“He looked…like he missed you, Des. Like he regretted letting you go.”
“He didn’t. I let him go.”
“Why, Des? He seems really cool.”
“How is that gonna work, Ruth? I follow him wherever he goes? Sit in some mansion in L.A., waiting for him to get back from filming? I barely know him, and he doesn’t know me at all.”
“It’s called taking risks, Des. You should have given him a shot.” She sighs, and she sounds frustrated, or disappointed, or just resigned. I can’t tell which. “Do you want this info or not?”
“Yeah.”
She rattles off Adam’s information, and I write it down. We talk for a few more minutes and then hang up. I stay in the bizarrely comfortable yet hideously uncomfortable beanbag chair, staring at the numbers. I find myself writing his name above the phone number, circling it, underlining it.
But I don’t call.
My reasoning is vague, even to me. Is it about not admitting that I was wrong? That I should have…what? That I should have handled things differently? Told him more about myself? Told him why I got the tattoos? What difference would any of that made?
So I don’t call.
Not that day, or the rest of that week.
I spend a few days trying on bathing suits, and it goes as well as could be expected. Sidney frowns, and Rochelle’s plucked and waxed eyebrows lower in consternation. They hand me bikini after bikini, and reject each and every one. Finally, they settle on two. One is a bandeau top and boy short bottoms in basic black, the other a red and orange swirl design in a halter-top and a high-waisted bottom.
And let me just say, even wearing those standing in front of Sidney and Rochelle was hard for me. I squirmed, fidgeted, adjusted the halter-top, played with the bandeau strap, and tried gamely not to pluck at the wedgie the high-waisted bottom gave me.
And then Sidney dropped the bomb. “These are good, Des. As good as they’re going to get, at least.” Her hazel eyes fixed on me, and she trailed a hand through her expensively-dyed red hair. “You really need to drop a few pounds, though. If you could manage that, the suits would fit just that much better. You have…what…four more days? Even three or four pounds would make all the difference.”
My face went red from equal parts of anger and embarrassment. “Sidney, I—”
She held up a hand, palm face-out to me. “I hate having to say that. I really do. You think anyone wants to hear that? You know how many times I heard that, when I was modeling? ‘Five more pounds, Sidney.’ At least once a week, I heard it. It hurts, I know it does. And I’m sorry. But it’s the business.” She waved a hand at me, dismissing me. “You can do it. I’m sure you can.”
I leave the office with a small bag containing the bikinis, and a heart full of hurt and anger.
I swallow it, and spend the next four days barely eating, walking faster, taking stairs. I try on the bikinis every morning, and every night, and see that, yes, as I shed two pounds, and then three, and then four, they do fit slightly better. My cleavage is accentuated when the rest of me is slightly more…streamlined.
But I’m so hungry.
And the anger percolates in me, deep down.
Florida is hot and humid. We spend a good portion of the first day choosing a location, which means hiking up and down the beach, hunting for exactly the perfect location. Each spot looks the same to me: hotels and restaurants and resorts on one side, sand and the sea on the other, as far the eye can see in both directions. But Ludovic seems to be looking for something specific, so we all follow him here and there like stupid little ducks trailing after their mama.
And then he chooses a stretch of sand exactly like all the others, nods, and announces that this is it. His crew scrambles to set up reflectors and all the other gear. Hair and makeup start dabbing and brushing and twisting, and we’re peeling off our cover-ups. The other girls all do so easily, confidently. They toss their wraps to the sand and adjust straps and bikini lines, and strut around happily, chattering to each other and kicking at the surf, giggling. A crowd is gathering, watching, and I find myself hesitating. But I can’t hesitate. I untie the front of my cover-up and shrug out of it and focus on not seeing the crowd of gawking tourists and sunbathers. I fold the cover-up and set it on the sand, kick off my flip-flops and let hair and makeup finish with me. All eyes are fixed on me.
Because I stand out.
The other girls are all rail-thin and lithe with tiny but perfectly shaped tits and bubbly little butts and skin that looks airbrushed even before they grace the magazine pages. I’m the tallest one by at least three inches, and the biggest one by at least thirty pounds.
I’m the only “plus size” model doing this shoot.
I see people staring at me, I feel it. Guys amble by and I feel their gazes on me. Ludovic is taking pictures of the ocean or something, endless pictures, adjusting the settings on his massive Nikon. With the reflector, without, then with some kind of gray lens filter, and without.
Finally, he points at one of the models, a girl from Brazil named Nina. Her bikini is so negligible that it would probably fit in an empty Keurig coffee pod.
She’s fucking stunning.
She lays in the gentle surf, rolls around, droplets of water beading just so on her dark skin. Her smile is white and genuine.
Anya is next, a Russian-American girl with platinum hair and massive—but fake—tits. Her waist curves in, and her ass bubbles out, and her thighs are slim but shapely, and she’s just absurdly perfect looking. Ludovic pays special attention to her. He shoots hundreds of photos of her, handing his camera to an assistant and kneeling beside her, adjusting her hair and saying charming little things to her that have her giggling. Then he has her roll onto her back so her tits are thrust into the air and her hair is splayed wet and fine on the sand while the waves lap at her knees.
It’s an incredible shot. Sports Illustrated perfect.
When they’re done, he stops her and whispers something in her ear, handing her what looks likes a room key card. She smiles coyly at him. The next model takes Anya’s place at the water’s edge, and Anya plops down onto the sun-warmed sand beside me.
She uses the key card to scrape a line in the sand between her legs. “God, what a pig.”
I play dumb. “Who? Ludovic?”
She nods, not looking at me. “Yes, Ludovic. Touching me. Telling me how sexy I am. Of course I’m sexy! I’m a fucking model, yes? Like I’m going to sneak into his room in the middle of the night and let him fuck me. I don’t care if he can get me on Sports Illustrated. Not happening. God, what an asshole.”