Good thing I lost my heart four years ago or I’d be a fool for leaving without getting her name and number.
CHAPTER TWO
Charley
“How’s it going my sweet, hung-over friend?” I sing into the phone, knowing Naomi will kill me for calling her before her alarm. It serves her right for dragging me to the club last night. I’ll admit it was fun, but I would be much more rested for the photo shoot I’m heading to if I hadn’t agreed to go dancing with her.
She’s so convincing though. Naomi is like a little minx that can get anyone around her to do exactly as she asks. The worst part is she isn’t even obnoxious about it. I don’t know how she does it, but she’s exactly what I need. If we were living in a sitcom, she would be the sassy, g*y best friend. At every moment she tries her damnedest to get me out of my shell even though I put up a tough fight most of the time.
“Uggh. Tell me you are not calling me at this hour. Or if you are, at least tell me you’re outside of my door with a Bloody Mary and a Cronut.” She sounds like she’s battling a drunken haze; I can’t help but smile.
“Yes, Naomi, because after we go clubbing I love nothing more than to wake up and stand in a three hour line for a Cronut at five am,” I quip, knowing she can keep up.
“They’re so good though,” she hums dreamily into the phone.
“I know, such a genius idea,” I relent. “I’m on my way over to MILK studios and I wanted to check in.”
“How very generous of you, my dear,” she drawls sarcastically, making me smile.
“Also, I left a pumpkin spice latte outside of your door.”
Naomi lives a few apartment buildings down from me, but there’s a Starbucks in between, so I usually grab her something if I’m planning on walking by.
She squeals, “God. You’re the best. This is why I keep you around.”
“Also for the free swag that I pass on. Don’t forget.”
“Never. Did you have fun last night?”
I mull over her question, twisting my head in both directions before I cross the street in a rapid pace. Even at six AM, Manhattan is already in full force. Taxis are weaving in and out of traffic as brave bikers attempt to traverse the busy roads.
“Actually I did, but that was probably because you literally stared daggers at anyone who approached us.”
“Sometimes girls just wanna dance!” she sings loudly into the phone; actually so loud that the small Asian man in the business suit crossing by offers me a snide glare. I try to shoot him an apologetic nod, but he’s already looking down at his phone.
“Alright, Crazy. Some of us have to look our best in about…” I glance down at my thin, cream leather watch. “Five minutes ago! Crap!”
“Knock em’ dead, sister. Make sure you sneak pictures of the male models for me, though. I can’t get through a day at the accounting firm unless there are booty pictures being delivered every hour, on the hour.”
I toss my head back and laugh at the idea. Naomi works for a prestigious accounting firm in the Financial District. Knowing her outside of work makes it nearly impossible to imagine her having a straight-laced corporate job, but she loves it. But, while she works a nine-to-five, my days rarely fit into standard working hours.
“I have no clue when this shoot will wrap, but I’ll call you when I get off.”
“Sounds good,” she mumbles into the phone as I hear her open her front door to grab her latte.
As soon as I click off the call, I pull open the heavy glass door to the studios and rush inside the sleek building. I’ve been here so many times over the past two years; I know the layout like the back of my hand. I dart across the lobby and press the elevator call button, willing the glossy metal doors to open magically before me. But, of course, the old monster barely clanks to life and I’m left teetering between waiting or darting toward one of the hidden staircases.
As I’m waiting for the elevator with antsy feet, a few other crew members funnel in through the glass door. I sigh, twisting around to offer them a simple smile. Good to know I won’t be the only late one. I usually strive to be on time. In fact, being late is a major pet peeve of mine— Just one of the engrained etiquette rules from my Upper West Side upbringing. But honestly, nothing tells someone they don’t matter to you quite like showing up late for a meeting or date.
My body shuffles back and forth as I watch the numbers illuminate above the elevator doors. I’m silently praying to the speedy-elevator gods (they exist) when two girls come to stand next to me. I subtly slide my gaze toward them. From their wild pink and purple hair, I know right away they’re part of the hair crew. Why is it that people who do hair for a living always seem to have the wackiest styles themselves? Maybe they get bored with the same ol’ same ol’ everyday.
“You’re Charley Whitlock, right?” The girl with pink hair asks shyly. When she speaks, I realize she’s probably close to my age, if not younger. She’s got bright pink eye shadow caked over her eyelids and solid black gages piercing her dainty ears. Total rocker chick. I wish I could pull off the look half as well.
“Oh, um, yes.” I smile and take a sip of my coffee just as the elevator doors open and we step inside.
I don’t get recognized very much, and honestly, it makes me more uncomfortable than anything else. That’s not why I became a model; it’s just a troubling side effect that comes along with it. I never had to worry about it in the past, but lately my jobs have picked up drastically. I’m doing more editorials and inserts than ever before. Obviously, my agent, Janet, is thrilled and keeps pushing me to do more and more, but soon I’ll have to tell her that I want to cut back. I model for the money and that’s it. Modeling isn’t my passion, not like painting is.
I stumbled into modeling my senior year of college and everything happened in a flash. At the time, I’d been looking for a way to make ends meet, knowing I wanted to paint full time. Modeling honestly seemed like the perfect fit until I realized that my quiet life might soon be threatened.
I shrug off the uneasy feeling and remind myself that the girl only recognized me because she’s in the fashion industry, and she’s obviously working on the shoot. To most people I’m still a nobody.
That reassuring thought settles the nerves that had bloomed in my stomach right as the elevator dings, alerting us that we’re on level three. The moment the doors slide open, the photo shoot unravels before me like a three-ring circus. Loud music pounds from a stereo system, pumping a heavy beat through the entire room. People are darting around in every direction. Stylists are picking accessories and shoes, while tossing away the rejects into a messy pile. Their assistants are steaming the wrinkles out of dozens of couture gowns that hang like pieces of art in need of worship. Photographers are already checking the lighting and marks for the planned shots.
Even though the scene is a complete mess, it makes me smile. No one thinks about the manpower that goes into one single photograph in a magazine. You see the flawlessly airbrushed model and subconsciously want to buy whatever she’s wearing, but no one considers the assistant that had to hold the diffuser for three hours to block unwanted shadows. I like seeing the behind-the-scenes of production; it makes the end result all the more amazing.
“Where the hell is our model?” A deep voice suddenly snaps from behind the digital monitors set up for the director and head photographer. The gruff voice takes me by surprise and I have to swallow my nerves before answering.
“I’m sorry I’m late! I lost track of time,” I chirp lamely. Deep Voice doesn’t even have the decency to raise his head above the monitors.
“Charley, we need you in hair and makeup, please,” the art director, Mrs. Hart, chimes as she rounds the table away from the cranky photographer. Mrs. Hart is one of the best directors in the industry and I can’t believe I’m getting to work with her. Not to mention, at just shy of fifty, she still looks flawless. Everything about her oozes style. I’ve looked up to her for some time. I’ll have to stay focused and make up for my tardiness. First impressions are important, and she probably already has a negative opinion of me now. I don’t want her to think I’m taking this photo shoot for granted— It’s paying my rent for five months, and in New York, that’s no small feat.
“Hello, Mrs. Hart.” I smile brightly. “It’s such an honor to work with you. I’m so sorry for being late.” I shake her hand hurriedly and keep talking as I walk toward the corner where the makeup crew is set up. Vanity mirrors hang in front of black, swivel chairs.
Mrs. Hart replies with a genuine smile before turning to the inspiration boards where Polaroids of each outfit are being pinned by her assistants. I breathe a sigh of relief. At least she doesn’t seem to mind that I was a teensy bit late. Now I’ll just have to work on the photographer.
I drop my bag out of everyone’s way, up against one of the black tables, and then gaze upon a sight that never seems to get old. It’s the only part of modeling I don’t have to pretend to enjoy. Laying on the surface of the table is every kind of cosmetic imaginable. Creamy blushes, silky mascaras, and bright lipsticks are lined up in perfect rows, ready for the taking. As a painter, I love gazing upon the rows of makeup as if they’re the tools for creating the perfect masterpiece: unyielding beauty, flawless enough to conceal the demons lying beneath the surface.
I thumb a bright red lipstick that looks like a sparkling ruby and try to commit the name to memory. Nars - Heat Wave. How fitting. I may have to pick up a tube on my way home later.
A throat clears softly behind me and I look up to see the pink haired girl prepping her curling iron and smiling over at me.
“I think we’ll all try to work on you at once, Charley. If that’s alright?” she asks timidly. Her demureness is strange to behold in an industry where everyone seems to take what they want, when they want it. I’m usually the shyest on set, but I think she may have me beat today.
“That sounds great, Ms…?” I reply, sitting down in the black chair in front of her.
“Oh! You can call me Joanie!” she answers swiftly as she unravels a shiny black smock. Before she can slip it around me, I peel off my old college sweatshirt. The razorback tank top hidden underneath should provide me with enough warmth now that I’m inside the studio, and they’d kill me if I ruined my hair later on.
I sigh happily into the seat and meet Joanie’s eyes in the large mirror before me.
“Have at it,” I joke with a shrug, knowing that my body is about to go through one major transformation.
In a matter of minutes, I have five different women pulling and plucking me. A small, wiry haired woman is buffing my nails before applying a simple, cream polish. Joanie is curling and tweezing my hair into a modern up-do that pulls my long blonde hair off my neck.
Most of the time I have to keep my eyes closed so the other women can work on my makeup, but every now and then I chance a peek at myself in the mirror. I know I’m pretty, or I wouldn’t be hired for jobs, but it amazes me that with the help of five well-trained women, I can end up looking sort of, unreal. I realize it’s just the makeup, but sometimes I let myself imagine that the radiance shining through is coming from me instead.