Читать книгу The Path to Yourself - - Страница 8

Rose took a quick shower to wash away the stress of the last few days, then slipped into her old sneakers, and went out onto the bustling streets of Paris. It was raining, and the Champs-Elysées were flooded with umbrellas that looked just like flowers. People were speaking all kinds of languages, as if the world had suddenly shrunk to a single small territory. Rose was longing to merge with the crowd. She opened her crimson umbrella and morphed into yet another flower in the city center.

People were swarming everywhere: by cafes, shops, and galleries. While scanning the shop windows and the faces of passers-by, Rose lost the track of time. The next thing she knew, she was at the Arc de Triomphe – a majestic monument that always tended to evoke a mixed emotion. Rose walked around it, looking at the sculptural groups at its base. She knew their names: The Triumph of 1810, Departure of the Volunteers of 1792 commonly called La Marseillaise, The Peace of 1815, The Resistance of 1814, The Battle of Austerlitz bas-relief. Terror in the eyes of the soldiers, frightened horses. Rose wondered what monsieur Gechter had been thinking about when creating his marble relief. Rose had loved history lessons at school, especially when they had covered the 19^th and the 20^th centuries – the time of rapid changes, incredible discoveries, and women’s fight for freedom.

Rose looked at the windows of various cafes and restaurants and finally chose a place with the sign that read: L’Alsace. A cozy room, warm light, fresh fish, and a glass of Alsatian Pinot Grigio. Rose ate slowly, with relish, enjoying the evening. She didn’t feel the urge to take thousands of pictures, upload them online, and get likes. After dinner, Rose walked aimlessly around the city and along the Seine River, and feasted her eyes upon the Eiffel Tower. The next day, the gallery of her old smartphone had lots of new photographs, after all. They quickly migrated to the Google cloud.

And then, there came the show day. Only a cup of coffee and a protein bar for breakfast to ensure a flat stomach and small waist. Dina kept silent, the porcelain coffee mug kept shaking in her pale fingers, clinking gleefully when being placed on the saucer. Rose tried not to look at her boss, skillfully wielding a knife and fork. An omelet, fresh orange juice, a piece of crispy baguette with butter, a croissant with jam, and coffee with milk. It was such a relief no one actually cared about your hip width! The now-familiar driver took them to a small gallery of modern art. Ed Mann, as stiff as a poker, was bossing around, raising and lowering his voice. He nodded to Dina and smiled at Rose.

A living antique statue and Alice from Wonderland went off stage and found themselves in a fairy tale. Powder, blush, eye shadows, giddy fragrances, and picture-perfect bodies. Dozens of celebrities from three different continents were surrounded by crowds of makeup artists and stylists and chirped in various languages. Assistants were running about the hall with Starbucks cups, mobile phones, and some kind of bags in their hands. They kept stumbling over the long legs of the models. The air was heavy with a pleasantly nervous anticipation.

Rose was running around among the other assistants. She was trying to be of use and was skillfully dodging hair tongs and curling irons that kept falling at her feet. Loud applause, flashes of hundreds of cameras, movie-star white smiles. The show gradually turned into a party with photoshoots and interviews. Champagne, appetizers, live music – the very feast of life. Rose shamelessly eyed the models and guests, happily munched on her croissant, and drank wine. Her joyful solitude was interrupted by a long-focus camera lens aggressively pointed at her. A petite journalist shot a series of rapid-fire images and said something in French, but the words got drowned out by the loud music. Rose failed to escape: The clingy reporter quickly cut her path of retreat. She shoved her microphone into Rose’s face and tried to shout the orchestra down. “How was the show?”

“It was fantastic!” Rose tried to hide an unchewed piece of croissant in her cheek.

“What grabbed your attention?”

“I feel like this is truly a collection for modern and free women.”

“And what is freedom for you?” The reporter kept pressing upon her.

“I believe that freedom is being able to make your own choices: How to live, what to eat, how to dress, which men to sleep with, what to listen to, what to read – regardless of trends.”

Rose had once read these words in a public page on Instagram. She had instantly forgot them back then, and yet now, for some reason, they bubbled to the surface.

“Beautifully said! And the last question: What brand are you wearing today?”

“The whole outfit is by Zara.”

The reporter thanked her for the talk and melted into the crowd. Dina was looking at Rose, a bright smile on her face. She raised her glass and nodded.

The next day, Rose woke up to the ruckus outside her window. Two pigeons were fighting desperately for a small piece of bread. Neither of them seemed willing to capitulate.

“Shoo! You’re huge, guys! I’d call you turkeys rather than pigeons!” Rose felt like pampering herself and staying in bed all morning, but she summoned her energy to get up and went downstairs.

Dina was already in the restaurant. Black coffee and a nut bar – that was the breakfast of a top model. Rose counted her blessings that she was neither a supermodel nor a pigeon and ordered eggs Benedict, slices of baguette, and a latte.

The traditional silence was broken by Dina. She held out her smartphone. It took Rose a few seconds to recognize the girl in the picture. It was her. A popular online community had published a post, covering the show of young designer Ed Mann. Half of the article was taken by Rose’s interview and her photographs.

“Congrats! Looking good.” Dina winked and took a bite of her bar.

Rose ran a rapid eye over the article, looked through the pictures and, just out of habit, moved to the comment section. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest and then gave a leap. Around a third of the audience labeled her as a self-centered, stupid and, of course, ugly woman.

“What’s wrong?”

“Have you seen the comments? They are horrible!”

“Come on, haters gonna hate. Welcome to the club. That’s what success involves. Even the smallest of your wins will make someone pour shit over you.”

Rose cried bitterly, reading the mean comments for the tenth time and choking with tears. Fancy that! Just a little while ago she was the one who had rattled sarcastic comments on stranger’s Instagram pages. And now it backfired, dealing a severe blow to the most vulnerable spot – Rose’s pride. “Have I deserved it? Oh, I certainly have!” Rose kept talking to herself.

Bathed in tears, Rose’s face immediately attracted the attention of the entire crew. Other models looked suspiciously at Dina: Did she make her assistant cry? Ed was the only one who dared to approach them. He asked gently if everything was alright.

“Rose became famous and got haters as a bonus.” Dina took out her phone and showed the disastrous article to Ed.

Women’s solidarity is a powerful weapon, comparable only to forces of nature. It can both destroy and heal. Sincere support without “buts” and “ifs” may give you unprecedented strength. And so, Rose dismissed somber thoughts and got to work. For good or for ill, she was the only assistant at the photoshoot.

She brought one cup of coffee after another, juggled with a steam generator and other devices, removed chewing gums from the bottom of shoes, held a reflector over the models, and helped the girls put on corsets and tighten the laces. By the end of the day, Rose’s whole body was aching, desperately in need of a hot bath. Where is the glitter and ease that we all see on the pages of beauty magazines? It turned out that photo shooting is a hard work. Just as modelling! Rose was especially impressed with the models. They walked an entire marathon distance in high heels without complaining even once. They didn’t eat, hardly drank any water and yet, they looked fresh and kept smiles of their faces. Their posh photographer from London grumbled and nagged at them all day long, but neither of the girls even bat an eyelid, showing impressive professionalism.

They were able to get off only after sunset. Rose entered her hotel room, collapsed on the bed, and fell asleep straight away, with her clothes and sneakers still on. In the middle of the night, she woke up to the sound of her phone ringing persistently. Rose fumbled in her pockets for the phone and reluctantly tapped the screen, bracing for yet another series of Dina’s gripes.