Catwalk Fail

by Jason Godfrey

  “Nah.” I shrug like I don’t care, even though I spent all morning refining my new walk for the Gucci casting. “Jas, no matter what happens, you’ve shot with a famous photographer. That’s something.”

  My sister frowns not looking convinced.

  “Maybe when your contract ends, you can move on to university,” I say. “You could still apply now and start school right after this.”

  Jasmine squints at me like she’s trying to decide if I’m joking. “I don’t even know what I would take.”

  “Nursing or gender studies…” I say trying to think of other programs that might have low male enrollment rates.

  “I don’t think university is for me,” she frowns. “Then what do you want to do?”

  “My phone takes really blurry photos, I want to get a real camera.” She grins, as a muffled thumping starts from beyond her bedroom door. “Like Dad has.”

  If my sister doesn’t think university is for her, I doubt she can navigate the confusion of buttons on the back of a Canon.

  “You need a realistic plan, Jas,” I say, as the dull thumping continues outside. “Getting a camera like Dad’s isn’t much of a long-term plan. That’s why university is so important.”

  “Not everyone has to go to university.”

  “Yeah—” And I can’t keep my train of thought with the pounding outside. “What’s that noise?”

  “It’s just Eduardo.” She smiles and shakes her head. “Sometimes he puts his mattress against the wall and punches it. He likes boxing.”

  As Icona Pop is singing if you fucking with me then you gotta be crazy I’m picturing Freduardo, a joint hanging out of his mouth, literally knocking the stuffing out of a futon. This is basically the poster image for getting a higher education.

  “See? Go to school,” I say. “You don’t want to end up beating your mattress for exercise.”

  “I’m not going to university!” Jasmine blurts, and then bites her lip. “Maybe not ever, ok? Why can’t you just help me?” I am trying to help, but don’t say anything as the smell of Lost in El Salvador lingers and sound of Freduardo senselessly beating of a mattress fills the room.

  “I want to go to Milano,” Jasmine says, her hands clasped in her lap, and her eyes big and brown as she looks at me. “I’ll work hard to do it, just like you. But I need help, and you’re the only one I feel comfortable asking.”

  I exhale through my nose.

  And before I tell Jasmine every modelling tip I’ve ever learned—including all I know about the Italian market, emulating the runway walks on FTV, and above all, always appearing confident in the face of fashion—I promise myself that I will book the Gucci show and I will impress Giovanna at IMD.

  Because my sister wants to go to Milano.

  The Gucci casting is on a huge outdoor patio on the 10th floor of The New Trade Building in Kowloon Bay. Two sets of rattan furniture that look like they belong on a rooftop lounge in Soho are covered, armrest to armrest, in waiting models.

  Models are normally a gregarious, clueless happy bunch, but Boyd’s reputation precedes him and everyone is sitting in silence clutching their portfolios in sweaty hands. Even the Brazilians have stopped samba dancing and, though there are at least fifteen of them clinging to a rattan sofa like it’s a life raft, there’s barely a clatter of Portuguese. Boyd’s aura is like a black hole, warping space and time and making the impossible real.

  I hand my comp card to an assistant with a pile of comp cards and she checks my name off a list. There are no seats left, but I spot Damian and Marek sitting against the wall in the corner. They nod and I take a spot on the floor next to them.

  Boyd isn’t even visible. The actual casting must be happening around the corner because I see a girl stride into view where she puts one hand on a hip and poses to the view of the city before turning and disappearing back behind the wall. She’s casting.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Twenty-five-fucking minutes,” Marek says. “They aren’t going in order, they’re just calling in whoever they want. Fuckers.”

  “It’s Boyd,” Damian says. “He does it to mess with our heads.” That sounds about right.

  “At least he’s not making anyone prance around in queer tights for the casting,” Marek says. Well, that sucks. I’ve been drinking nothing but red wine for the past two days to help lose water weight, and this is the most ripped I’ve looked since before my binging in Mauritius. I’m dying of thirst. I brushed my teeth this morning and had the sudden urge to swallow my spit water. My mouth is dry as an overcooked turkey.

  The girl who was casting is finished and rushes to the elevator. We watch in silence as the next model is called in. I think about practicing my new strut, but can’t do it in front of all these other guys. I don’t want to tip my hand. Instead I find myself asking questions I don’t care to know the answer to.

  “How’ve you been, Damian?”

  “Pretty good, bru.” He grins. “Just got back from a catalogue gig in China and I’m booked for two jobs this week here.”

  How a guy who wears the same Diesel jeans, and an assortment of shirts bought from the Hong Kong ladies market, consistently gets modelling work—I don’t fucking know. Damian takes zero pride in himself.

  “Oh, bru. Angela’s having another one of her private parties,” Damian says, glancing around like he’s peddling meth. The mention of Vogue Bitch brings an unwanted flashback of geriatrics in lingerie. “She’s promised it won’t get weird like last time. And she said to tell you: your suit is waiting.”

  “Really? When is this?” I find myself asking out of reflex when thinking about the Armani.

  “What are you guys talking about?” Marek says.

  “Pretty soon, bru,” Damian says, ignoring Marek. “Come and we’ll chill like last time.”

  It’s too late to use for the Gucci casting but being spotted in Armani at fashion week by event photographers and Giovanna would be great. An Armani suit has so many practical applications.

  “Oh, shit!” Marek shouts, breaking the silence and making the Brazilians across the room jump off their rattan sofa. “You guys are talking about the suit-for-sex lady! I’ll go!”

  Holy fucking shit, people are lining up to whore themselves out. I feel like telling Marek to have some dignity. At least, I’m hesitant. Before I can give Damian an answer an assistant holding a clipboard marches around the corner.

  “Colin!”

  I stand and shrug, expecting Marek and Damian to be pissed about me getting called ahead of them. But they’re too busy ironing out the details of their man-whoring to notice.

  Strictly speaking, without Milano I can still model. Meaning I can continue posing in front of cameras for money but, instead of them being operated by top shooters, they’ll be manned by glorified wedding photographers. I can keep doing runway but it won’t be for famous fashion brands in world class-venues, it’ll be for the vendor in shop 4b in some suburban shopping plaza. The modelling that exists outside of Milano is an industry I don’t want to be part of.

  The man who holds the keys to my future is sitting at the table before me, stuffed into a little sweater vest, scribbling notes in a Moleskine notebook. He hasn’t bothered to look up, though I’ve been standing here for two minutes.

  When Boyd finally does, he just stares at me. There’s no greeting, no flash of recognition in his shark-like eyes to show that he knows who I am.

  “This is Colin,” the assistant says, handing him my card. Boyd studies it as if he’s seeing me for the first time. He must remember me. I’ve worked with him more than any other model waiting on the patio. At the very least he should remember when he replaced me at the Hugo Boss show in front of everyone. But I get nothing.

  I know this is part of his repertoire of bullshit, part of exercising his power over me and the rest of the models, and if I don’t play along I can kiss Milano good bye.

  “Ok, Colin.” He says Colin like it’s some Estonian name with
too many vowels in it. “Can you walk for us, please?”

  There’s no conversation. No pleasantries. It’s time. I walk past the corner into sight of the hushed models. I stop and face Boyd.

  He has his hands clasped on the table, waiting. This is it.

  I stand straight, take a breath, and start my strut.

  Moving toward Boyd, I don’t even notice him anymore. I’m walking at 4/5 my normal stride length with 25% more sway in my left arm than in my right. This makes my walk calculatedly lopsided, which adds swagger. This is the attitude. Though I sway slightly I keep my back straight and keep my movement deliberate. I use my improved runway face—squinted eyes with a slightly jutted out bottom lip for a more elegant sensuality. This is the style.

  I pose in front of Boyd, but don’t make eye contact. Like on stage during a show, I always stare above the heads of the crowd and the photographer’s flashes. Then I turn and strut back to where I started. I get there, turn and pose, but Boyd says nothing. I repeat my new walk. Never stop walking until they tell you too or it looks like you want to stop. It looks like you lack confidence.

  I’m still using my new runway face, as I move toward Boyd for the second time, but underneath I’m grinning. No missteps, no stumbles, and even better, everything feels right. I’ve nailed the strut.

  “That’s enough,” Boyd commands, and I stop a few feet from his table. “Colin… Now I remember you.”

  “We’ve worked together.” I’m breathing hard, my underarms damp from nervous sweat. I’m like a dancer right after a successful audition.

  “Of course, of course,” he says. “I recognized the walk. Always the same walk.”

  I can’t move as he shakes his head at me.

  “It’s getting a little boring,” Boyd smirks, his lips mashing together like two pieces of tuna sashimi.

  Kicking over the table, launching comps through the air like scared pigeons before I drop-kick his assistant and proceed to throttle Boyd with my bare hands suddenly seems like a very good idea. Instead, I just stand there.

  The assistant is calling the next model and Boyd is back to writing notes on comps. I turn to leave and he says, “Good-bye, Colin.”

  Good-bye, Milano.

  CHAPTER 26

  Colin Bryce Hamilton

  Calling in favours to get it done. #NoManAnIsland

  8 people like this.

  STAUNTON STREET IS lined with trendy restaurants packed with the lunchtime finance crowd. I come off the escalators looking to meet my sister for lunch, but I can’t see her. Then I realize she’s being obscured by the three-suit-wearing assholes grinning and chatting her up like they’re in a bar.

  “Hey, Jas!” I say, busting through the jerk barricade and wrapping my arm around her.

  “Oh!” Jasmine exclaims as the jerks flinch at my entrance and struggle to mask their disappointment. “Nice talking to you guys!”

  I pull Jasmine away from jerk bag central and into the street.

  “Those guys were so sweet.” She grins looking even skinnier than normal. I start looking for an all-you-can-eat potato buffet, preferably with an ice cream station. “They saw me standing there and thought I was lost, so they came over to help.”

  “Yeah, that’s sweet.” Guys are losers.

  Watching my sister parade down the street, her wavy hair bouncing at her shoulders, making her no-name yellow sun dress look like something from Chanel, I know with conviction that I cannot let her travel to Milano alone.

  “Hey, check it out! I got One Models to advance me payment for that stupid commercial I did.” She stops and un-shoulders her backpack. She opens it, pulling out a little grey camera that looks like it’s from the 80s. “Pretty sweet, hey?”

  “Did someone die and sell their stuff on eBay?”

  “It’s new!” She punches my shoulder. “It’s got an interchangeable lens and shoots like a billion megapixels. And it looks retro-awesome.”

  I really doubt my sister needs anything more complex than the camera on her phone, but don’t say anything. Jasmine holds the camera carefully in both hands, admiring it, and this reminds me of the first Christmas I came home from modelling.

  I’d bought a plush toro from the airport in Madrid. It was terribly kitschy—all black, googly eyes, with stunted horns protruding from its head like the last rounded bit of lip balm from the tube. I admit I didn’t put the most thought or time into the gift, but when Jasmine opened the box, her eyes lit up like I’d brought her a little piece of another world. The toro still sits in her bedroom, useless save for inducing allergic reactions. I wonder when this camera will end up next to it.

  Jasmine points the lens at me and circles, presumably looking for the best angle.

  “Give me a fashion face,” she says.

  I raise one eyebrow at the lens while pursing my lips doing Everyday-Stylish-Suave. This was the first look I developed and it became the backbone of my modelling career.

  “Awesome!” Jasmine laughs as she snaps a shot. “That face is sooooo modelly! It’s hilarious.”

  I grin though I wasn’t joking.

  “Oh my gosh, you casted for Gucci, right?” she says, as we pass restaurants full of financial sector jackasses gawking at her like a sports car they want to drive. “Do you think you got it?”

  “I’ve got a shot,” I say, which is true. If every male model at the casting gets killed or maimed between now and the show, there’s a faint chance Boyd will book me. But I can’t leave it up to him, and have arranged a meet with Sheldon. He knows the managing director at Gucci. For all intents and purposes, that is the big boss at the Gucci show. If the managing director tells Boyd to book me, Boyd will have to book me. “You’ll get it, you’re an awesome model!” Jasmine takes my arm. “And… I’ve got some good news! I booked a show for fashion week! It’s not Gucci, they actually wanted me, but Vivienne Westwood confirmed first! Both shows are happening closing night. I can’t believe I’m gonna be part of fashion week!”

  “Congrats, Jas!” I say, as excitement overload causes her to jump up and down as we walk.

  “Thanks! It’s soooo cool!” She squeals. “The tips you gave me and my diet are paying off.”

  I know I do the same thing, but when I hear my sister equate modelling success with not eating, it makes me feel sick.

  I’m torn. I don’t want her to model, but after seeing her happy like this, I can’t pray to the model gods for IMD to cut her down come fashion week. All I can do is try to feed her.

  “Let’s get a great big steak to celebrate! I say. “Maybe some roasted potatoes and cheesecake after.”

  This is a feast my body definitely does not need, but if it gets my sister to eat a full meal, I’ll do it.

  Jasmine looks at me like I’m babbling sacrilege.

  “Are you kidding? I just booked Vivienne Westwood! I’m going to have to eat nothing but salads until then!”

  “We can eat lighter. Like chicken schnitzel and buttery mashed potatoes.”

  My stomach rolls. I’m making myself hungry.

  “Actually, maybe salads are too heavy and I should stick to liquids, like teas and stuff.” She says. “I’ll have to ask Larissa what she recommends.”

  Before I can tell her that the teenager she shares a bunk bed with is almost certainly not qualified to dole out dieting advice, I notice the banker wankers have stopped staring at my sister. Looking down the street, I see why.

  A blonde girl who must be six-foot-one is striding towards us. She’s wearing a white jump suit from Patrizia Pepe that is low enough across the chest to give the bankers a good glimpse of C-cup cleavage. A guy who is at least three inches shorter than her is holding her hand. I can’t help but think he looks too runty to be with such a specimen. She’s a thoroughbred and he’s a mule. Then I realize the runt is Sheldon.

  “That’s the guy we’re meeting for lunch,” I say to Jasmine.

  Sheldon approaches, wearing the biggest sunglasses he could find—and they’re working. T
hey cover so much of his face, I’m only faintly reminded of craters on the moon.

  “Hi, Colin,” he says.

  “Glad you made it,” I say. “You’re usually out of town for business.”

  “I told my Dad I don’t want to travel so much,” he says. “Valina’s thinking of basing herself here, so I’m trying to do more of my work from the HK office.”

  “What’s Valina?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I’m Valina,” the blonde says, and she kisses me on each cheek. There’s a round of intros, and though I’m happy the bankers are more enthralled with Valina than with Jasmine, it disturbs me that the blonde’s bustier bikini model appeal has everyone thinking she’s prettier than my sister.

  Most men, when faced with the choice between rare beauty or dirty hot, go the porn star route every time. Jasmine is a hundred times more beautiful than this blonde gold-digger. Blonde is easy. Blonde is the right-wing populism of beauty.

  Valina and Jasmine compliment each other’s outfits, and I take Sheldon aside.

  “Before we get to lunch,” I say, looking over my shoulder to make sure Jasmine is out of earshot. “I wanted to ask you a favor.”

  Under his pimple hiding-glasses, I can’t tell if Sheldon’s looking at me, but suspect he’s not. I guess he’s still pissed. He used to comment so often on my Instagram posts I suspected he checked it more than his own account, but he’s been silent since Africa. I’m sure he’ll get over it.

  “Since you know the managing director at Gucci, I was wondering if you could mention me to him, show him my comp online, and get me into their fashion week show,” I say as Sheldon listens, remaining unnaturally still. “Normally, I wouldn’t ask, but I need this show to clinch my next contract in Milano.”

  “You can’t get the show yourself?” Sheldon turns to me. “Aren’t you like a super model?”

  “If it were any other choreographer I would’ve booked it,” I say. “But for some reason this choreographer hates me.”

  “Imagine that,” Sheldon says.