Disfigured Love

Models101 it was called, and the address was Macklin Street.

‘Arrive earlier than three p.m. Put your hair in a ponytail, wear skinny black or dark blue jeans, a form-fitting tank top in a solid color, high heels and no make-up. Got it? Can I take a quick photo?’ he asked taking his mobile phone out of his jacket pocket.

‘OK.’

‘Don’t pout and don’t smile,’ he instructed and clicked. He looked at the photo with narrowed, detached eyes. ‘Brilliant,’ he pronounced.

I glanced at Rosella and she raised her eyebrows, as in, What the fuck are you doing?

‘Thanks,’ I said quickly, and with a thrill of excitement I left him. Models make more money than waitresses, which meant the sooner I could get Nikolai away from my father.

I asked Rosella if I could have the next afternoon off instead of Thursday and Marco immediately said he would exchange shifts with me. I smiled gratefully at him.

That evening I found that Carrie had a tank top in one solid color. A pair of skinny jeans that were too short, but after I teamed them with high heels they simply looked like ankle-length jeans.

*****

‘Do you think I look right?’ I asked Margaret. She was sitting at her dining table flipping through a magazine, but she was dressed in a brown suit as if she was going out.

‘You’d look divine in a sack,’ she said with a smile.

‘Why are you all dressed?’ I asked her.

‘I’m going with you,’ she informed me.

‘Oh, I don’t know if I am allowed to bring anyone with me.’

‘Don’t you worry, chaperones are the norm in the modeling business. This is a sleazy business and you’re just a child. I don’t want anyone thinking you are alone and can be taken advantage of.’

I grinned at her. ‘OK, that will be great. Thanks, Margaret.’

Together we took the Tube to Holborn Station, walked down Holborn High Street, took a left at Newton Street, then a right turn into Macklin Street. It was a one-way back street. We had to go through a blue entrance and up a set of stairs to 13 Macklin Street. I climbed them with my heart in my throat. As my mother would have said, there was a whole bag of chinchillas in my stomach. At the next landing I saw the black on lilac sign that read Models101, and beside it a set of glass double doors. I could see a white reception desk. It looked very posh. It felt like the big time. Even though Brian had done some research and told me that Models101 was the agency of the moment, and what to expect, some part of me had not believed that it was all real. That a real model scout for Models101 had spotted me working in a restaurant and asked me to a real casting. That was the stuff fairy tales were made of.

Brian had told us to go early for the casting since the rules of casting were that anybody not seen inside the allotted hour would be sent home. Being early assured that you would be seen first. He had told me that it would most probably be a pre-interview, and had very subtly hinted that there was a rather large possibility that I would be sent home with the polite message that the agency would call me if anything came up. And that was probably a bad sign. Or if I was very lucky and had the right face I would be sent in to see the owner of the agency. A powerful woman called Georgina Carangi. She was known in the industry simply as Geo.

But there were no other girls waiting in the tastefully decorated reception area. And instead of the pre-interview I was immediately whisked away by the receptionist to see the boss of the show—Geo. I followed the receptionist but turned back to widen my eyes at Margaret. She grinned irrepressibly like a child, pulled her shoulders up to her ears, and mouthed, ‘Good luck.’ Outside the dragon’s lair, I wiped my sweaty palms on the sides of my jeans and went to meet my fate.

It was a big room full of windows. A thin, dark-haired woman was seated behind an ornate white desk elegantly smoking a cigarette when I entered. She killed the cigarette expertly, without looking at what she was doing. Smoke swirled around her. She was the stuff legends were made of. She made a small beckoning movement with the fingers of her right hand.

It was time to strut my stuff, and strangely I found it easy. I thought of Guy and did it for Nikolai. I raised my chin, pushed my chest out, and slowly glided in, long legs first. I stopped in the middle of the room and waited.

The swirling smoke cleared and I saw her formidable eyes. They were dark and shone with barely suppressed excitement. She leaned back in her chair, flashed a mysterious smile, and let her gaze travel appraisingly down my body. Then she returned her impassive eyes to mine.

‘You’re not English. Where are you from?’ She had a voice like sandpaper.

‘Russia.’ Shit. My passport claimed I was British.

She smiled very slowly. ‘Luckily for you the only things the world will still accept from Russia are petroleum, caviar and long-legged models.’

I attempted a natural smile and failed.

‘Turn around,’ she instructed.

I did. Slowly.

‘Face me again.’

I turned around.

‘You’ll do very nicely,’ she said.

And I broke into a huge grin.

‘You won’t be doing any Victoria’s Secret gigs with those breasts,’ she warned, ‘but there’s work for those legs. A lot of work.’

All I heard was ‘A lot of work.’

‘Sit down and let’s talk,’ she said, reaching for her cigarette box.

I was so happy I almost skipped toward her.

On the spot she took me on. She called someone on the phone and told the person on the other end to bring in a contract. A heavily pregnant woman came in with a thin sheaf of papers and handed the document over to me. I took it in a daze.

‘Have a look over it or get a lawyer to look at it for you,’ Geo said, killing another cigarette. ‘Then sign it and make another appointment to see me. You could have a very brilliant future in modeling. And that isn’t true of every girl in modeling.’ She smiled warmly and, standing up, walked me to the door.

When I walked out of her office Margaret stood and looked at me expectantly. I ran into her arms and hugged her so tightly she squealed.

‘Oh, Lena,’ she crooned. ‘I’m so happy for you.’

Chapter 27

After I signed the four-page document Georgina Carangi and I met again over lunch. She wore sunglasses on her head during the entire lunch and picked at a small salad, cutting the leaves into tiny pieces that she reluctantly slipped into her mouth, as if eating was some sort of intolerable ordeal. In response I tried not to eat so much.

She told me my accent was too thick and that she would be sending me not only for a quick modeling course—you need to walk beautifully—but also for elocution classes.

‘The real world needs illusions,’ she said.

I nodded silently.

‘The first thing I want you to do is a shoot with DZM, a stocking company. The money is lousy, but the photographer is great and very in. French. Get the right photographer behind you and you’ll soar. With any luck he will take a picture of you that will look outstanding in your portfolio.’

*****

The photographer’s name was Louis Cirilli. He wore skin-tight trousers and had a life-sized black and white photo of a naked man with a very big penis on his studio wall. He looked at me, bit into an apple, and chewed thoughtfully.

‘I don’t know your history, but you look very vulnerable. It is part of your beauty. As if you can be broken. It is an appeal.’ He waved his hands in small circles around his face. ‘A beautiful riddle. You know, sexy and dynamite and alive. Like Lady Diana or Marilyn Monroe. If it comes out in the photographs it will be everything.’

I frowned, not sure if I had understood any of that or how to use it.

‘Let me explain—every shoot is just looking for that one picture. That one perfect picture. It doesn’t matter if it is the first or the last of thousands of shots. But what every photographer will die to capt

ure is that certain faraway look. That certain inner fire.’

With those words of wisdom he sent me off to the make-up artist who began the unbelievably painstaking process of layer upon layer of creams, bases, powders, and pencils that form that impossibly perfect make-up job required for high fashion photography.

‘The bright lights will steal all your color, so you need more,’ she explained. She also did my back, shoulders, arms, and chest. She even painted my nipples a deeper pink on the off-chance that they could peek out.

It was two whole hours later that I climbed into a see-through blouse and a pair of tights wearing no underwear and six-inch purple heels. I presented myself to Louis nervously.

He clapped his hands. ‘Great. OK, get in front of the white screen and move.’

‘Move?’ I asked.

‘Do whatever your body tells you to.’

I stared at him cluelessly.

‘Tease me,’ he coaxed. ‘Make me chase you. Look at me as if you are naked. Tease me like you want me.’

I remembered Geo saying my bum is easily my best asset. I turned away from him and, pushing my ass out, turned my head and looked at him with a fierce expression on my face.

For a second he was surprised. ‘That is how you look at people you want!’ Then his eyes lit up as if a light bulb had just gone on under his skin. ‘Actually, that is perfect…’ He began snapping excitedly. ‘That’s it. Hold it. Fabulous. Fabulous. Fabulous.’

I unbuttoned the see-through blouse and sucked my thumb.

‘Great, yes. Face the wind machine. Kick your leg back. Higher, higher. Fabulous, fabulous, fabulous. Laugh, laugh, laugh. Throw your hands forward. That’s it. Beautiful. Marvelous.’

After the session he gave me a can of warm Pepsi. His eyes were almost glazed with professional excitement. ‘You were born to be in front of the camera. The way you move… You know your face, you know your body. That cannot be learned. You have to be born with that. You were born to be a model. You will leapfrog all the other new faces at Models101 and every other agency. You are about to become the new cheetah of the fashion world,’ he predicted.

From that session one stunning image emerged.