7. Chapter Seven - Reed
Reed
I jump when my phone starts ringing just as I step outside the bakery I just had a lovely petit four and coffee at. With the show done, I figured I could indulge a bit.
My heart starts pounding in my throat, butterflies fluttering in my stomach as I fumble for the device—then immediately tumbling and crashing when I realize it's my brother calling and not Abby.
"Hi, Adam, what's up?" I ask with a sigh and turn around to regain my orientation. I can see the Eiffel tower over some buildings, so I put on my obligatory ‘hope nobody recognizes me’ sunglasses and start walking towards it.
"Hey, Reed, are you feeling better now?"
"I do, actually," I admit carefully, suspicion making me take a deep breath.
Adam never calls just to check in. He’s all business, hell, he barely has time to call us for our birthdays or have the occasional family dinner with us. This smells of a man with an agenda, and I know my plans for this evening are about to take nose-dive. Not that I had any, because so far, Abby has neither called nor messaged me.
Some days, I resent him for it. For how business-only our relationship has become, how much work he's throwing my way to a degree I don't even quite know what to do with this free week, how much he’s distanced himself from me and our other siblings, Zoey being the only exception. She’s his princess, even today, the one who can do no wrong. I’m curious to see how he’ll react when she goes to university later this year.
"Why? What’s up?" I ask him, stopping by a corner as I brace myself for his answer.
"How are those eye bags doing?" he asks, and that’s when I exhale a deep sigh.
"Stop beating around the bush. What do you want, Adam?"
"Dimitri is out. Sprained his ankle when a designer forced him into platform heels that were too big for him.”
“Are you serious?” I pinch the bridge of my nose and whisper a curse under my breath. “What’s with all these models dropping like flies? Maybe you need to screen your designers better. How could that even happen?”
“I know, I know,” he says in that condescending voice that tells me he’s rolling his eyes. “I’m doing all that, but for now, he’s out of commission, but he had that photoshoot booked, like, right now…"
"Adam," I say, exhaustion washing over me as I continue my way with heavy steps. "Are you for real? You promised me a free week here, if I did the last-minute fashion show. Which I did, as you might remember. You know, I was looking forward to serenity, a lot of coffee, a ton of unhealthy food and most of all, catching up on sleep."
Of course, I’m only teasing about the food. While my brother being one of the big bosses of the entertainment industry cuts me some slack, there are still certain expectations of models. He might get me into last-minute photoshoots and pull some strings to get me good spots in fashion shows, but no designer would say ‘yes’ to his demands if I didn’t fulfil those expectations.
"You're in Paris during Spring Fashion Week, Reed," Adam points out with a sigh. "Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but you could have seen this coming."
"Oh, could I?" I stop abruptly, making someone behind me curse as they nearly walk into me.
I've reached the Champs de Mars, walking one of the gravelly pathways towards the Eiffel Tower, watching families picnicking on the grass, friends throwing frisbees and couples sharing a bottle of wine.
Oh God, how I’m longing to get myself a blanket and join them. Just a carefree evening with some people watching in the cool spring air.
"Well," I continue, pinching the bridge of my nose, "what can I say? I trusted you to keep your word. But that puts us where we are now." Right in the middle of another disappointment and a ruined afternoon, to be precise.
"Reed, that’s unfair—"
"No. It’s not ‘unfair,’ it’s reality and you, once more, putting your business over our relationship. Send me the details and I’ll get on my way. But don’t expect me to pick up any other models’ slack for you again. Maybe we both need to re-evaluate how well this ‘my brother is my boss’ relationship is turning out," I interrupt him and immediately hang up the call.
I pick up my pace until I’m almost back at the hotel, trying to calm myself down. Yes, Adam has kept our parents’ company afloat after they died, but at what cost? He’s pulling away from all of us, overworking himself and taking on more responsibility than he could possibly handle—and that’s the only reason I ultimately agreed to pick up this goddamn photoshoot.
But enough is enough. He’s my older brother, and I love him, but damn, it's days like this that I wish for him to have permanently wet sleeves and a hole in his sock, right over the toe, so it sits all uncomfortably, with no chance to adjust it over the day.
The taxi drops me off in a strange little pocket of Paris half an hour later, and something about it feels off right away. I look around, trying to figure it out, but I can’t quite place what kind of neighborhood this is. It’s not really a business district; there are no people in suits or business casual attire rushing by. It’s not a shopping area either, since there are no stores or signs, and it doesn’t feel like a normal residential street. It’s a weird mix of all three, like the city didn’t know what to do with this corner and just let it become whatever it wanted.
The building in front of me looks like it might have been an office once, with a plain, boxy shape and tall, narrow windows. But now, it’s covered in rough, colorful graffiti, some of it beautiful images, some of it just messy writing.
“Is this really the right place?” I mutter, pulling up Adam’s message again and double-checking the map on my phone. The little blue dot lines up with the address, so I guess it must be.
I press a finger against the door, half expecting it to be locked, but it swings open easily. Inside, the courtyard is quiet—too quiet—and a little dusty, plants overgrowing against the facade and between cobblestones, like no one really cares to keep it in shape. I glance around, unsure where to go, until I spot a laminated sign slapped onto the wall with peeling tape. It says “Reception” in plain black letters and points toward a closed door.
For a lack of options, that’s where I head. At this rate, Adam should have sent along instructions on where exactly to go in this strange house.
"He’s here!" the receptionist shouts as soon as I open the door and I jump. Immediately, two people come running out from a room in the back, talking to each other in rapid French.
"Hello, I am Constance," the woman introduces herself off-handedly, like she only just remembered I might not speak French. “Come with me, Reed.”
She’s the poster image for The Devil Wears Prada fashion type: grey hair combed to perfection, not a wrinkle in the black suit she’s wearing, sharp blue eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses that make her seem powerful, like the snap of her fingers could crumple the building.
"Okay," I mutter. There’s clearly no need or want for me to introduce myself so I follow her, along with the guy attached to her heels. He must be in his 50s, his grey hair combed over a balding head, and he’s wearing a simple T-shirt and jeans, a stark contrast to her perfectionist suit.
I’m going to go out on a limb and suspect he’s the photographer for today.
They bustle me into a changing room, where a bunch of clothes are already hanging on the wall, waiting for me. There are no instructions, but I assume they want me to wear them so I change into them quickly.
When I open the curtain and step out, I’m met with two scrutinizing, and frankly, pretty fucking judgmental, looks from the woman and the photographer, who still hasn’t introduced himself.
"No, no, no," Constance says, then pushes me on a little pedestal, reaching out blindly until someone puts a pincushion in her hand. She switches to English, so at least I understand a bit of what’s going on, but what she’s saying makes me kind of wish she’d just stuck to French.
An assistant, who has appeared out of nowhere, scribbles down every word, nodding furiously, like a living transcription tool that has obligatory compliments built in.
"I want his hair on his face to hide that big forehead. His eyes are really not that pretty, they don’t need to be in focus," she says, bored, like she’s announcing the weather, circling me like a snake inspecting prey. I feel her eyes on every inch of my body and have never been quite so glad for the thick skin I’ve developed over the years, because she seems the type to find every weak spot and have models run out of this weird place crying.
No wonder Dimitri sprained his ankle to get out of this.
"His butt is a little too big, so we need to keep the top long," she continues, pointing at the area in question. "His biceps are not so big, so we need to keep it a little puffier, make the proportions prettier. His collarbones are not terrible, I guess, so the cleavage works out. And for God’s sake, get me some rings to hide those bony fingers."
I gulp, forcing myself to remain quiet even as the assistant starts draping and pinning my clothes until the woman finally gives her approval. Adam will get an earful from me later today. Just focus on that, Reed. Don’t listen to the mean designer.
"That is a lot better," she says with a nod when the clothes are pinned to her liking. "Now off to makeup."
We need to do the makeup with me standing, because there is no way I’m sitting on this pin cushion of an outfit, the poor makeup artist having to get on a little step to reach my face properly. All the while, I keep glancing at my phone that I deposited on the makeup table, waiting for Abby’s message or a call.
Did I seriously misinterpret our time at the Louvre? I was so sure she’d call.
"No, no, no! You need to contour the nose stronger!" Constance barks at the poor makeup artist, face twisted in disgust as she inspects the makeup. "It is too broad. We need it narrower. And for God’s sake, plump those lips up a bit!"
Before I know it, someone shoves me in front of the camera. No briefing. No rough ideas. Nothing for me to go off.
And if Adam doesn’t take this bitch off the client list, we’re going to have even more problems than we already do.
Being objectified comes with the job. A jab here and there is normal and I’m not surprised by that. However, there’s a difference between working out what’s best for the shoot or the clothes and being a downright dismissive bitch.
I get it, us models have a reputation for being airheads, for our only good feat being attractive and not what’s inside our heads. And to be fair, many of us lean into it. It’s just easier to pretend to be dumb than argue with every second designer you work with.
Every successful model I know has learned to pick their battles, when to push back and when to shut up, make sure the shooting gets done quickly and then never work with them again.
And she is absolutely a candidate for that ‘do not work again with’ list that I sure hope Adam adapts for all models in the agency. Because she’s that type. The type of designer who thinks their word is equal to God’s, who think of themselves as a lot more important than they actually are. They don’t care about feelings. They care about results.
And usually I can respect that. But not when I jump in at the last minute and don’t even get a ‘hello’ or even a ‘thank you for stepping in,’ and then get treated like a doll you can dress up or even throw across the room, whatever you feel like.
She’s going right on top of my ‘people I’ve worked with over the years that I never want to cross paths with again’ list. She’ll find great company there, like photographers who are a little too into naked shoots, groups of models who are a little too hooked on illegal substances for my taste, handsy reporters, or those that ask terrible questions.
I start posing as camera flashes go off, pulling off my standard poses since I got no direction or briefing.
People shout at me from all sides, telling me how to position my arm, my foot, my hip, where to look, what to do with my eyebrows, and I do my best to follow, running on autopilot. It’s a skill I’ve trained hard for over the years, trying to perfect it with every photoshoot.
Usually, I love my job. I love getting to wear awesome clothes, to meet old friends again and pose for the camera.
But right now?
Right now, it feels hollow as hell.
Maybe it’s time to take a step back. I feel like I need something less superficial than relationships in the modeling world, where you know each other and have a great time catching up, but nobody goes out of their way to make friends. We might be friendly on shoots, but the next day we could be competing for the same one.
There are no friends in this business. Only acquaintances and rivals.
And my brothers? Well, they’re slowly but surely slipping into the same category. Adam has already kept his distance for years, always prioritizing the company. Jackson, the second oldest of us, barely talks to me at all. He’s the only one still living at home permanently, only taking on movies and other acting gigs that will allow him to be there for Zoey, our little sister.
And Tanner, my last older brother? Well, ever since he started narrating audiobooks independently, he’s been insanely busy.
The only one I’m still close to is Zoey. And honestly, she has bigger problems than listening to her brother complain about his lack of relationships, be it friends or romantic ones. She’s in her last year of high school and prepping for prom, graduation, and university applications.
I’m not going to take her attention away from that just because I feel lonely. She’s missed out on enough, not having our parents there and brothers who can’t manage to make a family dynamic work.
"Next outfit!" someone shouts, and I have to do my damnedest not to roll my eyes. Like, I have ears. No need to shout or I’ll send them bills for the hearing aids I’ll need after this.
I really should’ve gotten more details out of Adam, that’s on me. Then again, he probably should have sent them up front. Like, how many hours am I booked for, how many outfits need to be photographed? For now, I’m assuming the worst and preparing myself for it to mess with the rest of the day. I should cancel my dinner reservation later.
I grab my phone as I walk past the makeup table, checking it as soon as the curtain to the changing booth closes behind me. Still no call. Still no message from Abby.
With a sigh, I put it back in my bag.
Focus, Reed. You have work to do.
So, with a sigh, I roll my shoulders and straighten my back. Let’s get this over with.