Chapter 6
“Je suis, Maman. Je suis.”
Angelique Delavigne
“Long day?” Sophia asked without looking at Angelique. She was staring at her cell phone, frantically swiping with her fingers.
“The longest. We spent nearly eleven hours just taking and retaking the same stupid set of photos. Marco—our stylist—he’s a bit of a perfectionist and if he wasn’t so soft-spoken, he’d be an intolerable diva. And some toddler model tried to take cracks at my age. Remind me again why I’m in this line of work and not sitting behind a desk crunching numbers?”
“Because a body like yours cannot be hidden behind computers and boring outfits, and I wish you wouldn’t slouch so.”
“I’m not slouching, Mom, jeez. Let a girl breathe. Speaking of breathing,” Angelique’s voice dropped to a whisper. “We talked about frequenting places like this. I can barely afford it and you sure as hell can’t. You can’t keep piling these expenses on me, Mom. I understand that you have been used to certain standards, but it’s time you became realistic. The lifestyle you want will put us in debt again and if you care even a little about me, you’ll make adjustments. My career isn’t as successful as we’d both like it to be yet, so all I’m asking for is a little consideration. Dad left me too, you know? This is ...”
Angelique spotted the waiter approaching with their meal and brought her tirade to a halt. If her mother was even a little stirred by her outburst, she didn’t let on as she carefully cleaned her fork and began eating, refusing to look at Angelique.
“Angie, I wish you wouldn’t bring up bitter memories during such a delicious little feast,” her mom muttered through a bite, staring intently at her plate. “If you’d let me speak, I’ll tell you why I invited you to here to celebrate.”
“What are we celebrating?” Angelique asked resignedly. She’d been picking at her food, and she had to agree with her mom; bringing up her dad was a cutting thing to do, especially since the knife swung both ways. Her desire for food seemed to have left, and she hoped whatever information her mom was about to share wouldn’t further upset her. She was suddenly beaming at Angelique; anyone else would have read it as a good sign, but she knew her mom better than most. She could maintain that wide smile while delivering dreadful news.
Her mom reached for her bag and pulled out the thin stack of folders protruding from it, brandishing it in front of her daughter with a self-satisfied grin.
“There. That’s a one-year contract with both Ixora magazine and Gisele’s Couture, and you’re going to the Paris Fashion week! What that means is, first, I can comfortably afford this meal because, of course, as your manager I get a cut, and second, you get to go to Paris and actually model on the runway. I know you’ve been saving to go this year with hopes of getting noticed by a designer, but with this, your trip and lodging are fully sponsored. I know, there’s no need to say it, I’m the best.”
Angelique’s face was slowly easing into a happy smile with every word that left her mom’s lips. When she heard the Paris bit, she let out a tiny squeal and grabbed the folders so she could see for herself. At twenty-seven, this was the biggest break so far since her Teen Vogue cover when she was seventeen. She had let her socialite mother steer her into the modeling industry really early. Everyone who had worked with her could have sworn that at twenty-five she would have been a household name working for brands like Chanel, Givenchy, featured in Cosmopolitan and Vogue, reeling in the big cheques. But when she was nineteen, a scandal brought on by her father rocked their family, leaving them bankrupt and shunned by society.
No outfit wanted to identify or work with her. Her mother was cast out of her club and avoided by most of their family friends. Now, no one knew better than Angelique and Sophia how quickly tides could change. Her mom resorted to changing her and Angelique’s surname to her maiden name, and eventually, as the years passed, their disgrace became old news as scandals were a reoccurring affair in the New York élite society.
“Mom, they’re only paying fifteen thousand dollars. If these contracts have been slated for a full year, then we should be making more, no?” Angelique was shocked her mom had agreed to such a paltry sum. She brought up her fingers and began checking points off them. “I work crazy hours. I get called up by very demanding stylists for shoots, sometimes with no prior notice. Then, there are all these social events and galas you keep dragging us to; this is not nearly enough. Mom, it can barely cover our feeding and wardrobe.”
“Angie, honey, you aren’t exactly A-list yet. This is significantly better than most deals we’ve been offered in the past months. I work really hard trying to get you through better doors. The least you could do is be grateful!”
“No, Mom, you do all this for yourself, to enable a standard of living we struggle so hard to afford. When you are not trying to match me to some rich moron, you are doing this, getting me horrid deals just so you can get by.”
“How dare you speak to me like that, Angelique?” She looked genuinely hurt, and Angelique winced inwardly. But she knew this was a tough conversation they had to have. As were all the other ones her mom’s thoughtlessness to their current plight forced them to bicker about. “You enjoy this life as much as I do, stop being such a pretentious little bitch, and admit it. I just don’t want you to suffer as I did. And I work just as hard as you do. Who got you featured on the NY’s cover page as one of the models to watch out for? I did that. And wanting you to snag a rich husband is just me looking out for your future.”
“Is it, Mom? Is it really looking out for me? Or just a means to rub noses with the people who discarded you?” Angelique interjected, raising an eyebrow.
“Say what you will. I’m not continuing this pointless back and forth.” She threw down the napkin she had been dabbing the corners of her mouth with in a motion that suggested finality.
Angelique leaned back against her seat with a tired hiss and looked out over the blur of vague faces that filled the room. Her food had grown a little cold, but she picked up her fork anyway and pushed some into her mouth; for the price they were paying for the meal, it wouldn’t be right to let it go uneaten. She thought back to a time when meals at a restaurant like this wouldn’t have been counted as a luxury. A time when they had fancy cars, got invited to exclusive parties, and had more money than they knew what to do with. Designers would have fallen over themselves to have her model their clothing if things hadn’t changed so drastically.
“So, you aren’t even a bit excited about this?” her mom asked, placing a perfectly manicured hand over the contract. “Not even Paris?”
Angelique couldn’t hold the grin that threatened to split into a smile. Paris was her forever favorite place in the world. She hadn’t been since she was a teenage girl. Before her parents’ divorce, they took her on frequent vacations all over the world. For Angelique, it had been love at first sight with the city her mom’s family had migrated to America from.Who would leave a place like this?Angelique used to think. Every year she’d insist they visit France first before going to the countries her dad let her mother choose so she could keep up with and eventually out-travel her club “sisters.” The quiet pace of Paris, the scenery, the romance threaded into every street corner they drove past, every glass pane, every cobblestone she skipped over. People had come here to celebrate love and sometimes find it; it was endearing, unlike the harsh busy grind of New York. Every year since she finished university and started modeling full time, she would put money aside to travel and it would all go to some other expense. Picking up her mother’s bills, buying a dress for an event where her mother heard New York’s most eligible bachelors would be in attendance, or just spent on living during periods when jobs were hard to come by.
“I am excited, Mama,” Angelique responded, using the French inflection for “mom” in a quiet apology for her rankling. “Especially about Paris. I do not tell you enough how appreciative I am of all you do for me.”
“I love you, Angie, and I’d throw myself in front of a moving train before I let your life remain as hard as mine has been, whether you approve of it or not. Now …” Her mom paused with a mischievous smile. “Qui est la plus belle fille du monde?” Who is the most beautiful girl in the world?
Angelique laughed in surprise at the question. Her mother hadn’t asked her that in so long. Not since she was a much younger, new-to-hardship teenager, competing in and winning beauty pageants, collecting dozens of tiaras, from Miss Teen USA to her high school Spring Prom Queen.
“Je suis, Maman. Je suis.”I am, Mama. I am.
