The Luckiest Girls

by Nathalie van Walsum Fuson

  When I arrive at Theo’s address I take a deep breath, shake my hair and walk briskly up the steps. Anyone who sees me will think I know exactly what I’m doing and that I belong right where I am, but the truth is I’m terrified. I pop one of the blue pills Alexandra gave me. I know I said I would only use them if it was really important, but if my first Vogue booking isn’t important then nothing is.

  The elevator opens into a huge bright loft on the second floor.

  “Maya, darling. You look fabulous,” Theo greets me as I enter his studio.

  This is the biggest of the big leagues, I realize as I look around at his framed magazine covers. Some of the most famous photos in the world were taken by Theo, like the one of Olivia Knightley with the cheetah, which hangs on the wall above a sofa. Claire, the fashion editor of Vogue is here, and as she greets me she looks me over like a hawk and I know I’m still being appraised, that everything comes down to how today goes.

  I wish I felt as fabulous as Theo says I look. Henry, the makeup artist, gently dabs concealer under my eyes.

  “You have gorgeous eyes,” he says. But he must see how dark the circles under my eyes are.

  Part of the reason why they booked me for this job is because of my background in ballet, since the story has a ballet theme. The first shot features an absolutely gorgeous ivory wrap sweater by Valentino. I also have on fur leg warmers, and then on my feet I’ve got faded converse sneakers. Claire wants me to stand on pointe, which is difficult; she obviously doesn’t know the difference between pointe shoes and sneakers, but I make it work.

  “More energy, Maya,” Theo calls. “Don’t just stand there like a doll. Show me intensity.”

  I knew it. He’s not happy with me. He thinks I’m sluggish, weak, tired. I glide into every pose Theo asks of me, twirling on my toes, arching my back, raising my arms like swan’s wings. Then Claire ask for poses that are more geometric, angular, and intense. I know what she means: more Martha Graham than George Balanchine, and I give her exactly what she wants.

  My next shot is a long, full gauze skirt like something Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty would wear, paired with a tight cropped silk top. I wear it barefoot, and I flow through a series of poses where I raise my legs and point my toes in every possible manner to show the skirt to its best advantage. Then Claire asks me if I can do a split in the air. She means a grand-jeté, a leap across the set with my legs extended into a split. Of course I can do a grand-jeté, but what Claire doesn’t realize is that nobody does a grand-jeté without warming up their muscles thoroughly beforehand.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’re warmed up by now, aren’t you?” Claire asks.

  I’m not going to blow my chance to impress her. I break into a skip, then jump, pushing myself off the floor with my left leg, and stretch my right leg before me, my left leg back in mid-air and my arms extended. I land with my knees slightly bent to absorb the shock.

  “Nice,” says Theo. “Let’s see that again.”

  This time I start a bit further back and when I jump I push off as high as I can. As soon as I extend my leg I feel a sharp twinge in my inner thigh. I gasp, and land, biting my lip. I clutch the inside of my thigh, certain that I’ve torn a muscle.

  “Beautiful,” cries Claire. “Really great!”

  My thigh is searing with pain. I can’t take a couple of pain tablets and wait for those to kick in; that will take too long. The only thing I can do is mask the pain. As I pause for a sip of water I slip another blue pill into my mouth and let it dissolve. Soon I feel my heartbeat accelerating, my energy increasing. The pain diminishes, and the fact that I have overcome it thrills me, it makes me feel stronger, faster, better than any of the other models who would be sniveling and complaining by now. I leap again, and again, and all the time Theo clicks away at the camera and Claire beams with approval. My heart is racing now, and whether it’s from the pills or from all the leaping around I don’t know, but it’s pounding so hard now that it feels like it could burst out of my chest.

  “Are you okay?” Henry asks me as he touches up my powder. “You’re breathing really hard.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say. “Just a little out of breath.”

  “Well, don’t let them kill you,” he jokes.

  I run, turn around, jog back, turn around, and do it again, over and over. I show them that, whatever they want from me, I can deliver, I can exceed all their expectations.

  “Her hair is coming loose,” someone says, and I come to a stop so Henry can fix it. I’m panting so much and my heart is beating so fast that I lean forward, propping my hands on my knees.

  “I can’t do your hair if you’re leaning forward,” Henry says, and I stand up straight.

  I must have lifted my head too fast because suddenly I feel terribly dizzy, and in a split second a dozen thoughts go through my mind: I’m an athlete, I know better, I need to keep moving until my blood pressure adjusts, heart rate’s too fast because I didn’t cool down, and then the ground tilts up toward me and THUNK, I fall down and the whole world is pitch black and silent.

  “She’s waking up,” someone says.

  For a minute I have no idea where I am or who these people are. Two EMTs in their navy blue uniforms peer into my face. One of them helps me lift my head, and slowly he raises me by my shoulders into a seated position.

  “Hi, Maya. It’s Maya, right? How are you feeling?”

  I mumble something incoherent.

  “If you feel dizzy, just put your head down again,” he says.

  The other EMT — John, according to the label on his uniform — holds my wrist and checks my pulse. He then shines a little flashlight into my eyes and wraps a blood pressure gauge on my arm.

  “Your heart rate is very high. Have you ever been diagnosed with tachycardia, Maya?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “It’s a heart disorder in which your heart beats much faster than normal. In some cases it can be a sign of a serious condition. Other than that, your vitals seem okay. But you should take it really easy for the rest of the day.”

  “Wait,” says Claire. “Do you mean she can’t finish the shoot?”

  “Not if you don’t want her dead,” says John. Claire makes an I-don’t-believe-this gesture with her hands.

  “When you’re feeling better, make an appointment with your physician,” John says to me. “Get this checked out, okay? Meanwhile you need to go home and lie down for the rest of the day.”

  He hands me a bottle of water and makes sure I get a few sips down. They have me sign something, and then they pack up their equipment and leave.

  “Maya, are you sure you can’t finish? We’re nearly done,” says Theo.

  “I don’t think I can stand up without falling over,” I reply honestly.

  “Alright. We’ll get you a taxi,” he sighs. I know he’s disappointed, and that I’ve really blown it, but I feel so weak that I can’t think of anything but getting home.

  I arrive back at the house, still wobbly on my feet, and slowly climb the stairs to my room where I collapse on my bed. My phone rings. It’s Suzanne.

  “Maya, what happened?” She cries. “They said you passed out at your booking, and that you left before they were finished. This is Vogue! Nobody ever walks out of a Vogue booking.”

  “I don’t know what happened,” I answer, my voice shaking. “I fainted. I’ve never done that before.”

  “You’ll have to explain it to Gigi, Maya. I should warn you, she’s absolutely furious.”

  No kidding. When Gigi gets home the first thing she does is come barging into my room.

  “You better be half dead, because there is no other reason in the world to leave a booking, especially one for Vogue,” she snaps as she enters my room. “What is the matter with you?”

  I know I deserve her anger. Even she doesn’t know how much I deserve her anger.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “What did you eat today, Maya? Are you still losing weight? I
f you did this to yourself because you’re not eating properly I will send you home. I’m serious. I don’t need models killing themselves, not in my agency, not under my roof!” (Aw, how sweet. She’s worried about me.)

  “I’m not dieting, I promise,” I say. “Please, I’ll be more careful. I won’t let it happen again.”

  “It better not, because I mean it,” Gigi says. “I’ll have Betty bring you a tray for dinner. Get some rest. I’m going to have Suzanne make you an appointment with a doctor.”

  As Gigi leaves, I fight back tears. I can’t remember ever feeling so lonely, so desperate. I’ve ruined everything. Vogue will never hire me again, and when word gets out that I’m the kind of weakling who can’t make it through a day of work with falling to pieces, then neither will anyone else. What will I tell Mom, when she asks me how my shoot went? What will she say when I tell her I left the booking in disgrace? She’ll think exactly what everyone else will: that I’m a loser who blew her chance. I clutch my head with my hands, trying to force the spiraling thoughts of hopelessness to stop, but I know they won’t, that there’s only one thing I can do to redirect my pain to where I can control it. I reach for my nail scissors, and, pulling my T-shirt above my waist, press the steel tips into the flesh of my hip. I press hard and long, until the searing pain obscures every other sensation. As the warm blood trickles down my hip I feel a welcome wave of dizziness, blurring the world around me.

  16

  Campbell

  Opportunity is not a bus. It doesn’t arrive on schedule, so be prepared every moment of your life to seize it when it comes. — From The Supermodel’s Handbook by Gigi Towers.

  * * *

  In the morning, after Gigi has gone to the agency, I go into her bathroom to weigh myself. My heart sinks as I find I’ve gained weight again. I’m now fifteen pounds over the maximum weight that Gigi said she’d allow. I can blame five pounds on my menstrual cycle or whatever, but this is out of control. I’m following Gigi’s stupid diet, I stay away from carbs and sweets, I don’t drink sodas or fruit juices, I get enough exercise, but my body just does whatever it wants to.

  “I don’t know what to do differently,” I wail to Sophia. “I’m barely eating enough to stay alive. How do you stay so thin?”

  “Exhaustion and drugs,” Sophia answers. “Nah, you don’t need the drugs. Just don’t eat anything and when you get lightheaded you can pretend you’re high. God, I’m kidding. I just have a different body type. Honestly, I’d kill for your curves.”

  “But I’ve got to lose the weight! I haven’t had a paying job in weeks. The only reason Gigi hasn’t thrown me out yet is that she’s been too busy to notice me.”

  I have to do something drastic. I’m going to start a liquid fasting diet and drink nothing but vegetable juice and herbal tea for a month. Maybe I’ll get liposuction, or do that things where they freeze your fat off. Until I lose this weight I’m wearing nothing but baggy sweaters so Gigi won’t notice what a cow I’ve become.

  I get a phone call from Sarah later in the morning.

  “Campbell, Gigi and Marilyn want to meet with you,” she says. “Can you come by in half an hour?”

  My heart drops into the pit of my stomach. Marilyn, as the head booker, is the second to last word when it comes to determining whether a girl has a future as a model. When Catherine from Toronto was let go, it happened just like this. She met with Marilyn and Gigi and even though she knew things weren’t going as well as she’d hoped, she was totally blindsided when they told her it wasn’t working out. They just gave her back her photos that they had on file and told her that her contract was voided. Then Catherine came back to the house and Margo helped her pack her bags while Carol made her travel arrangements back to Toronto. And that was the end of Catherine.

  I can’t believe it’s coming to this, that I can disappear just as easily. Maybe I can try a different agency, but even if another agency is willing to take me on they’ll make me find my own place to live, and I can’t afford to pay my own rent in New York. I can’t go home. I have nowhere to go, no money to fall back on. I go through a list of people at home who I might be able to crash with until I can get a job, but honestly, I can’t think of any. My friend Maddie wants me dead and she turned all our friends against me, and anyway, my friends back home live with their parents, they’re kids, they can’t help me.

  When I arrive at the agency I’m actually shaking. The place is a buzz of activity, and it’s incredible to me that everything still moves along when the ground is about to fall out from under my life. Carol sends me in to Gigi’s office. Everything at the Towers Agency is modern and efficient — except for Gigi’s office. Gigi’s office is like Gigi: classical, elegant, and feminine. She sits behind a large Queen-or King-Somebody desk in a chair upholstered in dark ashy rose, and there is a huge photo of Gigi surrounded by her supermodels of the 1990s, when the supermodel phenomenon was at its peak. Gigi motions for me to sit down and I take a chair across from her desk, next to Marilyn.

  I remember the first time I entered this office, three months ago. I sat in this exact same chair. Gigi sat across from me flipping through my portfolio which I’d brought from home, containing a series of pictures for which I’d paid $450 to a second-rate wedding photographer in suburban Atlanta. She looked at me over the portfolio, declared the pictures awful but my face expressive, and called Sarah in to set up a test shoot with one of the agency’s photographers. Those pictures became the beginning of my new life. A life that’s about to be snatched away.

  “We need to talk about your future with this agency,” Gigi says.

  I stare dumbly and wait.

  “Not everyone is cut out for modeling, dear,” Gigi begins, and right away I know that I’m not going to keep it together. I can feel the lump forming in my throat.

  “I had a strong feeling when I met you,” she continues. “I was certain you were going to become one of my stars. But sometimes even I make mistakes. I don’t think you’re destined to model, Campbell…”

  Here it comes. My eyes are already burning with tears.

  “…I think your future may be in film.”

  For a second I can’t process what she just said.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Alan Dvorak wants you to audition for his movie,” Gigi says.

  “Huh? Which movie?” I ask, stupid with disbelief.

  “The Siren of Greenwich Village. He saw you at Silverstar with Sophia and he was very impressed. He’d like you to do a screen test for the part of Zoey. To audition properly, this time.” Marion says.

  “But that’s Sophia’s role.”

  “It isn’t anybody’s role until the contract is signed,” Gigi says. “And Alan is seriously considering you now.”

  I’m beyond stunned.

  “Here’s the script. It was just delivered by messenger.” Gigi hands me a sealed manila envelope with my name on it and CONFIDENTIAL stamped across the front in red letters. “I want you to meet with an acting coach tomorrow. Sarah will set it up and give you the details. Meanwhile, Tom Dillon in the TV and Film division is waiting to meet with you to explain your application for SAG-AFTRA union membership, which needs to be done right away.”

  The words “script,” acting coach,” “SAG-AFTRA” and “film” echo in my ears. I’ve got to be dreaming, but I take the envelope and it feels solid and real.

  “I…I thought you called me in here to fire me.”

  “Not quite,” Gigi says, briskly. “I still have a feeling about you and I don’t like being wrong. Now, go and study your lines.”

  “A problem that so many actors encounter is that they think they need to ‘show’ an emotion. Unless you’re actually feeling it, it’s going to come across as fake,” explains Dominic, my acting coach. “For this scene, try not to act like you’re sad. Don’t worry about what your face is doing. See if you can really be sad.”

  We’re practicing a scene where Zoey is wallowing in remorse and loneliness after sh
e has betrayed Griffin, and she’s tracing the tip of a kitchen knife along her veins as she contemplates ridding the world of herself.

  “What that means, Campbell, is you need to delve into a time when you were deeply unhappy. You have to thoroughly bum yourself out.”

  I close my eyes and concentrate for a couple of minutes. I think about Maddie, my best friend at school. We lived three blocks away from each other and we were inseparable until last fall when a guy she liked told everyone that I slept with him. I had a reputation with guys at school, and it was probably deserved, but this was one guy I never touched. Maddie didn’t believe me, and she not only didn’t speak to me anymore but she managed to turn every one of my friends against me. I remember feeling the loss of someone I loved all over again, and realizing that loving someone doesn’t do a damn bit of good if they don’t love you back.

  “Not bad,” Dominic says when I say my lines. “But I want you to go deeper.”

  As unhappy as this makes me, I push myself further. My thoughts of Maddie change to thoughts of my Dad. I think of how he smelled like the green gel after-shave lotion he used and how he never shaved on weekends so his face was bristly and rough and I complained of his scratchy kisses but I secretly loved them, and how he used to hold my hands while I climbed up the front of his body in my socks and then flip me by my hands so I’d land on my feet. I think of how he and I both loved dogs, and we’d talk about all the imaginary dogs we would one day have, their breeds and their names, but we both knew there would never be a dog in our house because Mom hates dogs. I think of how at this moment my dad is living in Florida with his second wife, Amanda, who for all I know may be a perfectly nice person, and their two-year-old son, my half-brother, Cameron, who doesn’t even know I exist because I have been screwed out of a relationship with any of them. And the unhappiness swells inside me but I can tell it’s not enough. I need to dig deeper, into the part that really hurts.