“This is really what they want me to model?” I squeak, wincing a bit.
“Yes,” Margaux says in a firm tone. She motions around the room. “It’s what all the girls are wearing because we prefer to see our models in form fitting, yet elegant outfits.”
I’m not sure I’d call this dress “elegant,” but when I look around the room, sure enough, all the girls are shimmying into dresses that are just as slinky and revealing as the one I’m holding. We look like a group of high-class strippers in colorful evening gowns, if you ask me.
Then, Margaux winks and she holds out stilettos in a vibrant purple color that match the dress. “Here are the heels for your outfit. Don’t you love the diamanté straps? Go ahead and get changed, sweetie. Just remember not to wear any panties because no one likes to see panty lines.”
I gasp again. No panties? Looking at the outfit again, I can tell I’ll have to move gingerly because without panties, I may be flashing my most private parts if I don’t watch it. Ugh. This is going to be tricky, as I’m not exactly the most coordinated nor graceful woman.
Yet I need the money, and that makes me grit my teeth. As Margaux strolls away, I shed my street clothes and wriggle into the dress. It’s so tight I can’t stop tugging at the material, but no matter how I try to adjust it, it makes no difference. There isn’t enough material to cover all the bits of me that I’d like to cover, and if I pull the décolletage up, then another part goes down, not to mention the cut-outs gaping obscenely. Gingerly, I position the violet material as best I can and slip into the stilettos. Instantly, I’m elevated four inches and teeter alarmingly.
But the other girls seem totally fine. They’re not scandalized by the tiny bits of nothing we’ve been asked to wear, and seem to glide about without any trouble in their high heels. Smiling grimly, I pat my hair in a nearby mirror and manage to freshen my lipstick. I won’t lose out on this job.
“Okay girls!” Margaux cries from the other end of the room. “Ready?”
“Ready!” the other women chorus, and I just slap on my grim smile once more. Slowly, we pass through a door and then file into a large, luxurious room. It’s odd. The ceiling is quadruple height, and yet there are no windows. It’s basically an enormous concrete block, although one entire wall is a mirror. Inside, there are velvet couches strewn about in deep jewel tones, as well as poufy footstools, gleaming mahogany coffee tables, and over to the side, a sumptuous spread of food.
Most of the girls head straight for the couches, but my tummy’s rumbling, so I head over to the food and start making myself a plate. There are so many delicious options and I haven’t eaten all day. Before I realize it, I’ve piled my plate high with a heap of bread, fruits, and fried chicken. Fried chicken’s always been a weakness for me because not only do I love to eat it, but it’s one of the first dishes I mastered as a little girl. It’s harder to make than it looks because sometimes, you have a crispy, fried outside but the interior chicken meat is raw. Or you burn the entire thing trying to get the chicken evenly cooked. Regardless, it was the first dish that I mastered, and holds a special place in my heart.
Biting hungrily into a drumstick, I eat energetically, and it takes me a minute to realize the other girls aren’t eating at all. Instead, they’re stretched out on the couches, speaking with one another in low voices while fluttering their lashes. Their hand gestures are slow and elegant, and they remind me of the panthers I’d see at the zoo, lazing on a bough in a sinuous, boneless recline. Yet, where are the zoo visitors? Are there people watching?
I stare about confused, when another girl finally minces over to the table of food and helps herself to one measly dried apricot. To be honest, she looks a lot like me with curly brown hair and brown eyes. She too is curvy and almost busting out of her dress.
“Hi, I’m Angie,” I whisper in introduction.
She smiles at me. “I’m Emory.”
I motion before us. “This is so weird, right? Why aren’t the other girls eating? Is it because they don’t want to bloat before our photos are taken?”
Emory shakes her head. “I have no idea, but I’m too hungry not to eat.”
I nod.
“Me too,” I whisper. “But do you know what’s going on here?” I ask again. “Where’s the photographer?”
Emory cocks her head, shooting me a puzzled look.
“Photographer?”
“Yeah, you know for the modeling gig? You’re here to try out too, aren’t you?”