He gives me a picture-ready smile, opens a file-style envelope, and skims through its contents. There’s a small silence. I pretend my shoulders are relaxed and my mind is quiet.
“I’m sure you have a heavy work schedule, as do I, so I won’t keep you long,” he promises.
One by one, very carefully, he begins laying out papers on the coffee table. I take one and pull it closer to my face. It flashes me the death threats I’ve been receiving on my social media. I chuckle at the absurdity of the threats. They began on Twitter a little over two months ago and have escalated in quantity and hate over these past few days. I won’t say that I don’t care what people think or say about me because it’s nearly impossible not to care, but I care for on-line threats and insults no more than I care for the magazines that have been under my bed for a year.
I take another gulp from my drink as I finish reading the paper. This time it doesn’t burn and I get to savor it. I clear my throat, about to say something. “Mr. Black.”
“What’d I say about calling me Oliver?”
“Oliver, is this the reason I’m here?”
“Yes, it is.”
“These are just meaningless threats.” I toss the paper back on the table among the others.
He exhibits no emotion. No sudden frown. No flinch. No passing smile. This rattles me. He is like a statue, unreadable. “The police have reason to believe you’re in danger.”
The mention of the police rattles me a bit.
I chuckle vaguely. “Why? Have they looked into my bank account?”
“I’m sorry?”
“This isn’t dangerous at all. I can’t expect everyone to like me. I’m fine with that. It’s completely normal.”
“Not only have the threats raised concern...,” he continues like I haven’t said a word, “but the kidnapping attempt speaks for itself. I think you should stop and go through this in a questioning, rational way, before something else happens. Why does this involve you? And what is there to do about it?”
“Oh, dial down the concern. The guy probably wanted to rob me for all I know, steal my purse or something.”
“Is that really what you believe?”
“Well, I definitely can’t find a reason to believe there’s a murderous bandit out there committing all kinds of crimes and planning to see me to my grave. I mean why? It doesn’t make any sense.” I take a swig of my drink. “What business is this of yours anyway?”
“The first time you and I were in each other’s presence left me seeking answers.” He leans forward in the sofa, the glass of scotch in hand. “You being signed with E Models New York, I recently spoke to the CEO, Alana Edelman. I let her in on this information of yours. She suggested I do what I see fit. But when you, Alana, and the company were all over the news today, she demanded I handle it. So here I am, handling it.”
“Why do you even know Alana and what does any of it have to do with you?”
“Alana is a good friend of mine,” he explains softly. “And I do play a minor role in E Models.”
“What kind of minor role?”
“I make things run smoothly.”
Of course, it all makes sense. Oliver didn’t have to speak to Kim. He clearly deals with Kim’s superior, the sole woman behind it all, exercising and controlling all my life. Alana Edelman.
“So...you’re some sort of publicist?”
“I’m a lot of things,” he says, and I believe him, I’ve run a background check, “but not a publicist. Look, I keep strict privacy.”
“Privacy? That’s a pretty loaded thing to say. Anybody with a computer or a phone can look you up.”
He levels a look at me. “Have you?”
“No,” I answer, but I’m too jittery to sound credible. “I mean yes. I mean I look everyone up. Everyone looks everyone up.”
His lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile. “Well, I hope you found what you were looking for. Despite the public perception, I value a private life. I tell people as much as I want them to know about me. I’ve answered your questions, now we discuss what we need to discuss.”
I nod as he speaks, pretending to agree, but my thoughts are spinning like a merry-go-round at top speed. “I get it now.” I give in to a chuckle, feeling as though this is all preposterous. “It was you, wasn’t it?”
The dark arches of his brows go up. “Me?”
“You alerted the media!”
“I did no such thing. Why would I do that?”
“It makes sense. You make things run smoothly. And I just so happen to be booked off for the next couple of months now. Nicely done. I’m impressed, really.”
His stare astounds me. He is intriguing, attentive. He crosses his leg over the other, observing me, steepling his fingers in front of him. “I handle business controversy, Sophie. I act as an advisor. Alana trusts me with public affairs and I’m helping to protect the social matters of the company. ”
“Well, I don’t see any controversy here. Just drama perhaps.”
“Yes, I’m working on it.”
“They’re calling me a victim and a perpetrator. I don’t know what’s worse. I don’t even know how to react to that. When did this happen? When did I become the face of a lame soap opera? When did news stop being news?”
“Since news is based on ratings. Since news channels go on for twenty-four hours. That’s a long time to fill,” he explains. “The masses need to be entertained. They take a news story like a kidnapping attempt and they start talking about where the victim gets her hair done, what color car she drives, anything they can think of to fill the time.”
“I’m not a victim,” I say sternly.
We are interrupted by the intercom: Emma, calling from the outer office.
“Mr. Black, Miss Wolfe is on line one for you.”
“Take a message,” Oliver orders, and a thought about who Miss Wolfe might be crosses my mind. Is she his mistress? Is she his source? Someone who’s passing information?
“Sophie, I wish to speak frankly with you in the privacy of this room. We could’ve met anywhere else, but my office is the most private of places. I don’t see anybody in here except for my assistant, Emma. I was at your apartment to discuss this, but we couldn’t speak freely. Not with your roommate and her boyfriend being in the other room.”
“If you have a point, I’d like to hear it.”
“You being in danger is one thing. It’s a cause of concern, yes. But like I just said, I’m on top of this for another reason. This discussion is about the company’s image and reputation in public perception, and how it’s adversely being affected. Now, I need to know if you’ve been receiving other—”
I cut him short. “I’m sorry. What?” I laugh. “What are you saying? That I’m affecting the company’s image because someone tried to kidnap me?”
“Yes.” His voice is below a whisper. “There are all kinds of accusations. E Models is receiving major press.”
“Major press? Well, isn’t there no such thing as bad publicity? Just look at Miley Cyrus and her twerking.”
He sighs, as if I’m already too much to bear.
“E Models is a relatively young agency compared to other more mature, top modeling agencies out there. It’s looking to expand its offices in the U.S.—Miami, Chicago, and San Francisco. The company is not at liberty to lose the trust of its investors. And I’m not at liberty to discuss how many investors have, thus far, wanted out.”
I smile and nod, pretending to digest his words for another second. And then I rise to my feet, shaking my head. “Come on,” I say.
He sits there looking genuinely puzzled. “What?”
“None of this is my fault.” I grab my bag from the sofa. “It seems to be a problem, yes. But it’s not mine.”
“You’re right. It’s not your fault. But when someone tries to kidnap you, it becomes public interest and the media starts discussing it. The media is a powerful force in people’s lives, Sophie. It can manipulate millions. You’ve becom
e a subject, a subject for a reporter, a subject for the police to investigate. I need to remedy that. I need to know if you’ve been getting other threats than the ones you see here.” He looks at the coffee table. “And you have to be honest with me. We have to stay one step ahead. Get in early. If they know something, they’re going to use it against you. I need to know about it first. So what’ll it be?” He quickly whips out a pen from his suit pocket. “Drugs, alcohol, eating disorders, divorce...” He poises the pen over a paper, ready to write. Then he looks at me. “A criminal record?”
Fury gushes through my body. I have to fight to not curse at him. I rise to my feet. “I’m sorry. This is a waste of time and my time is worth as much as yours, Mr. Black. I have a lot of work to get done and my feet hurt like hell in these heels. Thank you for the drink.”
He gets up and goes around the coffee table. “Now wait a minute,” he says, a trace of urgency in his voice. “I’m not done with you.”
“Oh, but I’m very done with you.”
I look into his cerulean eyes and see nothing, not rage, not impatience. “This isn’t personal. It’s strictly business.”
“What a trite thing to say.”
“It’s true. Building a good company image takes decades, but ruining it takes only days. Every company looks to protect not only its assets, but also its image. I’m very good at dealing with public outcry. Believe me when I say I have your best interests in mind.” He speaks to me with the composure of a man for whom my defensiveness is only a quest he is willing to embark on.
I cross my arms tightly across my chest as a mock shield. “What do you know about my best interests? You don’t even know me.”
“Are you always this defensive or are you especially unforthcoming today?” he says slyly. “Because here I was thinking all along that you were a woman who could handle the heat with equanimity.”
“Good bye.” I charge toward the door. Before I’ve managed to open the door more than a crack, Oliver reaches up to me and forces it shut with the palm of his hand. I slowly turn around to see him standing so close to me I can feel his breath on my face. He is in violation of one million different laws regarding personal space, but I’m not pressing charges.
I catch a whiff of his cologne. My stomach flutters and my hands tremble. “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“No you’re not.”
“Why are you so angry, Sophie?”
“I’m always angry.”
“Again...why?”
“It keeps me on my feet.”
“No wonder you’re so tense. You need to release some of that tension.” His voice is husky, low, as if he wants to tell me a deep, dark secret.
I don’t remember the last time I felt so insulted, or aroused. The intensity of his smoldering eyes is agonizing, as is his proximity. I order myself to breathe, to not squirm, speak, or do anything that would otherwise indicate how stirred I am. He moves his head a little, looking directly at my lips. We are nose-to-nose.
A thud on the door kills the moment.
Oliver moves back from his lean-in and clears his throat. I take a moment to gather myself and move out of the way.
Emma walks in. “Sir, Secretary Johnson has called and says he urgently needs to speak to you in person. Shall I make arrangements?”
He tells her to move his meetings.
“Thank you for your time,” he says with charm in his voice. “You have a good day, Miss Cavall.”
He waves at the door. I take this stiff gesture as my cue.
***
THAT NIGHT I’M called in for a job. Kim sounded especially bubbly and bossy, clearly still delighting that work is coming in now more than ever before. It’s a magazine assignment for Haute Living’s November issue. Poses are struck, smiles are beamed, and pictures are taken. When the shoot is over, the art director provides a sneak peek at how the spread is going to look. Sophie Cavall, in striking white letters imposed on a dark background. A picture of me in a Miu Miu dress sitting on a pale-green sofa hovers above assorted Manhattan locales and landmarks, all manipulated by Photoshop of course. “A jewel sparks in the city,” continues in a smaller font down toward the bottom, and in an even more reduced typeface, “model discusses her early years as a pageant princess.”
A lady interviewer and I have a one-on-one, in-depth discussion. The interview starts off very well for me. There are several yes-or-no questions I breeze through without any distress. When the easy questions are over, the ones that come next quickly become my enemy.
“Sophie, in retrospect, what was the hardest thing you faced as a child being rushed into the world of beauty?”
“I did over a hundred beauty pageants. I pranced around in tiny two-piece costumes with my little face plastered with makeup. I was barely able to talk in connected sentences. But there I was being asked too many questions. I wanted to watch cartoons and have pancakes for breakfast. But my mother would say I’d gain weight.”
“Did you know you wanted to be famous?”
“I didn’t want to be famous. I wanted to go to school, ride the bus like a normal kid and have a family, a brother, or a sister perhaps. People watching TV—they don’t realize how much time gets put into the pageants, rehearsing...the way girls look. The pageant world is tough. It’s a battle. A brutal competition.”
“If it’s something you didn’t want to do. Why did you keep at it?”
My head dips low on this question. “Money was tight.”
“As a little girl, you’ve said in the past you didn’t fit in. You were weird and gawky.”
“Yes. I have big teeth. I was also a very tall girl, five foot seven by the time I was twelve. My jeans would always fit like capris. And, consequently, my capris would fit like long shorts. I went to prom with the meanest jerk in school just because he was six foot five and I could wear heels. I wanted to be invisible.”
“But you weren’t.”
“No, definitely not. I could practically ride a roller coaster at age two. I can’t deny it had its upsides. I could reach the top cupboard way in the back where my mom would hide the Lucky Charms—for special occasions, mostly for bribery—behind the Raisin Brand.”
The interviewer gives a laugh. “Well, you don’t look weird and gawky now, Sophie. And you certainly stand out. What would you say to tall girls in school going through the same thing you did?”
“For me, it was just name calling. ‘How is the weather up there, Tree?’ they’d ask, and I’d always reply, ‘Cooler.’ I undeniably did not believe that. Sometimes, I would go home and cry in the bathroom. But they didn’t have to know. I kept my calm; I let no one prey on me. Bullies can’t hurt you if you don’t allow them to. Own what you have, no matter what.”
“So they stopped being mean to you?”
“Eventually, yes. Then, I became a model at fifteen. And well, here we are.”
FOUR
JESS LAZES ON my bed, her back resting against the headboard. I lay a leopard-print dress next to her. She asks me if it’s new and if it’s what I’ll be wearing tonight.
I look at the dress. “No.”
“No what? No it’s not what you’re going to wear, or no it’s not new?”
“Why are you asking so many questions?”
She raises her arms in defeat. “Jeez, okay. I was just asking, Soph. Don’t get all defensive on me. I like the dress with the feathers.” She points to a piece of cream silk with a feathered skirt fluffing out from between all the other buried dresses inside my closet. “It’s very chic. I’ve never seen you wear it. You know, I haven’t seen you wear most of the outfits you have in there.”
“That’s because I don’t. I usually auction them off,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. I auction them off,” I repeat, slower this time. “The dresses—they are trade money. My actual pay for some of the jobs I’ve done.”
“Why would you want to sell them?
They’re gorgeous!”
I slowly walk to my desk, grab my laptop, and slide it across the bed for Jess to see. “Sold item,” reads the auction listing for an “Authentic Christian Dior Runway Couture.”
“One thousand dollars?” Jess shrieks. “For a dress? That dress?” She points to the leopard-print dress on my bed. “And to think, people are starving all over the world.” She shuts the laptop closed. “So, anyway, I thought you never went to these kinds of agency parties.”
“I don’t.” I fumble in my closet for the dress with the unending plumage. I review the feathers on the bottom. “You know I’m a social vampire and heavy music damps my mood. I’m really praying right now that the onslaught of noise and chit chat won’t drive me crazy.”
“Then why are you going? Are you expecting to see someone with a particular dark surname? What was it again, Brown, Green—?”
I roll my eyes. “Black.”
“That’s the one.”
“Well, he’s nice to look at. I give you that,” I confess.
“I hear ya.”
“But it’s not like I’m in love with the guy or anything. Besides, I have to go to this party. Kim says it’s good PR. It helps me. It helps the company.”
“I wasn’t saying you were already planning a spring wedding and procreating a batch of little Oliver babies. But this is good, Sophie. It’s been a while since you had a real relationship. Or any kind of relationship, really.”
“Which means what?”
“It means I haven’t seen you go out with anyone after Rex.”
The past and present mince in my mind. On a modeling gig in London a few years back, I met Rex at a photo shoot for an online women’s clothing boutique. He was the photographer. I was wearing a pair of jeans and a pullover sweater, sitting in his studio on a stool in front of one thousand watts boiling my face. As I was waiting for him to begin doing his thing, I heard him cursing on the phone because he was supposed to shoot Adriana—another model, but not me—and he couldn’t care less if she was in a car accident.
I got up from the stool and walked toward him.
A Diamond in the Rough Page 5