by Olivia Besse
The Mannequin Series
ETOILE
Olivia Besse
Prologue
Elodie Marais had been born unto the world alone and cruelly abandoned in the wilderness. No, this isn't an exaggeration. She had literally been abandoned in a wicker basket on the banks of a picturesque marsh. And while it may sound like the premise to a fairy tale, the situation was much less glamorous.
A young couple from the nearby university had been rowing on the Marais Poitevin when their romantic date came to an abrupt end as they came across the basket, which had seemingly appeared out of thin air. Much to their horror, they discovered a baby on the brink of death contained within it. They rushed her to the largest nearby hospital in Niort, where the miracle child was kept under intensive care and close watch.
As it became wearisome for the doctors to continually refer to the baby as "anonyme" or "vous savez, ce bébé", it was obvious that she would need a name. A clever nurse decided to call her Elodie, for marsh flower, with the surname Marais in reference to the idyllic place where she had been found.
With time, Elodie overcame her illness and was whisked away to an orphanage in Châteaudun, where she grew to be quite the striking young girl. So lovely, in fact, that the social workers at the Group Home often jested that she had been placed in her marsh basket by the gods. With glossy hair the color of honey and wide blue eyes like a doll, she fascinated all of the boys she encountered. And, at the ripe age of fourteen years, she fell in love.
Felix Dupont's family owned the fanciest hotel in the town, and he was as charming as they come. With scraggly brown hair and piercing green eyes, he was the most popular boy at their school with his rambunctious personality and adventurous ways. The other boys worshipped him and the girls followed him longingly, but he chose Elodie as the focus of his attention.
After a grandiose courtship, the two became inseparable as young love blossomed. While Elodie had spent much of her childhood quietly hiding away in lonely corners, she felt at ease with Felix. She could feel herself opening up with him and wanting to share all of her thoughts and emotions. He felt the same way and cherished Elodie as a boy does a trophy.
The two were traipsing around town one hot summer day, licking their melting ice cream cones and kicking wayward rocks. While they were caught in a fit of giggles, a beautiful woman, who had been standing with an expensive looking man, began to approach them. She did not look French, and she especially looked out of place in the small commune of Châteaudun. She smelled of exotic perfume and tobacco smoke, which was only made more pungent by the burning sun's rays.
"Hello," she began in a British accent as she took off her sunglasses and looked directly into Elodie's eyes. "I couldn't help but notice you as I was passing by. Might I ask your name?"
"My wife's name is Elodie. Who are you?" Felix interjected obnoxiously with whatever English skills he could muster. He protectively stepped in front of the bewildered girl.
The woman chuckled and pulled out a tiny paper card. "My name is Janet Cromwell. I work for Groupe Models in London. I'm actually just passing through on holiday, but I guess that I just can't help but bring my work with me! And might I ask your age, dear girl?"
Elodie looked up at the woman as she took the card from her. "I am fourteen years old," she replied meekly.
Janet smiled broadly at the trepid creature in front of her and said warmly, "No need to be scared! I don't bite. Now, have you ever thought about modelling? You have such a lovely face and I can tell that you're going to be a tall one."
As Elodie shook her head, Felix once again hid her behind himself. "She is not interested," he said curtly.
"Oh, we've got a cheeky one here, don't we! Well, dear girl, please do give me a call if you're interested. I'd love to have a chat with your parents and such. I'll be leaving France by the end of the week, but feel free to ring me if you change your mind. You'd be ace, just so you know," Janet said as she fanned herself in the blistering heat. She gave Elodie a small smile and trotted back to the man who was impatiently waiting for her.
Once Janet was no longer in sight, Felix pulled Elodie away with not even a mention of what had just transpired. She put the business card into her schoolbag without another thought and happily followed him.
Summer passed and the leaves faded into stunning shades of fire. Elodie and Felix's hands stayed tightly clasped throughout the autumn and until the first snowflake fell on her windowsill. As they sipped hot chocolates and ate biscuits in the lobby of his hotel during a particularly biting January day, his father came rushing towards them in panic.
He informed Felix that his aunt had gone into labor in Paris, and that he and his mother would have to drive there straightaway. He was putting Felix's older brother, Henry, in charge while they were to be gone, he told him. As Felix's father and mother grabbed their bags and headed for the main door, Elodie could have sworn that she saw a fleeting look of disapproval wash over his mother's face. However, she brushed it off as her eyes playing tricks on her.
Once the commotion settled down, Henry dutifully went back to his place behind the reception desk and the air was quiet again. After they finished up their afternoon snack, Felix put a finger to his lips and they tiptoed past his brother's post. Once they had safely made it into his father's office, they burst into quiet laughter as Felix coyly laid Elodie onto the tufted canapé.
They began to kiss passionately as teenagers are wont to do, and Elodie felt Felix's hands work clumsily at the buttons of her blouse. She froze as she quickly tried to think of what to do in the situation. She was definitely not ready to give her body to him; they were only fourteen, after all. As she tried to sway his avid fingers, the door opened and an audible clearing of a throat was heard.
The two looked up to find Felix's parents standing in the doorway with a confused Henry trailing behind. They had forgotten some papers, his father said as he looked away demurely, so as to avoid having to look at Elodie's unbuttoned shirt. His mother, on the other hand, was not so tactful.
Madame Dupont began to shout things that could never be unheard as she stared at them in horror. She screamed about how the orphan girl was trying to get her claws on her youngest son and their money. She lamented her thoughtless boy for being blinded by a coquettish beauty. In her rage, she glared daggers at the young Elodie, whose cheeks were burning red with shame. Felix merely stood there, absorbing the wrath of his mother.
Elodie ran for the door and didn't stop running until she reached the mailbox on the corner. Her lungs burned for air and her teeth chattered, as she had failed to grab her coat in the frenzy. She rubbed her arms furiously as she quickly began making her way to the orphanage, fighting back the tears that stung icily in her eyes.
She drew a steaming hot bath once she arrived and waded in it for what seemed like hours until her fingers resembled old raisins. Afterward, she crawled into her bed and felt big, fat tears well up in her eyes. They streamed down her raw cheeks as she replayed in her head all the terrible things that his mother had said. Her swollen eyelids soon became too heavy to support, and sleep came to whisk her away from reality.
The next day at school, she noticed that her coat was folded carefully over the back of her chair. When she approached Felix to discuss the previous day's mishap, she was met with unfamiliar insouciance. Felix refused to look her in the eyes and met all of her remarks and questions with brusque one-word answers.
Her classmates whispered audibly about the scene that was unfolding before them. Elodie continued to hold her ground, even as her cheeks burned in mortification and her shoulders drooped in hopelessness. And, despite her quiet pleading, he didn't allow himself to show even one ounce of comp
assion.
As Elodie slowly made her way back to her seat, every one of her footsteps seemed to echo for miles. She could feel the pitying glances of her peers and hear all of the hushed gossip that swirled around the room. But she didn't need to hear it. She had known it the moment that she had seen her bright red coat at her desk.
It didn't take the village idiot to realize that they were done.
For the rest of that week, Elodie did not feel a single thing. The cold did not chill her bones or whip at her cheeks. When Millicent Calvet accidentally hit her with the bathroom door, Elodie didn't budge. When everyone at the Group Home gathered up for dinner, Elodie found that she was simply not hungry.
And every time she watched the back of Felix's head during class, or caught a glimpse of his tall silhouette as she was walking home from school, she felt absolutely nothing. There were moments when she could feel his eyes on her, but she never dared to meet them. Instead, she would simply get up and walk away as far as her legs could take her.
In her wallowing, she realized something. No one wanted her. Her parents hadn't wanted her. Nobody at the orphanage particularly cared for her somber attitude. And Felix no longer wanted her. Maybe he never had.
But Elodie quickly remembered someone who had wanted her. At her first opportunity, she ran like a lightning bolt to her room and scoured through her schoolbag until she found it. As she opened the small side pocket, her hands came across the neglected contact card from that lazy summer afternoon. Her ticket to freedom.
She galloped downstairs and asked Constance, who was in charge for the day, if she could make a phone call. Despite giving her a suspicious look, Constance consented and handed her the cordless phone. Elodie ran to one of her hidden corners and ravenously punched in the dialing code and number, holding her breath as the line rang.
"Janet Cromwell," the brisk voice on the other line announced.
Elodie took a deep breath and began, "Hello, Madame Cromwell? My name is Elodie Marais. I met you five months ago in Châteaudun. Do you remember me?" She tried her best to end her words quickly so as to mitigate her accent.
There was silence on the other line.
"Hello?" Elodie asked nervously.
Janet's tinkling laugh made an appearance. "Of course I remember you, dear," she replied. "I was wondering when you were going to call! I assume this means that you got rid of that twit?" She roared with laughter. Elodie, on the other hand, did not find this humorous.
"Yes, and I would very much like to try modelling," she said anxiously.
"Excellent, fabulous! Darling, I'm going to make you the toast of the town," Janet began. "Listen, I'm going to be in Paris in a few weeks for the Fall shows. Can you make it up with your parents for a day or two?"
Elodie felt a lump in her throat as she managed to reply, "I... I do not have parents."
Again, silence. Janet cautiously asked, "Who's responsible for you, dear?"
"I live in an orphanage. I am an orphan," she replied simply.
She heard Janet drum her nails against the desk before she spoke again, "Okay, dear girl, I'll tell you what. I can have some consent forms sent over to whoever's in charge and we can get started from there. It might be a tricky situation, but I simply must sign you, darling!"
Elodie felt a weight lift off of her chest and thanked Janet profusely while giving her whatever information she needed. After hanging up, she returned the phone to the kitchen and ran back up to her bed. For the next hour, she lay perfectly still and stared blankly at the ceiling.
She was going to be a model, she decided. The best that anyone had ever seen.
One
Elodie stood against the wall, cigarette in hand, posing for the photographer who had stopped her to ask if he could take her picture for his street style blog. She did not see what the big deal was, as she was simply wearing the standard model outfit of Rag & Bone boots, skinny Nudie jeans, a plain Alexander Wang tee shirt and a leather Rick Owens biker jacket. All in black, of course.
“Can I get a close-up of that?” he asked as he gestured to her gunmetal Dominic Jones centaur ring.
“Of course,” Elodie told him with a smile. She knew better than to be flattered by his attention, as everyone knew that street style photographers were the biggest modelizers of all, but she couldn't help but feel giddy that he had stopped to take her picture.
"Excellent. Thank you so much," the blogger smiled at her as he checked the photos on his giant camera. “Here's my card. Be sure to check out my blog! Your post should be up soon.”
She smiled back and took the card nonchalantly, her underwhelmed expression belying the fact that she would probably end up obsessively checking the site on the hour, every hour, to see if her picture had yet been uploaded. Due to the years of relentless bullying, scrutiny, humiliation and criticism that she had endured, she had developed a particularly nasty habit of analyzing every last pixel of any photo in which she had been immortalized.
Of course, her analysis paralysis, as her therapist had termed it, didn't just end there. In spite of the confidence that she worked so desperately to emit, Elodie Marais was a self-deprecating mess. Her past had scarred her to the point of her having anxiety attacks whenever she felt helpless in a situation. From her point of view, the only way that she could avoid being hurt or abandoned again was if she could have complete control over her future.
Any sentence that escaped her lips had thoroughly been repeated in her mind a minimum of ten times, and every chic outfit that she had "just thrown on" had its components carefully curated for hours before she wore them out. She could barely function, let alone relax, without the help of barrels of alcohol and hoards of prescription and illegal drugs.
Tucking the thick square of paper safely into her black Givenchy tote, she proceeded on her way to her photo shoot, which was scheduled to begin in an hour. On her short walk on the tree-lined streets of the West Village, she ignored the sprinkling of tourists in fanny packs who unabashedly snapped her picture with their camera phones and ogled at her statuesque presence.
Did they assume that she was someone famous? It made her sad to think that they were probably just taking pictures of her because she was the first photogenic giant that they had come across on their trip to the big city. They had probably just arrived straight from the airport, she thought to herself as she continued to make her way down the long city block. Didn't they know that towering teenaged girls with swishy hair and pin thin limbs were a dime a dozen in Manhattan? Once they encounter their umpteenth model on the street, they probably won't even give that poor girl a second glance, she grumbled inwardly with a slight shake of her head.
Elodie was now nineteen years old and living in a cramped model apartment in Manhattan. She had officially signed with Groupe Models in London three days after her fifteenth birthday, just in time to debut at the Spring/Summer shows at Milan Fashion Week. She had grown exponentially over that summer like a willow tree, and Janet had personally marched her around the city to local agency offices like a prize doll.
The agency heads, casting directors and bookers had fawned over her like a newborn puppy, grooming and training her to perfection. “Bellissima! Walk like this, gattina,” the wrinkled walking coach wearing too many prints and way too much bronzer had directed the lanky girl as she attempted to saunter down a makeshift runway. “You hair is so pretty, dolcezza, I will just give you tiny highlights to make your eyes pop,” the flamboyant hairstylist had cooed to her as he smoothed down her locks. “Here's a tip. Whenever you take pictures, make sure to point your chin down slightly. You have such a lovely chin,” the agency's photographer had taught her with a warm smile. Elodie had gushed inwardly to herself about how everyone was so kind and helpful. Little did she know that, to them, she was just fresh meat and a new source of revenue to be earned.
They had squealed out odd things that Elodie hadn't understood, such as "she's just like an alien nymph lost in a storybook" or "she looks just like a bewilder
ed Blythe doll, I can't get enough of her". She had a crowd of people surrounding and trailing her at all times with schedules and hairdryers and foundation sponges. In the end, Elodie ended up walking in six big shows, which Janet had said was very good for a new face. And she had been shocked by the resulting paychecks.
Of course, her representative agency in Milan and her mother agency in London took large cuts from all of her earnings, citing outrageous charges for lodging, forwarded allowances for food and her cellular phone, transportation, booking fees, photo retouching and comp card printing. By the time that they were done with her, all that she had to show for countless grueling hours of work were frightening amounts of debt.
Following immediately after the shows in Milan was the notorious Paris Fashion Week. Without so much as one good night's sleep, the young girl was shipped off back to France so that she could stomp down those lucrative runways. As Elodie had not yet begun to show any metabolic slowdown, her waifish figure and French roots were a hit with designers from her motherland, much to the jealousy of her stone-faced competitors.