by Katia Rose
She makes obscene hand gestures behind Dean’s back as he turns to face me. Clearly she still thinks there’s a chance of me making a move.
“It was nice to meet you, Christina.”
I plaster on a smile. “You too, Dean.”
“I just have to say that I’m sorry if I sounded too critical about your work with P&T. I guess I’m just pretty wrapped up in the industry, and I didn’t mean to sound anything other than interested.”
Maybe I wasn’t as subtle about my irritation as I thought.
“It’s fine. Really, I’m just on edge lately. New job and all. Lots of stuff going on.”
He raises an eyebrow and gives me a grin that would have most girls pulling him into an Uber home as fast as humanly possible. “Too much stuff to give me your phone number?”
I give a little laugh. “Honest answer? Yes. It’s nothing personal, but I’m just not looking to get involved with anyone, in any capacity, right now.”
He dips his head in a gentlemanly nod. “So you’re leaving me to third wheel for the rest of the night?”
“It would appear so.”
My Uber pulls up and we say a quick goodbye. I lean my head against the window on the drive home, trying to put all the feelings churning inside me into order, to turn the negatives into a positive I can use.
Focus, I tell myself. Focus.
“So you’re the new brand rep?”
The same guy with a clipboard from my interview-masquerading-as-a-modelling-audition gives me a bored stare over the top of his glasses. I consider reminding him that we’ve already met, but I guess he must see a lot of models come in and out of this place.
You’re not a model, I remind myself. You are an up and coming advertiser whose contributions would be a valuable asset to this company. You just happen to have a job that also includes posing in bathing suits.
Today I’ll be doing my first photo shoot after a briefing with the creative team to go over my social media goals. I already came in for the HR meeting, a strenuous two hour, paperwork-filled affair. I’ll be posting on the client’s official accounts for their brand, so I basically signed my soul away if I break company confidentiality.
“Your briefing is down the hall to the left, boardroom C.”
Clipboard guy goes back to staring at the computer on the desk in front of him and I head off to the meeting.
Twenty minutes later I’m holding a packet of papers in my hands, glancing at the men around the table in disbelief. Jim Sanders isn’t among them, but if he was I’d be tempted to ask how exactly he plans on evaluating my creativity when this job seems to require next to none of it.
Everything has already been planned out. I have a pre-approved list of photo captions to pick from, a pre-approved set of hashtags I can use, and a pre-approved template for Facebook posts. Even the filters I can use on Instagram have been pre-approved, and on top of all that, I still have to submit whatever selections I make of all this pre-approved material for another round of approval.
“Is there any possibility of making additions or suggestions to all this?” I ask, after everything has been laid out in front of me and I’m finally given a chance to speak.
Everyone shifts in their seats.
“I just thought, given that I’ll be representing the brand, you may want to make things a bit more personal? I have experience in the field and I’d be happy to brainstorm a way to make these templates come across as more customized, more individual. That seems to be what our client wants.”
No one will meet my eyes, like I’m that awkward person in a waiting room who can’t pick up on the fact that nobody wants to talk, but I’ve started now and I’m not going to stop until I’ve said my piece.
“Forgive me if I’m overstepping a line, but I also think it may be beneficial to have a woman’s perspective on the campaign, given that it is being directed at women. I may be wrong, but as far as I can tell the strategy so far has been developed almost completely by men.”
The man directly across from me seems to seize this as an opportunity to put me in my place. He almost sighs before he starts talking, as if he’s been left in charge of an obstinate child.
“These parameters are based on in-depth market research, Miss Dominguez, and were created to make sure we connect with our audience in the most effective way possible,” he begins, making even my name sound condescending. “As for providing your input, you’ll have lots of opportunities to use what we’ve given you today in your own creative way.”
I kind of want to throw up at the way he sing-songs ‘your own creative way,’ like he’s telling me I’m free to play with a colouring book. It’s clear that no one here shares Jim Sanders’ supposed interest in my advertising potential.
I flip through the packet in front of me. I feel like a kitten being tossed a ball of yarn and encouraged to do something cute while a dozen smart phones snap Instagram shots. Maybe that’s exactly what I am here.
A cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck, and for the first time, I truly let myself wonder whether or not I should have done this at all.
The sound of chairs scraping across the floor pulls my attention back to the meeting.
“Alright, that about sums this meeting up. Back to your offices everyone, unless you’ve been scheduled to be on set for the shoot.”
I’m ushered through the building and down to one of the lower levels. We enter into a huge photography studio, complete with multiple backdrops and complicated looking lighting rigs hanging from the ceiling. I’m awed at the sight of it all, but it’s a different feeling from when I first walked into the studio at school. There, I felt enthralled by the vast space and sprawling warehouse windows. Here, stuck underground and bathed in harsh artificial light, I just feel intimidated, exposed.
Jim’s now-familiar voice greets me from across the room. “Miss Dominguez! A pleasure as always. How did the briefing go?”
“It was...informative,” I answer, an edge to my voice.
Either he doesn’t hear that edge, or he ignores it. “Excellent. You can head over to makeup now, just behind those screens there.”
I follow the direction he’s pointing towards and step into a makeshift room with walls made out of large canvas screens. Behind them is a chair fixed under the glare of a few freestanding lights and a table set up with enough makeup to stock an entire aisle at Sephora. One of the few women I’ve seen at P&T is hovering over a box of lipstick, a makeup tool belt filled with about a dozen brushes fixed around her waist.
“Hi,” I greet her. “I’m Christina, the brand representative.”
She lifts up her blonde head and I’m face to face with what looks like a mash-up of Amy Winehouse’s eye makeup, Kylie Jenner’s lipstick tricks, and Cara Delavigne’s eyebrow game. While it would be too much for a mere mortal to pull off, somehow it all works together on the makeup artist.
“Ah, fresh meat.”
Her voice is tinged with an accent I can’t place. She beckons me closer and I almost jump when she hooks a finger under my chin and tilts my head back, shifting my face from side to side as she inspects me.
“Mmm, yes. Sit.”
Stunned into obedience, I take a seat on the chair.
“Zhey say zhey vant natural. Men always say zhat, but what they really vant is a girl wearing lots of makeup without looking like she is wearing lots of makeup.”
She putters around the table for a bit, gathering up some items. Then, without any warning, she spins around and holds a brush up in the air, shouting loud enough to make me literally jump in my chair.
“I am tired of disguising my art for zheeze people!” She steps closer, grabbing my chin so she can look at my face again. “Zhee things I could do vis this face. Zhee things I could do! But no! Natural. We must be natural.”
As if she hasn’t made any outburst at all, she goes back to picking out items off the table.
I spend the next twenty minutes having various products applied to my face. Ever
y now and then the makeup artist stops to look at her work and makes a derisive comment along the lines of “Natural! HA!” I stay as still as I can, since most of her comments are accompanied by a jab of her brush that narrowly misses my eye a few times.
After a final few dabs of powder, she grabs a mirror off the table and holds it up in front of me.
“It is done. It is natural, yes?”
I stare at my reflection and have to admit that this woman knows her stuff. I hardly seem like I’m wearing makeup at all, but she’s made me look better than I would have been able to with a full cat eye and stoplight red lips. My skin is practically glowing, and she’s done some sort of contouring magic that puts my cheekbones on point.
“Uh, yes. Very natural,” I answer, hoping the response won’t gain me another brush to the eye. “You did a really good job.”
I can’t tear my eyes away. I reach up a hand to touch my cheek and before I know it, my arm is being slapped away from my face.
“NO TOUCHING! You put on bathing suit now, then we do body makeup.”
She uses her brush to point out a bundle of fabric on the edge of the table. I hop up and grab it, discovering a cotton robe and an emerald green two piece.
“Where do I change?”
She just shrugs and starts rearranging some eye shadow palettes. “In corner.”
I hesitate for a moment and consider asking to use the bathroom instead, but figure I might as well just get things over with. Makeup lady keeps fawning over her collection, her back to me, and I pull off my blouse and pencil skirt before shimmying into the bathing suit.
Even without a mirror to look in, I can tell the two piece suits me. The top half is a halter with a latticework back, and the bottom has matching cut-out sections on the sides. The deep green colour goes well with my perpetually sun-kissed Portuguese skin. Looking down at myself, I feel a little better about the impending photo shoot.
“I’m, uh, done now,” I announce, setting my clothes down in a pile on the chair.
Makeup lady spins around and her eyes light up.
“Ah, good!” She walks over and looks me up and down. “We do not need to give you zhee stomach muscles. You are strong like bull!”
Okay, she has to be Russian.
“And this”—she points to the halter— “means we do not have to contour zhee boobs.”
I feel myself shaking as I try to hold in the need to laugh uncontrollably after hearing the phrase ‘zhee boobs.’
She circles around me, tugging at the bathing suit a bit and making ‘Mhmm’ sounds.
“Skin is good. We do not need to fix it,” she announces, once the inspection is complete. “You may go.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I didn’t catch your name?”
“I am Yulia Francuzova. Here is my card.”
She reaches into her tool belt and pulls out a business card, and when I look down at it I have to hold back another burst of laughter.
The background is an image of turquoise glitter. In the wavy blue bubble letter Word Art I remember using for elementary school projects, it says ‘Yulia Francuzova,’ and underneath, in Comic Sans, ‘The Makeup. The Art.’
“Thanks,” I manage to say.
I stuff the card into my pile of clothing and pull on the cotton robe before heading out into the studio.
15
Under the Spotlight
No one seems to notice my exit out of the makeup area, so I head over to the set where about a half dozen people are bustling around. The backdrop is a plain eggshell white wall stretching about as wide as my entire bedroom, and the ground in front of it has been set up with wooden plank flooring painted in the same shade of white.
I’m saved from having to announce myself when a guy fiddling around with a light meter spots me.
“Oh good, she’s ready.”
Everyone turns their attention to me and despite the confidence I felt in the bikini a few minutes earlier, I’m glad for the robe wrapped tightly around me now.
Jim Sanders ends his discussion with who I assume is the photographer and walks over.
“Well, I have to be off now, but the creative director is here to oversee things in my place.” He nods towards one of the people on the set and I recognize Harry Bell, from my interview. “Good luck, Miss Dominguez.”
With that he leaves and everyone else clears to the edge of the set.
“So,” Harry begins, “to get you up to speed, brand rep, this is a basic shoot to get the images customers will use when viewing product details. We’ll have some poolside shoots on location later in the week. For now, we’re keeping it simple and, as our client wants, carefree. Relaxed. Fresh.”
None of those are adjectives I would apply to the mood on set right now, or to P&T in general. Everyone is standing with their arms crossed, looking like this is just one pesky item on a to-do list with way more important tasks.
The photographer, a white-haired man with a camera so large slung around his neck I’m surprised he doesn’t fall over, steps onto the set and motions for me to do the same. I tug off my robe and stand there with nowhere to put it until one of the assistants finally takes it out of my hand. Goosebumps instantly rise on my bare skin as I follow the photographer onto the wooden floor.
I tell myself that I should be standing here with my head held high, but instead I wrap my arms around myself, almost shivering. I feel the same way I did the very first time I stood in front of Aaron’s camera: uncertain and painfully awkward. I’m pretty sure this photographer isn’t willing to strip down to his underwear and dance to AC/DC just so I can loosen up.
Of course, the thought brings up an image of the white-haired man in khakis doing just that, and it makes me feel slightly better. Slightly. I know Aaron would probably have thought the exact same thing, and it still puts me on edge every time my mind turns to him.
“What should I do?” I ask, my voice ringing out across the otherwise silent set.
The photographer looks up from adjusting his lens. “Just go through your poses. We’ll adjust if we need to.”
“My poses?” I repeat.
“Whichever ones you usually do, yes.”
He clicks the camera once and I shift so I’m holding one hand behind my head and bending a knee, imitating what I assume is one of a swim suit model’s ‘usual poses.’ The photographer keeps clicking away and I shift slightly, placing a hand on my hip. The clicking stops and I hear someone clear their throat.
“Can someone please pose her?” Harry barks.
I must look as awkward as I feel.
One of the assistants steps up and starts directing me on what to do with my arms. I fumble through some hair flips I’m sure look nothing but disastrous on film, and we do a few seated shots during which I’m constantly reminded to smile and look carefree. I give a few toothy grins that probably come off as less ‘Buy This Bathing Suit and Be Beautiful and Happy Like Me’ and way more ‘I’m Being Held at Gunpoint, Please Help.’
The ordeal is finished in about half an hour. I make a dash for my robe and don’t even bother waiting around to see if I’m needed for anything else before ducking into the empty makeup room to change. From the way everyone was grumbling and checking their watches by the end of the shoot, I know the results were far from captivating, and the only thing I want to do is get away from this place as fast as I can.
I don’t know what to do with the bathing suit, so I lay it over the back of the makeup chair. I’m about to leave when the sight of the emerald fabric laid out like that sparks an idea in me. Pulling out my phone, I open up the camera app and get to work.
The shoot today might have been a complete failure, but I might be able to save things with a shoot of my own.
“Hi again. It’s Aaron. I’m sure call display already told you that, though. Christina, I...I really need to talk to you. I miss you, Dominguez. I miss talking to you. I miss hearing you laugh. I miss pretending it doesn’t hurt like a bitch when you punch me. I know I hurt
you. I know I fucked up. I’m just...I’m going through some stuff, and it was wrong to say the things I did to you before telling you about everything else too. I do love her, but it’s not like you think. I—”
He gets cut off by the machine and my finger hovers over the replay button. This is the third time I’ve listened to his message today. I want to focus on him saying he misses me, misses the same things I do about him: talking, hearing each other laugh over stupid jokes. If the message had cut off just a few seconds earlier I probably would have called him back.
As it stands, the only thing that’s been echoing in my head all day is ‘I do love her.’ I don’t know why it matters so much to me. We weren’t dating. We hadn’t even discussed what was going on between us. It shouldn’t be such a big deal that he was still hung up over an ex the whole time.
He shouldn’t be such a big deal. All I want right now is to hang out with him, to have him sitting here next to me on my bed while I describe the terrible photo shoot, and show him Yulia Francuzova’s hilarious business card, and tuck my head under his chin while I confess how worried I am that this whole P&T job has just been one huge mistake.
I resist the urge to play the message one last time, just to hear him say my name, and start to get ready for work. Taking this job might not have been the best decision, but I’m going to make the most of it, starting with presenting the materials I’ve made for today.
After the Awkward Photo Shoot of the Year ordeal, I spent some time in the makeup room snapping shots of my bathing suit, Yulia’s supplies, and a few behind the scenes selfies. I’ve drafted a few social media posts that are meant to give viewers an inside look at the ad making process and build anticipation for the final result. It’s a good way to make potential customers feel more connected to the brand, and gives them the impression that they have access to exclusive content. Plus, the casual nature of the photos is on brand with what our client seems to be looking for in the campaign.
I have a meeting today to go over our social media strategy now that the first shoot is complete, and while I haven’t been asked to prepare anything, I’m going to walk in there and show them that I’m worth a lot behind the camera, even if I didn’t so well in front of it.