I’M NOT GAY, I’M BRITISH
Precious wakes to Darius elbowing her. She rolls over and punches him.
“Your phone’s ringing,” he mumbles, sticking his head back under the pillow.
Precious groans and looks at the clock; it’s eight-thirty. “Who could that be?” She sits up and groans. Her head is pounding. She fumbles for her cell and looks at the ID. The number is unavailable.
“Hello.”
“Good morning!” The incredibly perky voice on the other end is like nails on a chalkboard.
“Who is this?” Precious growls, wanting to kill her.
“This is Kay Newman. I’m calling for Precious Morgan!”
“Speaking,” she answers grumpily, scratching her head.
Why does she know that name? Precious racks her brain. Is it a creditor?
“I’m calling from Shades. Hope Harris, our editor in chief, forwarded your résumé to my attention with a letter of recommendation. I hope it’s not too early.”
“Oh, no, of course it’s not too early,” Precious lies.
“When we get a résumé with a recommendation from our editor in chief, we give it our full attention. I wanted to see if you had time to come in today to talk about the position.”
Precious infuses her voice with as much enthusiasm as she can muster. “Of course I can come in—that’s why I sent my résumé.” She flings back the covers and slides her legs off the bed. But as she’s standing up Darius grabs her around the waist and pulls her back into bed.
“Whoa—hey get off me.” She slaps at his hands.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh no—not you, that was my . . .” spying Demon, Precious says, “my cat. I just stepped on him. He’s always getting underfoot.” She gives Darius an evil look. “I’m thinking of putting him out,” she finishes.
“Oh, that’s not necessary, I’m sure!” Kay laughs. “Good, so you’re available today?”
“Absolutely,” Precious says, trying to struggle into her robe, but Darius won’t let go of it.
“Wonderful, shall we say ten o’clock, then?”
“Ten a.m.?” Precious asks.
“Of course—oh you have a sense of humor. That’s definitely something we could use more of at Shades.” Precious hears Kay fumbling on her desk. “Great, it’s in the book. I’ll see you here at ten o’clock.” She pauses. “Of course you know where our offices are?”
“Of course,” Precious answers, wondering how anyone could use “of course” as often as Kay does.
“Of course. We’re on the tenth floor. Looking forward to it!” Then Kay hangs up.
Hearing the dead air, Precious stares at the phone. Then she looks at Darius snuggling further under the covers. She looks back at the phone, then at the clock, its hands moving closer and closer to nine. She has an hour to get to Shades.
Darius looks up. “What’s up, baby?”
“That was Shades. I’ve got an interview.”
“You have an interview at Shades?” he asks incredulously.
“Yes.” She looks at the clock and screams. “In an hour!” Struggling into her robe, she runs to the bed. “Get up.”
“What?” Darius sits up on an elbow and looks at her. “Can’t I stay while you get ready?”
As she looks at him, it occurs to Precious that the word doofus was made up just for him.
“Get up! ” Precious yells. “You have to go.” She goes to the bed throwing back the covers and starts to pull Darius out of it. “Out. Now.”
“C’mon, baby, calm down,” Darius begs, clutching at the sheet.
“I am calm! ” Precious yells, one arm in her robe and the other pummeling Darius. “You have to go. I have to get ready.” Going to her closet, she throws open the door. When she turns around Darius is still sitting on the bed, looking at her.
“Darius, if you’re not out of here in exactly ten seconds I’m going to beat you to death with this hanger.” The look on her face tells him that she means it.
“Okay, baby, okay, but why you buggin’?” He gets out of bed slowly, then forages around for his clothes. After slipping into his boxers, he pulls on his jeans and slips an arm in his T-shirt. Shaking her head, Precious grabs his jacket and sneakers from the floor. She walks to the front door, opens it, and throws them outside; she then pushes him out behind them. “I need you out now.”
“Okay, baby, okay.” He stands outside, barefoot and half dressed.
“Can I at least get a kiss?”
Precious slams the door in his face.
Looking in the bathroom mirror, Precious assesses the damage from last night. Her skin is shiny and wan, and there are dark circles under her eyes. Her head is pounding and her brain seems to be on stun. She turns on the water in the shower, giving it an extra dose of hot. She steps out of the robe and gets in the shower, standing under the spray for a few minutes hoping some color will return to her face. After washing her hair for the first time in weeks, she soaps up and then washes her face.
Stepping out of the shower, she dries off and wipes the steam from the mirror. Not much has changed. She puts her damp hair into fat twists for texture. She’ll untwist them before she leaves. She hopes that since Shades is a magazine for “women of color,” whatever that means, they will tolerate a natural hair texture.
She then opens the medicine cabinet and pulls out what little makeup she has inherited from her friends. She dabs a little concealer under her eyes and puts on eye shadow and blush. Then she decides she looks like a clown and wipes most of it off. After successfully camouflaging last night’s excess, she returns to her closet and contemplates what’s inside. As she spies the black garment bag, her face lights up. She unzips the bag holding the black pantsuit Hope lent her ages ago. On it is a sticky note written in Hope’s neat handwriting: “In Case of Emergency Open.” This is definitely an emergency, Precious thinks.
The ultrafine wool is velvety to the touch, and the silk lining is smooth and luxurious against her skin. She clasps a chunky gold choker around her neck, and then adds the matching earrings and bracelet. As she slips into her one pair of good leather pumps and untwists her hair, she stares at her reflection. She can barely recognize the well-dressed and somewhat put-together woman in the mirror.
At nine forty-five there are still residual rush-hour travelers on the train. Precious feels like a fake. She’s never had a “real” job. She’s managed to make it this far in life doing small editing and writing gigs. If she somehow manages to get it—and according to Hope, with her recommendation she’s a shoe-in—it will be the first time she’s clocked in to corporate America.
She’s ambivalent—she needs a gig, but she isn’t sure how she’ll fit into corporate culture. And honestly, after all Hope’s talk last night about office backstabbing, conniving, deceit, and counterintelligence, she isn’t so sure she has the stomach for it. The whole reason she likes being a writer is that she can do it alone. It isn’t that she doesn’t like people; she just likes to pick and choose the ones she spends time with.
Zenobia sits at her desk, an extra-large coffee glued to her hand. At ten-thirty she’s already had two meetings. She’s seriously considering taking a half-day today. What’s the point of being the boss if you can’t take a hangover day? she wonders.
Her cell rings. She doesn’t recognize the number.
“Hello.”
“It’s me. I looked at that magazine.”
Zenobia is at a loss. “Okay, and what did you think?” she says, trying to figure out who’s calling.
“You weren’t lying. I seen you in all them photos. My mom says it’s okay to come see you but she’s gonna come with me. She’s off today and we gonna come down. You gonna be there?”
The long, breathless monologue jogs her memory, but she can’t remember the girl’s name. “That’s wonderful . . . uhm, yes, I’m in the office now. I’ve got a meeting in an hour but . . .” Zenobia takes a look at her book, “is noon too soon?”
“Naw, that’s good. My mom’s gotta leave for work this evening so that’ll work.”
“Lovely then. I look forward to seeing you.” Z hangs up with a triumphant smile. David sticks his head into the office.
“What’s put that smile on your face?” he asks, leaning against the doorjamb.
“I ran into the most beautiful girl a few days ago in the Columbus Circle subway station. Tall, thin, angular, androgynous features; she was Hispanic, I think. Almost killed myself running down the subway platform to get to her before she got on the train.”
David sits down on one of the leather chairs and puts his feet up on her desk. “Very professional,” he smirks. “What’s her name?”
“Don’t remember.” Z shrugs.
“Good job, boss lady.”
Shoving his feet off her desk with the stapler, she ignores the comment. “She’s coming in at noon with her mum. Do make yourself available. We’ve got to rep her; she could be our star girl.”
David stands and bows with a flourish. “I’ll cancel everything for you, darling, as always. That’s what you pay me for.” Then he stops. “Wait, I pay you, don’t I?”
She waves him away. “We pay each other, sweetie. Partners, remember? Now skedaddle. I’ve got a few things to finish before they get here.”
“If you weren’t black I’d swear you were related to the Queen Mum.”
At exactly noon Portia and Luz are walking into the all-white offices of NOW. An enormous spray of flowers stands about six feet tall in the foyer; above that a silver embossed plaque reads NOW MODEL MANAGEMENT. Black-and-white photos of the agency’s models adorn the walls. Rachel greets them when they stop at reception.
“Hi, I am Luz Jimenez and this is my daughter Portia. We are here to see”—she stops and looks at Zenobia’s card—“Zeenoh-byah,” Luz falters.
Rachel smiles, then dials through to Zenobia’s office.
“Yes, they’re here. Luz Jimenez and Portia Jimenez. Right away.” Rachel hangs up. “Please come this way.”
She leads them through frosted-glass doors and down a hallway. She knocks lightly on the first door. Zenobia opens it and Rachel steps aside, ushering them in.
“Please come in.” Zenobia smiles warmly at the slightly cautious look on Luz’s and Portia’s faces. The spacious, all-white room has shiny wooden floors and floor-to-ceiling windows. Luz and Portia walk into the bright room, blinking like lab mice. Photos of Zenobia hang behind her desk. There is a pair of black leather-and-steel chairs facing a long glass desk, on which a laptop, sleek black phone, and a steel-and-frosted-glass lamp sit. There is a matching office chair for Zenobia, and across from her desk is a matching leather couch, which David gets up from when they enter.
“Who’s that?” Portia asks, pointing to David.
“I ask myself that same question every day,” Zenobia jokes.
David walks toward them and offers Luz his hand.
“Pleasure to meet you. I’m David Black, Zenobia’s partner.” He then turns to Portia. “You must be Portia. I see why Z almost killed herself on the subway platform to get to you. You are quite stunning.”
Ignoring his hand, she instead checks out his outfit. He’s wearing a slate-gray three-piece pin-striped suit and a well-starched, blindingly white Paul Smith shirt. From his vest hangs a gold watch. The hankie in his breast pocket is linen and as starched as his shirt. His black oxfords are buffed to a shine, as is his manicure.
“You gay?” she asks him.
Luz catches her breath and says something to Portia in Spanish.
“Oh good, candor,” Zenobia laughs.
David smiles ruefully at Zenobia. “Not yet.” He mumbles. He turns to Portia. “No, I’m not gay; I’m British, like Z.” Then he gives Portia the once-over. “Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Gay.”
“Fuck you, man. Do I look gay?”
“Well yes, actually, you do.” His eyes skim over her hoodie, army jacket, battered jeans, and combat boots. “Do you own a mirror? You’re wearing classic dyke chic, not to mention that you look like a boy, albeit a pretty one. So either you’re gay, or these are just really poor fashion choices.”
“Yo’ who the fu—” Portia starts toward David but Luz stops her by clamping a hand on her arm.
Zenobia smiles, stepping in front of David and offering Luz her hand. “I’m Zenobia Bowles, co-owner of the agency. I see where Portia gets her looks.”
A shorter, rounder, older version of her daughter, Luz is a curvaceous and once quite beautiful woman who is wearing everything a little too tight: tight jeans, tight top, tight jacket. Her beautiful, waist-length hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail.
Luz smiles broadly. “Yes, forty pounds and another life.” She laughs. Her English is not as good as Portia’s but she’s obviously pleased by the compliment.
Zenobia gestures to the chairs in front of her desk. “Thank you so much for coming. I hope your daughter is interested in being represented by NOW.”
Luz clutches her pocketbook a little tighter to her ample chest. “Well, she wants to make money . . . help the family. But we don’t know your business.”
Zenobia opens her arms and gestures around the room.
“Just look around. The girls in the pictures on the walls in here and throughout the office are all repped by NOW.”
Portia points to the pictures behind Zenobia’s desk.
“Those are you?”
“They sure are.” She smiles at Luz. “About twenty pounds and another life ago.”
“May I offer you water or maybe tea?” Zenobia asks.
“Tea is nice.”
“Yeah, a water for me,” Portia says, still looking around at the pictures.
“You can go closer for a better look, Portia,” David says. After a slight nod from Luz, Portia practically jumps out of her chair for a closer look.
Rachel brings in a cup of tea for Luz and a bottle of water for Portia. David picks up a portfolio from the glass coffee table and hands it to Luz. “The agency is just over a year old.” When he smiles at Portia, she glares at him.
“Not so long, no?” Luz asks, flipping through the material.
Zenobia sits down at her desk. “No, not so long. But I’ve been in this business over ten years; David nearly twice that. We’re a boutique agency, smaller and more specialized. And unlike the mega-agencies, you’re not just a commission to us. We can give you more personal service and attention. And last but not least, when you’re here you’re family.”
David stands up and walks behind Zenobia’s desk. Leaning back on the wall, he crosses his arms. “We won’t lie to you—there are plenty of other agencies in New York. But as you’ve made it to”—he looks at Portia—“eighteen?”
“I turned nineteen last month,” Portia answers.
“And you haven’t been approached by anyone else, then I’d say we’re your top choice,” he finishes. Then he turns back to Portia. “You’re a Leo?”
“Uhm. Yeah. August nineteenth,” Portia answers wondering what that has to do with anything.
“There you go. Leos make great models: narcissistic, self-involved, and overindulged. I should know; I’m a Leo myself.”
“As you can see, David’s the comedian and I’m the straight man.”
Luz hands Portia the literature. “Portia’s been asked to take pictures before—”
“Perverts,” Portia interrupts. “One guy wanted me to stand there naked while he jerked off.” Then she gives David another hateful look.
David raises an eyebrow. “I prefer girls who look like girls.”
Zenobia shoots him a look that says shut up. “We’re a reputable agency, Luz. We have a great roster of girls and we’re going to expand. But make no mistake, we’re choosy. Not everyone gets in here. We get plenty of girls seeking representation. If Portia is right for us, all we can do is offer the opportunity—she has to take it.”
Portia and Luz exchange looks when she finishes.
“Can you walk for us?” David asks Portia.
“Walk, whatchu mean?”
“A large part of a model’s job is walking,” David answers drily. “We want to see how you walk—if you already have a signature walk, or even a strut.” David walks to the windows and motions Portia to the wall across from him.
Portia gets up and goes where David indicates. She looks sheepishly at Luz, puts her hands in her hoodie pockets, and then stomps across the floor toward him.
“Turn, please, and walk back,” he directs.
When she reaches the far wall, David says, “I’d say you’re more of a stomper.”
Zenobia stands up and goes to the far wall. She then gives her runway walk, turns, and walks back.
“Now, that’s a walk,” David says.
Zenobia calls Portia over. “Do you mind if we get rid of this bulky jacket? It’s hard to see your body,” she says, slipping Portia out of the coat. “Okay, stand up straight, head up, as though there’s a string coming down from the ceiling pulling you upright.”
Portia adjusts her stance. “Good. Now, shoulders back, head level. Let your arms just drop and when you walk let them just swing normally. Good. Don’t shuffle when you walk—pick your feet up, and then place them one in front of the other. Perfect. I’ll go again. When I get out a few steps, follow behind me. Try to match my steps.”
When they get to the end, Zenobia shows Portia how to turn. Then they walk back. After a few tries Portia’s boyish shuffle starts to resemble something more like a catwalk strut.
“Pretty good, Portia.” She turns to Luz. “Your daughter’s a natural.”
“Z’s one of the best walkers in the business,” David says.
Zenobia smiles. “Was, at one time.”
“And still is.” David corrects her. “You’re lucky to be able to learn from her, Portia. “Now, let’s get your weight and height. Then we’ll see if you take a good picture.” When he approaches her to help with her hoodie, Portia flinches.
David looks first at Portia and then at Z. “Easy there, just helping you with your jacket.”
Portia looks almost panicked, so Zenobia comes over and puts a hand on her arm.
“David’s perfectly harmless—more bark than bite, really,” she jokes, but Portia just looks at Luz.
“What you want to do is okay, mi amor. Is up to you. Whatever you want.”
“We really do need to weigh you, take your height and a few pictures. We’ll need you to take off some of these layers,” Zenobia says gently.
Portia lets Z help her with her hoodie and then her baggy T-shirt, beneath which is an undershirt. She then steps out of her boots but refuses to take off her jeans until David leaves the room. When he steps out, Zenobia weighs her and then measures her height.
“A hundred and nineteen pounds and you’re spot-on six feet,” she says, giving Portia a reassuring smile. “Put on your jeans and hoodie, then we’ll meet David in the studio down the hall to snap some Polaroids of you. We use these to see if you’re photogenic.” Portia frowns. “That’s just a fancy word for if you take a good picture,” Zenobia says. “You don’t have to do anything special—just stand there looking beautiful.”
A few moments later David has set Portia in front of a white backdrop. When he reaches close to her she stiffens, but she lets him rearrange her hair. David shoots several Polaroids, then brings the pictures over to Zenobia.
“Thanks, Portia. We’re done here for now. Do you think you can bring your mum back to my office? It’s just back down the hall,” Zenobia says.
“Sure, no problem,” Portia answers.
“We’ll be there in a few minutes. If you pass Rachel you’ve gone too far.”
When they leave, David and Zenobia spread the pictures over the conference table. “She takes a good picture,” Zenobia says, sorting through the pictures.
“Too bad she seems to have only two expressions,” David says. “Well, actually two versions of the same expression: sulky and angry.”
“We can sort that out. What’s important is she has perfect proportions, symmetrical features, she’s photogenic, and did I mention bloody gorgeous?” Zenobia stacks the pictures in a pile. “The rest we can work with. Do you agree?”
“Unquestionably she’s a diamond in the rough, but if she has an aversion to being touched, it’s going to make dressing, styling, doing her hair and makeup, and sodding everything else rather arduous.”
“Her world is very small—”
“About twenty square blocks, I’d wager,” David interrupts.
“Be that as it may, she’s here, and willing to take a chance. She just doesn’t understand the fashion world. At a show or during a casting, she’s just another girl. No one will give a rat’s ass if she’s in her knickers. I know we can work with her, and I bet you she’s going to be a star.” She looks at David. “Are you in?”
He nods. “If she’s what you want, then yes.”
“Good man.” Zenobia gives him a big smile. “I want to send her out on castings and go-sees right away.”
“D&G has been looking for an androgynous girl for their new ad campaign for months. She might be perfect.”
“Of course! You’re absolutely fucking brilliant, David.” Zenobia gives him a hug.
“But what about that attitude of hers?”
“Is her attitude so different from any other model’s?”
“Of course not, Z, but she needs to at least look like she wants to be in the room.”
“I think a couple paychecks will change that, don’t you? C’mon, chin up. We need to sign her stat.”
“Did you just say ‘stat’?” David raises an eyebrow.
“Sorry, I’ve been watching too many medical dramas.”
When David and Zenobia return to her office, Luz and Portia are sitting across from her desk holding hands. Zenobia hands them the Polaroids.
“Not only are you beautiful, Portia; even without makeup or styling you take a gorgeous picture.”
“We love your look, but we’re going to have to get you to our stylist,” David says, ignoring Portia’s frown.
Sitting at her desk and flipping through her Rolodex, Zenobia says, “We want to send Portia to a photographer to get started on some photos for her book.” She looks at David. “What do you think—Nicky Charles?” When David nods Zenobia turns to Luz. “He’s wonderful, well known, and professional. We use him all the time.”
“I’m sorry, but what will this cost?” Luz asks nervously.
“This won’t cost you anything, at least not up front.” She sits back in her chair. “Let me explain how this works. Reputable modeling agencies pay the models, not the other way around. The agency puts up the money for certain expenses, such as pictures, so we can put together a book for the model.”
David removes Zenobia’s book from one of the floating shelves and brings it over to Luz and Portia.
While they flip through it Zenobia continues. “Your book is your calling card for prospective clients. When the model makes money it’s paid to the agency. The agency deducts their percentage, then pays the model. You and Portia don’t pay us a thing for representation.”
Zenobia is pleased to see a small smile on Portia’s face. “But we will need Portia to sign a contract. We have to protect our investment.” Zenobia goes over to a file cabinet and removes two copies of their standard contract. She hands one to Luz and the other to Portia. “You probably won’t understand much of this.”
“That’s how we like it,” David jokes.
“Please take a minute to review it; I’ll answer anything that’s confusing. Or you can have a lawyer review it, if you prefer.”
“We ain’t got lawyer money,” Portia says, squinting at the tiny type on the document.
David explains, “The contract spells out the terms of NOW’s agreement with Portia. It explains our agency fee, which is a percentage of every job we book you for. The fee also covers any expenses you’ve incurred through NOW, such as travel or incidentals. The contract also makes you exclusive to NOW. That means you work only for us for the length of time we agree upon. We also have a right of first refusal when our contract expires.” When they both look blankly at him Zenobia smiles.
“Basically the contract protects our investment in Portia, and also protects Portia. We are legally bound to pay her and to protect her.”
“Portia, she takes her sister to school at eight-thirty then gets her at three o’clock,” Luz says.
“We’ll work around her schedule.” When Luz looks undecided Zenobia adds, “Opportunities like this come once in a lifetime. You have no idea how many girls would give anything to trade places with you, Portia.” She looks at Luz. “I promise we’ll take very good care of her. When I became a model I made enough money in the first year to buy my mum her house.”
Luz still looks worried. “Sounds good, yes, but you cannot promise this. If she’s no good, then we lose money. If Portia work a regular job, she always brings home money.”
“I understand your apprehension. I’d be lying if I said I could guarantee Portia work. But I know this business, and both David and I can see Portia is very special. If she can’t make it as a model, I’ll quit the business.”
Portia, who is sitting slumped in her chair, sits up. Nobody has ever called her special. She was almost six feet tall in high school; she was awkward, skinny, and gawky and kids made endless fun of her. No matter how much rice and beans, tostones, mofongo, and chuletas she ate she never seemed to put on any weight. She is feeling excited that she could maybe make what’s been so negative in her life become something positive.
“Give us six months,” Zenobia suggests. “I promise you, Portia will make more in that time than in six months of anything else she was doing.”
Portia turns to her mother. “No tengo gusto de tener que estar descubierto delante de gente todo el tiempo.”
David answers, “Don’t worry about being naked. We only work with professionals. Usted no tiene que hacer cualquier cosa qe usted no quiere hacer. We promise you won’t do anything you don’t want to do.”
Portia and Luz look at each other, surprised. “Usted habla español ?” Luz asks.
David shrugs. “This is New York—doesn’t everyone speak some Spanish?” He turns to Zenobia. “Except Z—she speaks Dutch. Such an overachiever.”
Zenobia ignores him. “Can I answer any questions, or would you like to take the contracts with you . . . ?” Before she’s finished, Portia has signed the contract.
“I don’t know . . .” Luz starts. “Mamá, por favor, I want to try. Please . . .” Luz looks at Portia; her daughter’s eyes plead with her.
“Okay, but only six months,” she says. “You write that here, and she sign,” she says, holding the contract out to Zenobia.
“You’re a smart lady, Luz. I’ll have Rachel amend a copy for you,” David says leaving the office.
“I can’t begin to tell you how pleased I am, Luz. You won’t be sorry. Portia has so much promise and flash; she’s going to cause a sensation.”
Zenobia is glad to see that Portia’s smile could light up the room. “Since I’ve only got six months, we’ve got to work fast. I want to set her up with Nicky right away. Let me check his schedule and I’ll give you a call. Do you have a mobile phone, Portia?” Portia nods. “Good. I’m going to need the number. Rachel is going to give you some forms to fill out before you leave.”
David returns a few moments later brandishing two new contracts, which he hands to Portia and Luz, pointing out the new wording.
Zenobia flips through her Rolodex again. “I have a surprise for you, Portia. I’m going to have Rachel set you up for a trim with my stylist and then a facial, manicure, and pedicure at Bliss.
“What’s that?” Portia asks.
David leans close to Zenobia. “I’d add a brow wax to shape, and probably waxing in several other places,” he adds.
“I don’t know about all that,” Portia says to him.
“It’s a spa day, sweetie. Enjoy it.”
“I’ll go if you go with me,” she says to Zenobia.
“I’d love to but it’s in the middle of the day; I’ve still got plenty to do.” She looks at Luz. “Why don’t you go with Portia? Your hair is gorgeous but a trim couldn’t hurt.” Luz looks disbelieving.
“I recommend massages while you’re at it; I’m sure Portia could use a little mellowing out,” David adds.
Portia shakes her head. “My mom can have one. I don’t want nobody rubbing on me like that.”
David laughs. “Where exactly do you come from?”
“Washington Heights.”
“I was joking. People pay a lot of money for massages at Bliss, and they’re usually booked far in advance. We have a house account, so they always make room for us. You can specify a female masseuse. It’ll help you relax, which I think you need.”
When Portia shakes her head, David presses.
“Let’s be realistic, Portia. This attitude isn’t really going to work if you want to be a model. Maybe you don’t understand the job. Basically you’re a well-paid clothes hanger. People are constantly touching you, dressing you, styling the clothes on you. We’ll make sure you’re not asked to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, but I want to be clear right now that there are no private dressing rooms or special accommodations. You’ll be getting dressed in a room full of other models, as well as stylists and makeup and hair people.”
Portia frowns again. “Believe me, nobody will care if you’re naked; it’s a job like any other,” David finishes.
“But naked,” Portia snorts.
Zenobia goes to the front of her desk and leans back on it, facing them. “Portia, nobody made you come here today.” Portia looks at the floor. “You’ve been blessed with something most of the population would give their right arm for. We want to work with you but you have to want it too. If you don’t want to be here, I’ll rip up the contracts right now and wish you and your mum the best. It’s up to you.”
Portia sits up in her chair. “I’m not tryin’ to disrespect you. I’m just not used to all this attention.” She looks at Zenobia. “But, I trust you and I’m willing to give it a shot.”
Zenobia smiles. “Brilliant—”
Portia interrupts her. “But if anyone tries anything I’ma go off on ’em. That simple.” She turns to David. “Comprende?”
He nods. “Comprendo.”
“Glad that’s all settled, then.” Zenobia says counter-signing the contracts, then handing one copy to Luz. “This is your copy, the other one is mine. I’m going to send you home with some of the agency’s PR materials. If you have any questions feel free to call.” She takes a card and writes her home number on the back.
“Luz, this is my cell. Call me at anytime, day or night. I already know you will, Portia.”
Zenobia presses the intercom button and pages Rachel. Then she gets up and shakes Luz’s and Portia’s hands. “Rachel will set you both up at Bliss. I’ll give you a call in a few days to let you know where and when the shoot will be. Practice your walk; when I see you next I’m going to test you.”
When Rachel comes in Zenobia instructs her, “Schedule Portia and Luz for the works at Bliss today, and I’m pretty sure Luz will need a massage.” Zenobia turns to Luz. “An hour good for you?” The big smile on Luz’s face answers the question.