Four hours at a high-end gig can cover a month of my tube rides and some lunches.
But I’m not abartender, which is the lie I’ve told them.
I’m an atmosphere model.
And it’s not only about the money. I love dressing up, being live art as part of a big, exciting entertainment event. It’s my only creative outlet these days (oryears). It lets me stepinto a different world, allowing me to justbein the moment; like I used to when I sketched or painted.
Considering I occasionally (like last night) dress up in something that leaves little to the imagination, none of them would get the appeal. I worry Mum’s death-stare would set forever if she were to see her daughter like that.
Xander…? I don’t know what he’d do. Throw me out on my head? Lock me in my room?
Still, I risk it.
My modelling manager said the next gig will be the best one ever, but that she can’t reveal the details yet.
Beanie snorts at my feet, and a pang of guilt hits me for not giving him his regular big cuddle. With glitter on my sleeve and a tangled mess on my head, I’ve set the bar pretty low, but I need to draw the line at dog drool stains.
Beanie gives up and I watch him waddle across the room to my old school friend and Mum’s friend’s daughter, Nia Gooding. She’s talking to my mum and two of my aunts.
Nia’s deep red lips set off her bright white teeth. Not a lipstick stain in sight.
The smooth skin of her arm glows in the sunlight streaming through the open patio door as she flicks a long black braid behind her shoulder in an elegant move. Mum laughs at something she says, and a knot forms in my stomach.
Nia catches my eye and grins, waving me over. I plaster on a smile and push down whatever started simmering.
“Hello,” I chirp. Besides being an old family friend, Nia is also my boss—for another week, anyway.
“Darling,” Mum says. “Nia was just about to tell us some stories; we’re dying to know about your CEO.”
She giggles with the other ladies.
“Why?” I ask.
“I read about him in a magazine,” Mum says, smirking.
“Do you mean thegossipblog?” I ask.
She refuses to acknowledge that’s what it is, and by the sharp intake of breath from my aunts next to her, I take it they’re in denial as well.
“It’s more likenews,” Mum’s youngest sister states, brown curls swaying as she leans into our little circle. “That woman has real insight into the world of Mayfair. Surely she’s a member of all these private clubs.”
“Absolutely agree,” Mum whispers, eyebrows raised conspiratorially.
I mean, I get the need to fantasise. Mile End and Mayfair are worlds apart. But why gossip?
“How do you know it’s a woman behindWhat Happens in Mayfair?” Nia asks.
“It has to be,” the older sister pipes up, her grey bob glistening in the sunlight. “Only a woman knows what matters, and she really hits all the notes. I can’t wait for the next one!”
I shrug.
I’ve not read it, and I just won’t. There are other things to care about.
What Happens in Mayfairis known for revealing the misconduct of Infinio’s ex-CEO, which I read about in the actual news, and what he did is mortifying. But gossip is gossip, and I’m still a believer in the old ‘innocent until proven guilty’ thing.
Okay, Damian Hawkins turned out to be very guilty, but what if he wasn’t? Who are we to be the judge and jury?
“Nia.” My aunt leans in further. “Is it true that those who reported his affairs were fired?”
