Chapter 13. Juliet, the Model
Juliet, the Model
PRESENT DAY
It took an excruciatingly long time, but once the bottle girl finally left them, Scout clanged a tube of YSL lipstick against her champagne flute.
One by one, the beautiful women stopped laughing and fell silent, almost reverent.
When their eyes found Juliet again, she felt like she was in the middle of a conclave.
“Juliet has the floor,” Scout said, meeting Juliet’s eyes. “Tell us why you need help.”
“You’re playing with fire, Scout,” Cybele protested, but Miranda hushed her.
Juliet bit her lip. This was it—her moon shot.
“It’s my agency. Topflight Modeling. Or, I guess, the man who runs it, Danny.
I signed a contract with him years ago when I didn’t know anything about the business.
My parents…” She looked through her empty champagne flute.
“They didn’t know, either. We met Danny back home in Mississippi when he was on a scouting trip.
He swore he could find me work in LA if I was willing to move. ”
The heat in her cheeks spread like wildfire. “He said I had the makings of a supermodel.” Juliet remembered what he’d told her that day in the mall, when he’d stopped her in the food court: You’re better than pretty—you’re interesting. “I was stupid enough to believe him.”
“How old were you?” Scout asked.
“Thirteen.”
Murmurs broke out around the table.
“You were too young to know better,” Isabel said, and it sank into Juliet like absolution. “What kind of contract did you sign?”
“One that gave Danny fifty percent of my earnings.”
“Fifty?” yelped the woman who’d envied her hair. “Should be twenty, max.”
“That’s an Elvis deal right there,” said Miranda. Off everyone’s furrowed brows, she shook her head. “Elvis’s manager took fifty percent—it was a scandal after Elvis went into debt. Know your Hollywood history, babes.”
“So this Danny, your agent.” Scout swirled her champagne. “He’s exploiting you.”
“I was doing okay.” Juliet exhaled. “I live in an apartment with enough other girls from Topflight that we got the rent down pretty cheap.”
“And where are your parents?” Cybele’s tone was accusatory.
“Danny said I’d make more money if I got emancipated, so I did. They’re still in Mississippi.”
“Christ, I hate that they’re still running that scam,” Cybele said. “It’s just an excuse to get around child labor laws. If a kid’s emancipated, they can sign their own shitty contracts with no one looking out for them.” She slugged back her drink.
Miranda rubbed Cybele’s shoulder, and Juliet wondered if Cybele’s career had been harder than the industry gossipers knew.
She took a deep, preparatory breath, and delivered the worst part.
“The problem is, my dad had a stroke a few months ago, and my family needed money—bad. And fast. There were hospital and rehab bills and medicine costs. I didn’t have anywhere else to go, so I went to Danny.
He loaned me ten thousand dollars. I thought it was a miracle at the time.
Now he’s docking my paychecks until I’ve paid it back. And he’s taking interest.”
Isabel was stone-faced. No wonder Juliet had mistaken her for a businesswoman. “What percent?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. We didn’t sign anything.
He just gave me the money, and now he’s saying if I’m going to take months to pay him back, it’s his prerogative to charge interest. He told me he’s going to start thinking of creative ways I can pay him back, and … I’m scared of what that means.”
“So he’s going to bleed you dry for as long as he wants,” Miranda said. “Bloody hell, Mississippi.”
“Why don’t you report the abuse?” asked a girl at the end of the table, with elfin features. “There are organizations for that.”
“Toothless organizations,” Cybele muttered.
Tears welled in Juliet’s eyes. She didn’t want to cry, but she was so tired of trying every door, only to get each of them slammed in her face.
“I tried.” Her voice was thick. “But nothing he’s doing is technically illegal.
I’m the one who made the bad deal.” To her horror, a tear slid down her cheek.
She turned and wiped it against her shoulder, hoping no one saw, the last remnants of her pride demanding she not break down.
This was the most shameful part: She’d invited the wolf in herself, all because she’d been a stupid, desperate girl, panicked by the anguish in her mother’s voice over the telephone.
“Cybele?” Scout phrased it like a question. “It’s your neck of the woods…”
Juliet still wasn’t looking at anyone, trying not to cry. So she couldn’t see what was unfolding, but eventually Cybele let out a deep sigh and said, “Fine. You know if you make me see the puppies, I’m going to want to adopt them.”
“Hey.” Isabel nudged her, and Juliet looked up to find every woman at the table holding up her glass.
In the strobe lights, the remnants of their champagne glowed like ambrosia.
It wasn’t a toast—it was a vote. To Juliet, a benediction.
Her heart raced, hands finding the tears on her face and wiping them.
Scout’s eyes shone as she watched, that precious luminosity pouring out, like she was an angel painted by a Byzantine master, haloed in gold. Juliet’s angel of mercy.
“Listen very carefully,” Scout said. “I’m going to need you to do exactly what I say.”