by Foster, Zoe
Why was it the most beautiful were the most vain? They were the ones who looked great! They shouldn’t have a care in the world! Should be flaunting their ability to look sexy in silver body con! Abby was always reminding them of how blessed they were, how flawless they were, how grateful they should feel, but with great attractiveness came amplified insecurity. There’d come a time (maybe) when their arse did have cellulite, but for now, they should be wearing tight, tiny, taut outfits as often as possible. If 98 per cent of the population couldn’t, it was the least they could do.
‘Girls, not that it is possible for any of you to look anything less than gorgeous, I assure you the photos will be few and they will be flattering. It doesn’t serve the agency to have you looking anything less than ravishing, believe me. And no, they won’t be tagged with your names. It’s just for clients to get an idea of the kind of looks we can put together, and to see what a force you girls are en masse.’
‘My agent will need to approve them, actually.’ A haughty voice piped up. Without even seeing who it was, Abby knew it would be Holly Brennen. Because Holly, being a Real Life Model, found any way she could to remind everyone that she was a Real Life Model, usually at the expense of people being able to take her seriously.
Abby sighed. ‘Holly, your agent won’t have to approve them. When you signed your Allure contract you agreed that your image could be used – within reason – to promote Allure as a business. So I’m exercising that right.’
‘Well, what if it’s bad for my image to be seen on Facebook in tasteless outfits? How embarrassing.’
Abby stifled a laugh – half of these girls’ default on Facebook was them busting out of a bikini, yet they were worried about a few snaps of them in promo gear. It was a bit offensive actually, once Abby thought about it. She worked hard to ensure they only ever looked gorgeous.
‘Holly, if you’re that concerned about being seen in your promo garb, why doesn’t it bother you when you pose for so many photos with guys at the Grand Prix in it? You know those photos are going on Facebook.’
A few girls sniggered; Holly was endured, but not overly liked. Abby wouldn’t have usually arced up at her, but she was suggesting she was embarrassed to be seen working for Allure, and that pissed Abby off.
‘Fine, whatever. But if I really don’t like a shot, I’ll be asking for it to be removed.’
‘Let’s chat about that in private, yeah? Okay girls, so as you can see it’s all pretty simple. Basically instead of Charlene or Siobhan contacting you about jobs, it will be done via automated email and text, and ditto your confirmations. Just like a booking for a hotel or spa treatment.’
‘Will you still be at jobs?’ The tone was that of being abandoned.
‘Either Charlie or I will still be on location when it’s required, or Uri will if security is needed. Of course. And you can always call us if you need us.’
‘So is this the office now? For uniform pick up and stuff?’
‘All uniforms are now to be picked up and dropped off at TLC dry cleaners on Marsh Street.’
Abby was particularly thrilled with this element of the New Allure: dealing with uniforms had always been her least favourite part of the job. Half the girls took them home, or left them at their boyfriend’s, or in the boot of ‘someone’s’ car, and when they were needed for the next shift they were a nightmare to track down. Many a job had commenced with a size eight swamped in a safety-pinned size-twelve dress because it was all Abby could find in the ten minutes leading up to the shift, which was the amount of notice she’d been given that Little Miss Size Eight didn’t know where her dress was.
‘Why don’t we all just keep our own uniforms?’ Jacqui, a bulldog in tight jeans, was on a roll.
‘I tried that once. Half of you showed up with dirty dresses, the other half forgot you had to bring them, and one of you had popped it in the wash and made it the size of a toasted sandwich. Besides, Grey Goose uniform notwithstanding, there is no “one uniform”. There are many, and only eight of you will usually need them at one time. Trust me, girls, I really have spent a lot of time and thought on all of this. I’m trying to make it as efficient and painless for everyone as possible.’
More murmuring. The girls loved to murmur. It was like gossiping or backstabbing, but quieter! What fun.
‘Are there any questions, guys? Have I missed anything? Is there anything I can show you on the site?’ Abby looked around the cramped room, smiling at her beautiful harem as they dissolved into chatter. People always initially resisted change, she reminded herself. Soon they’d see how easy it all was.
‘Oh, that reminds me, if you introduce a good girl – and let me remind you that someone like Chantelle Lyon is not an example of a good girl’ – the girls laughed. Chantelle was famous in Allure for sweeping into the agency dramatically, wearing her Rue Paul-esque diva attitude like a fabulous cloak, refusing to wear the uniform, then leaving mid-way through the shift because she was bored. ‘If you bring in a good girl and we sign her up, you get a $250 Westfield voucher.’
More murmuring, but this time of the effervescent variety.
‘I’ll send an email now confirming everything I told you today. It’s going to be easy, I promise. Call me if there are any issues at all, there shouldn’t be, of course, but, you know …’
The girls were already bored of the website and had started texting and standing up and slinging their bags over their arms to a chirpy chorus of ‘amazing shoes’ and ‘love your hair like that’ and ‘did you hear abouts’ as they shuffled out the hallway, heels clopping, hair swishing; cleavage heaving.
Closing the door behind the last girl, Abby sighed with relief. This might just all work out okay. Jesus. She needed a beer. She wanted to have that beer with Marcus, and since she’d booked a flight to Italy in two weeks, she wanted to see him as much as possible before then. Who knew what would happen while she was away, or when she returned? Best to enjoy him as much as she could now.
27
‘I reckon Chris will be massively into Charlie. Big time. Should we set them up? Stealthily? Like, just invite them both someplace for a drink? Watch them fall desperately in love with each other over a whisky sour?’
‘I don’t think she’s for sale, sorry – she mentioned a boyfriend somewhere along the line. Also, doesn’t Chris prefer his women to be around the age of a pre-schooler?’
Marcus shot Abby a look. He hated the ‘age’ jokes. Abby shrugged and showed her palms, eyebrows high. She thought he was over-sensitive about it.
Abby and Marcus were lingering over their second coffees, discussing Abby’s first week with Charlie, who Marcus had met briefly on Friday night. The Java Jitters had set in for both of them, they usually stopped at one coffee, but after a shipping crate full of whisky last night, both of them were relying on caffeine just to be able to talk, walk and, in Abby’s case, breathe. As usual Marcus had his legs wrapped around Abby’s under the table, and his hands grabbed at hers whenever they were free. He was always so affectionate, Abby realised. That’s not to say he wasn’t masculine and sexy, though. He somehow managed to pick up those attributes along the way too.
‘She’s very cute,’ he reflected, as he poured them both some more water.
‘Yes, so you’ve mentioned. Many times.’
‘Garfield,’ Marcus said, a shocked expression on his face. ‘You’re not, you’re not jealous are you?’
‘No, of course not. You don’t need to keep banging on about how awesome she is, though. I get it, that’s why I hired her, remember? I have a crush on her too.’
Marcus reached over and grabbed Abby’s hand, kissing it gently as he looked into her eyes.
‘You’re the only puss I want, Garfield. I promise.’
‘For now.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ He was still smiling, but his head was cocked to one side and his tone was quizzical.
Abby knew she was being a brat, but she couldn’t help it. She was in a bad
mood. Very cranky and irritable. Possibly pre-menstrual.
‘You’re twenty-two and you boys are predisposed to procreate, to sow your seed as much as you can and with as many different women as you can. It’s how we all evolved, remember? Survival of the fittest and all that jazz?’
Marcus laughed. ‘Are we really having this discussion? Abby Vaughn. I gave you more credit than that. And we’re not all here trying desperately to ensure the survival of humanity – some of us are quite happy fertilising whichever eggs come with the lady we love, and no more. And besides, you can’t just tar all men with one filthy brush; we’re not all despo sex-mongers, you know.
‘You were last night …’
‘Because it’s YOU, you sausage! You’re a superbabe, you’re amazing, you’re my dream girl, of course I’m going to be like that with you!’
Abby crossed her arms and gazed at the man sitting across from her, being all intelligent and rational and gorgeous. It was disgusting.
‘I am not your dream girl, Marcus. Stop it.’
‘Don’t I get to decide that?’ Marcus asked. Abby was aghast at how relaxed he was, even in the face of her being an asshole. She almost wanted him to get fired up, just to see if he was capable of it. The only time she’d ever seen him get even a little bit annoyed was when he found out her fiancé was fictitious.
‘Ohhh, hang on, I see what you’re doing, you’re trying to make me lose interest in you before you go off to Italy so that I’m not so heartbroken in your absence. What a thoughtful gesture. I’m flattered.’
Abby rolled her eyes. Even though she didn’t really have any reason to be mad at him, she was clearly mad. She was trying to manufacture an argument for the sake of it, and there was no way of stopping her.
‘Abs? Are you okay?’ Marcus looked at her with concern from across the table. ‘What’s up? What’s really up, I mean. And don’t “fine” me. I hate when girls say “Fine” when actually they mean, “I’d like to rip your eyeballs out.” That passive-aggressive stuff is so grubby.’
‘I’m fine,’ Abby said, on auto-pilot. ‘No, no, I mean it, l really am. Just tired, hungover, snappy.’ She smiled and nodded as further evidence of non-passive-aggressive fine-ness.
‘Okay. I’m gonna go pay. Don’t run off, now. You kind of seem like you might.’
It suddenly dawned on Abby that was exactly what she was doing: she was running off! Mentally anyway. She watched as Marcus paid the girl behind the till, a girl who had fallen in love with Marcus from the moment they arrived, and who was now flirting for Australia. In fairness, at seventeen or so, she was probably a better match for him. Abby looked at her ass-grazing denim shorts and perky bosoms and long, deliberately dishevelled hair and wondered what Marcus was doing with her, a stressed-out business owner who basically treated him like a well-behaved Labrador, and who had no intention of taking their ‘relationship’ any further than sex, sleepovers and getting sauced. Even if she was fond of him.
‘Thanks, Marcus,’ Abby said genuinely as he returned, shoving his wallet into the back pocket of his black jeans, which he had coordinated with beat-up black boots and a simple, tight-fitting navy t-shirt and a kind of white, red and blue cowboy scarf around his neck. He looked ready for his album cover shot, as usual. It never ceased to stupefy Abby how much thought he put into his outfits, although having seen him put them together in the mornings, she understood that creating an outfit for him was like cleanse-tone-moisturise for her. It was second nature; he was inherently stylish. She looked down at her striped shirt-dress and leather sandals and realised that she had started dressing like those dull, mumsy women who didn’t feel they had to impress their boyfriend or husband anymore. She’d not bothered with makeup, instead preferring to wear her enormous Tom Ford sunglasses, which could double as satellite dishes should her cable TV ever go down. How could Marcus possibly choose her over little flirtrude over there? It was baffling and disconcerting and had to be a phase. He’d tire of her; she knew it. That was fine with her. If you knew something was inevitable, it couldn’t surprise you when it happened, could it? Didn’t matter anyway, as she had decided she was going to douse their lusty flame before Italy. She had to. Trying to prolong their dalliance was silly.
‘Hey, can we maybe go past Chris’s and pick up my laptop?’
‘Sure,’ Abby said, internally wishing the next and only destination was bed.
‘I should get him a coffee, actually.’ He darted back inside and Abby stood in the sunshine, trying to count how many drinks she had actually had last night.
‘Natasha?’
Natasha was walking directly towards Abby, with another preposterously good-looking girl, both of them in underpants masquerading as shorts, and tight singlets and runners. Abby thought Natasha looked way, way, way too skinny. Her head was starting to look like it had accidentally been placed on the wrong-sized body, and that somewhere out there a large woman was going through life with a teeny little head.
‘Oh, Abby! Uh, hi,’ Natasha slowed to a stop reluctantly, as did her friend. Natasha looked as though she’d rather be carting coal through a mine than talking to Abby. ‘This is Jade. Jade, Abby.’
‘Hey Jade. So … Natasha, how are you?’ said Abby, trying to push her rage down to below her baked eggs. Earlier in the week Holly had taken great delight in telling Abby that Natasha had switched agencies to Faces, and as yet Abby had had no luck in getting proof. It made her blood boil, especially since Natasha had just fallen off the radar and never bothered to tell Abby why.
‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with you, actually. Someone mentioned to me that you’ve changed agencies; that you’ve moved over to Faces? I know you and I don’t actually have a contract or anything, and while I’m obviously devastated, I just want to know so I can take you off the website and so on. I’m sure you understand.’ Abby was doing her absolute best to be gracious and businesslike.
Natasha’s left hand flew to her forehead, her fingers rubbing back and forth anxiously.
‘Well no, it’s just that, well, after, you know …’
‘Pete’s email?’
‘No!’ Immediately defensive the second his name was mentioned. Textbook Natasha. Her phone rang; she looked at the screen and silenced it.
‘They offered me more money and more shifts.’ The words tumbled from Natasha’s mouth rapidly.
‘If you wanted more money or work, why not just talk to me? You’re far too important and valuable to me to lose over a few dollars.’
Natasha’s phone rang again. It was silenced with an aggressive jab. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you but I got really busy.’ Natasha blurted this out in one go, as though leaving spaces between the words would give Abby room to spot the flaws in her story and call her on them.
But Abby, despite the rage festering in every cell of her body, didn’t have the energy to draw her sword.
‘Okay then. Thank you for being honest and I genuinely wish you the best over there, Natasha. You’re always welcome back, of course. We’ll miss you!’ Natasha’s phone blared again. It was silenced without even a look at the screen.
Abby smiled as widely and as genuinely as she could muster with no feeling of happiness present, while Natasha’s face was etched into a fake, weak version of the same smile. Abby sensed she wasn’t happy at Faces and was beginning to see the effect her dreamboat of a boyfriend was having on her life. By way of confirming this, Jade piped up.
‘Uh, Tash? Pete just texted me to tell you to call him urgently.’
Abby could tell Natasha was frustrated – and now discomfited – but couldn’t let Abby see it.
‘Well, we better keep moving. Thanks for being understanding, Abby, and …’ She lowered her head. ‘I’m sorry about how it all worked out, y’know, not telling you myself and … well, you know.’
‘It’s fine, Natasha. These things happen.’ And I wish for your boyfriend to be taken to a South American prison and locked away for the lifespan of unrecyclable plasti
c.
‘Bye!’ Jade said brightly as she started to walk off.
‘Bye girls.’
A text from Marcus popped up on Abby’s screen.
1. I’m two mins away. 2. You’re the hottest woman in the world. 3. See number 2. xxx
She smiled and exhaled. Why was she going to give this up, exactly? Most women would kill to have that kind of adoration spewed at them day and night, and yet Abby was preparing to discard it like chewing gum that had lost its taste. Presumably it was because she thought she could do better, that’s why people generally broke up with their lovers, right?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a kiss on the back of her neck.
‘Sorry, darling, the takeaway queue was fertilised as we left and was boasting impressive growth by the time I returned.’
He took her hand and kissed it, and they walked on, each smiling happily. Abby because she felt beautiful, and Marcus because he loved making Abby feel beautiful.
28
Abby looked at Chelsea as she got out of her car. Jesus! She’d gotten even skinnier! First Natasha, now Chelsea: the moment they had boy troubles the weight fell off them like butter off hot corn. With Abby, the weight fell on, she’d never been ‘blessed’ with hyperactive adrenal glands, and so stress manifested in revolting diet choices and a chunky ass. It seemed somehow unfair that women in their man-hunting prime should not be given the same metabolic liberties extended to them in their twenties, when it was not uncommon for Abby and the girls to wear mini-dresses that could double as stubby holders. But why not when your body is a sizzling cocktail of firmness and tone and tan? She always encouraged her girls to flaunt their wares, and showboat those lithe young limbs with reckless abandon. They wouldn’t be that sizzly forever.
‘New shoes?’ Chelsea could sniff out a new purchase instantly, like a polar bear finding a seal under thick snow.
‘Yeah, my others were giving me shin splints.’
‘From all that marathon training you’ve been doing?’