“I don’t think he’d care.”
“They always care.”
She turns her head then and surveys the sweeping view, inhaling deeply, as if to ingest it. “The project you’re working on now, on beauty. It’s a photo series?”
“An installation,” I say. “With photos, yes, but not static. At least that’s how I’ve been conceptualizing it. It’s still early.”
“I’d love to hear more about it. When you’re ready.… Have you been to the Hammer?”
“I haven’t, no.”
“I’m on the board.”
I have heard great things about the Hammer, a UCLA-affiliated museum featuring historically overlooked and emerging contemporary artists.
“They do an excellent job of showcasing newer artists. And it’s a beautiful space.”
“I’ll have to check it out, then.”
I watch as she swills the last of her cranberry water, and then angles her head back toward the house.
“Well, shall we go back in?” She smiles. “And pretend that it’s not incredibly awkward to be the only two Black people at a fundraiser for Africa?”
“I am so glad you said that.”
“Oh, please. I can’t tell you how often I am the only one in the room. And when I mention it, I often hear ‘Oh, I hadn’t noticed. I never think of you as Black.’ Whether it is because of my complexion, or the fact that I’m French, or whatever, I don’t know. But in this country especially, that’s a loaded thing to say. I was really glad when you agreed to come. Actually, I was really glad when you showed up at my door.”
There was something so direct about her delivery. So free of guile.
I was trying to remember my initial impression of her. How she struck me those first couple of days in Cabo. Before the kiss. Before everything went south.
XIII.OUT OF MANY, ONE.
CABO SAN LUCAS. 1996.
WEDNESDAY.
When Jaya Clark and Katrine Østergaard showed up at the Carlo di Varenna shoot, it changed the dynamic. Perceptibly. Cecilia had seen it happen before, a celebrity model becoming the focus of attention, and the ensuing domino effect: the shifting of energy, power, the very chain of hierarchy. But in this case, it was multiplied by two.
Jaya Clark was a regal beauty. A fine-boned, tawny-skinned, half Indian, half Brit from London. The “exotic It girl” of the fashion world, she’d graced numerous covers ofVogueandBazaar, and was equally in demand on the runway. Chanel, Prada, Versace. Jaya was angular and aloof enough to have thrived during the waif movement, but her classic features ensured she would work for a long time.
Katrine, in comparison, was not really a runway girl (with the exception of Versace, because Gianni liked his curves) but more a reluctant bombshell from Denmark. Big blond hair, wide blue eyes, pillowy lips. Katrine had the face of a doll but a body made for sin, which made her a hot commodity atSports Illustrated, Victoria’s Secret, and the like. She was a Herb Ritts discovery, and that distinction elevated her from the fray.
And while neither girl was more beautiful, traditionally or otherwise, than the newcomer Anouk, Cecilia still found it amusing that the crew fawned and catered in the manner they did.
Sarah, the esteemed makeup artist, a patrician redhead from London, cooing over the suppleness of Jaya’s skin. “Like a baby’s. Still. And you’re how old now? Twenty-four? You would never know, pet. Don’t ever smoke.”
Beatriz, the head stylist—from Milan by way of Marbella, who spoke four languages fluently and was the only one of the bunch who had actually attended boarding school in Switzerland—swooning over how enchanting Katrine looked trying on the new line of body-conscious dresses. “Like a young blond Sophia Loren.”
“Anita Ekberg,” Santiago, the venerated hairstylist from Venezuela, corrected her. Santiago, when he wasn’t busy doing multimillion-dollar ad campaigns, styled hair for the likes of Sharon Stone, Uma Thurman, and Madonna. He knew his way around a celebrity blond.
They were all revered in their respective fields. And yet in the presence of the supermodels they could not help but ingratiate themselves. And it followed that everyone else was expected to kowtow.
“Can someone bring me a parasol? I can’t get too dark,” Jaya said.
It was their third setup of the day, on the terrace of a grand Mediterranean-style villa with sweeping views of the Sea of Cortez. Maren, the producer with di Varenna’s ad agency, had scouted it weeks earlier, and claimed it was “quintessential dolce vita: international and aristocratic to a fault.” She had beamed with pride on the walk-through Monday, clinging to her Smythson notebook, while Didier nodded his approval.
“Wait until you see the boat we booked for Thursday,” she’d said. “It’s huge. And sexy. You’re going to love it.”
