After a brief introduction by Alan the reading begins. Fortunately, Zoey doesn’t show up until several scenes into the script, so by the time I read my first line I’m a bit more relaxed and the group is warmed up. But wouldn’t you know it, my first line, my VERY first, I flub and start coughing. I’m blushing like a beet, but Lucas, sitting beside me, puts his hand on my shoulder and gives me a gentle squeeze.
Alan and the scriptwriters give us some notes, as a few scenes are reworked. By the end of the day it feels as if we’ve all known each other for ages. God, Lucas is attractive, but he’s also practically married to an actress in a series. Probably a good thing, since I don’t know how actors go through all the physical motions without actually falling in love with each other, and if he’s unavailable then at least we won’t complicate things by getting involved offscreen.
That evening Gigi gives me more attention than she ever has before. “What did you think of George Milton?” she asks, all chatty as we sit in the living room before dinner. She drinks a glass of wine while I sip a small glass of diet coke. “I’ve met him before, when he was briefly engaged to one of my models in the nineteen-nineties. That was when he was playing Richard III on Broadway.”
“I was scared to death of him at first, but he was really nice. He got up to get his own coffee during our break, even though there were people there to fetch us whatever we wanted, and he brought me a cup as well. Isn’t that cool?”
“Yes, he’s famously charming, but a terrible womanizer,” Gigi says. Soon the other girls enter the living room: Sophia and Maya, followed by Ling and Brigitte, and lastly Jane, as we wait for Betty to call us in to dinner. I give each of them a cold stare. One of them knows what’s behind my look.
“Campbell was just telling me about meeting George Milton and the rest of the film cast. Jane, how many times must I tell you not to sit on the armrest? Sit on the sofa properly,” Gigi sighs.
“Yes, and he was super nice, and so are Lucas, and Emily, and all the rest, and everyone already gets along so well, you know? There was so much laughing and excitement today, I just can’t wait until we actually begin shooting. Of course there’s still lots to do. I have costume fittings, and hair and makeup tests, and publicity shots…” I know I sound like an unbearable showoff, but the person who tried to ruin everything for me this morning is sitting right in this room and I want her to know that she didn’t get to me. I’m not going to say anything about it, not to anyone, because I know there’s nothing more infuriating to the person who did it than having her scheme go completely unacknowledged.
“I think the others would be happier for you if you didn’t brag about how much fun you’re having,” Maya says as she gets undressed for bed.
“I’m not bragging. I’m just making a point to a certain person.”
“Which person?”
“I don’t know. Somebody locked me in the bathroom this morning. I don’t know who did it, but it wasn’t an accident.”
“You were locked in the bathroom?” Maya’s eyebrows go up.
“Yes, and I almost didn’t make it to my table reading.” I don’t look at Maya as I put my clothes away, slamming drawers.
“Well, when did it happen? Who was home?”
“While I was showering, and for a while everyone was home. Conveniently none of you could hear me when I was calling for help.”
“None of us? Campbell, you don’t think I had anything to do with that, do you? I left the house right after I went downstairs.”
“So you say.”
“Oh, stop it. You know I’d never do that.”
I just shrug. I don’t know anything anymore.
From now on I make sure to lock the door from the inside when I shower. I used to leave it unlocked because everyone is always in such a hurry in the morning and people are constantly running in and out of the bathroom to fix their hair or brush their teeth, but not anymore.
Be fanatic about punctuality. It shows your client you are dependable, professional, and self-disciplined, and in a competitive business, why would a client accept anything less? — From The Supermodel’s Handbook by Gigi Towers.
* * *
My costume fitting is at nine o’clock a few days later. The address is somewhere in Brooklyn and it should take about twenty minutes to get there, but last night I ordered a car to pick me up at eight twenty this morning to give myself plenty of extra time because I can’t risk anything going wrong. The costume designer, Sandra, works on tons of movies and she’s not somebody that people keep waiting.
My car arrives and I settle in to the back seat, relieved to make it out of the house without any mishaps. It’s nice to be able to sit quietly in the back seat and read my script. However, after half an hour I check the time and realize we’re cutting it a little close. When I finally pay attention to where we are, I almost jump out of my seat.
“Wait…what are we doing near the airport? We’re in Queens! I’m supposed to be in Brooklyn!” I cry.
The driver is puzzled. “This is the address I got. 225th Street, Queens.”
I open the car service app on my phone. It’s a shared app for Gigi’s house that we can all use, so anyone can access it. I entered the correct address when I ordered the car last night, but some time between then and this morning someone went into the account and changed it to a completely bogus address miles out of the way.
“Dammit!” I shout. I find the correct address and give it to the driver, who starts griping about his next fare, and how he’s going to have to charge me three times more, but I pay no attention at all because I’m on the phone with Tom at the agency, trying to explain what’s happened, and he’s pissed.
“I’ll tell them you’re on your way,” he says. “But don’t let this happen again. It’s too early for you to be causing dramas.”
“I didn’t cause it!” I answer, but he’s already hung up. Great. Now he’s mad at me too. We hit the peak of morning rush hour into the city and I’m half an hour late to my fitting. I scramble out of the car, and as I run up the stairs of the building, I trip, dropping my bag, my script, and scraping my hands and elbows. I’m a bloody mess when I announce myself at the reception.
Sandra’s assistant meets me when I get out of the elevator. “You’re late,” she says, as though I don’t already know. She brings me over to meet Sandra. I reach out to shake Sandra’s hand and Sandra is about to take mine when she pulls back and looks at it in horror. No wonder. My hand is dripping blood onto the white carpet.
“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry,” I say. “I fell. I had the wrong address, and I was late, and I was running, and…”
“Well,” Sandra says. “You’ve had quite a morning.” Her assistant approaches with a damp paper towel. “Let’s patch you up. We don’t want your blood staining the clothes.” While not unkind, Sandra’s voice is brisk and business-like. I can’t imagine how I could have made a worse first impression.
Once rehearsals start we work long and hard days, but I love them because when I’m working I feel really good about myself. Alan gives us notes after every scene, and sometimes he’s pleased with us and sometimes he’s impatient, but I think he likes my work. He told me that, even though I’m working, I should continue to study with an acting coach. At first I was alarmed when he said that, but then Emily told me that she still studies regularly with a dialect coach, and Lucas says he practices with an improv group whenever he’s not working. So I’m going to keep working with Dominic on Saturday mornings.
Every person’s script has their name printed on the front. We’re supposed to guard our scripts with our lives, because if a script falls into the wrong hands the entire film could be leaked onto the internet before its release date, which would be catastrophic. So when I can’t find my script, which I know I left on my bedside table, after dinner one night when Gigi is out of town I go into an absolute panic. I tear through the house, digging through every pile of magazines, crawling under furniture and cushions, groping through drawe
rs. Ling, Jane and Sophia help me look.
“Did you look in the TV room?” Ling asks. “I saw you reading it in there yesterday.”
“I looked all over the TV room! Under the sofa cushions and the furniture and everywhere!”
“Maybe you left it on the subway.”
“No. I had it after I came home. I was reading it in my room until just before dinner. Someone took it. I’m sure of it.” And as I say it, I know I’m right. When I came down to dinner, Ling and Sophia were already seated. Brigitte came to the table after I did. Maya and Jane came down last. But I stopped in the bathroom to wash my hands before I came down, so it could have been any one of them.
“Why would anyone do that?” Ling asks.
“I don’t know, Ling,” I shout, full of sarcasm. “Why are people assholes?”
“Wow. Sorry you can’t keep track of your things but that’s no reason to yell at me.”
Great. Now Ling hates me too.
“Aaagh!” I groan in frustration, grabbing my head.
“Okay, calm down,” Jane says. “If you really think someone took it, what do you think they would have done with it?”
Good question. If someone really wanted to mess with me they wouldn’t just hide my script. They would destroy it. I run downstairs into the kitchen and open the broom closet where the trash can stands. I yank off the lid of the trash and plunge my arms elbow deep into a pile of garbage, and shove aside chicken bones, vegetable peelings and dirty paper towels as I search the contents. No script. As I was my hands and arms in the sink, Jane checks the trash compactor under the sink.
“Nothing here either,” she says.
Then I have an idea. I hurry downstairs to the basement and flick on the light. Next to the recycling bins stands a paper shredder. With a firm yank I pull open the basket, and among the illegible strips I recognize the cream-colored paper of the script, and the pale green highlight of my lines.
“Oh my God,” I cry as I run up the stairs. “Who did this? What’s wrong with you people?” I throw a handful of my shredded script at the others who have collected on the third floor landing, summoned by my screams. Their reactions give me no clue who’s responsible. All of them stare in open-mouthed surprise as the strips of paper flutter to the ground. Sophia looks horrified, Brigitte looks amused, Ling looks disbelieving.
“Campbell, it’ll be alright,” Ling says. “It can be replaced.”
“No it can’t. I had notes written in it,” I sob. “I’ll get in a lot of trouble. I’ll look like an idiot. We’re not supposed to let anything happen to our scripts.”
“Well, I think it’s awful,” Sophia says. “Whoever did this should feel terrible about themselves.”
“How do we know you didn’t do it?” Jane asks.
“I beg your damn pardon?”
“I’m just saying. It could be anyone.”
“How do we know it wasn’t you?” Sophia retorts.
“You don’t. Like I said, it could be anyone,” Jane shrugs.
“It doesn’t feel like something Sophia would do,” Maya says. “Brigitte, are you sure it wasn’t you?”
“Oh, stop sucking up,” Brigitte retorts. “I bet it was you. You can’t stand anyone getting more attention than you.”
I push past them into my room and slam the door. The sound of the girls’ fighting carries through the house. I hope they tear each other to pieces.
19
Maya
Do not reward yourself with food. You are not a dog. — Anonymous.
* * *
Well, the world has officially gone insane. Sophia has been dethroned by Campbell. Campbell. Which means my standing in the house has fallen even lower. In fact, at this moment I’m pretty much worthless, since Gigi said she won’t let me take any more bookings until I get a clean bill of health by a doctor. So I have an appointment for a physical this afternoon. I know I’m going to be weighed, so I drink as much water as I can right before my appointment. That should add about two or three pounds to the scale, without ingesting a single calorie.
As I fill out the questionnaire in the waiting room of Dr. Noronha’s office I let my pen hover over the space after “Have you ever been treated for mental illness or depression?” But I hesitate only a second. Medical confidentiality rules or not, Dr. Noronha is in Gigi’s pocket. I fill in “No.” Under weight, I fill in 120, which I know is a bit off.
I didn’t expect it to be as far off as it is: 109, the scale says, and that’s with my jeans and sweater on and a quart of water sloshing around in my stomach.
“I’ve seen a lot of girls like you,” Dr. Noronha says sternly, “and I’m going to tell you the same thing I tell all of them, even though I know you’re going to leave here and do exactly what you want. Your body-mass-index is less than fifteen, which means you’re seriously underweight. If you keep losing weight, you’ll be at risk for acidosis, pancreatitis, and gall bladder disease, just to name a few. Your body will start to consume your own muscle tissue just to stay alive. Eventually you could experience seizures and organ failure, and possibly even die. Is that what you want to do?”
I’m going to assume Dr. Noronha isn’t famous for his cheerful bedside manner.
“No, of course not,” I reply. “I’m not trying to lose weight. I’m hardly running at all anymore.”
Dr. Noronha gives me a sheet of paper with a sample diet printed on it.
“You should make sure you’re eating at least 1,800 calories per day. At least. This is a 2,000 calorie meal plan.”
I look at the sheet. Breakfast includes things like pancakes and oatmeal and turkey bacon, with lunch suggestions of pasta with tomato sauce, cheeseburgers, and pizza. He must be crazy if he thinks I’m going to sit in front of Gigi and the girls shoving pancakes and pasta into my face.
“1,800 calories,” I say. “Got it.”
“At the very least. Your body can’t handle the stress you’re putting it through, Maya.”
I could tell him that I’ve always been tall and thin, I’m an athlete, my body is used to a strict regimen, but he won’t listen to me any more than I’m listening to him. When I leave the office I toss the sheet into the nearest trash can.
As I walk home from the subway Sophia meets me on the sidewalk outside Gigi’s house.
“I didn’t want anyone else to tell you,” Sophia beams. “Guess what?”
“I have absolutely no idea,” I reply.
“Vogue just booked the two of us for an editorial feature with Theo! Isn’t that great?”
An editorial feature in Vogue! I almost sob with joy and relief. They do want me! I didn’t blow my chance after all. I grab Sophia’s hands because I almost fall, I’m so dizzy with excitement.
“Are you serious? Oh my God, Sophia!” We both start screaming with joy. This is everything I wanted. Me and Sophia, the next team of supermodels. We really are the luckiest girls in the world.
“And guess who’s in town!” she cries. “Jason! He’s playing at the Beacon Theater on Broadway tomorrow night. He wants me to come to a party after the concert with him, and he asked me to bring a friend. Will you come? Please say you’ll come!”
For a moment she sounds just as excited and dorky as any other teenage girl. I have to laugh at the sight of one of the most celebrated beauties in the world so giddy over a boy, even if that boy is a rock star.
“Of course!” A couple of weeks ago she would have asked Campbell instead of me, but since Campbell got that movie role I don’t think those two have spoken to each other. “Will Gigi let us? We have a curfew.”
“Oh please, Gigi will let us do whatever we want to do, as long as it’s good PR, and being seen on the arms of one of the biggest rock stars of our time is good PR. Trust me, she’ll make sure our pictures are all over the media by Saturday morning, and that’s good for Gigi and for us.”
Sophia is right. Gigi is already way ahead of us, and has worked out with Jason Cooper’s manager exactly when we’ll be picked up a
nd how we’ll be conveyed into the theater, who will take us backstage and which members of the media will cover the photo ops. Per Gigi’s instructions Abby Bernstein sends us a selection of outfits in the morning. After trying everything on, Sophia finally chooses a black leather mini-dress decorated with tiny gold studs by Versace, and I opt for a cream-colored viscose dress by Balmain. Before we leave, Gigi cautions us against answering questions from reporters about Sophia’s relationship with Jason.
“Always leave them wondering,” she explains. “Once the media have their answers they’ll stop asking, and they’ll forget about you.”
On Saturday a limo picks us up at seven-o’clock, and Sophia and I clamber in the back.
“Oh, hey, look — champagne!” Sophia exclaims as she grasps the bottle standing in an ice bucket on the console.
“What are these, chocolate covered strawberries?” I reach for one as Sophia pops the cork off the bottle.
We take pictures of ourselves, mugging for the camera with our legs crossed over each other on the back seat, laughing. The ride to the Upper West Side ends far too quickly, and the car delivers us to the address where we meet one of Jason’s security staff.
“Wear these, ladies, and whatever you do, don’t lose them.” He hands us lanyards with VIP passes which we put around our necks.
He leads us through an alley off of West 74th street and into a side entrance, where a small crowd stands outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the band. The three of us hurry through the door and into a hallway filled with black-clad sentries wearing telephone headsets, and everyone looks very serious and important and they all wear the same VIP passes that show that we are deep inside the inner sanctum. When we reach the backstage lounge, we have to show our passes to a very burly guard who examines them closely before he lets us in.
The Luckiest Girls Page 16