Let Down Your Hair (19 page)

Flat, saggy tits
. Ugly words, brandished in my face like a broken bottle. “You could have started a different career,” I said in a small voice. “And found a man who didn’t care about your breasts.”

She laughed, a diamond-hard laugh with no humor. “Don’t give me that inner beauty shit. All men care. And all women care, too. Everyone wants to be pretty. I would have got a boob job even if I
wasn
’
t
modeling.”

“Something to drink, ladies?” said the waiter, peeking wryly at Emmeline’s cleavage.

“A bottle of the Moet, thanks.” She flashed her camera-ready smile and turned back to me. “So what about you, Sadie? You’re modeling now. Are you saying you’d never have plastic surgery? Not even if you had a baby?”

I coughed on a stuck lump of cheddar. “I hope not.”
But ask me again in seven months
.

“Here you are, ma’am,” said the waiter, filling Emmeline’s wineglass with something golden and bubbly.

“You
hope not
.” Emmeline scoffed. “Get off your high horse, honey. Look at you, picking at your entrée like it might poison you. What, dieting’s OK but plastic surgery isn’t?”

I straightened up indignantly. “I’m not
dieting
. I’m just … just …” My mouth stifled the word
pregnant
as my eye fell on the bottle approaching my glass. Alcohol. Number one on the
Foods To Avoid During Pregnancy 
list.

“And for you, ma’am?” said the waiter.

“No, thank you,” I said in a feeble voice. The wine I’d drunk a few nights ago with Emmeline lurched against my conscience. Had I already given my babies fetal alcohol syndrome?

Emmeline gave a gasp of outrage. “What, and now you’re not
drinking?
It’s champagne! To celebrate your first modeling job! What’s wrong, scared of being hungover tomorrow?”

“It’s not that,” I said, and then kicked myself, hard.
She offered you a perfect excuse, Sage! Why
didn
’
t you take it? Why?
“It’s that I … I don’t really feel like it tonight.”

She studied me, brow crinkling with concern. “Are you OK, babe? You look stressed. Are you feeling sick again?”

My skin tightened, as if scared she might see her grandchildren through it. “A bit.”

“Was Dr. Clarke sure there was nothing wrong? Maybe you should get a second opinion.” She got out her phone and started scrolling through her contacts list. “There’s this doctor on the south side of town—”

The effort of maintaining the dance of evasion was abruptly too much to bear. “Em, it’s OK. I know why I’m sick.” I took a deep breath and threw the truth on the table. “It’s because I’m seven weeks’ pregnant. With twins.”

Emmeline’s face went very still. Seconds stretched into minutes, her forefinger stalled on the screen of her phone. My pulse grew louder in my ears as I waited. For the hug and cries of “Babe!” I realized I’d been expecting. For sympathy. Shock.
Anything
. I was just about to repeat what I’d said, in case she hadn’t heard me, when she spoke.

“To Ryan?” Her flat, quiet voice made my pulse beat still louder.

Of course to Ryan! Who else would I be pregnant to, Dirk?
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

“Oh my God,” she said. No babe, no sympathy, not a trace of her gushy italics. “And you’ve just got your first job, too.” Belatedly, she reached across the table and squeezed my hand. Her fingers were cool.

Something tore, as if she’d ripped the dressing off an old internal wound. “Why’s my job the first thing you thought of?” My voice was tense and trembling. “You think I should get an abortion, so I can keep modeling?”

“Babe, I—”

I snatched my hand away and stood up, my chair shrieking on the floor. “Is that what you wish you’d done to
me?
”

“
No
, I—”

I bolted for the exit, crashing blindly into chairs, pounding the elevator button until Emmeline caught up.

“Sadie?” She put a nervous hand on my shoulder and I shoved it off. “Please don’t think I didn’t want you. I did, I swear. I wanted to have you more than anything.”

What you wanted was Matti. You kept me because you hoped I
’
d clinch the deal and it was too late to abort. And when he dumped you, you dumped me on Andrea and left
. But the words stuck in my throat, as though saying them would confirm beyond doubt that they were true.

Emmeline put her hand on my shoulder again, and this time I let her hug me. She clutched my body as if I were a doll, stroking the grafted-on hair. “It’s OK, babe. You can model maternity wear. And I know great trainers and surgeons to get you back in shape. We’ll work something out, OK? Now let’s go up and get ready for tomorrow’s shoot.”

The elevator doors slid open, like the jaws of a shiny steel trap. She steered me inside and I watched over her shoulder as the gold coin crawled slowly up the wall.

The La Carina shoot was on a country estate two hours out of town, in a section of the grounds styled as ornamental jungle. The tropical plants looked as uncomfortable in the autumn morning chill as the shivering models did in their bathrobes.

My fellow birds of paradise disturbed me. The six of us were so similar in shape, height and coloring we looked like a matching set of dolls. The one or two who’d tried to chat to me had hastily retreated, sensing that while I looked like them, I was really an intruder in camouflage.

Six days after my transformation, the woman in the mirror was still a stranger. I hadn’t grown into the costume Emmeline designed for me. Instead I seemed to be shrinking, as if the real me was standing inside her on tiptoe, peering out through her blue-tinted eyeholes.

Last night’s conversation pulsed inside me like a pair of tiny heartbeats. Emmeline’s first reaction was
To Ryan?
Not
Are you OK?
or
What are you going to do?
The response of a trophy girlfriend. Maybe if Ryan were wealthy she’d see these babies as a meal ticket, instead of a burden that would ruin my body and my chances of catching someone richer. Though in one sense, she was right to think of him first. These children were also Ryan’s responsibility. He needed to know they existed, even if he didn’t want me or them. Even if he’d rather bribe me five thousand dollars to abort them and stay out of his life.

The photographer’s irritated voice jolted me from my thoughts. “
Come on
, lovely, chop chop.”

How long had he been trying to get my attention? “Sorry, Peter.” I hopped up from my chair and wavered, a cornered rabbit unsure of where to run.

His mouth was a disapproving crescent. “You didn’t get any of that, did you?”

Any of
what?
Everyone was staring. My eyes skittered from face to face, as if hoping to find Peter’s instructions. “I …”

“In front of the hibiscus bush.
Now.
”

I scurried across the lawn and installed myself in front of it.

“We’re selling lingerie, not bathrobes.”

Hot with embarrassment, I stripped off my robe and bunched it up. I threw it to one side and it unraveled mid-air and knocked over somebody’s coffee mug. Peter kicked it out of shot and plunked the empty mug upright. As he stumped back to his camera, a man holding a big reflecting shield caught my eye and winked. I twitched, as if a scorpion had landed on my skin.

“OK,” said Peter, his voice heavy with impatience. “Pluck a flower and tuck it behind your ear. Leave your hands there and raise your left shoulder. A bit more. Hold it there.”
Clickclickclick
.

I followed Peter’s instructions, uneasily aware of the man with the reflector. He was good-looking—early thirties, muscular, artfully mussed hair—but his wink unsettled me in a way other men’s ogling hadn’t. It was breezy, entitled; the wink of a man who’d seduced several models and was confident of doing so again. The sort of wink Matti might have used to seduce my mother.

Goosebumps surfaced along my limbs, partly from the thought of Matti, partly from the icy wind buffeting my barely-clad body. According to
Symptoms of Pregnancy: A Guide
, increased blood supply was meant to make me feel warmer. I prayed that my body would get the message soon.

“OK, lovelies, that’s a wrap. Grab some lunch and be back here by two.”

I put down the hibiscus and stretched my numb legs, groping in my pocket for my lunch allowance.

The man with the reflector held up my bathrobe, like a high-class waiter with a coat. “First job?”

Matti’s ghost breathed down my neck. I plucked the robe from his hands. “Thanks,” I said, slipping it on and tying it tightly over my lingerie. A coffee stain covered most of the left sleeve.

His face broke into a lazy, sophisticated smile. “Looks like you owe me a coffee, cutie. Want to join me for lunch?” His gaze trailed over me like the point of a needle.

I wanted to escape, but the need to be professional welded my feet to the ground. “No thanks.”

His smile broadened, as if he found my refusal amusing. “That’s OK. Don’t sweat it.” He took out a business card. “There’s a big swimwear job going next month. Let me know if you’re interested.”

He slipped the card in my pocket and sauntered off. Feeling vulnerable and faintly unclean, I fished it out.
Owen Welford, Professional Photographer
. With a cell number and web address. I scrunched it up, walked to the bin and hesitated.
What if this was the only offer I got before my pregnancy started to show?
I wavered, flattened out the card and tucked it back in my pocket.

One other bird of paradise was still on a folding chair, absorbed in her cell phone. The others had flown, presumably to get lunch. I picked up my clothes and headed for the mansion to get changed.

The bathrooms were at the side of a roped-off function room being prepared for a wedding. Everything was cream, gold and red, from the napkins and flower arrangements to the seating plans next to the door. I ducked into the powder room, which had a red and cream flower arrangement and a full-length mirror framed in gold. In front of this stood Chloe. She was the youngest of the models, with a quivering strawberry of a mouth and giant blue eyes that made her look like a china doll.

I changed in the toilets, and when I emerged she was still there, twisting fingers in her shiny flaxen hair. “Are you OK?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Peter said I looked
fat
.” Huge tears poured down her cheeks as she said that fatal word.

“
Fat?
” I glanced at Chloe’s delicate body in disbelief.

“He gave me the negligee because I have a
roll
on my stomach.” With a fresh deluge of tears, Chloe opened her robe and pulled at the tiny bulge below her navel, as if she wanted to cut it off with a knife. “He said it was totally unprofessional, and that I should get my trainer to iron it out, but I
already
train two hours a day! I’d get lipo, but I’m not eighteen for another year and a half and by then I’ll be
history
.”

I put an arm around her heaving shoulders.
Everyone wants to be pretty
, Emmeline had said, but trying to be pretty was like chasing a rainbow. Even those who seemed to have the pot of gold never felt pretty
enough.
Because they compared themselves to the beautiful, not the envious. Because the more beautiful they were, the more the standards they aimed for retreated out of reach.

Chloe gave a tremulous sniff, and I handed her a tissue, searching for something reassuring to say.

“Chloe,” I said, “you look beautiful. You’re naturally
very slim
.” I almost called her “babe”. With a final flourish I added: “Don’t let what Peter says make you feel bad about yourself.”

Chloe blew her nose and nodded. “Thanks,” she said with a watery smile. “Want a rice cracker?” She pulled a Tupperware box from her handbag. Inside were five or six crackers dusted with spice, and half a Lebanese cucumber. I hesitated, and she added: “Don’t worry, they’re less than five calories each.”

My stomach stirred uneasily. Was that meant to be a meal? “Didn’t you get your lunch allowance from Peter?”

“Yeah, but I just keep those and bring my own lunch. I save heaps. So you don’t want one?”

“No, no,” I said, trying not to show my dismay, “they’re your lunch. You eat them.”

Chloe looked scandalized. “I’m not eating them after
that!
OK then, if you don’t want them …” She emptied the contents into the bin.

A flicker of horror. “You’re not eating
anything?
”

“I’ll fill up on water. Thanks for that. I’d better get my makeup fixed.”

As she walked out, my hands cupped my stomach, as if to shield my womb from what I’d heard. I might have a daughter in there. I might have
two
daughters.

Chloe’s crackers and half-cucumber stared up from the bin like a distorted face. When I was sixteen, I barely thought about my looks. But Andrea had achieved this by locking me away, which left me vulnerable, ignorant, and out of touch with society. I didn’t want that for my daughters. But neither did I want them to spend their lives fretting that they weren’t pretty enough. Or being told they weren’t by a bullying employer.

A slow-burning anger built inside me. I didn’t have Andrea’s ferocity, or her watertight knowledge of bullying and workplace laws. But something she’d passed down to me drove me out into the grounds. I stomped toward the table where Peter sat with Owen. Both men had a mug of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Did all photographers smoke?

As I approached, Owen gave me another lazy smile. “Hey, cutie,” he said, “take a seat. How do you have your coffee?”

“Excuse me,” I said rudely to the side of Peter’s head, “why did you call Chloe fat?”

Peter glanced over his shoulder. “Because she’s a model, lovely. Like you. Being thin’s your job, remember?”

I rankled at the condescension in his voice. “She was crying in the bathroom over that. And she threw out her lunch.”

He shrugged and tapped a nub of ash into the ashtray. “Good for her. Maybe it’ll help.”

My foot itched to kick him in his overhanging gut. “No,” I snapped, “it won’t help. It’ll distress her into an eating disorder. If she doesn’t already have one.”

Peter took an indifferent drag on his cigarette. “Anything else you want to share?” he said, blowing a smoke ring past my ear.

“Actually, yes,” I said. “It was less than fifteen degrees this morning. And you were making models pose outside. In
lingerie
.”

He gave a short laugh. “Didn’t arrange the right weather, huh?” Peter sipped his coffee and threw Owen a look. “I’ll have a word to God for you. Now, if you don’t mind—”

Blood boiled behind my eyes. “Actually, I do mind. I’m raising serious issues, and you’re patronizing me.”

Peter put down his coffee, finally goaded into irritation. “Look, sweetheart, I don’t have time for this.”

“Then I’m not selling you any more of
my
time. I quit.”

I dumped the stained bathrobe on the table, tossed the lingerie on top and left. My body was tingling with shock, but I no longer felt like a fraud in a costume. I felt like an angry and defiant version of me.

When I reached the railway station, the two o’clock train was pulling out. I bought sandwiches and a USB key and found the local library, where I downloaded everything I could find on girls and body image. When the three o’clock train came, I boarded and made notes in the margins of my La Carina information pack. By the time I reached the city every page was black with scrawl and I wondered if I might have found my passion.

As I stepped out of the train, I noticed I was no longer panicking. I was still single, homeless and pregnant, but the hamster wheel had dwindled into a bulleted To Do list. Go to penthouse. Shower, change, pack. Go to Ryan’s place. Sit on futon until he comes home. Beyond that, everything was dark, as if behind a closed door. I didn’t need to go through that door yet. Time enough to unlock it tomorrow.

I strode through the city, leers bouncing off me as though my blue-gray dress was armor-plated. When I entered the hotel, the uniformed ushers said “Good evening ma’am”, and showed me through with obsequious smiles. My reflection in the elevator’s mirrored walls looked like a fashion model eager to be home. I looked like I belonged.

The arched top floor windows framed a sunset sky the color of hot coals. I slashed my card through the reader and opened the door.

“… few days to find her feet, but it’s been nearly a
week
.”

Dirk’s voice, coming from the leather couches in the living room. The fire in me abruptly went out.

“I know, babe, but she’s had a really rough time. I just thought—”

“This isn’t part of the hotel, Em. It’s my home. And I didn’t give you that credit card to spend
six thousand dollars
on someone else’s career.”

My fingers were still around the doorknob, clinging as though it were all that stood between me and the city forty-five floors below. Had I honestly felt I belonged? I’d never belonged here. I was a gatecrasher, piggybacking on Emmeline’s lifestyle, trying on the career she’d wanted for herself.

“Babe, it’s
La Carina
. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity! She’ll make back that money in a day.”

My hand slipped off the doorknob and fell to my side. The La Carina job. My big break. My chance at finding an agent and building a modeling career. And I’d
quit
.

“Look, it’s not like I
can
’
t
support this girl’s career. What I want to know is
why
. You’ve never even mentioned her before, and now she’s living in my guest room. And pregnant with
twins
. How’s she supposed to keep modeling now she’s pregnant? Is she planning to keep them?”

My clammy palm found its way to my stomach. The skin underneath it felt warm, as if my babies were radiating heat. And I knew in that moment that the answer to Dirk’s question was
yes
.

“She doesn’t know yet, babe. But if she does, it doesn’t mean she can’t model. She can do maternity wear jobs.”

Silent as a cat, I crept toward them, hidden by the dim of the hallway. Dirk was sprawled on his favorite couch, holding what looked like a bank statement, and Emmeline was beside him on the edge of an armchair. Neither had seen me.

“And then what? Hire a nanny and turn my home into a nursery?”

“Of course not, babe. We can—”

“
We?
Doesn’t this girl have friends or family to go to? Why exactly is she
our
problem?”

I set my jaw and stepped into the light, startling them both. “Because,” I said in a defiant tone, “I’m her daughter.”

Emmeline’s face went ashen. She looked from me to Dirk, mouth open like she wanted to say something, but nothing came out. For once, Dirk also seemed lost for words. He looked from Emmeline’s face to mine.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” he said at last to Emmeline, who averted her face. “How old were you when you had her?”