Chapter 5
I woke up the next morning almost forgetting where I was. As reality sank in, Charlie’s face came to mind, and my stomach lurched. I guess last night’s hopeful optimism was only temporary.
I stormed into the office, late as usual. Punctuality was something I needed to work on. The phones were ringing, my head pounding, and people hurrying this way and that. Striding down the white florescent-lit hallway like a starved model on the runway was the infamous Wolfgang Lutz, the director of Fordham Model Agency and my boss and. I quickly turned the corner to avoid a confrontation regarding my tardiness.
“Morning, Miss Bertucci,” chirped the new British secretary for agents as I scurried into my office. “There’s a memo on your desk.”
“Great, thanks,” I said and shut the door. I sat down at my desk, logged into my desktop computer, and organized my work for the day. The first hour of the morning was grueling. Not from work, but from my own head-tripping. Every time I heard footsteps tapping past my door, my stomach dropped , for fear that it was Charlie: his gorgeous face that I loved to hate; his long, lean body; that hypnotic stare.
I was happy to see an e-mail awaiting me from my younger brother Adrian. He was off gallivanting in Europe, supposedly attending school in Rome at John Cabot University. From the random messages I received from him, I suspected he was actually spending more time exploring shot bars in Paris and being one with nature in Amsterdam than studying. It made me miss my own adventurous days abroad and my old carefree attitude toward life.
Ciao ciao, sister!
Guess where I just got back from? Yes, that’s correct, LONDON baby! Wish you were here. You should plan a trip this winter. I know you’ve been dying to get back to Rome ever since you graduated. Just imagine: we can walk the streets of Trastevere, drink wine on the steps of Piazza Trilussa, Piazza Navona, and Trevi by night! And eat gelato till we puke. How bad do you want to slap me right now? Anyway, I’m backpacking Prague this coming weekend so don’t freak if I don’t respond. Did you break up with that toolbag/Zoolander model guy Charlie yet? Tell Mom and Dad I said what’s up. Peace big sister!
With love from Roma, your baby bro,
-Adrian
Attached was a picture of Adrian with my friends Devin and Beau whom I had met on a backpacking trip to Europe. They were standing in front of the London Eye with pints of Magners cider. I envied my brother’s freedom. Every time he contacted me, it made me want to quit Fordham and escape this superficial world. Below his email were two emails from Charlie. I couldn’t bring myself to open them.
I picked up the memo that Wolfe had left on my desk.
BRAZILIAN MODEL: MARIA MURARI, BAHIA BRASIL, AGE: 19, ENGLISH: NONE,
AGENT: ROBERTA BERTUCCI
English: None. Great another one, I thought. Now the only jobs I could send her out on were ones I could attend in order to be her translator. They didn’t pay me enough for the overtime I put in trying to bridge language gaps. I began to poke around online, looking for some English classes.
Working at a modeling agency had its benefits: over-the-top galas, the constant tide of beautiful people, and of course, the very latest fashions. But the majority of models you see in magazines are insecure, unstable people with massive ego issues lost in perpetual identity crises. And other kinds of crises: expired visas, heroin addiction, one or two pounds of weight gain. Sometimes I felt more like a therapist than an agent. I kept a large poster on my office wall of a triangle diagram. At its three points, the labels read, “Intelligent,” “Good Looking,” and “Emotionally Stable.” In the middle of the triangle, it said “Pick Two.” I usually classified myself as lacking in emotional stability, but I looked like Dr. Phil in comparison to the train wrecks that waltzed into my office.
Feeling claustrophobic, I took off my scarf, stacked the papers on my desk, and had the urge to throw everything out the window and burn down the place. Breathe. Breathe. My anxiety was escalating. Coffee? Or not enough coffee?
“Knock, knock,” I heard the voice outside my door. I glanced up with a sigh of relief to see Oliver’s big green eyes.
“Olly...” I sighed. He floated across the room making it feel fuller and lighter at the same time.
“Miss Booger Bertucci.” He walked in and set a cup of coffee on my desk.
“Mmm. . . Hazelnut?”
“Pumpkin spice,” he winked.
Oliver wore his standard outfit of faded jeans, combat boots, and a dark green jacket that complimented his forest green eyes. “And how are you on this wonderful morning?” he asked his voice smooth.
“Stressed. My new model from Bahia doesn’t speak a lick of English, so I’m trying to get her into some classes. If I can do that, it’ll really improve her portfolio. It’s amazing that these models get recruited, brought to the U.S., and don’t even know the language. Anyway, life is much better now that you’re here. What’s up?”
He flashed his crooked smile, always sweetly contagious. “Well. . . as far as the models go,” he said, “that’s what you’re here for,to hold their pretty hands and make them stars on the cover of Vogue.” Olly smoothed the air as he envisioned the Vogue cover page.
“You’re looking rather stylish today,” I complimented sarcastically. Oliver needed a haircut and, more so, needed me to remind him. His chestnut locks were beginning to curl on the ends. He looked a bit like Michelangelo’s David. I always liked the way his cow lick flipped over revealing his forehead.
“What—didn’t you hear?” he teased. “I’ve decided to pursue my male-modeling career. You know, I think it’s really my calling.” He posed like one of the many male models I managed, moving his hips in isolation like a samba dancer. “All nat-u-ral Bobbie,” he sang, smoothing his hair with the blade of his hand.
I covered my mouth and laughed at his ridiculousness.
“Good lord. If you keep that up, I promise you I will vomit,” I stared at his hips.
“What? Am I not doing it right?” he continued posing.
“Wow. Maybe you should ditch the photography and coach my models,” I laughed. “Okay, please stop, right now. Stop. You are not normal.”
He finished with an exaggerated pelvic thrust and threw himself down in the chair beside my desk. “Yeah, I’ll stick with taking the photos, thank you very much. Behind the camera is where it’s at,” he said with a sigh, slouching back and picking something from his tooth.
“Everything all right in there?” I asked watching him dig for gold in his molar.
“Scone bits from earlier, all good. So...how are the new roomies and mansion in the Gold Coast working out?”
“So far, so good. I hear that sarcastic tone; watch it, smart ass. Anyway, it’s definitely going to be weird getting used to, but I think I’m going to warm to living downtown. The house and the neighborhood are incredible. The mansions and the Victorian row houses give the area a lot of character, and the atmosphere is just spectacular. You need to come by and see it, maybe take some photos in the historic district. It’s gorgeous, vintage almost, and they’re making a few renovations to the house—it’s going to be amazing. And as far as the girls, they are mostly really great.”
“Mostly?” He raised a brow.
“Yeah.”
“You mean most of the girls are great, or all of them are mostly great—”
“No, they’re great. All of them.”
“But you said—” he teased.
“Olly!” I threatened to smack him. “I just moved in. It’s too soon to say. And why do you say Gold Coast like it’s a bad thing?”
“Come to my hood, Wicker Park, this weekend,” he said. “Leave your lipstick, perfumes, and designer crap at home and see how the other half lives. I’ll buy you some low calorie beer,” he teased. “My friend Sam’s band is playing. They’re kind of a Mumford and Sons meets Blink-182 meets the Beatles kind
of thing.”
“Blink-182. . . God. Do you remember that concert?”
“Yeah, when Travis came down from the sky like a drummer-god.”
We relived the moment together. “Do you still have that t-shirt I got you?” I asked.
“Somewhere, definitely.” He sighed. “Please don’t remind me of those days.”
“You mean high school? Mr. Prom King.”
“Pfft. It was a fluke. Someone rigged the votes!”
“Oliver, are you blushing?” I called him out. “You know you were totally that artsy fartsy mysterious guy all the girls made up stories about,” I laughed.
“Bullshit!” he threw his head back and laughed.
“Yep, don’t deny it,” I pointed at him. “I remember one of the best rumors was when you got back from London and people were saying that you joined a band and had been on tour with—”
“I know. And here I was actually with my family on a Christmas holiday. Although, I did bring my guitar with me on that trip, so maybe you don’t know everything about me.”
“It’s all about style points, Olly. Ew, that leather jacket with the weird design on the back you used to wear. . .”
“You know, I’m beginning to regret bringing you coffee,” he said rubbing his temples. “I mean, I know I wasn’t as cool as Bobbi-snobby. Forgive me if I didn’t import all my fabrics from Italy and make all my own clothes by hand. You weird ass.”
“You didn’t complain about the jacket I made for you. On second thought, weren’t you wearing that when you lost your virginity? Huh, weird. You’re welcome.” I patted myself on the back.
“Touche, I owe you my manhood.” He pressed his palms together and bowed. “You are a goddess. I worship you.”
“Of course you do. And you know, Olly, I really do appreciate the over-roasted coffee,” I said sipping and cringing. “So, when’s your next shoot?”
“I’ve got to go pick up my spiffy new camera and shoot some French chicks at Trump Tower today.” He clapped and rubbed his hands togther. I loved that he was more excited about his new camera than being swarmed by European models.
“Ooh, French chicks, exciting,” I mimicked his starry-eyed expression, clapping and rubbing my hands. “That should make your day.”
“No, my day was made when I walked in and saw you.”
“Ahh. . .”
The sincere look he flashed me sucked the air out of me. Something mysterious was going on behind those deep green eyes. It was an expression he’d turned on me before, but only rarely, a secret weapon if you will. It always made me feel naked when he looked at me like that, but I knew it would only be fleeting. To cover my confusion, I made another wisecrack. He returned with one of his own, and we both laughed.
A new voice, deep and resonant interrupted play time, “Bobbie, can we talk? Alone?” My stomach flip-flopped at the sight of Charlie’s face in the doorway. I wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there, eavesdropping. The mood in my office had deflated like a dead balloon. The morning had just turned into an episode of Days of Our Lives. Oliver threw me a glance, pushed up from the chair, and stuck out his hand.
“Charlie, how are ya?”
Charlie ignored Oliver’s hand, hardly deigning to look at him.
“Alrighty then, Booger,” Oliver said, “I’ll catch you later.”
“Have fun at the shoot today, Olly,” I called after him. “Thanks for the coffee!”
Charlie took Olly’s seat, which was probably still warm and infused with the scent of Old Spice.
“Bye Booger,” he mocked Oliver, “Really Bobbie?” he asked condescendingly. “Are you going to trail that puppy around forever?”
I wanted to slap him, “You’re an asshole, Charlie.”
“That’s why you love me,” he replied, crossing his legs.
“And disturbed.” I hated him right now. If he wasn’t one of our top earners at the agency, I would have fired his ass a long time ago.
“How’s the sorority house treating you?” he asked not even pretending he cared. His ego was swallowing up the air in the room. I took off my blazer.
“Everything is good. What do you need, Charles?” I asked professionally. I crossed my hands, leaned back in my chair, then sat back up to rest my elbows on the desk. Quit moving. He stood up and sat on my desk, folding his arms and looking down on me. I watched the steam rise out of the mouth of my coffee cup. Keep it professional. Stop fidgeting. I was about ready to stand up and walk out.
“I went to that hand-model casting call you sent me to,” he said. “By god, there were some ugly people there! Anyway, they turned me down.”
“Oh? Well, thanks for informing me.” I said trying to pretend I was disappointed he’d been rejected.
“I guess I don’t have pretty enough hands,” he lifted his hands and examined them in the sunlight blazing through my windows. I looked into his eyes for the first time since he had walked into the room. They were ice blue. His concrete stare caused the area from my lungs to my stomach to quiver. He didn’t blink. He knew what he was doing, teasing my emotions.
I stood slowly, lightheaded from skipping breakfast, and made my way to the window to draw the blinds, blocking the sun that caused his eyes to glow.
I tried to be professionally optimistic, “I’m sorry to hear that Charlie, but you didn’t want to get into commercial modeling anyway, remember? In my professional opinion, you should just stick to the higher end, private sector gigs,.”
As I often did, I looked out the window, staring into the office that occupied the skyscraper across the street. I had become well-acquainted with that office, even though I’d never set foot inside it. Every time I looked over there, I briefly wondered what was going on . It was probably a financial group housing analysts in their cubicles, praying the markets were having a good day.
I felt Charlie’s breath on my neck.
I turned and put my hand on his chest. “Stop.”
“What? It’ll be like the old days,” he purred, his voice soft, sweet and persuasive. “The good old days. . .” He leaned in to kiss me.
“Charlie, stop,” I whispered. But it was half-hearted, and he knew it.
He kissed my top lip, then my bottom lip. I closed my eyes, feeling weak in my ankles, my stomach flipping, dizzy. I should’ve eaten breakfast.
I had spent only one night away from him, and I felt like I was kissing him for the first time. I pulled away quickly, but it was too late. He knew he had me. I broke away.
I grabbed a binder from the shelf and slammed it down on my desk.
“I’m going to make some calls,” I said in a very businesslike voice. “I’ll let you know when your next shoot is. I can’t do this right now, so please go.”
“Good girl,” he slapped the desk. He sauntered to the door and just before turning the handle he pulled out an envelope from his coat pocket tossing it on my desk. “You have yourself a wonderful day, Miss Bertucci,” he said, pointing at me. The door slammed behind him causing me to jump. The chandelier above my desk jangled. I touched my lips as they burned from his kiss.