Chapter Twenty-Two
The nightclub is like always: pulsing techno music, long lines for the bathroom, men buying drinks for the girls from Hotel Go-See.
Her roommate Genevieve is grinding on an Italian guy. He’s old—probably thirty!—and sweaty. The other girls do their thing, looking pretty, judging models from other agencies who also frequent the place.
“Hello,” a voice says over the music.
She turns. It’s a handsome guy, the only Black guy in the club. He’s taller than she is, a rarity.
“Hi,” she says.
He’s dancing, but it’s obvious he’s not good at it. “You don’t recognize me, do you?” he says. He has an English accent. Upper-class, not like some of the models from the UK whose cockney is difficult to understand.
She racks her brain. Before she responds, he continues, “I’m Gabe, we met at Nepenthe. I’m with Select too.”
She would unquestionably remember this man, who resembles the statue of Apollo she saw on that trip to the Vatican. But she was drinking quite a bit at Nepenthe. She decides to be honest, which actually makes her look cool, she thinks, says she’s sorry, she doesn’t remember.
“Tough room,” he says.
She smiles.
“I’m going to go sit down. I’m getting too old for all this.” He can’t be more than twenty-five but that’s ancient in the modeling game. “Join me?” He glances over at the area separated by a velvet rope.
“That’s for the VIPs,” she says. It’s the premier spot in the club where the agency pays the tab, and only established models and big names making the agency lots and lots of money have access. “I’m not on the list.”
He cocks a brow. “You are now.”
He gestures with his arm, and she says, “You sure?” As a model, a pretty girl, she gets treated well in Milan. But there’s still a hierarchy.
A beefy man unclips the rope when he sees Gabe and allows them entry.
Everyone in the VIP room looks happy to see Gabe and he’s greeted with handshakes from the men, cheek kisses from the women. He finds them a cozy table and raises a hand and the waitress glides over with a bottle of Cristal.
“Now you’re just showing off,” Jules says.
“You noticed.” He smiles, teeth straight and gleaming white.
As the drinks make her feel fuzzy and this gorgeous man makes her laugh, as girls on the other side of the velvet rope eye her with envy, she starts to think her mom is right: Anyone would kill to be her, a fashion model in Milan drinking expensive champagne with an extraordinarily handsome man.
That doesn’t stop her from having to pee. She excuses herself to the restroom and is directed to the special one for the special people, the VIP restroom with no line. She pushes open the door and is surprised that the small single stall is occupied.
“Oh sorry,” she says.
The scene unfolds quickly, so it takes a moment to process: A man has a woman pressed against the stall.
Before Jules can shut the door, something causes her gut to roil.
It’s the French girl, the unfriendly one from the photo shoot today.
Her eyes are filled with something Jules knows as terror.
The man turns his head to Jules. “Fuck off out of here, will you?”
It’s the awful photographer from earlier.
Jules feels every nerve inside her prickle.
“Is everything okay?” she says to the girl.
She then sees the ripped panties on the bathroom floor. The young woman’s skirt hiked. The tear-stained cheeks.
“I said fuck off,” the photographer barks.
Jules feels a wave of panic, the extreme kind she hasn’t felt—or let herself feel—in some time.
She doesn’t think, just makes a fist and plants it squarely at the center of his face, feels a crunch, hears his stupid glasses with the pink lenses shatter to the floor.
As he hunches over, his hands to his bloody face, Jules offers her hand to the French girl, who takes it, and pulls her out of there.
On her way out she hears the photographer shouting. “You cunt, you’ll never work in this business again.”