One Last Shot, page 8
My heart does a little flip as I take the cup. “It’s oat milk,” he adds, his voice cold, as though to downplay that he’s done something thoughtful. No one in fashion does dairy, but I’m touched that he remembers I like oat more than almond.
“Thank you. That’s very … very kind of you. Thanks.” My voice trembles, and I try to hide it with a sip, only to scald myself on the hot liquid. I cough and Jillian claps me on the back, sending green droplets flying. Theo’s immediately prepared, pulling napkins out of his bag and mopping up the mess from the floor.
God, I am a mess.
“Theo, don’t let us keep you,” I say. I need to put myself back together if I’m going to survive this day. And needing to say his name, because I suddenly once again am obligated to remind everyone that he’s mine, even though I have no right to this new adult version of him.
He continues off toward the cars, and I turn to find three pairs of wide, captivated eyes staring me down. “Theo,” Evonique echoes breathily.
“You don’t even have to say anything,” remarks Jillian as she shakes her head, a smirk playing on her face. “Just tell us how you know each other and when you fell for him, we’re golden.”
“Wow, is it that obvious?” I stare at him through the lobby window, watching as he opens the car door and steps in. “We met at fourteen. But it’s been ten years since we’ve seen each other and I’m here to, you know … rekindle things. By way of friendship!” I keep the marriage pact to myself.
Rachel nods to herself in satisfaction. “This booking just gets better and better. We’ll all be following this like it’s The Bachelor, just so you know. But we better go; I see our car out there.”
I usually like a long drive to location. It gives me more time to wake up, to think about how I want the day to go, how to capture the character they want me to play in the footage. But today I want to get to work as quickly as possible, so I can’t spend any more time in my head than I already have. Luckily, today’s drive is mercifully short.
Just as we pull up to location, I get a text from Matt.
Just say the word. It’s not too late to pull out of this shoot.
I wrap my hand around the phone. I am having doubts. Theo has made his feelings clear; should I be here? Am I being completely selfish? Even though I want to run away and soothe my frazzled nerves, it would be shitty to leave the shoot before it’s even started. And I only have this week to make things happen, before seeing me with Harry again makes Theo write me off for good.
I’ll think about it, I text back, to placate Matt.
It’s still dark when I step out of the SUV and into the makeup trailer. The hair stylist and makeup artist get to work unpacking their suitcases of product, laying out canisters on folding tables, and heating up curling wands in front of two giant LED-lit mirrors. The makeup trailer is always a sanctuary for models. It’s air-conditioned, stocked with snacks, has a private bathroom, and is typically a “Talent Only” zone. That last part is why I love it. When I was new to modeling, it didn’t bother me that I was surrounded by men. Until one day, it did. Now I put on a happy face, but secretly I dread making small talk with them, feeling their eyes roving over me, or worse, the way they act like I’m not even there the moment I speak.
These days, I typically have my own trailer. Anthem offered it, but I had my team turn it down, much to Matt’s chagrin. As silly as it sounds, I figured that if I was in a solo trailer, Theo would see me as famous Emerson instead of love of his life Emerson, so I decided to sacrifice my privacy. But now that I’m back in a trailer with everyone, I wonder if I’ve been missing out by having my own space. The trailer buzzes with energy, and it’s undeniably more fun to have people to talk to.
It’s strange to think about how much I’ve changed over the years. How different I am today than I was the last time I was this close to Theo. My therapist has helped me realize that I disassociate on set. The useful aspects of my personality are heightened, and I’m on for fourteen hours straight, even when I’m not on camera, constantly striving to be easy to work with and fun to have around and perfectly sleek and professional. I almost black out, unable to call to mind more than a few details of the day when I fall back on my bed at night, weak with exhaustion. But whatever I do works, because I’ve been consistently booked since I moved to LA at eighteen.
But as unhealthy as that all sounds—even to me—the idea of doing anything else feels impossible. I’ve been traveling constantly for shoots for most of my adult life, and the thought of it all suddenly stopping makes me sick to my stomach. I don’t even need the money anymore, but the hustle gets me through the days and keeps me from having to take a breath, analyze my life, wonder why I both can’t be alone and haven’t been able to find one truly significant relationship. I’m not a maneater like the press paints me as, but they’re not wrong about me always having a partner. I love to be loved. To try to let their feelings convince me I’m not a wreck. But no relationship ever hits right.
“Emerson?” says the makeup artist. “You ready?”
I hitch on my easy-to-work-with smile, and she gets to work. I spend the next hour chatting about skincare secrets and comparing the merits of curling wands while the team gets to work on my hair and makeup. By the time I’m ready, so is the rest of the crew. They usher me outside, eager to take advantage of the early-morning light. A producer guides me to the edge of a cliff that overlooks a gorgeous view of the colorful houses stacked on the cliff in this town, Manarola. Cinque Terre is a belt of five small fishing villages perched in the hills along the Italian Riviera. I’ve been here once before, but it was on vacation with one of the many handsome but ultimately not quite right boyfriends I’ve had over the years. As distracted as I am by Theo, it’s wonderful to be back in such a breathtaking place. Maybe this time I’ll even get to eat something good. The region is known for excellent seafood and delicious pesto—neither of which my boyfriend at the time could eat on his preseason nutrition plan, so we mostly ate chicken. Boring.
Theo, Stacey, Miranda, and a range of other assistants have scaled up the rocks, and it’s clear I’m meant to climb up to the edge about seven feet in front of them. “Is this all right?” calls Stacey, with what I assume is a falsely apologetic tone. As a model, the answer is always “yes,” and we both know it.
“Of course!” I call up. Keeping my posture straight, I begin to scale the rocks in my long sundress. The morning wind is biting, and it’s a challenge not to feel envious of the jackets the rest of the team has on. When I first started modeling, I got through by reminding myself that I chose this job, it’s given me a great life, and I should be grateful to be there at all. And that still helps. But for the most part now I try to be more Zen about it, and just get to a point of flow, focus on the shot. Black out, to not be examined later.
A rock slips under my foot and I slide. I don’t make a sound when I slip, but Theo lurches forward, practically running toward me, the camera bouncing on his chest. “I’ve got you,” he says, hands flying to my waist to steady me. I instinctively rope an arm around his shoulder. “Careful, Em.” He’s breathless, and when I hear my nickname casually slipping out of his mouth, our bodies pressed together with muscle memory, I am too.
“Thank you,” I breathe. I let my hand rake across his back, across the muscles that are straining and so new to me.
His PA steps up, thrusting out a forearm for me to grab, which is what crew does nowadays so they can’t be accused of grabbing a model inappropriately. I’m meant to grab his forearm, nonsexual and safe on all sides. I let go of Theo and take his arm, but I catch him giving Theo a meaningful look. He doesn’t want Theo to get in trouble for touching me. Theo steps away.
“They’re childhood friends,” Miranda says, who clearly noticed the look, too.
“My knight in shining armor here,” I joke, with a rough clap on Theo’s shoulder. His shoulder stiffens under my touch, and I start to sweat in embarrassment.
My silly joke works, or maybe it’s just the humor-the-talent effect, because everyone laughs, the tension broken, as Theo makes his way back to his own perch. PAs offer arms to each of us, suddenly realizing they’ll be the ones in trouble if they let the talent fall to their deaths. But I feel Theo’s eyes trained appraisingly on me as I finish climbing up the rocks, reluctant to let someone else help me.
The look passes in a blur, my eyes locked on his lens as I flip my dress, pose, keep moving. The difference between an experienced model and a new model is how they shoot. A newbie poses, moving from one static position to the next, but I just keep moving until the shutter stops or I’m told to do something differently, and I keep my eyes and face focused so that every frame is usable. Up on the rocks it’s challenging for hair and makeup to get to me, but I know how to keep my hair picturesque by this point, and no one calls out for a change.
Eventually Theo pulls the camera down. “I need a beauty shot of this,” he says, his voice low and rough.
Stacey glances at him, confusion on her face, and I wonder—did they not plan this? If taking an up-close photo of my face isn’t part of the plan, then why would he want to do it? I know what I want the answer to be, but …
Kevin wordlessly hands him a different lens, and he switches it and takes a few steps back to accommodate the new depth of field. I can’t pull my gaze from Theo while he works. The way his hands look adjusting the lens, the way his forearm muscles flex in the morning light. How serious his handsome face looks as he considers the shot. He raises the camera and begins snapping away, and I realize I haven’t put my beauty shot face on. I have no doubt that when he looks at these photos later, he’ll see the way I’m hungrily taking him in, relishing in every moment I get to look at him.
“Have you got it?” Stacey asks eventually. “Your folder’s going to be huge, and it’s only the first shot.”
“Sorry,” Theo says. “She’s just so perfect.” He grimaces. “In this light, I mean. Just look at this.”
Perfect. Theo said I’m perfect. I can’t help it—I grin. I know he’s talking about how I look, not about me, but it’s a start.
“Oh, I’m just teasing,” Stacey replies, even though we all know she wasn’t. Fashion is fake, until you learn how to speak it. Theo flicks through the photos, Stacey and Miranda looking at the screen over his shoulder. At any other time, I’d be worried about shooting a B-level, okay C-level, fashion brand like this, and not just because it is a horrible look for my career. The photos could also totally suck. It sounds mean, but the truth is that lower-tier brands have lower-tier photographers. Even worse, some sets are known for selecting bad shots of the models just to generate press.
But with Theo shooting I’m desperate to see how these shots look. I’m confident they’ll be fantastic, but more than anything, I want to see myself through his lens. I want to see the way he looks at me, the side of me he captures. Maybe then I’ll be able to tell what’s really going on inside his head.
Stacey nods. “I mean, you’ve got it,” she confirms.
Theo turns to me. “Thank you, Emerson.”
His sincerity brings a flush to my face, but luckily it’s hidden under makeup. A surprising amount of makeup goes into the “no makeup natural beauty look.”
“Just doing my job.” I smile winningly at the crew as I make my way down the rocks. The first shot of the day is important for everyone. It sets the vibe and establishes what they’ll think of me for the entire week. And I know I’ve aced it, despite my literal slip on the way up the rocks.
Since there are four models to cycle through, I’m only shooting six looks today, which means I have plenty of time to entertain myself in the trailer. But after a few hours, I end up back outside, watching Theo work from the sidelines. He’s confident and decisive, clearly skilled. I took a peek at the monitor, and he’s making these thin, semi-unflattering swimsuits look like a million bucks. But the longer I watch, the more I start to wonder if he’s even trying. Sometimes, while he waits for Miranda to fix a strap, or hair to be sprayed into place, he looks almost bored. It’s clear he’s done Anthem a million times. And while he was super focused during my shots, he barely directs the other models. They just launch into their repertoire of poses while Stacey nods approvingly. He perks up a bit when he’s tasked with a ridiculous request, like working paper straws into a swim shot, but still, I wonder what he’d shoot if he didn’t need to check detail shots and crops off a list.
At lunch I make my way over to the craft services table, taking care to get into line behind Theo even though everyone else in the line immediately stepped aside when I approached. A PA took our orders in the morning, which is always my favorite way to do on-set meals. It avoids the worry of whether I’ll have to pretend to like something or risk starting a rumor that I don’t eat.
“Your food is already in the trailer,” a PA informs me cheerfully. “The other models all ordered green juice, so I went ahead and got you one too; just in case.” He gestures toward the trailer.
I’d been so tuned in on Theo that I hadn’t noticed it was only crew at the table, looking for tins marked with their names. “Thank you so much.” I try to force grace into my voice, even as I bite back a sigh of frustration. Theo will never eat in the model trailer with me—even if I invited him; it just isn’t done. Looking inappropriate doesn’t matter to me, but I’m completely unwilling to do anything that could make Theo look bad.
I leave the line and walk toward the trailer, where the other girls are already eating. I feel the singe of Theo’s eyes as he watches me walk away from him. It takes everything in me not to turn around.
“Dude, you look like someone ran over your puppy,” Jillian says as I enter the trailer. She takes an oversized bite of salad and crunches loudly. “You’ve got it bad.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, but from the look the three of them give me, I know denying my feelings to them is pointless. Theo might not see how I really feel, but to these girls it’s obvious.
“Do you have, like, any sort of plan here?” Rachel queries between swigs of juice.
The PA was right, I do love the juice. I snap a quick shot of it for social media. “Not really,” I admit. “Beyond putting us on the same shoot for a week, I didn’t exactly think ahead. I got him to agree to play an icebreaker-type question game with me each day at night, since our balconies are next to each other, which is something. But really this was all a bit spur of the moment. I just hoped—”
My voice cracks, and I’m startled to find my eyes are welling up. I never cry.
And yet here I am doing it for a second day in a row. And even worse, in front of people. “Oh my god, this is so embarrassing,” I say, wiping the tears away. “I didn’t even realize how much I missed him until I got here. And he isn’t exactly rushing to reconnect with me. I just want to feel like we’re at least friends again, even if it’s just for a few days. And then I can work on the rest. But I can barely get him to look at me unless there’s a camera in his hands.”
Evonique tilts her head thoughtfully. “That’s all right. We can work with this. What did you two used to do, back when you were … friends, dating, whatever.”
“I mean, we’d go biking, swim … he had this cute little boat.” I stab my lemon shrimp salad with overly zealous attacks. Just this morning I was dreaming of eating the local food, and here I am destroying it. I take a deep breath. “Things were just different when we were kids. We could do nothing all day, and it was perfect. And I was spontaneous back then, but only with him. He probably doesn’t even know it, but he would bring it out of me.” Whenever I’m driving through LA, sitting on a plane, or falling asleep at night, I think back to everything Theo and I used to do. If I really want to indulge, I pretend he’s the boyfriend I’m going home to, rather than whatever unavailable actor or athlete I’m with at the time. Maladaptive daydreaming, as my therapist says.
“You know, your eyes literally light up when you talk about him,” Evonique points out. “I can see it now, but I looked at the selects from your looks this morning, and you were on fire. I mean, your work is always good, but your eyes were dripping with—”
“With sex,” Jillian interjects. “Raw, sexy sex. This campaign is going to suddenly be rated R.”
I laugh, and it’s a huge relief. “Can you imagine?” I said. “My agent would kill me. Matt’s a real taskmaster.”
Everyone nods—every model can relate to the idea of a scary agent.
“Why do you even still work with him?” Jillian asks. “He was my agent, too, back when I started, but I left that agency after he told me to lose an inch off my waist for like the third time. I had literally nothing to lose.”
I freeze. That does sound like Matt. And I don’t want to defend his behavior, but he’s been with me from the beginning. I haven’t let many new people into my inner circle the past decade. I have a slightly hard time trusting people, especially men, so I’ve stuck with Matt despite his flaws. I’d rather deal with the devil I know than the one I don’t. So I choose my words carefully. “I’m so sorry he did that. I wish I could say I can’t believe it … but I totally can, and it’s messed up. And all too common. I wish I had a better reason to give, but I basically am just with him because it’s worked for me so far, he gets the bookings.”
Jillian frowns and looks at me closely. “Does he say stuff like that to you? Still?” I don’t say anything, but she can read the answer all over my face. “You don’t need to put up with that. This isn’t ten years ago, and you’re you. You’ll get bookings no matter what.”
Each of us has decided what price we’re willing to pay for security. All major campaigns look to the same agencies first. And some girls will accept an agent that comments on their weight because he gets the best bookings, while others would rather sacrifice some big jobs or working more to have someone who’s actually kind. But she’s correct that wherever I go, the big jobs will follow. “You’re right, but I mean … here we are.” I shrug apologetically, uncomfortable.
