Читать книгу Model Citizens: Riding for a Fall - Henry Pepper - Страница 5

While neither Angela or Joanne realised it as the glamorous 2009 Estee Lauder International Modelling Awards telecast commenced, their future was taking shape ominously in Joe’s Sports Bar just five kilometres away.

Joe’s was a blinged-out, late night hangout where LA’s professional sports people and their cronies gathered to party and scheme.

Decorated with framed National Football League, basketball and soccer memorabilia and poster pictures of various teams and individual players, the bar featured multiple large television screens, a jukebox, an eat-in restaurant section, a handful of pool and billiard tables and a few booths for patrons seeking privacy that complimented the rows of stools along the chrome and silver mirrored bar. Black tables and chairs were placed throughout the room.

Hooting patrons were watching the Estee Lauder awards on screens throughout the room. Beers were disappearing quickly. Tequila shooters hit the bar.

Two barely-dressed hostesses, in see-through micro negligees, black and red fishnet stockings and dangerously high-heeled red pumps, were serving the drinks.

Most of the male patrons were gathered in several noisy groups at one end of the bar as Gram Parsons’ Ooh Las Vegas played.

“Well, the first time I lose I drink whiskey

Second time I lose I drink gin

Third time I lose I drink anything

‘Cause I think I’m gonna win.”

Brett Farrell was slouched alone at the other end of the bar, his gigantic hands cradling his balding head. A three day growth sat upon his chin, his eyes were red and bleary, his demeanour unsteady. Directly in front of him lay three large drinks, the sport pages of a tabloid newspaper, car keys and an iPhone.

Brett wore long khaki shorts, a red Lacoste long sleeved t-shirt bearing the Porn Star motif and a blue and yellow LA Eagles NFL baseball cap he was wearing back-to-front.

While intensely watching the broadcast of the Estee Lauder Awards on the screen in front of him, Brett was shaking his head, muttering loudly to himself and gulping down drinks.

Several men in the nearest group, dressed in smart casual and bling styles, were looking sideways at Brett. They were trying not to be too obvious about it, whispering among themselves behind cupped-hands.

The tallest man in the group said “I guarantee you it is Mr Football.” Several other members of the group disagreed. A man dressed in blue jeans, lace-up boots, a black long sleeved polo shirt and a Ford cap spoke up.

“Man, you is just playing with us. Doncha blowhard, my man.”

“Playing with you? Cha,” replied the tall man. “How do I know? Yo dude! I used to work for the Eagles Junior Bowl and Ivy College Leagues, that’s how I know.”

“OK, OK, you’re the man,” replied the dude. “Let me buy you a double.” The tall man smiled insincerely and gave him the thumbs up with his left hand.

As the group continued stealing glances in his direction, Brett turned on his stool and stared coldly back at them.

“Who are you looking at?” he growled.

The herd of men, collectively, looked away.

Back at the Kodak Theatre, the “Estee Lauders” broadcast returned from a commercial break, somewhere past mid-point in the proceedings. It was the photo opportunity, cheesy-interview, meet-the-contender-phase. Branson had the smooth-cabaret routine down pat. His black bow tie and body language soft but firm as he stood, relaxed, at the podium.

“Welcome back everyone ...”

Branson waved at the crowd and they cheered right back at him. He savoured the massive reaction.

“Wow! What a wonderful audience you are. You deserve to give yourselves a round of applause.”

Branson waved his hands like an orchestral conductor and applauded the beautiful people of Los Angeles.

The cameras showed celebrity members of the audience enjoying the atmosphere in that magnificent domed auditorium as Branson milked yet another magic moment.

“Thank you,” Branson said and bowed. “Thank you,” he repeated, bowing again. “Thank you.”

Branson flashed his best wide smile and let the applause run until it had faded enough for him to break in.

“Can I just say, meeting each of the 2009 Estee Lauder International Modelling Awards contestants in an up close and personal kinda way has got to be my favourite part of this wonderful ceremony.”

The M/C gestured to six alluring women - Miranda, FuXai, Elizabeth, Hannako, Gabriella and Amber-Jane - who were aligned to his left.

“Before the break, we met the beautiful women who make up the first group of contenders for the 2009 Model of the Year crown.”

The audience responded energetically.

Branson then motioned toward a second group of six models to his right. Joanne, who stood tall and proud at the front of the queue, struggled to get her money-shot smile happening. Angela, Jenna and Ellen, all bearing their best million-dollar smiles, were also among the second group.

“Now it’s time to meet the women in our second group of contestants. And, hey, who better to get things moving than the lovely Joanne Hart?”

Joanne sashayed down the runway, poised and elegant. She was brimming with confidence, her exemplary catwalk skills clearly on display as she strutted, technical issues with the smile apparently resolved.

Jenna was not smiling in the background but Branson was.

“Ladies UND gentlemen! All the way from Indian Hills, Los Angeles, would you please make Joanne feel welcome.”

The crowd greeted Joanne with an enthusiastic ovation. Photographers’ flashes exploded, creating a tsunami of white light that erupted like a solar flare. Branson shielded his eyes.

“Hello again, Joey,” he said with a dazzling ice white smile.

Joanne and Branson, laughed, curtsied, exchanged air kisses and embraced. She smiled glowingly. He brushed her bottom lightly with his right hand.

“At 23, Joanne is clearly one of the rising stars of American modelling and some of my wisest friends tell me she has the potential to be even bigger than Kate or Stella…”

Joanne acted as if she was completely amazed at this revelation. She blinked at camera 2. Tears started to well in her doe eyes and her voice began to crack.

“Branson, how sweet of you to say that. But really, I’m just a little ol country girl who is lucky enough to be following my dreams.”

“I … I ...”

Joanne had the lip-trembling, onion-tears thing going on. Branson slipped his arm around her shoulder, smiled and paused to emphasise Joanne’s well-rehearsed dramatic turn.

“Let’s take a brief look at some of the career and life highlights of a name - ladies UND gentlemen - that we’re surely going to be hearing a lot more about in the years ahead!”

Joanne’s eyes widened as if she were even more astonished while Branson subtly checked how his makeup was holding up to the burning glare of the stage lights. “So far, so good,” he thought to himself.

Joanne’s 30-second package included family-video-footage of her as a nine year old ballerina dancing in tights and tiara; winning a Hollywood modelling award at 15; a brief interview with her 1979 Playboy playmate mom and Indian Hills golfer step-father saying how proud they were of her; a collage of images of Joanne storming the catwalks of New York and Paris; dressed in white and walking arm-in-arm with famous footballer Brett Farrell in a lush flower garden; and pictures of her parading Dior couture wear with Angela at an enormous Tokyo shopping mall.

Aretha Franklin’s I Say a Little Prayer accompanied the Model Citizen’s video highlights.

“My darling believe me,

For me there is no one

But you.”

The compilation faded to purple with white and yellow hippy flowers. Branson grinned boyishly and gave a thumbs-up sign of approval for the audience and camera 3.