“Naturally. I’ll take these up front.”
“Thanks.” I redress and stare at myself in the mirror. As beautiful as all the dresses are, I find this whole thing tedious. Oscar loves it, and I love him, so indulging him keeps me smiling, but I would give anything to be on the other side of the world, in a simple pair of shorts and a t-shirt, makeup-free, carefree, just bloody free. I shake my head, rebuking myself for wanting something I know I will never have, not now that I’m as sought out as I am, certainly not afterthem.I could never leave this lifestyle now—it’s possibly the only thing keeping me alive. I shudder and push free from the cubicle. The boutique is still as quiet as when I arrived, and I wonder sometimes if I keep Charlene in business, as there is hardly anyone here when I visit.
Oscar is leaning over the counter chatting away to Charlene about fall season lines, and I roll my eyes. I really don’t understand why he doesn’t chase his passion for fashion.
“Oh, come on, get some gents wear in. I’ll model it for you. I’ll look fucking hot.” He grins, and Charlene laughs softly.
“I don't doubt it,” she replies. Her attention moves to me, and the items are all bagged up artfully. I use my credit card to pay whilst Oscar scoops up the various bags.
“Thanks.” I smile. Oscar takes my arm, and we head out.
“Bye now.” Charlene is the perfect hostess, demure, polite, and amenable. Oscar waves at her through the expertly decorated window as we make our way down the street.
“Ugh god, rats are still here.”
“I didn’t expect anything less,” I huff. “I’ll order an Uber,” I suggest, heading round to a small artisan café to wait out the paparazzi. I check the time and mention that I need to drop my bags home and meet my agent.
“Sure thing, let’s get drinks tomorrow night.”
“Okay, I have that shoot, though,” I remind him.
“I know. I have it on my calendar. I’ll pick you up.”
Chapter Two
The view before me is vast and dense. Buildings upon buildings run as far as the eye can see; a maze of brick, glass, and people, a fog of human congestion. I focus my attention on St Paul’s Cathedral, appreciating its grandeur and history. In all the time I’ve lived in London,I've never been inside. I hope to rectify that at some point.
“Zara, lift your chin half an inch.” I do as instructed, even though my neck is pulling painfully, and the unnatural twist ofmy waist is putting my usual flexibility to shame. “Perfect.” The shutter of a camera clicks repeatedly. It doesn’t feel perfect. It feels like torture. I stand in this position for what feels like hours, calmly breathing through my nose to dispel the mild pain. Finally, I'm asked to sit provocatively on the sleek wooden carving. It’s the thickest tree trunk I’ve ever seen. The bark stripped away, and the wood smoothed down to silk so you could slide off it. I’m balanced strategically, my heels keeping me in position as my hands are placed to keep my dignity intact. The tiny black dress I’m wearing takes the pressure, and Martha, a makeup artist, quickly reapplies my postbox-red lipstick. I close my eyes, and when I open them, I stare head-on at the camera, conveying my most sultry look.
After multiple positions on the log that I’m no longer a fan of, Isaac, the photographer, calls it a day. I swing myself up and off when Oscar lifts his phone and snaps a candid on his phone of me. I give him a pointed look.
“For your Instagram,” he tells me, winding in between the shoot gear to get to me and lifting his phone to show me. It’s a good image. But it’s exactly that: an image. I’m playing a part.
“You mean your Instagram. How is my fake account doing, anyway?” I eye him with a bemused smile.
Laughing lightly, he drops his head and, swiping his thumb over the screen, he lifts it to show me again.
“Twelve million, aren’t you popular,” he muses. I’m shocked, but I don’t show it. So much for being faceless.My smile turns brittle as those numbers swirl around my mind.
“Let me change, and we can get going,” I say lightly. My desire to cut myself off from this world and start anew is slipping through my fingers, day by day, shoot by shoot. As much as I know it’s not a possibility, I still torture myself with a false hope of escape.
“Oh, I spoke to Donnie. He said to keep the dress,” Oscar murmurs, snapping another image of the set as we move about.
“He did?” I try to find Donnie over the organised chaos happening around me, but he is nowhere to be seen.
“Face it, Zara, he’d be stupid if he didn’t. You slay in that, and when I upload this and other images of you in it, his line will take off.” Oscar leans to grab my coat, and I put it on as he leans against the wall, tapping away frantically on his screen. His thick and curly hair falls past his face and covers his expression, which I know will be pouty with concentration. Oscar’s misplaced confidence in me always makes me feel less authentic. Plus, Donnie and Isaac are big names in the fashion game, so they don't need me.
“I’m beat. Let’s hit a bar, then go home,” I tell him, yawning.
“Oh boo, you whore,” he grumbles, giving me the stink eye.
“You’re the whore,” I huff, getting into the elevator. “Who is it this month: Cristina, Sophie, Michelle?”
“Jealous?” He grins and pecks my cheek. I curb a smile and take his phone out of curiosity, looking on in dismay as his phone goes crazy with hits on my social media.
“Doesn’t that piss you off?” I ask as we hit the ground floor and head out the back to his car.
“No.” He shrugs. “I turn the notifications off after a while and then comment occasionally,” he says, leaning into me and holding his phone high to snap a selfie of us both, like a robot, I smile confidently, “or at least you comment occasionally.” He smirks. “You're a busy woman.”