Did she just say she loves me? She didn’t, but she came close.
“Vicky hated me for making the models my priority. She and I weren’t even on speaking terms when she died,” Gigi continues. “She was my greatest failure, and my biggest heartbreak. I’m afraid of making the same mistakes all over again. I don’t think I can stand that.”
“I’m not Vicky,” I say. “I spent a lot of time looking after myself when dad was alive. I don’t expect to be your only priority.”
“Jane, I’m a terrible guardian. I spend half my time traveling, and when I am here I'm fussing over the models and the agency and I hardly have a moment to give to you. I have no idea what I’m doing. It wouldn’t be fair to you."
“I don’t need you to be a perfect grandmother. I haven’t been a perfect granddaughter either. Maybe we should stop expecting perfection from each other.”
We're both silent for a while. Then Gigi takes my hand and squeezes it.
"Alright," she says."I'm willing to try if you are. Perhaps we both need a fresh start."
I'm so relieved I could cry. I'd hug her, but I think that would be pushing it. So instead we shake hands, like we've just closed a deal. It feels silly, but not in a bad way; like we know our oddball relationship has its own practices, and that those just might work for us.
25
Campbell
I don’t know how long it will take before it stops hurting. Sometimes I black out the fact that she’s gone for a moment and it becomes bearable for a few seconds, and then it hits me again like a mule kick to the chest. I never knew how really physical the pain of grief is. I feel it deep in my limbs, as though someone is scraping the blade of a red-hot knife across my raw bones. It hurts like hell and I can’t stop shaking.
The media can’t get enough of Sophia. Suddenly everyone “knew” her, everyone has a tale to tell, every tabloid has her photo on the front page and all the papers in the city have sold out, unable to satisfy the public’s ravenous hunger for more details about the Tragedy of Sophia Thompson. The city is swept up in a bandwagon of mourning, with hundreds of people leaving bouquets of flowers, teddy bears and homemade cards on the ground outside the Towers Agency. The pile of gifts gets so big that it spills over the edge of the sidewalk and the bookers have to dig a pathway to get to the front door. Some of the flowers and gifts get delivered to hospitals, but eventually the sanitation department just hauls it all away. Still the flowers keep coming.
I remember very little of the memorial service, which was at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. I sat behind Gigi and Jane, but even though the church was packed with the entire who’s who of the fashion world, all of them parading their most elegant black couture, I didn't bother looking around me and just stared at the ground. Ling later told me that Anna Wintour was sitting two seats to my left. According to the photos that ran in the New York Times, Gigi wore a black knee-length Oscar de la Renta, Ling wore Issey Miyake, and Maya wore Giorgio Armani but I have no idea what I wore. Something that Maya and Jane pulled together for me. After the service I got undressed and got in bed, and spoke to no one for two days.
Lots of collective sniffling out there. The other girls think they’ll feel better if they sit around sharing Sophia stories, like the Von Trapp children singing through a thunderstorm.
“Remember when Sophia didn’t have any cash to give to a homeless woman so she took off her gold bracelet and gave it to her?”
“Remember when she climbed on the roof to smoke a joint and she almost started a fire in the leaves in the gutter?”
“Remember when she hid Betty’s disgusting fish mousse in the Tiffany’s flower vase and then Dovima knocked it over?”
But I get no comfort from sharing my grief with anyone, because none of them have any idea how I feel. How dare they hijack my grief and make it theirs? How dare they pretend their sorrow even comes close to the pain I feel? Everyone who knew Sophia adored her, but I loved her. I really did, more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my life. I can’t imagine ever feeling about someone the way I did about her. I miss her so much. I missed her already before she died. I missed her from the moment I was offered the part in the movie. I knew things were never going to be the same between us, but I would have spent the rest of my life trying to repair our friendship.
The only place where I feel somewhat whole is on the set of Siren, because when I’m filming then I’m out of my own head and inside Zoey’s. In between takes I hang out mostly with Rory, because he likes to talk so much that he doesn’t notice that I don’t. Lucas is always on the phone with his girlfriend, and Emily is already reading script treatments for her next role, so, fortunately, nobody feels the need to talk about Sophia. Alan checks on me regularly to make sure I’m okay. I’ve finally started losing weight because I haven’t been able to eat anything since Sophia died, I mean I’ve barely been able to get out of bed, but Alan isn’t having that. After my first day back at work he takes me out to dinner at Minetta Tavern, where I pick at a cheeseburger.
“I need you to take care of yourself,” he says. “I know you’re hurting, but I can’t let you waste away.”
“I thought it was a good thing that I was losing weight,” I answer glumly.
“Why?” Alan asks, raising his eyebrows. “Your weight is fine.”
“My weight has been an issue ever since I joined the Towers Agency.”
“Well, screw them, you’re an actor. You’re playing a healthy, beautiful young girl, and that’s what you are.”
I could fall madly in love with Alan if I let myself. Yes, I know…he’s much too old for me, I’m confusing my fucked-up daddy-issues with love, I’m aware of the twisted psychology of it all. That’s why I’m careful to keep my feelings in check. For the first time I’m not using my sexuality to influence a man. I’ve seen that go wrong too often to risk having the same thing happen with Alan. I want him to be blown away by my talent, to admire my work ethic, to like me as a person, and that means I need to focus on what I bring to my role. Alan has warned me that some of the scenes are going to be emotionally rough. I know that it’s going to hurt, but I also know that I can use everything that has happened to me to deliver the best performance he could ask for.
The Towers Agency wants me to go to Los Angeles for a couple of weeks after the movie wraps, so I can meet some of the casting directors there. I’ve never been to LA before. Alan thinks it’ll be good for me to get away from New York for a while.
“Personally, I can’t stand LA,” Alan confides, “but I bet you’ll love it. I have no doubt that they’ll love you. You may even decide to stay.”
I doubt that. As hard as these past few months have been, New York hasn’t got the better of me yet. Ling and I have already agreed to get an apartment together when I get back. We’ve even found a place. It’s a two-bedroom walkup on Thompson Street, and it has a fire escape that we’re going to fill with tomato plants and flower pots. If it’s okay with Ling, I want to get a cat.
Will I be inundated with offers for acting jobs, or will I be old news by then, waiting tables for tips at the Oleander Club? I wish it depended on how much I want to succeed, although in the end it’ll come down just as much to luck. But you know, I have a good feeling about my luck. It’s taken a long, long time, but I think it’s finally improving.
26
Maya
There is no amount of hurt I can inflict on myself, no amount of bleeding, that can numb this pain, not unless I bleed to death. I’m teetering at the edge of a cold black abyss, a hair’s breadth from falling headlong into it, and madness beckons from its depth. I have no appetite at all and I can’t even remember the last thing I ate. Every time I close my eyes I see Sophia fall, so I don’t sleep anymore. I lie awake, afraid of where my thoughts go in the darkness, haunted by regret that I didn’t slap the drugs out of her hands, tell Gigi she was using, turn away from her until she promised to quit. I did nothing because I needed her. I was riding on her high right alongside her. I killed
her. We all did. Gigi, Theo, Jason, all her clients, everyone who wanted a piece of her. She was a star burning too fast and too bright and we all knew it, but we didn't care because we basked in her brilliance, and now we’re standing, dazed, in the smoldering debris that remained when she burned herself out like a supernova.
There’s another thought, even darker than the rest, that haunts me, one that I am afraid to articulate even to myself. None of us knew what was going on in Sophia’s mind. All we knew was what she showed the world, a thousand pictures of perfection. When I remember the silent smile on Sophia’s face the moment she fell, I wonder…was it really an accident? No one will ever know the answer, so I don’t ask it out loud, not to anyone. The fact that she had enough drugs in her system to totally scramble her mind seemed to satisfy everyone that her fall was accidental, but I’ll never stop wondering. And if it wasn’t an accident, if she was cracking up under the pressure, why did I not notice? What kind of a shitty, self-absorbed friend was I? Campbell would have noticed, I bet, if I hadn’t shoved her aside and taken her place.
Incredibly, the fashion world keeps turning. But the mere thought of getting in front of a camera again makes me want to vomit. I turn down bookings, don’t go to castings, and don’t answer Suzanne’s daily calls checking up on me. Gigi, herself broken into a thousand pieces, doesn’t even know who’s coming or going.
There’s one person who won’t let me ignore her. Alexandra call me after Sophia’s accident makes the news, and I let her go to voicemail.
“Did you know that I heard from my roommate that you were with that model who died? That’s some crazy shit, Maya. Call me back!”
I don’t answer, and the next day she calls again.
“Me again. I just read about you and your friend’s last photo shoot in the New York Post — and by the way you’re the only reason I’ve ever bought an issue of the New York Post in my life— and are you okay? I mean I can’t even imagine what you're dealing with! Call me!”
I ignore that one too because I’m ignoring everything.
“Okay, you’re not going to believe this,” goes her message a day later, “…or maybe you are. I just talked to Mom and first of all she had no idea about any of this because, as she said, she ‘doesn’t pay attention to entertainment news.’ And then I said I was worried about you — which I am you twat, why don’t you call me back?— and Mom goes, ‘Oh, I’m sure she’s fine, it wasn’t Maya who fell off the roof.’ Can you believe what a straight up bitch she is sometimes? Call me back!”
Then, a couple of days later, there’s another message.
“Okay you, joke’s over. If you don’t call me back right now I’m coming over there, and I’m going to be in a really bad mood about it because I’ve got tons of stuff going on but you’re starting to freak me out so call me back. I’m serious, Maya!”
The message is several hours old and I really should call her, but she’ll inevitably want to rehash everything that’s happened and I am so very, very sick of talking about it. Instead I have a shower, letting the water run as hot as I can stand it, as though I can purify myself of the haunting guilt by steaming it out of me. I get out of the shower, my skin glowing, and put on my robe. It turns out I don’t have to call Alexandra after all because as I sit on my bed combing my hair there’s a knock at my bedroom door, and, true to her word, there stands my sister looking extremely put out.
“Hey Al, what are you doing here?” I ask vaguely.
“I told you I’d come if you didn’t return my calls, which you didn’t, so here I am. It’s a big pain in the ass, I have a paper due tomorrow, and…damn, Maya, what have you been doing to yourself?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know you just lost your friend, but my God! Look at you!”
“I don’t need to look at myself. All I ever do is look at myself. I’m sick of looking at myself.”
“Well let me look at you then. Jesus. What is this shit?” Al grabs my forearm and pulls back the sleeve of my robe, exposing the cuts in my skin and the bruises from my fingernails.
“Stop it!” I yank my arm free. “Go away!”
“I will not. What are you doing, you idiot? Are you trying to kill yourself?”
“Mind your own damn business!” How dare she strut her smug Ivy League ass into my room and boss me around when she NO IDEA what I’ve been through, no idea how hard I’ve struggled. “You don’t get to judge me, Al. You live in a cocoon! You live in fucking Disneyland! You don’t know anything about me!”
“I know you’re hurting yourself,” she retorts. “I’ve seen cadavers in better shape than you!”
“Oh, go back to school. Nobody invited you here. Go play doctor with your friends!”
But as though to remind me that she’s my older sister and she’s never taken orders from me, Al grabs me and pulls me off the bed. My robe falls open, and her eyes widen at the sight of my nearly naked body. I shove her away but she grabs my wrists and, holding my arms behind me, tries to drag me in front of the mirror.
“Let go of me, you psycho!” I yell.
I curse and kick at her but Al is done messing around. She hold my arms tightly against my side and turns me to face the mirror.
“Maya, stop it! Stop! Look, Maya, just look!”
I squirm in rage but I am no match for her strength, and panting, look at myself in the mirror.
“Don’t you see?” Al asks. “I don’t even recognize you anymore. This isn’t beautiful, Maya! This is what sick people look like.”
“Fuck off, I’m not sick.”
“You’re not healthy. You’re weak as a dishrag. Try breaking my grip. Here, I’ll use one hand.” She pins my forearms together, spanning them with a single hand. I struggle to break free but I can’t and it’s infuriating. We’ve always been pretty well matched in a fight but now I’m as feeble as a child and, like a child I dissolve into tears. Finally I go limp and I crumple to the floor. Al sits beside me.
“You need help, Maya,” Al says, and I don’t argue. I’m too tired.
Alexandra calls Dad from Sophia’s room so she can talk in private. He’s almost impossible to get on the phone, because we’re not supposed to use his emergency number and he lets all his other calls go straight to his answering service, so we usually call Mom to get through to Dad, but Al isn’t bothering with Mom anymore. I overhear words like physiological and mental evaluation, nutritional therapy, and treatment plan. I should probably be more interested in what they’re saying but it all seems oddly irrelevant, as though they’re talking about someone else. They can say whatever they want, but I don’t see how any of those things can fit into my life. I have other stuff to think about, like how to reply to Suzanne, who’s been dangling bookings in front of me like shiny lures. In just the past hour I got two new voice messages from her. I play them back while I wait for Alexandra to get off the phone.
“I know you needed some time off,” Suzanne’s latest message says, “but you’re hotter now than you’ve ever been. You’re at almost a million followers! Vogue wants to book you again! Isn’t that great? And Harper’s Bazaar wants to book you, and so does H & M, and Revlon has you on hold. Time to get back on track, Maya. When will you be ready to work?”
I look at the bleary-eyed, shadow-faced mess of my reflection, and for the first time, instead of appraising every inch for perfection, I focus on the faded bruises where I’ve dug my fingernails into my arms, the scars that are becoming increasingly difficult to hide, the protruding ribs and hip bones that reveal months of deprivation and exhaustion. This is the body that I thought was so powerful, that I thought could take me anywhere I wanted to go, and just look how frail it has become.
My answer comes as clear as a bell: Never.
I’m done. Finished. And with that realization, a crushing weight suddenly lifts from my soul. I feel as though the sun has emerged after months of darkness, and I give a short, almost hysterical laugh. I’ve been driving myself to the brink of i
nsanity trying to run a race that I now realize has no finish line. I thought I was in total control as long as I could manipulate my body by working it, hurting it, and starving it. But I forgot that I can’t control what isn’t mine, and my body isn’t mine, it belongs to the Towers Agency. Alexandra is right. It’s time to take ownership of my body back. And this time I’m going to be a little kinder to it.
“I wish I could change your mind,” Gigi sighs a few days later as we wait for the car that will take me to the airport.
“I hope you won’t try,” I answer.
“You would have been one of my really big stars, you know,” Gigi says. “Millions of girls would kill to be in your shoes, and you’re throwing it all away. You belong at the very top, Maya, you’re so close already.”
But I’ve seen that there’s only one direction to go from the top. I want to move forward, and I see a new trajectory taking shape. It will begin with getting healthy. Dad told me he pulled a lot of strings to get me in an intensive outpatient program at the top eating disorder clinic in DC, and in return I promised I’ll give it my best effort. I meant it, too. Not because I owe it to him, but because I owe it to me.
“I really am grateful for everything, Gigi. I hope we can stay friends,” I say.
Gigi tilts her head and reaches out to embrace me.
“Of course we’re friends. I wish you good luck in everything, Maya. And if you ever change your mind, don’t hesitate to come back, do you hear me? The Towers Agency will always have a place for you.”
She still thinks there’s a chance she can have me, poor woman. But I am done with being had.
The Luckiest Girls Page 21