Lindsay watched the man approach, her wine in his right hand, his whiskey in his left. He was looking at her, no longer smiling, and up came a rush of fear. She quashed it. No more fear. At least no more unreasonable fear. If the man wanted to buy her a glass of wine, who cared? She was the one out of a job. It didn’t mean he wanted to attack her. Besides, she was depressed.
“My name’s Vincent Demos, or just Vinnie if you heard Janine yelling at me. Or just Demos, which I prefer. Here’s your wine. I bought it for you. Can I join you for a few minutes?”
“As long as you don’t talk about your BMW, sure.”
He grinned and slid into the booth opposite her. He raised his glass and she clicked hers to his.
“You a student?”
“Not anymore. I’m a full-fledged professional, newly-out-of-a-job adult. I just quit my first job this afternoon and a taxi ruined my new suede boots. My name’s Lindsay Foxe.”
They shook hands. His were dry and narrow, his grip firm.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
She nodded.
“You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. Sexy as hell and intelligent, a new combination.”
“And that’s a new line.”
“No line. Fact. They aren’t colored contacts, are they? No, I didn’t think so. How much do you weigh?”
“My fighting weight or in my Reeboks with thick socks?”
“Fighting weight.”
“One hundred and thirty pounds. What kind of prize do I win if I answer all the questions right?”
“You’re how tall?”
She cocked her head at him. “Just about five-foot-eleven.”
“I didn’t think you looked overweight. You got long legs?”
“To Mars.”
“Well, you’ve also got a smart mouth. I like that. My name’s Demos, like I said. I own the Demos Modeling Agency on Madison at Fifty-third. I’m legit, just ask Dickie over there, not some sort of punk who hits on women. I’d like to do some layouts on you. Won’t cost you a dime. I’ll provide the photographer and the outfits. You interested?”
“You don’t look like a punk.”
“I’m not, scout’s honor. And no, you don’t have to strip to your skin for these shots. I don’t do calendars or provide fodder for the skin magazines. I do fashion stuff, all legit, as I said. If you’re good, you’ll make a lot of money and so will I. How old are you?”
“Twenty-two, just graduated last spring from Columbia, degree in psychology. I know, worthless, but it’s something at least.”
“You ever done any modeling before?”
She shook her head, then said, “That woman who was in here. She’s a model. I recognized her. She was in my dentist’s office.”
“That was the Cosmo cover for last month. ‘Was’ is the operative word here. Yeah, Janine just retired. I still smell like Perrier and lemon.”
“You want a replacement Janine?”
He looked at her closely, silent for too long a time. Finally, “No, I want something entirely new and you just might be it.” He sat back, brooding now, and tossed down the rest of his whiskey.
“Actually, you’ve got ageless bones. That’s the key in most cases. Well? Do you want to give it a shot, Lindsay Foxe?”
“When?”
“Tomorrow, say at one o’clock?”
“Why not? As of two hours ago, I’m no longer a publicist.”
“Are you tied up with any guy?”
She was instantly still. “No.”
“Good. Boyfriends can be a real pain in the ass when it comes to scheduling shoots at weird hours.”
“No boyfriends.”
“You sound like that’s permanent.”
“It is, Mr. Demos. It is.”
“You’re into women?”
“No. I’m not into anything.”
“Good. If things turn out, you’re going to have to knock off about ten pounds, maybe fifteen. The camera adds it on, you know.”
“I’ve heard. Ten pounds is a lot. Fifteen pounds sounds impossible. I’m not a featherweight. In fact, I’m on the light side right now. I don’t know if I could do it or if I’d even want to starve myself like that.”
“Well, I’m getting ahead of myself anyway. You might look like a geek on film. Those gorgeous cheekbones of yours just might fade away into the sunset. That jaw of yours might look like a ballbuster’s on film. Too, you’re a little old to be starting all this. You think about it, Lindsay. Call me in the morning and let me know. Don’t let those gorgeous eyes get bloodshot tonight, will you?”
“It’s hard to believe all this is for real, that you’re for real. It’s like a B movie.”
“I know,” Demos said, and grinned, showing a slight space between his front teeth. “But then again, I’ve always thought life was based on a B movie. But the thing is, Lindsay, successful models don’t just magically appear in my office. It’s the dogs that usually come to an office. I found Janine at a party down in the Village. She had crooked teeth and bleached-out hair, but I saw the possibilities. Two of my very successful models I found just like you—in bars. One of them had to have an ear job. One model I spotted at my aunt’s funeral, another one my mom had picked out for a blind date. You never know. If an agency is going to be successful—like mine is—why, then, the eyes are always searching. So, call me, all right?”
As Lindsay said later that evening to Gayle Werth over margaritas, chips, and hot sauce at Los Panchos, “Maybe I’ll be on the cover of Vogue by next year.”
“Sure, sweetie. And maybe you’ll get elected to the United Nations.”
“They don’t do elections, Gayle.”
“I’m just saying don’t get your hopes up, Lindsay. The man could be a real slime bucket, he could be a pervert, a wanted criminal. You’ll check him out before you head over there, won’t you?”
“I already did. He’s very well-known. He’s big-time. He’s in the phone book and his address is fancy and quite real. I even called Cosmo and asked about him.” She sat back in her cane chair and stared at the depleted basket of tortilla chips. “I’ve got big boobs. Don’t all models have to look anorexic and be flat-chested?”
Gayle shrugged. “I’m going with you tomorrow. I’m not taking any chances that you’ll be too trusting and sign away the farm.”
“Me, trusting?” That was truly a surprise to Lindsay. “You’re joking.”
“No. You’re naive as hell, Lindsay. Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you. I saw that psychology creep of yours, Dr. Gruska, this morning when I was on campus checking on gymnastics courses. He nearly ran to catch up with me. Can’t you just see him with his tweeds flapping? He wanted to know how you were. He wanted your phone number.”
Lindsay choked on a tortilla chip and grabbed for her glass of water. “You didn’t—”
“Don’t worry. I gave him a number, all right, made it up right then and there. He walked away a happy creep.”
“I wonder what he wants?”
“He probably wants what every man wants. He wants inside your jeans.”
“I don’t think so. His father wouldn’t allow it.”
Gayle waved a tortilla chip at her. “You’re an odd duck, Lindsay. I go along thinking you’re so unworldly, but then I see this other side of you. All cynical and funny, at least on the surface. Sometimes I just don’t understand you at all.”
“Nothing to understand,” Lindsay said, and called to Ernesto for two more margaritas, frozen, with salt.
8
Lindsay / Eden