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“My agent.”
“Ah, then you are a model.” He has an accent, just barely. It’s almost French, but not quite, his R’s are landing too hard. The whole thing seems incredibly fake—put on. In fact, he’s probably from Georgia.
“I thought I recognized you from somewhere. What have you done?”
“I’ve done a lot of things,” I say. More than most. I tend to get preferential treatment; that happens when you have Aphrodite’s face.
Frederick drinks. He grins at me. “Do tell.”
And so, it begins.
I talk to people. I shake their hands. I accept business cards from photographers and a few painters looking for models, and I shove them down my bra—old industry trick. It’s a gross feeling, watching their eyes follow my hand and linger on the card (read: my breasts), but at this point, it’s compulsory. I flounce around in my tight-topped, ball-gown dress, telling every rolling camera in the room who I’m wearing. I’m sure I’m butchering the name, but no one corrects me. Probably because no one knows how to pronounce the damned thing. Not that it really matters.
I talk very briefly with Frederick What’s-his-fuck ofScatsva, and the look Renfield gives me from across the room sits like curdled milk in my stomach. He throws a thumbs up; it’s almost enough to make me abandon the conversation entirely.
But when Frederick takes out a business card, scribbles out his work number and writes his personal one, I accept it. Because Renfield is looking at me. Because I’m totally alone in the snake pit.
Because Frederick has a job for me.
A bikini shoot. Something in the Bahamas. I’ve got the blonde hair he’s looking for, the shape of the eyes, and they are just the loveliest shade of ocean blue, but would I be willing to wear brown contacts?
I course I am.
I always am.
