Page 54 of Pink

A lot of questions were pretty standard—what was it like working with the famous Paris fashion designer who launched her fledgling modeling career into supermodel stardom; how she dealt with it all; and now her rising fame in the states, too. She hadn’t needed to do that shoot before she left her estate home in Milan to travel to New York. In fact, her agent didn’t even want to pass the offer along to her manager so that she would know about it. People didn’t really like for Gigi to talk on record if they couldn’t edit and censor everything.

She had to be the fantasy, right?

Sell herself, the lifestyle … the product.

Whatever.

Soon, things would change. Her expiring contract said so, and because of that, she felt free to speak her mind more often now than ever before even if it meant a renewal might not be on the table with her mother agency.

It was a risk she was willing to take.

For girls like the one standing beside the security guard with a magazine featuring Gigi’s face on the front clutched at her chest like it was a lifeline. Because she didn’t want those girls who idolized her like she was some God to think that this was all normal or sunshine and roses.

Because a lot of the time, it wasn’t.

It was lonely.

Hard.

She sacrificed everything.

“Gigi, come on,” her assistant called, already inside the hotel.

She waved a hand, not even bothering to give Kayla more. If anybody understood her need to stop and speak with fans—like this girl who probably did everything she could to be outside of this hotel today to even get a glimpse of Gigi arriving—it was Kayla. Because a lot of the time, it was her handling all of Gigi’s social media accounts and interacting under her name and brand. Not because Gigi didn’t want to, but because she couldn’t.

Sometimes, the agency didn’t want her on it. Other times, it was what was best for her mental health. Social media was a lot of lies—a lot of perfection airbrushed to the point of insanity with staged locations and friends and bullshit. It got tiring.

“Oh, my God—hi!” the girl with the magazine rushed to say when she realized Gigi was coming her way. “You don’t have to sign anything I just wanted to see you and—”

“It’s okay,” Gigi interjected, already seeing the tears well up in the girl’s eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Lia. I’m from Brooklyn. I really love you. You inspired me to smile more.”

Lia did just that.

The small gap between her two front teeth had Gigi smiling to show off her own—a feature that despite the designer who controlled her life for two years wanted to change, she held her ground and refused with the threat of breaching contract. They let it go. Eventually.

“I wanna be just like you,” Lia said, handing over the magazine when Gigi pulled a mini-Sharpie marker from the back pocket of her jeans. She always kept one on hand. It was good policy in her business.

The comment made her pause.

She still signed the magazine, and then handed it to the teenager with another smile, but it wasn’t as big this time. “Hey,” she said, meeting the girl’s gaze, “don’t aspire to be me—I’m already here. Show them all you. I promise you’ll be happier that way.”

Lia glanced down at the magazine and the small print under the headline of Gigi’s name and the article title. Her words in quotes had never really been meant for her team but everybody. Anyone who looked to Gigi as the one thing that made them happy and expected her to always be that for them.

That wasn’t real life.

Magazine her wasn’t her.

“Thank you,” Lia said.

“You are so welcome. Love ya, kid.”

That was punctuated by her making the peace sign. Something that had become synonymous with her, not the brand or the agency or the clothes or the pictures. Just Gigi. The cheeky love ya, kid and her two fingers spread wide when she put them high. On a runway, she could make that peace sign, and the whole crowd would give it back. Her comments on socials were flooded with that emoji.

Peace.

Happiness.