AllFreeNovel
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When I tell Olivier where I’m represented, he scoffs. “No wonder you’re not getting work. That place is a meat factory. One day you’ll realize how lucky you are that you met me when you did.”
Today, we’re sitting in the small Midtown lobby of an acquaintance of a family friend of the Arnauds, waiting to meet the owner of this boutique talent agency. I am deep in thought and self-doubt, feeling too rough, too muscled, too masculine, and far too inexperienced.
Olivier, on the other hand—absolutely looks like he should be here. He’s wearing a tight, black wool sweater, skinny black jeans, and Gucci ankle boots. I’m in the suit he bought me, as instructed, but he wants me to carry the jacket over my arm when we walk in, so it’s currently across my lap. I feel ridiculous.
“Oh—how I love my job.”
We look up at the small, brightly-colored man in the doorway. He’s giving seventies Elton John with a gap-toothed smile and a bald head. “Let me guess. Andrew,” he points at me, “and Olivier.”
Olivier stands to offer a handshake. “Thank you so much for seeing us. I was thrilled when Shannon let us know you had availability.”
“I always make time for a friend.”
I stand, draping my jacket over my arm and introduce myself to Keats Kelly, which has to be a fake name.
After greeting me, he steps back, first looking me over very carefully from head to toe and back again, and then giving Olivier a quicker up and down glance. “Come into my office. Both of you. Your book, Andrew?”
I hand him my portfolio which spans ten years of trying and failing. Most of the photographs are proofs from jobs I didn’t land, but the handful of ones I did, are cut from the magazines or printed from the online catalogs where the ads appeared.
My most recent headshot is four years old. I haven’t been able to afford a new one. And there were a few less lines and a lot less weariness on my face back then. Keats takes a seat at his desk with a view of the Empire State Building behind him. It’s a sunny day, and the third week of March is teasing spring.
Olivier and I sit and watch as the highly expressive man flips through my book, his face hiding nothing.
“This jaw…mmm…oh yes, this is lovely. Ah—so Armani…Love.”
And then he looks at me—the actual me. Thirty-year-old, sleep-deprived, clinically depressed, but very well-fucked me. “Do you have any recent body shots?”
“No,” I tell him.
He gives me a faint smile. “Would you mind if I took a look?”
I sense Olivier stiffening, but this won’t be the first time I’ve stripped half-naked in a stranger’s office. “Of course.”
Keats turns his attention to my wide-eyed boyfriend. “While he’s undressing, would you mind giving me a walk?”
Olivier puts a hand on his chest. “Me?”
The agent’s smile broadens.
“We talked about you needing a job,” I remind him.
“But we didn’t come here for me.”
“Oh, sweetheart. You’re not competition. You scream runway. I’d just love to see a walk. Humor an old queen, would you?”
“I—”
“Walk for him, Peach,” I say, amused, even as I’m unzipping my pants.
“I don’t know how!”
“You’ve never been to a runway show?” I ask skeptically.
He glares at me and gets distracted when I open my shirt to reveal the tattoo on my chest.
Keats shows Olivier what path to walk and tells him to keep it casual. I have no doubt he’ll nail it, and of course, he does.
Olivier’s natural walk is overflowing with swagger, but he’s nervous, and the added stiffness only makes it more perfect for a runway. I’d be jealous if I hadn’t been thinking he should be a model since I first saw him.
