for her to disappear from view into the lady’s change-room. When she does, I turn around and head straight to the exit.