Kamille
“I’m telling you, he’s a jerk. You need to break up!” Simone declared.
“What?” Kamille glanced up from her phone and regarded her friend. Simone seemed to be really, really worked up about something. Of course, this wasn’t unusual. Simone was a raging drama queen, which was one of the reasons Kamille liked having her around, because it made her feel calm and sane in comparison.
“Carlos and I were at Voyeur last night, and—”
“Carlos? What happened to Lars?”
“Lars? Ohmigod, we broke up like a week ago. He’s ancient history. Anyway, I saw Finn at Voyeur, but he totally didn’t see me. He was making out with another girl. They were practically dry-humping in their booth!”
“I don’t think so. Finn told me he was working last night.”
“Well, he lied. Besides, didn’t you see the picture I texted you?”
“What picture?”
Simone shook her head and grabbed Kamille’s phone from her. As she scrolled, Kamille peered around the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, which was uncharacteristically empty for a Friday morning. It was just Kamille and Simone, half a dozen tourists, a lone nun, and a couple who was way overdoing it with the PDA. Really, in front of a nun?
There was also a guy in the corner who had been checking out Kamille for the last half hour. Of course, she got checked out by all sorts of guys all the time. Still, this one was older than usual—forties?—and way better dressed, in a dreamy gray Armani suit she had seen on that hot Spanish model in Vogue.
The guy had arrived in a silver Rolls, chauffeured. It was still parked out front, presumably waiting for him to finish his latte. Was he a rich businessman? Kamille had to admit she was a little curious, even though he absolutely wasn’t her type.
Besides, she already had a boyfriend. Didn’t she?
“Here!” Simone thrust Kamille’s phone back at her. “This is your proof right here.”
Kamille stared at the screen. The picture was kind of grainy and out of focus. But upon closer inspection, it did look like Finn kissing some skanky redhead who was wearing a—wait, was she wearing anything? Were those her boobs?
“The beeyotch flashed him, and that’s when he decided that he couldn’t resist her charms anymore,” Simone explained, as though reading Kamille’s mind. “Okay, so, can we please dump his pathetic ass and move on already? I could tell he was a cheater the first time I met him. I have a sixth sense about these things.”
Kamille felt heat rush to her cheeks. “There’s got to be some explanation.”
“Yeah, sweetie, there’s an explanation. The explanation is, your soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend is a sorry piece of shit who can’t keep it in his pants.”
“No, I mean . . . look, maybe he was drunk. Or maybe she threw herself at him and he was trying to push her away.”
Simone rolled her eyes. “Girlfriend. Honestly? We need to organize a man intervention for you. You’re cutting him way too much slack.”
“You don’t know Finn as well as I do. He’s not like that. Besides, I’m seeing him tonight. I’ll ask him what happened, and I’m sure he’ll tell me everything.”
“You are way too trusting,” Simone said irritably. She peered at her watch. “Listen, I gotta bail. Seriously, though . . . is the sex that good? Because I don’t know why you bother with an a-hole like him when you could have any guy on the planet.” She rose to her feet.
Kamille blushed and turned away. The truth was, the sex wasn’t that good. Although maybe it was her fault, not Finn’s? He was the twelfth guy she’d gone to bed with, and she hadn’t been able to enjoy herself with any of them. Was there something wrong with her? Did she need to see a shrink? Or was she a lesbian deep down and just didn’t know it? There was that time she and her friend Marlena drank too many margaritas at that house party in Bel Air and made out, which was kind of fun. But . . . for the most part, she liked guys. She just didn’t like having sex with any of the ones she’d been with.
Of course, her first experience—with Jeremy Weinstein, freshman year—hadn’t been an auspicious start. They’d done it at his house while his parents were in Aspen, and when she went to the bathroom afterward, to pee, she realized in horror that his condom was stuck inside of her. Deep inside. She extracted it with a pair of tweezers from her makeup bag, flushed it down the toilet, and washed her hands with an entire bottle of antibacterial soap plus the hottest water she could bear. Back in the living room, Jeremy was freaking out because he couldn’t find the condom anywhere, and she was too mortified to tell him what had happened to it. Yeah, romantic.
Simone checked her watch again. “Okay, I’m now officially fifteen minutes late for work,” she said. “Oh, hey, are you still interested in that part-time receptionist thing? Because you need to send me your résumé, like, yesterday. I think my boss’s niece might be applying.”
“Yeah, maybe. I don’t know. I think I might pass.” The more Kamille thought about it, the less exciting the job sounded, answering phones and greeting clients. Even if some of the clients were celebrities. For one thing, it meant that she would actually have to wake up early and go into an office. It was bad enough, having to show up at Café Romero for her shifts and answering to her mother the tyrant. But having a real boss who could legit-order her around? And fire her if she didn’t comply?
Besides, professionally speaking, Kamille wanted more glamour and less manual labor. And she wanted to make a ton of money, too, so she could stop being poor and go back to the lifestyle she used to have, when her father was alive. Surely, there had to be something out there that met those simple requirements?
“Okay, well, let me know if you change your mind,” Simone said. “Hey, you wanna do something this weekend? How about Hyde?”
Kamille hesitated. The last time she’d been at Hyde with Simone, her friend had gotten so wasted that she’d done something truly unimaginable. At one point late in the evening, Simone asked Kamille to hand her a bottle of gin that was on the table. Kamille did, at the same time noticing that Simone seemed to be sitting in a weird position, sort of half slipping off the booth. To Kamille’s shock, Simone then proceeded to tip the gin bottle upside-down between her legs, letting the liquor gush out. It turned out that she was in the process of peeing on the floor—she wasn’t wearing panties, and her minidress was hiked up around her hips—and was covering up the smell with the gin so no one would notice. She explained that she hadn’t wanted to bother with the crazy-long ladies’ room line.
“Maybe the Roxbury would be better,” Kamille said delicately.
“Whatever. Text me, okay? And don’t forget. Break. Up. With. Him.” Simone blew a kiss and took off.
Kamille made a face and turned her attention back to the picture of Finn and the red-haired skank. Was Simone right? Was she too trusting when it came to men? Jeremy Weinstein was secretly hooking up with Sarah what’s-her-name for three months before Kamille found out, even though everyone tried to tell her, and even though she’d come across a slutty black lace thong in his locker. Jeremy claimed that the thong was a Valentine’s Day present for her, which was beyond lame, since it was so obviously used. She’d had similar experiences with other boyfriends.
“Excuse me.”
Kamille looked up. Mr. Gray Armani Suit was standing near her table. He had a British accent—or was it Irish or Scottish or Australian? Kamille had a hard time telling the difference. Close up, she saw that his ice-blue dress shirt matched the color of his eyes exactly.
“I don’t mean to bother you,” he went on. “But—”
“Look, I’m flattered, but I have a boyfriend,” Kamille cut in.
The man chuckled. “I’m sure you do. Lucky bloke. But that’s not why I wanted to meet you. Are you by any chance in the entertainment industry?”
“Am I what? You mean, am I an actress or a singer or whatever? Um, no.”
“Have you ever modeled, then?”
“No. Why are you asking me all these questions? I told you, I don’t want to go out with you.”
“Rest assured, this isn’t a pickup.” The man reached into his breast pocket and handed her a dove-gray business card.
Kamille took it from him and studied it. It said:
GILES SINCLAIR
SINCLAIR MODELING MANAGEMENT
Below that was an address in Century City, a phone number, and an e-mail address.
Kamille regarded him curiously. “You . . . own a modeling agency?”
“Precisely. And I’d love to talk to you about doing some modeling. That is, if you’re interested.”
“Modeling for who?”
“You have the perfect look for fashion, cosmetics, you name it. But of course, we’d need to do a test shoot first.”
A test shoot? Kamille felt a frisson of excitement. The guy sounded like he knew what he was talking about. And he sounded like he was serious, about her.
Was this the opportunity she’d been waiting for? The one that would help her achieve the fame and fortune she was meant to reach? She pictured herself living in a penthouse apartment, partying at exclusive clubs, wearing to-die-for clothes straight off the runway.
And maybe, finally, certain people (like, say, her mother) would see that Kass wasn’t the only star in the family?
But she was getting ahead of herself. Besides, she didn’t want to pursue this conversation further without checking out Mr. Giles Sinclair. Simone had just told her that she was too trusting. For all she knew, he was a perv, or a serial killer, or both.
“Can I think about it and call you?” Kamille said casually, tucking his business card into her bag. “I have to run. I have an appointment.”
“I’m sure you do. And yes, please do think about it and ring me. Anytime. Have a good day.” Giles turned to go. “Oh, so stupid of me. I didn’t catch your name.”
Kamille hesitated for a moment. “Kamille. Kamille Romero.”
“Right, then. I look forward to hearing from you, Kamille Romero.”
Kamille waited until Giles had gotten into his silver Rolls-Royce and disappeared down the street. Then she picked up her phone and Googled “Sinclair Modeling Management.”
There was his photo. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t a serial killer.
Then she saw his client list, and her jaw dropped. The list included Svetlana Sergeyev, who was Kamille’s number one favorite supermodel, ever . . . plus the hot Spanish model who had worn Giles’s Armani suit in Vogue . . . plus a dozen other names she recognized.
“Holy . . . fucking . . . shit,” she said out loud.
The nun glanced up from her Bible and Earl Grey tea and stared sharply at her.
Kamille stifled a giggle. She didn’t care. She was going to become a famous supermodel!