Ah, youth.I’d watched girls like her come and go, stars burning bright and fast before fizzling out. In an industry obsessed with new, I was a rare holdover. But I could feel my time growing short.
Pierre burst back into the room, his expression now equal parts irritation and excitement. Clapping twice, he shouted across the room. “Alright, people! Let’s get Kit Sinclair changed into the new wardrobe before lighting has to compensate for another decade.”
Anotherdecade? Like I was a pint of milk with an expiry date slapped across my forehead.
Is that all the industry sees me as?
I looked at the wardrobe department to ask what the hell was going on, but judging from their expressions, it wasn’t worth it unless I wanted to get pricked in the side with a pin when they refitted me.
Following them back to the fitting room filled with racks of designer and couture clothing, I wondered which outfit I’d be stitched into. Instead, I was promptly presented with what theycalleda bikini but looked more like pieces of tinfoil strung together.
I held it up, the tiny silver pieces catching on the light. “That barely passes for fabric!”
“I don’t make the rules.” The assistant peeled my original dress from me. “Pierre’s changed the concept,” she added, sounding resigned.
“To what?” I let out a bitter laugh.
The creatives were allowed to make very slight changes, but they should’ve been in contact with the magazine to make sure it was all approved.
“Where is the magazine rep? Editors? A designer?” I stepped into the bikini bottoms, frowning at my reflection in the mirror. I have a great arse, but in this monstrosity even it looked terrible.
“It’s three days before Christmas. Did you really think they were going to show up?” she asked with a tired shrug, helping to tie the top of the costume around my torso. The rough material grated against my skin. “Besides, anyone who isn’t already on annual leave has been wiped out by the flu. There’s nobody senior enough to stop him.”
I suspected there was more to the story, but I didn’t bother to question it. I was another pretty face – a mannequin expected to show up, look hot, and leave.
Usually, I left the difficult questions for my agent, Claire, but since she hadn’t bothered to show up or answer my several calls, I figured she wasn’t going to be much help in this situation either.
“I hate this fucking industry sometimes,” I muttered as she finished her work. She spun me around so I could take in my reflection, and my stomach dropped further.
“Tell me about it. But it’s a job,” she said, her warm hands still holding onto my arms, the heat sinking into my chilled skin. Her words sounded far away despite her closeness as I inspected my reflection. My body was scarcely covered, the scraps barely concealing my fucking nipples, let alone my breasts.
Her tone dropped as she made eye contact with me through the mirror. “Are you okay with this?”
Iwasn’tokay with this. However, I’d found myself in worse situations, and the last thing I wanted was to derail an already chaotic shoot. “What was wrong with the dress?”
“Apparently, it didn’t fit the new concept.”
Of course it didn’t. The‘concept’probably came to him in a bathroom stall two minutes ago.
I’d met my fair share of rogue photographers who thought they knew more than the corporate mega-minds of the fashion world. Whether it was drug or ego induced, they got too lost in the creative aspect of the shoot and forgot that we were, in fact, here in the name of capitalism.
My brows pressed together. “We might as well stick stars on my nipples. It’d cover more.”
It wasn’t as though I’d never done a bikini shoot – hell, I’d done more nude campaigns than I could count.Calvin Klein. Yves Saint Laurent. Beachside in Saint-Tropez so I wouldn’t get tan lines. Every time, it was on my terms. I felt safe with those photographers.
My gut, trained by well over a decade in this industry, told me this wasn’t that. I’d met men like him before, the kind who use their professional authority to pressure women into saying yes to something that’s not okay.
This didn’t feel like art. It felt like an excuse to strip me down and leave me exposed – for him.
“I’m not sure what the magazine will say, but without a rep, he’s got the final say,” the assistant said.
While it would be easier to get this over and done with, I knew that once the magazine saw these photos, there was no way they were going to be approved. Then my arse would be hauled back here. Or, worse yet, not get paid.
“Okay…Fuck.”
Over the assistant’s shoulder, I spotted a long, elegant fur coat on one of the racks, and, in a split second, I made a decision. “Pass over the coat,” I said, pointing towards it.
She hesitated but complied, draping it over my shoulders. The luxurious fur instantly transformed the look, taking it fromtin foil disaster to an outfit that was vaguely fashion forward. Editorial enough that it would suit the pages ofVogue, and I still looked hot. Best of both worlds.
