Things with Spencer have been a little off since the baseball game. Sure, we’ve seen each other, and we can’t keep our hands to ourselves, but something isn’t right. Before the game he was stressed, always having late meetings, and when I did see him, it took some time to unwind. I have known for some time that something is bothering him, I just don’t know what. Maybe I just have too much time on my hands now that I’m not working. Maybe I’m just being crazy. But a part of me wonders if there is something more to the Addison story. Is he still in love with her? The idea makes me feel sick. I can’t imagine losing him.
The need to learn everything about them is all consuming. So I do what any crazy, insecure, jealous girlfriend would; I Google. Bad idea. Really bad idea.
First and foremost, the woman is drop dead gorgeous. She makes most models, including myself, look like trolls. Secondly, she is an heiress to one of the largest property owners in the world. And if all of this information isn’t making me want to bury myself alive in a ditch in Central Park, she also happens to be the best human being on the planet. She is the ambassador to UNICEF, and she spent a year building homes in fucking Zimbabwe, for crying out loud. I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried. I click a few more links and the familiar need to numb myself creeps up, gnawing away at the carefully structured wall I have created since my slip up.
Exposed: A Happily Ever After In The Making?
Are two of Manhattan’s royal families finally reuniting? That’s the question on everyone’s minds these days. The Princess of Property, Addison Price, and Hotel King, Spencer Lancaster, were spotted getting cozy at yesterday’s Yankees’ game. Sources close to Price say they have been spending a lot of time together both in and out of the office.
So the big question is . . .
What does this mean for Spencer’s flavor of the month, Olivia Miller?
We can’t wait to report.
My vision gets blurry as unshed tears collect.
Breathe.
Breathe, goddammit.
You were there. You know this is horseshit. Calm the fuck down. It means nothing. It better mean nothing. Reaching across the night table, I pick up the snow globe we got in Barcelona and I shake it.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The snow drifts inside the glass. The image of a perfect time is fuzzy and unclear. I wonder how long it will take to settle?
I flop back on my bed and close my eyes, trying desperately for the images of Addison Price and Spencer to fade away. But jealousy is a wicked thing. It creeps up inside of you like a vine, feeding on your insecurities. Playing off your fears. It’s hard not to allow it to take over. To not allow it to strangle you.
An hour later and I’m still lying on my bed overanalyzing their relationship when the phone rings. It’s my old agency. The first agency that ever signed me.
Why are they calling me?
My last few gigs weren’t even through them as I was sure they would never call me again after “Incident runway.” They wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole for the last few years, and with the fact I’m no longer rail thin, I can’t possibly understand what they’d want.
Needing to know what they have to say, I swipe it up.
“Hello.”
“Olivia.”
“Yes.”
“It’s Lucinda.” The sweetness dripping from her voice has my stomach turning, but I can’t be rude, and I certainly can’t not take this call. All my contacts have dried out and I need work. Not that my parents wouldn’t support me if I needed, but the idea of crawling back to them, telling I couldn’t hack it made me sick to my stomach.
“Hi, Lucinda. How can I help you?”
“I heard you were back in New York, and I happen to have the perfect opportunity for you. Would you be interested?”
I want to tell her no. To tell her to fuck off and I don’t want her stupid campaign, but that isn’t a wise idea when I have no other options. Plus, it’s obvious all I’ll be doing if I don’t say yes is micro-managing every single thing about Spencer and Addison.
“What’s the gig?”
“It’s a lingerie shoot. New luxury line.”
These are campaigns I hate, but unfortunately, am always asked to do because I’m tall and my breasts are still full. With the right photographer, I’m perfect, but I can’t do this now. My body isn’t what photographers want. I have curves, I’m healthy and in turn, I’m also undesirable.
“I don’t think I’m the right person for the job, Lucinda, but thank you for thinking of me,” I say, wrapping my hands around my middle. I’m not good enough for the job, I should say, but I’m way too mortified to admit that.
“It’s not bras. It’s robes and teddies. You’d be able to hide a lot. It’s photoshopped.”
Embarrassment and shame flood me. “Okay, I can do it,” I say before I can stop myself. I’ll just have to eat limited carbs. I shouldn’t have to limit shit. I’m not fat and the fact that it’s implied that I am, is horseshit. But what choice do I have. It’s not right. I know it’s not right. Agreeing to this shoot could very well be my demise but I need it. I need this job.
A week has passed and I’ve managed to drop a few pounds before my fitting. Double workouts and limited carbs—okay, no carbs—have done the trick. I’ve spent the last four days following a strict diet program of asparagus and grilled chicken for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Physically, I feel pretty good about myself when I walk into the studio. I’ve managed to do what Lucinda told me to. Mentally, though, I acknowledge that I’ve been pulled deeper down a rabbit hole I had no business dipping my toe into. We’re shooting in the old loft space where the walls are a natural brick and exposed metal beams line the ceiling. A stark white bed with lush pillows decorating it sits in the middle of the space. It’s pristine and perfect, and I want to tear it apart and hide under the sheets when I see a few of the models already in the room.
Patrick, the photographer, is fidgeting with the lights. I go behind the curtain and he begins shooting a girl I don’t know. My gaze runs down to where her collarbone juts out, and suddenly I feel extremely out of place. But I have no choice, so I step out from behind the curtain, my full body on display.
I’m in a skintight teddy with a demi bra, and there is nothing left to the imagination. But as the makeup artist looks at me, I see how her eyes narrow. How she focuses on every imperfection marring my skin.
“Can you give her cheekbones?” one model whispers to the makeup artist. Tears prick the backs of my lids.
“Don’t worry about them.” A girl grabs my arm and pulls me back out of the way. “Patrick is a genius. He can make you look ten pounds skinnier.” The comment should make me feel good, but instead, it serves as a reminder of how much I have let myself go, and just how much I’ll have to do to get back.
With a shake of my head, I try to ignore her and put my best face forward. But hours later, we are working well into the night to get the perfect shot and I can’t help but think it’s my fault. Needing to freshen up, I walk into the bathroom and I come face to face with the same girl pouring a small bump of coke onto a key.
“It’s going to be a long night,” she huffs. Then she lifts the coke until it’s directly below her nostril and inhales. Got to keep it even.
“Want some?” she asks. She repeats for the other nostril.
“I don’t—”
“You should. We could be here for hours or longer. You won’t get hungry,” she says. An imaginary knife I have been feeling all day turns deeper inside me, forming lacerations.
I shouldn’t
I can’t.
But regardless . . .
I inhale.
After I’m done with the shoot, I check my phone. There’s a message from Lynn. Bridget’s in town, and they’re going to a dive bar in the Meatpacking District. Lucky for me, I’m coming down from my high already and a drink will help take the edge off of wanting more. I respond I’ll be there in thirty minutes and start to freshen up and make myself presentable.
When I get there, I see my sister standing by the door. Throwing my arms around Bridget, I engulf her in a giant hug. It feels good to be back with her. With college and my modeling career, it’s been forever.
“Almost done,” I state.
And her lips split into the largest smile I have ever seen. “Only two more finals and I’m officially a graduate.”
“Are you prepared for your test, because asking Lynn and me to meet you at some dive bar doesn’t sound like you’re studying too hard.”
“Girl, everyone needs a break. And dancing on a bar in cowboy boots channeling my inner Coyote Ugly is exactly how I want to decompress from the endless hours I have put into my degree.”
“When do you go back?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Shit. We better start drinking.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Lynn?”
“Wait for Lynn for what?” a voice asks from behind. I turn to see Lynn with a smirk on face.
“To drink, of course,” I chime in, and just like that it’s as if no time has passed. It feels like just yesterday when I was with my kid sister and her best friend doing shots at a party. Who would have imagined how much our lives would change?
I wave my hand to the female bartender and order a round.
“To Bridget’s test,” Lynn shouts.
“To the Millers,” Bridget exclaims.
Three shots down and I’m standing with my two sisters on the dirty, slimy bar. There’s a trendy country song playing, and I’m pretending I know how to two-step. I’m about to fall over when my cell vibrates in my pocket.
Spencer: Where are you?
Me: Nowhere that you want to be.
“Who’s that?” I hear Bridget scream across the music.
“It’s probably her boyfriend,” Lynn teases, her giggles sending me super-drunk vibes.
“Boyfriend? Dude, do you ever tell me anything?”
Lynn orders us another shot, which we quickly take before I recheck my phone.
Spencer: Try me.
Me: I’m with my sisters. Bridget is in town. She is about to graduate, and we’re celebrating.
Spencer: Where?
Me: You can’t come here.
Spencer: Where, Olivia?
Spencer: Waiting . . .
Me: The Salty Pig
No way he’s showing up here.
The song has changed once or twice, but my position on the bar has not. This time, instead of two-stepping, I’m jamming away to an upbeat pop song by some prepubescent boy.
“Who’s the suit?” I hear Bridget say. Still shaking my hips, I open my eyes when two strong arms lift me from the bar.
“I’m her suit,” Spencer says, putting me down and pulling me toward him until his lips touch mine. Ohs and aws sound throughout the bar.
“You’re here.”
“I told you, I miss you when I don’t see you.”
“I know, I didn’t think you’d come here.”
“Why? I wanted to see you, so I came.”
“It’s just not your scene.”
“You’re my scene. If you’re here, then I want to be here.”
I fall into the fierce gaze of his eyes and realize something . . .
Here in the dingy, dirty bar, I realize I’m falling in love with Spencer Lancaster.