CHAPTER TWO – ANOTHER INTERVIEW #2
Gone is the shield of pink, but what’s left is absolutely gorgeous. I gasp because the my hair resembles a golden river trailing over my shoulders. My skin looks brighter, somehow, and my entire mien lifted. Who knew?
When I leave, I text Camille as instructed: “Done. Blonde again.”
The reply is instantaneous. “Excellent. Please return to the office at 10 a.m. tomorrow for the final onboarding.” Sure enough, my phone chimes within minutes with another one thousand dollar deposit. They really know how to motivate someone, don’t they?
I stand on the sidewalk, the wind blowing my new hair into my eyes, and think: this is how you become someone else. You sign a contract. You do what you’re told, and wait for your reward. Is that really so bad? It’s how the world works.
That night, Simone finally texts: “Hey, still alive? Did you take the job?”
“Still waiting,” I type. “They have sooo many rounds of interviews.”
The read receipt comes, but no reply.
I crawl into bed and hug the pillow tight. I tell myself I know what I’m doing. That I’m not in over my head. That I’m not scared. That the position is only temporary, anyways, and I can go back to being me afterwards.
In the morning, I pull on a blue sweater and dark slacks, and for a second, I almost look like every other girl on campus. I wonder if anyone will even recognize me, with luscious blonde locks instead of pink.
At Sweet Lies, the receptionist clocks me with a nod, but doesn’t say anything about the transformation. I take the orange chair again and fidget a bit. My hands feel clumsy. I keep wanting to check my reflection in my phone, but it would be awkward to be caught staring at my own image.
Camille appears exactly at ten, this time in a navy suit, her hair just as severe, her shoes a patent black. She pauses, giving me a once-over that is part evaluation, part silent approval.
“Very good,” she says, her eyes crinkling at the edges. “You look very beautiful, Katherine. Very much to our client’s tastes.”
I resist the urge to say something and instead nod, careful not to disturb my new, glossy golden tresses.
“Come with me, please,” she says, turning on her heel.
We walk together in silence, her heels making soft, expensive sounds on the tile. I notice the faint scent of her perfume—bergamot, maybe, with something sharper underneath. I wonder if she chooses it to seem terrifying or just to remind everyone she’s in charge.
She leads me into the same conference room as before, only this time the table is covered with a neat row of folders and a stack of plain white envelopes. She gestures for me to sit, then places a folder in front of me.
“We need to confirm a few details before we proceed. Height, weight, clothing sizes. For our records, of course.”
I balk, but then rattle off the numbers, trying to keep my voice even. These very numbers could be worth money. Camille takes notes, nodding with each answer.
She looks up at last, eyes sharp. “You’re very beautiful, Kat. You know that, don’t you?”
I shake my head, unsure if it’s a trick question.
She leans in, voice low. “You’re perfect for this, if you follow the terms exactly. The client is a great man, he’s just particular in some ways. But you’re a great fit.”
I almost laugh. “Okay,” I say softly.
Camille studies my face for a long moment, and then glances at her watch. Then she looks back at me, her gaze steady. “This assignment could change your life, Kat. But only if you’re willing to let it.”
The words settle between us like a dare. I picture my future life. One without money stress. One where I don’t eat old pastries from the cafe for lunch. One where I can finally pay my tuition, maybe even get ahead for once. I think about my mom, and how she always said survival is about compromise.
I square my shoulders and meet Camille’s gaze. “I’m ready,” I say.
Her smile is quick, efficient. “Excellent. Then let’s get started with those photos. If you could put these on please.”
She reaches for something by her seat, then slides the shoebox across the table. I open the lid. Inside is a pair of pale nude heels, the kind you see on Instagram influencers. I touch the smooth surface, still unsure whether this is a gift or a threat.
“What are these for?” I ask, confused.
“For the photoshoot, of course!” Camille chirps, a little too bright. “We can’t have you in your sneakers.”
“Oh okay,” I say dubiously. “But what will I wear with them? It’ll look weird with my slacks and sweater.”
Camille gets a mischievous look in her eyes.
“Why don’t we go to the studio first,” she says. “I’m sure we’ll figure it out there.”
Then, she stands and moves to the hallway. I’m still for a moment, wondering what’s going on, but then I trail her down the hall and into a brightly lit room where there are lights everywhere, as well as a stark white backdrop.
“We like to do things professionally at Sweet Lies, and that includes photo shoots,” Camille explains. “Please, change behind the screen,” she says, gesturing to an oriental screen in the corner.
I slink behind the panels, and then stop short.
“Wait, Camille, I don’t see any clothes here,” I say. “What should I wear?”
The manager doesn’t seem surprised.
“Just your bra and panties, with the heels of course. It’s fine.”
I stop and stare, surprised. My bra and panties?
What in the world? But against my better judgment, I strip off my clothes and stare at my lush figure in a full-size mirror, clad only in a lacy pink bra and matching panties.
What in the world is going on? But dollar signs flash before my eyes, and I swallow.
Success is about compromise. Before I realize it, I’ve stepped into the heels, and wobbled out from behind the screen.
“Perfect,” Camille purrs, eyeing me up and down. “You’re very beautiful, Kat, and the client appreciates your cooperation.”
“So what should I do?” I ask helplessly.
Camille gives me a slow, clinical once-over, then gestures to the white backdrop. “Please stand here. Shoulders back.”
I do as I’m told. The first flash from the Polaroid camera is blinding. I hear the whir of the film ejecting, the mechanical crunch of the picture sliding into Camille’s hand.
She directs me to turn, side profile, arms out, arms down, three-quarter turn. Each pose is more humiliating than the last, but her voice is so matter-of-fact that I almost forget to be embarrassed. Almost.
“You’re very photogenic,” she says, flipping the next cartridge into the camera.
I try to smile, but my lips feel numb. “Glad I could be of service,” I say, and immediately regret it.
Camille’s eyes crinkle for a split second, like she’s amused by my attempt at humor. “You’ll be even more valuable if you keep that wit,” she says. “The client enjoys candor. But not insubordination.”
“I can be good,” I say, then blush when I realize how it sounds.
She takes the last photo, then lowers the camera. “Thank you, Katherine. You can get dressed now.”
Behind the screen, I pull my clothes back on.
The whole time, my cheeks burn with adrenaline and shame and something else I can’t name—an excitement that feels a little like falling because why in the world did they need boudoir photos of me?
I yank my hair into a quick ponytail, then step out with an assertive step. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
Camille has stacked the Polaroids on the table, each one developing slowly into existence. I catch a glimpse of my own body in tiny, pastel rectangles: a series of luscious curves, each more real than the last.
“Will the client see these?” I ask, voice quiet.
Camille nods. “He will. But only for onboarding. After that, you’ll have control over your image.”
That feels like a lie, but I nod anyway.
She places the stack of pictures in a plain white envelope and slides it into her briefcase. “We’re done here. The client will review your file tonight. If approved, you’ll be picked up tomorrow and taken to his residence. You can start immediately, right?”
I think of the Thistle Cafe, and how little they pay.
“Yes, no problem. But is there anything else I should know?” I ask.
Camille tilts her head. “Just be yourself. Mr. Smith is very good at detecting deception. He makes a living as a writer, so he’s extraordinarily perceptive. Maybe he’ll even write you into his book.”
I almost laugh.
“Maybe,” I murmur, biting my lip, although I hope to god not. I’m so uninspiring these days, and what would he say? That I’m a cheap girl who was desperate for money?
On my way out, there are mirrors in the lobby, but I avert my eyes. I’m on a mission, and it’s better to stay focused instead of mooning about.
Outside, the air is freezing. I walk home in the heels, feeling every muscle in my calves clench with each step, and for the first time in weeks, I feel like I can handle things.
If I get picked, this is the price I have to pay. This is how you get what you want.
And maybe, if I play it right, I’ll get to decide who I am when this is all over.