AUDREY
‘ D ID IT HURT ?’
‘I almost cried while I was waiting for her to rinse the bleach off. And then I actually did cry when I saw the colour it’d gone.’
‘What colour was it?’
‘Pale orange. Like a traffic cone that’s been left out in the sun.’
Marika grimaces, baring her perfect teeth.
‘It went blonde after she toned and dried it, though,’ I conclude, pulling out a strand to scrutinise. ‘I think it looks okay now.’
‘Better than okay,’ she says firmly. ‘Editorial.’
‘Thanks.’ I smile – coming from Marika, there’s no higher compliment. She nods and resumes studying her copy of Vogue while I glance out the graffiti-etched windows of the overground train, yellow light filtering through the glass. It’s late in the day and we’re on our way to Julian Mars’s studio in Williamsburg for our photoshoots, about which I am insanely nervous. It doesn’t help that I’m caffeine-jittery too, having gotten up at the crack of dawn for my morning appointment with Imogene’s colourist. It took five hours to take my hair from brown to platinum – five deeply uncomfortable hours. The texture of it feels weird, still, but not as weird as catching my reflection in windows and seeing a stranger.
‘Do you want me to wait for you once I’m done?’ Marika asks, delicately dabbing a perfume sample against her wrist.
‘It’s okay. You said you’re going out tonight, right?’
‘Well, yeah, but I don’t think this’ll take too long. I can hang around.’
‘It’s fine.’ I smile. ‘I’ll remember the way back.’
‘Get a cab. It’ll be dark by then.’
‘You think?’
‘Probably. Honestly, it’s ridiculous that he’s insisting on seeing us separately.’
‘I don’t really mind killing some time in Brooklyn,’ I admit, stretching slightly. ‘Ezra told me about a couple of cool places I could check out.’
‘Right. Was this on your date?’
‘It wasn’t a date,’ I say instinctively.
‘The sunset picnic by a lake in Central Park wasn’t a date?’
‘No.’
She lowers her magazine then, fixing me with a flat stare.
‘Really,’ I say, a little defensively. ‘I think I would have noticed.’
There’s a chance I might be attempting to convince myself as much as I am Marika, here. I mean – yes, it was probably the most romantic evening of my life, but nothing romantic actually happened. Him picking a bug out of my hair was the closest we got to physical contact, though I made sure to keep at least one hand unobstructed at all times, should he choose to hold it. He didn’t, though – not even as he walked me back to my apartment, where we lingered on the stoop before saying good night. I kept losing track of the conversation, embarrassingly, too busy imagining him leaning in to kiss me. Could he tell? When I got back inside and looked in the mirror, my pupils were blown wide, cheeks spotted with colour. He said you were pretty , I thought. He thinks that you’re pretty.
‘So, he didn’t make a move.’ Marika nods. ‘Interesting.’
I say nothing, ignoring the rising heat in my cheeks. I hate that I blush so much – how transparent it makes me feel. Like yesterday, when Ezra was pressing me about what I wished for.
‘I don’t think it’s for a lack of interest,’ Marika adds. ‘I mean – whatever the issue is, it’s definitely not that.’
‘It shouldn’t even matter,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ll probably be leaving soon. It couldn’t come to anything.’
‘If that’s what you want to tell yourself,’ Marika says mildly, turning back to her magazine and flicking on to a new page.
Marika’s portion of the shoot only takes about half an hour, all in all. She texts to let me know when she’s done and on her way back to Manhattan, and though it’s earlier than the time I was given, I decide to head over to the studio anyway. No one’s ever reprimanded me for being too punctual, I figure, and I’m not doing anything besides wandering the streets and brooding.
The studio is on the top floor of a small, nondescript-looking building beside the river. The interior is bright and sparse, white-walled with linoleum floors – there’s no one else inside, not that I can tell, and the only way upstairs is a chilly stairwell, the squeak of my trainers echoing in the silence. My nerves are back in full force. Imogene assured us that this isn’t a casting, but that doesn’t mean that it’s not important.
I finally find myself in a narrow hallway with a door at the end. Taped to it is a piece of paper with DO NOT DISTURB – PHOTOSHOOT IN PROGRESS scrawled in capital letters – promising enough, I decide, and step inside. It’s a huge room, wide and cavernous with concrete columns and windows stretching from floor to ceiling. In the far corner is a white backdrop with big, square lights angled around it, plus a tripod, a rail of clothes and a small desk, where Julian Mars sits on a fold-out chair with a sleek silver laptop. He glances up – his pale brown hair is half-gathered in a claw clip and he’s wearing huge, gold-rimmed glasses.
‘Audrey,’ he says, closing the laptop with a snap. ‘You’re early.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry—’
‘Don’t be,’ he replies. ‘It’s nice to officially meet you.’
He strides towards me and offers his hand. We shake – his grip is loose, relaxed.
‘You too.’ I smile. ‘This place is awesome.’
‘Thanks. The light is usually better – sorry we had to do this so late.’
‘No worries,’ I say brightly, shrugging off my jacket. I leave it by the door along with my bag, moving towards the backdrop. It’s the only bright space in the room.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asks, moving over to the clothing rail. ‘I’ve got a coolbox – there’s water, some beers. A seltzer, maybe?’
‘I’m all good. Thank you,’ I say, relieved that he seems nice. I remember him looking moody at the Miranda Browning show – bored, almost, like he thought that the whole thing was beneath him. But maybe he was just tired – I know I was.
‘This your first Fashion Week?’ he asks, still rifling through the rail.
‘Yeah. It’s been crazy.’
‘I can imagine. You mind changing, by the way? Miranda sent over some pieces.’
‘Sure thing,’ I say, and he pulls a small white garment from its hanger and tosses it to me. I catch it, glancing around for a screen.
‘You can use the backdrop,’ he says, gesturing. ‘I’m going to put some music on.’
‘Thanks.’ I nod, slipping behind it. Once I’m out of sight, I examine what he’s given me – a silk camisole with delicate straps, frilled edges and tiny, pearly buttons. I pull my T-shirt off and slip it on, the fabric cool against my skin. It’s beautiful, but the straps of my faded blue bra ruin the effect. I sigh, wriggling out of it and tucking it inside my discarded T-shirt.
Fuzzy, crooning music is emanating from the wall-mounted speakers, and I can hear Julian clattering around. I don’t want to make him wait so I tug up the waist of my jeans, smooth down my hair and re-emerge, smiling.
‘Ready,’ I tell him, taking my place.
‘Perfect,’ he says, positioning his camera on the tripod. ‘Want to show me some poses?’
I nod, arching my back and placing my hands on the small of my waist. The flash pops as I lift my chin.
‘Great,’ he says. I turn, tossing my hair slightly as I look at him over my shoulder. The light flashes again and I quickly settle into a rhythm, moving from pose to pose in small, fluid motions. A few minutes pass in silence, which I take as a good sign.
‘Really great,’ he says eventually, offering a half-smile. ‘You know, I could tell you had something special when I first saw you.’
‘At the show?’ I say, surprised. The way I remember it, he barely looked at me.
‘Uh-huh. Your friend Marika, too – I pointed you both out to Miranda. Had no idea that you knew each other.’
‘Wow. That’s such a crazy coincidence.’
‘I don’t believe in coincidence,’ he says seriously. ‘Let’s call it serendipity.’
‘Serendipity,’ I echo. He’s stopped taking pictures now – I drop the pose, letting my shoulders sag.
‘There’s this amazing contrast between you two,’ he continues. ‘She has such an incredible spirit – she just emanates strength. Fire. And you’ve got this – there’s this vulnerability about you, you know? It’s palpable. And it makes for a really compelling dynamic.’
I smile, not sure what to say to that.
‘That’s what I’m trying to capture here,’ he adds, glancing down at the camera and adjusting the lens. ‘Could you take the top off?’
I blink at him. I hear the words, but it takes me a moment to process them.
‘Oh, um – I’m not wearing a bra,’ I finally manage, feeling my face flood with heat. ‘Sorry.’
‘You’re not?’ he says.
‘No.’
‘Is that a problem?’ he asks, looking at me like I’ve just said something stupid. I laugh nervously. But he doesn’t laugh with me. He just stares.
‘Um – I don’t know,’ I say finally. My voice sounds weird – detached, somehow. Like someone else is talking.
‘Is it too cold in here?’ he asks, moving towards me. I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak again – my heart is beating hard and fast, and everything is happening so quickly –
‘You look a little cold,’ he says, and he’s right in front of me now. ‘It’s okay. It’s not for long.’
He touches my shoulder then, easing off the strap of the camisole with his fingers. There’s a word stuck in my throat and that word is no, but I can’t say it. I can’t, because if I say no and he doesn’t stop—
He tugs at the other strap, and the camisole falls to the floor. My sharp intake of breath is audible, impossible to ignore in the tiny space between us. He exhales in turn and his breath is hot against my neck. My arms feel like dead weight by my sides, and all I can think is, Please, please …
‘You’re very beautiful, Audrey,’ he says quietly. ‘But you know that, don’t you?’
Acid rises in the back of my throat as I frenziedly rack my brain for the right answer – the one that’ll get me out of here. But maybe there is no right answer. I know where the door is, but I don’t let myself look at it, scared that he’ll anticipate me if I try to run. Could I run? My feet feel rooted to the floor, useless—
‘Shy, too,’ he says and gives me another half-smile. ‘Okay. Let’s try this again.’
And then he moves away, back behind the tripod. I force my arms to move then, covering myself as best I can as he adjusts the lens again. I’m trembling badly now, praying that he won’t see. My eyes water as the flash pops, but I stiffly resume posing. I don’t know how much time passes or how many photos he takes.
‘Okay,’ he says finally. ‘I think we’re done here.’
It’s only when I crouch to pick up the camisole and cover myself that the shame rises to meet me, engulfing me like a wave.