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“January, this is what I’ve worked for since I was like fourteen, ever since my mother died. It’s finally happening and I just have to get through tonight. Make a good impression.”
“Wanting to honor your mom, sure, that’s you. Wanting to make a good impression to some creepy agency guys, though? That’s your father and fucking Melany. I can see the headline on Page Six now… ‘Billionaire widower, Thomas Hinson, soon-to-be-fiancé Melany Bitch-Face, and his cotillion-attending, aspiring-model daughter, Doralee, grace the Hart Agency annual post-Christmas party, as Doralee prepares to open the runway season in Europe…’”
I giggle and drop my voice. “Stop!”
“I get what you are saying, but trust me, I live in Los Angeles, where being a size zero is practically obese and I hate that shit. You’ve been killing yourself to lose weight for as long as I’ve known you and it never ends. It’s never enough. My dream is to sit down with you at some skeezy diner and watch you polish off a triple burger, cheese fries and a chocolate shake, then start all over with deep fried twinkies, macaroni and cheese…”
“January!”
She falls silent and I say a little prayer of thanks. I won’t admit it, but my mouth is watering just at the thought.
Before my mother died, she kept me on a strictly healthy, ‘clean’ diet. She was a former model herself, and while she loved me, her own obsession with her weight was pushed onto me at every opportunity. Hard to believe now, but it was my father who argued against it, sneaking me little tasty treats whenever her back was turned. That all changed when she passed away. I never saw him as broken as he was after the cancer took her. He needed someone to talk to and while I tried to be there for him, I don’t think he ever wanted to put that on me.
Enter Melany, his therapist—psychiatrist, to be more exact. Not mine, at least not at the time. That was the start of his obsession with making me “better”.
A loud knock on my bedroom door makes me jump. “Are you dressed?” My father’s booming voice comes through, then there’s a click and I spin around to find him standing in the doorway, peering inside.
“Yes, father. I’m almost ready.”
“Hurry. Car is waiting downstairs. I’m not pleased with your numbers today. I just received your evening weigh in. We will have to reevaluate.”
I hear January groan from where the phone is tossed on the bed, and panic tips my voice as I try to cover her obvious contempt: “Okay. Be right there.” A little smile and he huffs as he turns away.
I wait to hear his footsteps at the end of the hall, then grab the phone.
“January, I have to go.”
“Fine, call when you get home. I want to know what happens.”
“It’s just a party, a chance to mingle. All the models that are with the agency will be there, it’s a great opportunity for me to meet everyone before I start my contract. It’s a big deal to be signed with the Hart Agency.”
“Uh huh. Like they have a heart.”
“Goodbye, January.”
“Fine…I’ll expect your call—”
I click off, because knowing January she will keep talking until I hang up. For being just twenty, she’s a mother hen. I met her ten years ago, when we both happened to be on vacation in Aruba. I slipped and fell into the pool, practically right on top of her, but instead of being a dick about it, she thought it was funny and told me I knew how to make an entrance. Her father has gobs of money, and you might have expected her to be an entitled bitch, but that’s just not in her nature. We instantly formed a bond, and although she lives in Los Angeles and I’m in New York, we’ve stayed friends through Skype and text messaging ever since.
I check myself one last time in the mirror, smoothing my jet-black hair down my shoulders, then head out of the room and down the stairs. My father had my hair and makeup professionally done, leaving me responsible for putting on my dress and not mucking up the work that was done—which I think I’ve handled well.
Although his opinion may vary, of course…
The stylist flat-ironed my hair until I looked like Morticia Addams, while my makeup makes me look older than my eighteen years; blood-red lipstick contrasting with my pale skin finishes off the Addams Family vibe.
As I descend the stairs, I see my father standing by the door to our three-story penthouse, talking on the phone. He’s nearly always on his phone, his computer or in a meeting. He’s the man who can make or break companies with a single phone call, after all. He silently waves me into the elevator, finishing up his call as we travel down, and I try to ignore the details of the meeting he’s setting up. When the elevator bell rings and the doors slide open on the first floor, Antonio our driver is already there waiting.
