Okay, I have a newfound respect for models. I used to dismiss them as genetic mutants who were born blessed with killer bodies and perfect faces, and that was all they needed to get any guy they wanted and to secure enormous amounts of money. But believe it or not, there is work involved. Okay, don’t cry them a river; it’s not as tough as canning anchovies on an assembly line or mining for coal thousands of feet underground, but the catwalk is no cakewalk. Besides the actual standing around wearing skimpy clothing in freezing temperatures, people tell you that you look like crap all day. My self-esteem couldn’t take it.
James and I arrived at the Intrepid, that ginormous ship that’s famous for some reason or another, and we found the ten-thousand-dollars-a-day girls in bikinis contorting into unnatural poses. Some of the sailors were in the pictures, so they had their hands on the girls’ butts or were holding some girls in their arms. Ick, it all seemed so uncomfortable. I’m sure the pictures will turn out amazing, but the idea that you’d be dangled over the Hudson River by some pervy sailor who hadn’t seen a girl in ten months because he was out at sea and you’re all oiled up in this embarrassingly teeny bathing suit—yuck! You couldn’t pay me. Even ten grand. Okay, maybe for that fee I’d consider it. Not that anyone would pay ten dollars to see me in a bikini.
That aside, it was incredible to see all the action go down. For years I’d flipped through the pages of Skirt and been amazed by their magical photos, which were more creative and original than any other magazine. And to actually be there and watch the assistants running up and down, tucking in a collar, or tying a string on a bikini, or brushing aside an errant hair, was so interesting. I was psyched to see that the photographer was Jenny Toushé (pronounced Touchay), whose pictures I had always admired.
On the cab ride down to the army surplus store, James and I really didn’t have a chance to chat much because his cell phone was ringing off the hook, first with photographers, then with editors, and so on. I was waiting for the moment when Daphne would call, but she didn’t, and I was glad. It wasn’t until we had successfully distributed the berets to the sailors and helped the fashion assistant pick up the entire rack of flippers that she had knocked over that James and I were able to sit back, watch the action, and talk.
“Thank you so much for bringing me to the shoot. It’s amazing,” I gushed as I watched Jenny snap away at a model with a snorkel in her mouth, walking the plank.
“No prob. Glad you could come. Thank you for saving my ass with the army surplus lightbulb.”
“I could just sit here all night,” I said, sighing and taking a sip of the coffee that James had so nicely brought me from the craft service table—a gigantic spread with a delicious catered buffet that, natch, no one but us had touched.
“Really?” asked James. “You don’t find it boring?”
“Boring? Are you crazy? This is like a dream come true.”
James looked at me and smiled. God, he was cute. The more I looked at him, how he was clad in the most well cut black pants I had ever seen and a Radiohead T-shirt, the more I resented Daphne and her ability to lay claim to everything I wanted.
“I love photo shoots also,” he said. “Oddly enough, though, a lot of people find them boring.”
I wanted to say “You mean Daphne?” but I had to bite my tongue. I wondered how he and Daphne had connected. What would she see in a photo assistant? Wasn’t that beneath her?
“So how did you end up at Skirt?” I asked, feeling bold. He hesitated.
“Um, let’s see…well, I’ve worked a lot on photo shoots…” I nodded, and then he looked at me closely and leaned in.
“Okay, full disclosure. My stepfather’s a photographer, he’s done stuff for Hughes, and I got a lot of experience working for him.”
“Aha!” I said with a sly smile. “So you’re like a Trumpette?”
“Me? A Trumpette?” he asked with mock horror. I think he was about to defend himself and then changed his mind. “God, I guess so. Gross, I never thought of that.”
“Denial,” I said mischievously.
“Okay, okay, but let me defend myself.”
“Go ahead,” I said. God, I couldn’t believe I was being so flirty with this guy. It was so not me.
“Yes, I got experience through connections, but I have worked my share of photo shoots, and I did toil away every summer during college paying my dues as a lowly assistant,” he said, hand to heart.
“What, you worked for your stepfather?” I asked with a smile.
“Not only him,” he said with a smile. “Avedon, before he died. Scavullo, Mario Testino. And then Wayne Priddy, this up-and-coming guy who rocks.”
“Wow, you’re lucky,” I said. “That sounds amazing.”
“But I also worked for Frank DeLine. You can’t tell me that was a walk in the park. The guy only likes taking pictures of young gay guys, not to mention that he sexually harasses every guy who works for him. That was torture!”
“Okay, but who’s your stepfather?”
“Victor Ledkovsky,” he said almost meekly.
Victor Ledkovsky? He was, like, the photographer of all time. He did everything for Hughes Publications. I had torn his photos from magazines hundreds of times, worshipping his elegant pix of Natalie Portman on a horse, or his hilarious shot of Maya Rudolph getting doused with orange soda. The guy was talented and prolific; he made Annie Leibovitz look like a lazy amateur. The fact that James was related to him was a whole new ball game.
“I don’t know what to say,” I said, really not knowing what to say. God, now it all made sense. James was one of them. No wonder he and Daphne were together. They’d probably known each other since they were fashion fetuses.
“Come on!” he said. “It’s not like that.”
I think he could see that my expression changed. To hear that James was one of them, it almost made me think he was a little lame.
“Don’t be unfair,” James said, reading my mind. “I want you to know that even though I knew Mortimer Hughes and Genevieve West, I applied for my job at Skirt without any help from them. I have a different last name than Victor, and I didn’t call Mortimer or use strings. I just sent in my application to human resources.”
“Well, you seem to know what you’re doing, so they obviously could sense a winner,” I said, shrugging, giving him the benefit of the doubt. “And how did you meet Daphne? By a catwalk in Dior swaddling clothes or something?” I teased.
He laughed. “I knew her when we were young—not quite the diaper years, but in grade school tangentially—and then I went to boarding school in Europe. I met up with her again only when she came to visit the offices in December, when I started working here.”
“Mm-hmm.” I nodded.
“Kira, I know sometimes people think stuff when someone’s going out with the boss’s daughter. It’s not like that. She’s great and we have fun together. I just hope the rest of the office doesn’t think that’s how I hold on to my job. I’ll probably end up having to work twice as hard to move up the ranks as it is,” he confessed.
So Daphne was “great.” Knife to my heart. No one wants any guy to tell them how crazy he is about another woman.
“You know,” he said, flashing his huge grin. “I don’t say these things lightly, but I have a feeling that you’re going to do really well in this biz.”
“Really?” I asked, instantly feeling my cheeks flush to a shade not unlike a strawberry.
“You’re someone who’s obviously got her stuff together and you have the confidence and taste to succeed. Not to mention that everyone is loving you,” he said, standing up.
I looked up at him. Loving me? Everyone? Taste?
“More coffee?” he asked, holding out his hand. I handed over my cup.
“Thanks,” I said.
I dreamily watched him walk over to the food table. God, he was cute. And he said I would do really well. And I really felt like he wasn’t giving me a line, that he appreciated my style and me. And hell, it made me want him so badly. Why was Daphne Hughes the luckiest girl in the world?