“I can’t believe you are meeting with one of the key people from Groupe Montaigne,” Juliette said knowledge-ably. “They own everything. You know that brand Gilles Montaigne? Well, that was their first. And then came the beauty brand Lulu Cosmetiques and the shoe line Casanova, and a chain of spas around Europe… it is endless. I am surprised they want to buy Viva, but perhaps I shouldn’t be. After all, if it is a moneymaker…” Her voice trailed off as I stopped listening. None of this meant anything to me, and I found it very hard to get excited about something I had no connection with. It was a bunch of names, as foreign-sounding now as they might have been when I first got to Paris. But Juliette had given me her approval and agreed that I could grant Dimitri a second chance.
My roommates waved good-bye to me as I stepped out of the taxi and into the hotel, which I found strangely dark for a place where people went if they wanted to be seen. Dimitri said he would meet me at seven, along with the man who could potentially be my new boss.
Fifteen minutes after the appointed hour, I was still waiting.
I took a table in a corner and asked for a glass of orange juice, as everyone else around me sipped pink liquids and ice-filled golden nectars from V-shaped glasses. Compared to them, dressed in their own clothes, conversing animatedly with one another, perfectly at ease in this world, I felt something of an imposter. I glanced around the room nervously, wishing I had brought something to read, then realized that I would also have required a miniature flashlight had I done so.
Opposite me, I noticed that I was being stared at. A beautiful Asian woman, dressed in black, was drinking champagne, smiling my way. I genially smiled back before reaching for a plate of stuffed olives in front of me.
Twenty-five minutes later, I was still waiting and had decided that I would give them five more minutes and then leave. The Asian woman slowly got up from the couch, straightened her long black dress, and glided over to me.
“Bonsoir,” she said, extending her hand. “Je m’appelle Claudine. Et vous êtes?”
“Sorry, not so good at French,” I said, swallowing a piece of pimento.
“Oh, not a local, then?” she asked in perfect, untainted English. “In that case, my name is Claire. Claudine just sounds better in these parts when you’re dealing with these people. May I sit?”
She slid into the chair next to me and placed her beaded handbag onto the table. In the candlelit darkness of the room, her skin looked incandescent.
“I saw you sitting here on your own and thought I should come over and say hello. Are you alone?” she asked, bending her head close to mine. I had once seen a show on television in India about women like this, women who preferred other women. Faced with it now, I was terrified.
“I’m actually waiting for someone,” I replied. “Two men,” I felt compelled to add.
A smile appeared on Claire’s face.
“Good. That’s just what I thought,” she said. “Perhaps we can team up?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “I am waiting to meet with two men, for my work.”
She smiled once more, and lifted her hand so it rested on my shoulder.
“I manage a small group,” she said. “Very beautiful, cultured women only. And our clients are in the most upper classes-wealthy, powerful, highly accomplished. They need to be seen with only the very best women. I’m going with two of them to Monte Carlo next week, to attend a party being hosted by one of the richest men in Italy. There is room on his jet for one more. I’d love it if you could join us.”
I stared at her blankly.
Claire sat back in her chair, the smile suddenly leaving her face.
“You really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? My, how long have you been in Paris? What do you do here?”
I then spotted Dimitri and his client walking toward us. As she stood up to leave, Claire smiled in the direction of the fashion executive I was about to meet, who leaned over and kissed her on both cheeks, calling her by her French name.
“You know each other?” he asked, looking straight at me.
“We just met,” Claire said. “I saw her sitting alone and came over to say hello. Lovely girl. I hope you do good things with her.”
“We plan to,” Dimitri said, ending the interlude. “And I must inform you,” he said, a frisson of coldness entering his eyes, “that mademoiselle here is not one for you.”
“Apologies for the lateness,” said the fashion executive, who introduced himself as Thierry as Claire scuttled away. “Charmed to meet you. May I order you another drink?”
Forty-five minutes later, Thierry and Dimitri had ironed out details that were incomprehensible to me as I sat on my hands and chewed on my bottom lip. For my benefit, they spoke mostly in English, occasionally lapsing into French, talking about endorsements and residuals and commissions and cover shoots. I needn’t really even have been there, although every so often Thierry would look my way, his cool blue eyes setting off his silvery hair. He had a perfect white smile, a few deep crevices in his forehead, and the longest fingers I had ever seen on a man. Apart from making sure he was pronouncing my name correctly, and asking me what it meant, he barely spoke to me. He squinted at my streak a few times, and then looked away again.
By the end of the evening, Dimitri and Thierry shook hands and promised that the paperwork would be signed in the morning. I, however, still had no idea what Dimitri had promised me to until a few days later, when Juliette brought home a copy of Women’s Wear Daily and showed me a feature about Viva, its sale to Groupe Montaigne, and how it was poised to undergo a major revamp, including hiring a new spokesmodel for its next collection.
Three days later, a shiny black car came by the café to pick me up and to take me to a photography studio off rue Cambon. When I walked in, still in the salwar kameez I had worn to work that day, everybody stopped talking. A tall and extremely thin British man named Robert welcomed me, telling me he would be taking the pictures.
“Do you know what I’m doing?” I asked, realizing how stupid the question sounded.
“New international ad campaign for Viva,” he said, stepping back and looking at me, as if through a camera lens. “You’re their girl. Super exciting. Brand-new collection. The clothes are hot, finally,” he added.
A blond woman with a friendly face guided me to a lit-up mirror in one corner, a tall chair set in front of it. From a large black suitcase she fished out dozens of eyeshadows and lip glosses, laying them out in front of me and asking me if I had any preferences. In the mirror, I saw Dimitri entering the studio and making his way toward me.
“Dimitri, I am grateful for what you have done, but I must make one thing clear,” I blurted out before he even had the chance to say hello.
“You need to tell me what I am doing before I start doing it. I arrived here, and felt like a fool. I know that my career is in your hands, but I need to know what you are up to with me. I am sure I will agree to it, but you must tell me.”
He nodded sheepishly.
“I didn’t want you to concern yourself with these boring details. Just trust me. I am capable,” he said.
“I am sure of that,” I said as the blond woman applied foundation to my face with a wedge-shaped sponge. “But this is my life too. Let’s be partners in it.”
Compared to the exercise in humiliation I had undergone the previous week during my first real modeling job, this particular event was almost enjoyable. Everyone in the studio was uniquely focused on me, weighing in on whether my hair should be flatter or fuller, whether to go with the pink lipstick or the burgundy. Lights were moved around, music turned on so I could, Robert said, “get into the mood,” and food was brought to me on pale green ceramic platters. When the time came for me to be photographed, I was told to stand on a large X-mark taped onto the floor, a sheath of thick white paper behind me. Robert told me where to look, where to put my hands, how much or little to smile, and I followed his instructions without thinking. He told me he could see that I was new to this but that I would pick it up in no time, and I felt reassured by that. He would only look frustrated when I lapsed into the habit-one that I thought all models had-of pouting like some coy Bollywood heroine about to be romanced for the first time.