Читать книгу Model Citizens: Riding for a Fall - Henry Pepper - Страница 4

Just two hours earlier, even more ruthless ambition had been on display in the models’ styling room deep inside the Kodak Theatre.

The self-absorbed reality that coexists with the glamour and polished theatre of fashion - the image so perfectly portrayed on catwalks, glossy magazine covers, stages and TV screens everywhere - was clearly visible during preparations for the Estee Lauder Awards telecast.

The 12 finalists were in various stages of undress. Aretha Franklin’s Good Times played on a Bose iPod dock and an armed female security officer, bored by the constant preening of her charges, sang along.

“Get in the groove

And let the good times roll

I’m gonna stay here

Until I soothe my soul.”

Several casually dressed models stood marooned in the middle of the room, surrounded by support staff in black and white Estee Lauder uniforms. Next to them was a catering station, with two cooks resplendent in white French-style chefs’ hats and jackets. Both ends of the station were covered with dozens of red roses in vases. The scene was discreetly watched over by a handful of security people and seriously obsessed fashionistas who surveyed the field and whispered knowingly into their cell phones.

Other models, including Angela and Joanne, sat at vanity stations garnished with red and yellow orchids flown in from Singapore.

Hannako, a dark-haired Eurasian girl, sat barefoot in a purple and black Christopher Kane sleeveless velvet dress and chatted happily with her boyfriend on an iPhone. Next to her, a blonde, wearing a silver Herve Leger metallic bandage dress, pretended to read a book on Kabbalah truths.

In the corner, another attention-seeking blonde girl, in a long white Alexander Wang pullover shirt and matching white Jean Yu knickers, had adopted the salute the sun yoga posture in front of her station.

Next to her, a painfully thin brunette model, wearing a large Nordstrom Asymmetrical Straw hat, blue Calvin Klein jeans with a double-prong belt and purple Haute split sleeve blouse, chewed on a lettuce leaf and stared thoughtfully into space.

The biggest attention seeker of them all was Jenna Cheney, an anorexic blonde with a reputation for exploding at all the wrong moments. A “troubled” soul, Jenna was hated by the other models for her lack of professionalism but she honestly believed if a subject didn’t involve her it was unimportant.

“I would not bother to read a book I had not written,” the unpublished model had told Marie Claire magazine during a notorious 2005 interview.

Jenna was annoyed at the muted response she had received five minutes earlier when she had breathlessly announced to her fellow competitors that the previous night she had learnt, in a dream, that she would win the 2009 Awards.

It was a sign from god, a prophecy, it was written in the stars, she was going to live happily ever after. Jenna was “like, totally certain” of it.

She had a vision of herself, bathed in the bright lights, stepping up onto the same stage that had hosted so many glittering Oscar ceremonies and graciously accepting the award while smiling lovingly at the audience. The crowd’s response, as predicted by Jenna, could only be described as unprecedented. She thanked each and every one of her co-competitors for their support, their loyalty, their friendship and kindness.

The other models had burst into spontaneous applause, which then spread like a wildfire throughout the auditorium.

Jenna dreamt she had thanked her father, her Uncle Dick, everyone at Estee Lauder, all her “real special” Hollywood friends, the makeup artists, the designers and the “wonderful” Branson. There had been no hint of envy. Everybody was “so-oh” happy for her. But then, sadly for the deluded mannequin, Jenna woke up.

Back in a less cheery reality, Jenna was only half dressed as she sat and sulked at her Kodak station. She was topless and her Dolce & Gabbana denim mini skirt was tucked into the back of her red Calvin Klein knickers.

Most men would have been impressed. Her associates were not.

Without warning, Jenna, the brooding blonde princess, jumped out of her chair, screamed at a stylist and chased her into the middle of the room.

Angela Durand and Joanne Hart sniggered as the femme fatale lurched past their relatively private dressing stations in one corner. Angela wore a tangerine hand painted Mitch Mitchell jacket and black Pearl stockings. Joanne perfectly filled a well-cut red Bordelle baby doll. Their hair was wet and matted, their faces not yet made-up. Their perfect complexions shone.

Joanne leant over and whispered something into Angela’s ear.

Her wet hair gently cascaded across Angela’s left cheek, brushed her nose, and then slid across her face.

Joanne nodded her head vigorously. “Trust me,” she said emphatically.

Angela pushed her upper body forward and shook her head. A thin Chopard silver chain necklace and the peace sign it carried bounced lightly up and down against her perfectly toned skin.

Joanne smiled and kissed her on the lips.

Angela giggled. She crossed and uncrossed her legs. Her face relaxed and she pressed her hands together, Buddhist-style, in front of her face.

“Ooooooohh, I hope so Joey,” she replied with warmth in her voice.

Jenna flounced across the room again, still screeching, still topless. For the first time, Angela noticed a small black skull-and-crossbones tattoo just below Jenna’s left nipple.

All eyes in the room turned to watch as an older Australian model, Ellen, rose purposefully from her ergonomically designed chair to confront Jenna.

“What the fuck is this? Amateur hour?” Ellen yelled and strode straight towards Jenna.

Dressed in a full black Zandra Rhodes couture dress, chunky silver Hip Hop King dollar necklace, red L’Oreal lipstick and red Cole Haan Chelsea pumps, her long blonde hair held back by a red Tasha head wrap, Ellen was well-regarded by Joanne for her no-nonsense personality.

“Shut it Jenna, enough of your bimbo noise, some of us are actually trying to work,” Ellen growled and waved her arms about impatiently in front of the princess.

Jenna sneered, picked up a glass of Perrier water from a silver tray on the station beside her and threw the fluid over the front of Ellen’s dress.

There was instant uproar in the increasingly crowded room.

All eyes were on the antagonists. They didn’t have to wait long. After surveying her thoroughly soaked dress, Ellen picked up a jug of Perrier and emptied its contents over Jenna’s head, then pushed her firmly backwards. Jenna crashed into a vacant makeup station, knocked over a vase of orchids and ended up lying on top of the station with her head down, mouth wide open and her hair a sodden mess.

Joanne laughed. Angela shook her head. The rest of the models in the change room giggled at the decisive conclusion to the melodrama before turning back to their primary focus, the mirror.

Humiliated, Jenna got up and started to walk back to her station. Angela pointed at her. “Your behaviour is not very professional, yes?”

Joanne snorted derisively. “You’re so-oh not happening, Jenna. Face it, you’re just too old for the modelling game.”

Jenna frowned as Ellen added “she’s a fucking dinosaur.”

Joanne warmed to the theme. “You’re so-oh last-year girl, why else do you think that loser Adam would hire you?”

Ellen laughed so hard she started to cough.

“You’re way too kind Joey,” she shouted and pointed at her now cowering opponent. “She’s so last decade! It’s all over for her.”

Jenna, faced with humiliation, Chinese-whispers and smirks as the only outcome of her tantrum, burst into tears and ran out of the room. The head of security immediately followed her.

Ellen stood in front of Joanne dripping. “Look at what that dumb bitch has done to me,” she complained. “How long before show time?”

Joanne shrugged as four stylists descended upon Ellen. She waved and blew kisses towards Angela and Joanne as the team of stylists walked her off toward a vanity station at the far end of the expansive dressing room. Another larger team of stylists arrived to prepare the two girls from the Model Citizens modelling agency.

But Joanne had a more urgent agenda in mind. She held her right hand up and stopped the stylists, the dressers, and the make-up people in their tracks. She stood, grating her chair on the polished redwood floor. She cleared her throat authoritatively as she surveyed the room.

“Yo girls! It’s time to get serious here. It’s show time. Let’s roll.”

The rowdy room immediately quietened to a steady murmur of gossip. Angela patted Joanne’s derrière admiringly and grinned.

Joanne opened a four-panelled black and white Japanese Tatami screen around her make-up station and waved at the attendants to leave. Nearby, a hair dryer spluttered into action.

“Give us a few minutes please ladies. Go! Now! Right now! Go!” Joanne clapped her hands three times.

The heavily laden stylists and their entourage retreated to consult with the network’s Talent Manager.

Angela and Joanne were now hidden from the rest of the room by the flower-printed tatami screen and given some audio cover by a whirring symphony of hair dryers.

Joanne leant forward to Angela, held up the index finger of her left hand and placed it upon her lips. Joanne pressed her mouth real close and breathed ever so softly into her ear: “This will be the making of us, my beautiful friend,” she panted sensually.

Joanne stroked Angela’s thigh affectionately as she spoke. Angela blushed and flashed Joanne a little girl smile. Another hair dryer roared into action nearby.

Angela raised her voice above the din. “I wish I was as confident as you …”

Joanne slowly seductively brought her right index finger back to Angela’s lips, her eyes narrowing to a squint. She leant forward again, pressed her lips against Angela’s right ear and whispered for a minute without drawing breath.

“Ooooooohh, Joey, I don’t know.” Angela replied nervously. The smile had run away from her face. Her brow was furrowed.

Joanne glared at her younger friend, leaned back in her chair and paused before continuing.

“Where was I? Oh yeah, Adam. Adam, Adam, good old Adam fucking Verucce. Look, don’t forget what he did to us in Milan girlfriend.”

Angela listened and nodded self-consciously. She tilted her head forward; crossing and uncrossing her perfectly toned legs.

Again, Joanne leant in close. A precocious smirk passed her face. She straightened her posture, pulled her Bordelle lingerie down a little before tugging at her left ear lobe.

“Don’t forget, that was only 18 months ago,” Joanne exclaimed with feeling.

Angela nodded in agreement.

“Then there were his ‘clients’ in Paris during that storm.”

Joanne exaggerated a shudder and thumped her vanity station with a clenched left fist.

Angela scowled and slowly shook her head. “Imbeciles. Cretins. Dismal leetle men.” She wiggled her left little finger as she spoke. Joanne grinned and nodded. “So true, Ang,” she added and slapped her thighs with both hands, thoroughly amused.

“He thought that was oh-so funny at the time, the scheming little faggot. Didn’t he?” she continued.

Angela nodded in agreement. Joanne softly mimicked an effeminate male voice. “Do you wanna keep your contracts, girls?”

Angela rolled her eyes. “Cochon, er, such a pig, Joey.”

Joanne laughed. “We both know how pathetic these smug-married-Alpha-males are when their dream-worlds are suddenly threatened. You do remember that creep Senator Richie, don’t you Ang?”

Angela nodded and then gently shook her head with contempt. “Remember how quickly he turned from tough guy to tears and cash payments after the DVD arrived?” Joanne asked her friend.

Angela nodded again and a mischievous grin spread across her flawless face. She gently tapped her thighs with both hands. She looked Joanne in the eye and they both laughed triumphantly. Angela reached out and tenderly stroked the right side of Joanne’s face.

“Who could forget such awkward circumstances?” she replied.

The pair giggled. Joanne smiled reassuringly and threw a fraternal arm around Angela’s shoulder. “Who could forget such unpleasantness?” Angela asked her friend with just a hint of bitterness.

Joanne laughed brutally, leant forward, put her right index finger to her friend’s lips again and whispered in Angela’s right ear. As she spoke, Angela’s facial expression changed from amused to shocked. She gently pushed Joanne away. Angela’s brow creased and she stared off into the middle distance.

“Non Joey. Don’t tell me anything else … so much bad karma will flow from this idea,” she whispered in a worried tone. Angela’s voice cracked as she spoke. Her hands wrapped tightly around her waist. She moved her head rhythmically back and forth.

“Ooooooohh non, Joey, non! It is not right, yes.”

Joanne motioned for Angela to turn down the volume of the conversation. “Oh spare me the amateur dramatics, darling.”

Joanne stared piercingly into the younger woman’s eyes, sliding her head right up close and personal.

“It did not bother you last time, French girl,” she muttered aggressively.

Angela paused in momentary reflection. “Or the time before that …”

“Look, here’s the thing. Adam is making a fortune these days. He’s got a ready to wear range in Walmart this season for fuck’s sake,” Joanne noted in disbelief.

“He might whine about it but he will pay us. He’s got no choice. His wife would remove his cojones if she found out.”

Joanne continued the close-range staring. Angela blinked first, looked downward and started to fidget with her hands. When she looked up again, she blushed.

“I have a really bad feeling about this, Joey. What you say, what you want us to do, it is criminal, non?”

Joanne lifted her right hand up. It hovered in front of her friend’s face as her take-no-prisoners spin continued. “Relax, Ang, please. Ya’know, it’s just the way that we do things in America.”

“Non, Joey, non. Look all around the world at the trouble and suffering that is caused by the American way of doing things.”

“Everywhere you Americans go with this attitude there is trouble, yes, big trouble,” Angela replied quietly but firmly.

“Oh spare me, please. I’m not in the mood for your commie French political bullshit,” Joanne snapped contemptuously and, for a single moment, turned her head away.

“Just know this girlfriend, this is how we get things done in the States. Ya gotta hustle, ya gotta sell yourself. It’s not political, OK, it’s just business.”

Angela shook her head, dismay painted across her expressive face.

“We should be winning these awards because we are talented, yes?” she countered.

“No,” Joanne snarled ferociously. “No! Just listen. Listen carefully to me Angela Durand because I’m only going to tell you this once. It’s too late, it’s a done deal, everything is arranged, and there’s no backing out now. It’s much too late for you to change your mind.”

As Angela stared into Joanne’s eyes, the colour drained from her face as she saw that determined look she knew only too well. Joanne again held an index finger to her friend’s sweet lips.

“You might as well be pointing a gun at me,” Angela thought.

“This has got nothing to do with dumb stuff like what’s right and wrong,” the annoyed Californian continued.

“Tonight we are going to win. Tonight we are going to become Super Models. We are going to make millions and millions of dollars. That’s what matters Angela Durand,” Joanne whispered in a thoroughly patronising tone and smiled professionally.

Angela shook her head and frowned as two teams of stylists walked around the Tatami screen. This time, the network Talent Manager accompanied the support staff.

“Such behaviour, it is more serious than you think,” Angela replied miserably. Joanne screwed up her face and shook her head as she used both her feet to push her chair away from her friend’s. She raised her right hand and pointed assertively at Angela with her index finger.

“Joey …” Angela began but before she could collect her scattered thoughts Joanne moved to finish their sensitive conversation that had suddenly acquired an unwanted audience.

“No, Ang! Let’s talk about this later,” she said firmly.

The ABC Talent Manager nodded her head and smiled amiably.

“Thanks for being so understanding Joanne, darling, the teams have got to get to work now. Angela, time is short, my darling, and the show must go on.”

Angela stared incredulously at Joanne, who spun around in her chair, smiled at the Talent Manager and nodded at the team of stylists.

With the conversation thus terminated, Angela, still stunned, was spun around in her chair and the stylists went to work on both models with hair dryers and brushes.