Chapter 1 #2
She hesitated but complied, draping it over my shoulders. The luxurious fur instantly transformed the look, taking it from tin foil disaster to an outfit that was vaguely fashion forward. Editorial enough that it would suit the pages of Vogue, and I still looked hot. Best of both worlds.
“Model! You’re holding us up.” Pierre bellowed from the doorway. He stopped short when he saw me, his greasy hair flopping as his eyes racked up my body. On instinct, I pulled the coat closed. “What’s with the fur? Lose it.”
Literally, kill me.
I opened my mouth to argue, but the assistant beat me to it. “Really? I thought it was an inspired move on your part? Using some of the brands that the magazine specifically requested for the shoot on the Kit Sinclair? They’ll love it.”
“Oh.” He froze, his confusion palpable. “Yeah…of course.”
As he wandered off, muttering about his “artistic genius”, I looked to the assistant. “If this works, you should get a Christmas bonus.”
She smiled gratefully. “Since I seem to be the one in charge of this sinking ship, I hope they do that either way.”
I smiled back at her, stepping towards the set. It was time to make this fiasco halfway decent – or at least survive it.
It was a disaster. An hour in, I was already at my breaking point.
Pierre kept vanishing, sometimes to bark at a lighting tech or argue on his phone. He’d been pushing my boundaries, putting both Sienna and me into the oddest and most unnatural poses, shouting at us to move faster, to give him more without clarifying what more actually was.
“Okay, let’s wrap this up,” he declared, swaggering back into the room like he owned the place. “Just one more round. You.” He jabbed a finger straight towards me. “Get rid of the coat.”
The room froze, waiting to see if I’d do it, as he made his way to the back of the set.
But I was done. Pierre had been pushing boundaries all night – pushing me – and now he wanted me to strip down further than we’d agreed, without consulting my agent or even the magazine.
This wasn’t about art or professionalism.
It was about a control I refused to yield.
I’d dealt with arseholes like him before, but I’d never felt this unprotected, never had the wardrobe assistant be my only defender.
“No.” I stood firm, my shoulders straight, fingers clutching the fur closed.
He paused midstep, turning to look over his shoulder. “What did you say?”
“No.” I swallowed, standing strong. “I’m not taking it off.”
“I’m the photographer!” He slapped a hand to his chest, his voice rising. “If I tell you to do something, you fucking do it.”
“Or what?”
“Excuse me?”
“What are you going to do?” I pressed, my tone calm, controlled, unflinching.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Nobody dared move or speak a word. The entire room’s attention was on us.
The rest of the staff clearly wanted to get this wrapped up as soon as possible.
Already running behind schedule, they had families to get home to, the wrap party to attend. I wasn’t worth the hassle.
“I’ll fire you,” Pierre spat. He was too used to taking advantage of models, of forcing them to do whatever he wanted.
But I was no longer a girl he could manipulate.
I’d met too many that thought they could.
Casting directors and fashion designers like him who’d swear up and down you’re their next muse until they get your clothes off.
Cocky celebrities, actors, and tennis players who promise you the world, but by the time they’re done with you, they’ve taken the best part of you with them.
I was sick of it, thoroughly beaten down, tired of smiling through the pain. I was finally empty of polite phrases to use instead of screaming what I truly wanted to say.
I smiled coldly. “Go ahead, but if you think firing me is your biggest problem, you’re wrong. My agent will be raising a complaint with the magazine, and you’ll have bigger issues to worry about than me keeping my coat on.”
He stepped closer, his face inches from mine. “Take—it—off.”
“No.”
“Then get off my fucking set!” he screamed, the veins in his neck bulging.
“My pleasure.” I looked to Sienna, pointing to the photographer behind me who, by the sound of it, was promptly kicking and destroying the set.
I kept my voice quiet, leaning into her ear.
“Do not let him get you alone.” I drew back, looking her straight in the eyes so she could see how serious I was.
No matter how new she was, models had to protect each other.
She nodded quickly, her lips pressed together as he continued to rage.
The sound of him wrecking his own set echoed behind me as I marched off, my head high.
“Well, that went about as well as I expected,” the wardrobe assistant said, catching up to me.
I laughed bitterly. “To be honest, I’m surprised he didn’t take longer to melt down.”
“Your clothes are where you left them.” She pointed towards the changing room. “I suggest you make a quick escape.”
I did as she said, pushing off the coat and ‘bikini’ before pulling on the simple jeans and cashmere jumper combo I’d worn here.
In the end, I’d had enough. Not only with today, but with this entire industry.
With the way everyone looked at me when I stood up to Pierre.
How they on set stood back and let him scream at me like I was nothing.
The grimace that would appear when I said I was turning thirty in a few weeks, acting as if I was staring down the barrel.
I knew the truth. They wanted girls they could use, with high cheekbones and zero backbone, and I was no longer that.
“Are you going anywhere for Christmas? I bet someone like you has somewhere exciting to go?” she asked from behind the curtain, clearly trying to make some more pleasant conversation.
The question stung more than I expected. I’d turned down every invitation: dinners, vacations, even an offer of a week in the Bahamas. And while all my local London friends went on their little skiing holidays or made their way back home, now I had nothing but an empty house waiting for me.
A part of me ached at the idea of extended time alone, with no work eating up my days, no friends to fill my nights.
I used to thrive in this industry, young and willing to do anything to make it big.
The endless parties, the dresses and shoots, the late nights at Isabelle’s.
Now it all felt like a game of dress-up I’d grown too used to.
Maybe if my friends could do the pilgrimage home, so could I.
But after so many years away, I questioned where it was.
During my childhood, my parents shipped me off every holiday to stay with my gran.
Memories of warm summer days and the long, biting winter nights spent in the Cairngorms, the rugged mountain range of the Scottish Highlands.
It hadn’t felt like home, but it was probably closer to it than anywhere else.
She was long gone now, but the idea held promise.
Somewhere small, a cozy cottage with a roaring fire.
Maybe a deep bath. No cameras. Just silence.
Maybe I’d remember what my own voice sounded like.
Another Christmas there could be exactly what I needed.
“I’m going to Scotland,” I said, stepping out with a newfound resolve. “It’s quiet. Wintery. Just what I need.” I imagined the small town I knew so well, snow-covered Cairngorms surrounding it, and a tinge of excitement settled in.
No headlines. No paparazzi. No one looking at me like I’m past my sell-by date.
She looked uncertain for a moment before stepping forward with the fur coat in hand. “Keep this then. You’ll need to wrap up warm.”
I stared at her, surprised by the suggestion. “Are you sure?”
It might technically be stealing, but I learned long ago to never say no to couture.
She nodded, and for the first time tonight, her expression broke into nervousness. “I’ve…I’ve always been a big fan of yours. When I found out the Kit Sinclair was on this job, I was so excited to be able to work alongside you.”
“Oh wow,” I said, taken back. “I’m sorry it went completely to shit.”
“That’s not your fault,” she said. “I don’t know how you were able to get through that shoot; he was pulling the most unprofessional shit I’ve ever seen.” She pushed the coat into my arms. “And besides, this way, if he complains to the agency, you still walk away with some payment.”
A soft laugh escaped me. “Thank you.”
Slipping out of the building unnoticed, I headed into the cold London streets, the central crowds unbearable. The December air bit at my face, but for the first time all day, I felt warm, dreaming of a Scottish holiday.
It wasn’t perfect – it wasn’t exactly home – but it was something. And if I didn’t get away now, I knew I was going to lose what little of myself I had left.
Of course, I had no idea what – or who – was waiting for me up there.