The shoot marches through with clothing changes and periods of quiet, sitting in the shade of the tent. Karis is by far the most experienced of us, and her poses are snapped and sharp, with so much attitude on her features that she leaps out of the proofs. She is, by nature it seems, a slow-moving creature—she talks slow, she conserves her energy—but when she steps in front of the camera, she is solidly on.
Sunday evening moves toward night in the cast of an amber sunrise. We have been working through the day, and we are all weary and ready to head back to the penthouse to find our own relaxation.
“Patrick want’s the redhead!” a voice calls, one of the photographer’s assistants, and I jump to my feet. I make my way out, following the assistant across the beach toward the dunes. The other girls stay in the tent, finishing the clean-up from the day, replacing suits on hangers, returning them to the racks that have been rolled into the tent on the beach.
The photographer, Patrick, is yelling, impatient, but when he sees me stepping out in a pale yellow suit, he smiles and gives me a thumbs-up. “Here, here.” He motions, his extravagant arms guiding me toward a dune. I scramble through the sand, and he pulls his camera in front of his face, his free arm pointing, moving me with his directions.
I’m exhausted. I am famished. My stomach feels pulled in and pinched, but already I’m seeing a difference in the prominence of my hip bones, and I do look taller, just like Sean DeSilva had told me I would, the leaner I am. I try to follow the frantic instructions from the photographer, His wild hair is breaking free of the leather strap he tied it with several hours ago. The light is dropping behind me, the shadows growing long as he moves from left to center to right, his camera clicking and winding, the assistant with the bounce screen frantically trying to keep up. Patrick pulls the camera from his eyes and turns to one of his assistants.
“Did you see it? That’s our cover.” The assistant nods enthusiastically, but I suspect that had the photographer said, “She is purple,” he would have given the same response.
Patrick hands his camera to the assistant and calls out, “That’s a wrap, people. That’s a wrap. Good work today. We’ll hit it tomorrow as sunrise. Expecting rain in the afternoon, so it will be a short day.”
I have slipped my way down off the dune and am heading back to the tent when he catches me. “Hold up, Red.”
I take a deep breath and turn toward him, a smile on my face.
“That was good,” he says. “Too bad you’re so damn short.”
“I hear that every now and then.” It is by far and away the biggest flaw casting directors find with me.
“Meet me for dinner. I want to talk to you.”
I don’t get the impression that a refusal is an option, so I nod.
“Ortega’s, half an hour?” He puts his palm on the low curve of my back, a small, momentary touch before he lets his hand drop. “You did good work today. I’d like to hear what you see in your future. See you at Ortega’s?”
“Okay. I’ll be there.”
Ortega’s is lit by firelight glowing from torches along the walls and candles on the table. He is already at a table, so I head that way.
“Drink?” he asks, standing, putting his hands on my elbows, air-kissing my cheek. It is almost a ritual, and I can smell the mint of his breath, a hint of tequila riding light over the top.
I shrug, and he lifts his arm to the waitress. He is a man accustomed to others heeding his demands.
I settle into the padded bench seat, and he sits across from me. His hair has been tamed, slicked and constrained by a new strap. The waitress brings my drink, a pale yellow concoction in a martini glass. A slice of pear balances on the rim, and there is no salt. I look at it, then at him. “So what are we having?”
“Tequila martini.”
I lift the glass by its narrow stem and tip a minute amount of the liquid into the mouth. It is subtle, with hints of ginger, and maybe even small pieces and lime, and I raise my eye brows, impressed with his suggestion.
“That’s very good.”
He has taken the liberty of ordering for me—lobster—and my mouth is already watering with the thought of it. The tequila martini has hit my bloodstream in a torrent while he talks. He is laying out his credentials for me, listing the different catalogs he shoots for, naming awards he has received. By and large, the words float through my head, from one side to the other, before dropping out.
“You’re very accomplished,” I acknowledge when he pauses with the arrival of our meals. He orders two more of the martinis, and I’m startled to see that my glass had mysteriously gone empty as he talked.
A flush burns in my cheeks, the effect of the alcohol in my blood, and the weariness from the day melts away. He asks about my journey, and his attention feels just like the drink—subtle, yet complex.
“I work through Sean DeSilva,” I explain, thinking he is talking about my career, but he waves the words away.
“No. You’re different. Where are you from?”
“Oh.” I laugh, my tongue rolling loose over my teeth. “You mean that journey.” I crinkle my nose.
“Yes.”
I shake my head, a slow movement. “I don’t think you’re ready for that story.” My voice comes out coy, flirtatious.
“Try me.”
I look at him, his eyes like warm pools of water. Who am I? Who do I want to be? “My dad’s a fireman. My mom’s a school teacher.” I claim Leslie and Mr. McGill before I even know I was going to. “They’re wonderful people. I have three brothers: Jay, Tommy, and Keith.” I laugh, giddy, a little buzzed from the drinks and his attention, “We run a campground.” I embellish, adding stories, fabricating a life that would make me normal and not defective. I let the acting class carry me through.
We’ve eaten the lobster, and I’ve talked, forgetting to leave half of it on my plate, forgetting about Karis’s rules for model eating. We laugh, and I am entirely somebody else by the time the check comes.
“You’re so easy to talk to,” I say.
“I’ve been told that.”
“Why did you bring me to dinner?”
“Because I got the cover shot.” We are walking out of Ortega’s and onto the beach. The black expanse of the ocean and sky is like a void, full of sound but dark, a black hole in the world.
“Really?” I ask, bumping against him in the uneven sand, full of pear-tinged martinis and butter-coated lobster.
“I did. That last series. That was great.” His arm drops light over my shoulder, and I am completely comfortable with his touch.
I put my own arm around his waist, feeling like I have known him my whole life, my whole fabricated life.
“That’s so cool.”
“It’s gonna really launch you. A cover is huge.”
I bite my lip, and we walk, but he trips in the sand and we end up tumbled, rolling together, his arms around me. When we stop I am on top of him, and there is nothing but this moment. No thoughts of my reality even enters my mind. No Trey, no Dylan, nothing but his breath against my skin and the promise of a future lit by success. All the words he said at the beginning of the meal, those words that had slipped through my head without pausing, were a siren song to me: Sports Illustrated, Fitness, Shape, Venus, and Victoria’s Secret. We stumble up from the sand, and he takes me back to his room.
I make love to him like a stranger, inside my own skin.