I can’t breathe.
My racing heart makes it hard to keep still as I wait. Torture. It feels like I’m having a heart attack, but I know I’m not. It’s only anxiety.
A fear of what’s about to happen. The fear of the unknown.
Today has got to go down in history as one of the worst days of my life. It was utter hell. I’ve been baking in the hot sun in a tiny bikini, and now I have sand in places it should never be. All I want is a huge glass of water and a nice cold shower. Instead, I’m stuck sitting here waiting inside the lobby outside of Giorgio, my photographer’s office, as he’s requested. Even the thought of it makes my shoulders tense and a sick feeling coils in my belly. This can’t be good, as Giorgio never sees models after shoots.
The shoot.
The dreadful shoot, I should say.
He was not happy at our photo shoot. It was obvious in the way his body was rigid every time he looked through the lens. With each shot he took, he’d look down at the image on the camera and his brows would draw together. His heavy sighs, and the fact that he damn near chucked his camera across the beach, were sure signs that something’s up.
I look at the poster on the wall next to me. A stunning blonde is sprawled out across the beach in a bikini that just barely covers her breasts. She’s thinner than I am, her bones jutting out from her hips. I used to look like her. Unhealthy. That was back when I was anorexic. I drank my meals and snorted my dessert. It almost killed me. I was so thin that my ribs were on display. I’ll never go back to that again. Now at twenty-four, I have more curves than I ever did before. Guys love curves, though, right? Not that it matters what they like. I’m still alone.
Running a hand through my blond locks, I decide it’s time to knock again. I manage a deep breath as I stand; counting slowly to ten and allowing each inhale to calm my fragile nerves. With a tentative lift of my hand, I knock, this time desperately hoping I’m overreacting and when he does answer, I’ll find relief.
“Olivia.” My name is screamed from the other side of the door. “Come in,” Giorgio commands.
I stand on wobbly legs and walk toward Giorgio’s office. I can hear his thick Italian accent, but I don’t know the words. I turn the knob and the door creeks open. My head slowly peeks in.
“You wanted to see me?” I squeak. My stomach turns with the anxiety of what he wants to say to me. It feels like my heart might hammer out of my chest any minute.
“Take a seat, Olivia.” He gestures to the chair in front of him.
With slow, hesitant steps, I sit.
We’re quiet for several moments, which does nothing to help calm my nerves. I watch him with acute awareness, pulling in oxygen slowly so I don’t hyperventilate. I hate confrontation. It makes me feel as though my breath has been cut off as I wait for him to speak, to confront the issues he has with me. The silence is heavy in the air. It envelops the room, and I wait for any sign that he’ll break it. Finally, his eyes grow weary, and I know it’s time.
His tone is soft when he says, “Your body has changed.”
My brow furrows. “What do you mean, Giorgio?” I know exactly what he means. I’m not like the girl on the poster outside, but I want to hear him say it.
“I’m only saying that things are different from the last time we shot photos.”
“What you’re not saying is you think I’m fat.”
He shakes his head violently at that. “Olivia, you know I’d never say that.”
Of course, he wouldn’t. That would be grounds for a lawsuit. But he thinks it regardless, and suddenly I’m remembering one of my first photo shoots with my ex-boyfriend Bennett. “Your thighs. They shouldn’t touch. That needs to be fixed.”
No, I won’t allow myself to go there. If I do, the realization that I’m not perfect will tear me apart. So instead of thinking about it, I focus my anger and pin him with my most heated glare, causing him to flinch. Unlike many of the other photographers, Giorgio is tenderhearted, but it appears he’s no different from any of them. All he see’s is every single flaw on my body and knowing that makes me want to wrap my arms around myself and hide from his scrutiny.
“I’m only saying that you don’t look healthy and I’m concerned.”
I scoff at that. “Your idea of healthy and mine are two very different things, Giorgio. I, for one, don’t think that bones protruding from someone’s body are healthy.”
“You have your opinion, and I have mine.” He shrugs. “Our readers have been polled for numerous years, and the fact of the matter is they want something that you aren’t.”
“Are you letting me go? We still have three more locations to shoot,” I cry. I don’t want to fail. I don’t want to admit this has all been a big mistake. That I was and still am not good enough. My stomach begins to tighten as a familiar need to numb the pain claws through my veins.
“You know I love working with you, Olivia. You’ve always been one of my favorites. But you were hired by Soleil for their calendar because you had a specific look.” Rail thin with breasts. He doesn’t have to say it. I know how I became a model. I know what Bennett saw in me.
“Seeing as you no longer fit the look for this campaign, I’m going to have to dismiss you from the rest of the shoots. You need to go and do some soul-searching and figure out if this is still what you really want.”
Anger seeps into my being. “Giorgio, cut the shit. Say what you mean.”
He huffs out a long breath before placing his hand over his eyes, thinking of what to say. “If you ever want to work again, you’ll need to go tone up and get back to where you were two years ago.”
I knew what he would say, but knowing doesn’t take away the hurt once he says them. His words cut deep.
Two years ago.
A miserable haze I can barely remember . . .
Anorexic and using cocaine.
A dark, painful spiral I barely escaped. I can’t go there again. As hard as I try, and as angry as I was seconds ago, I can’t stop the waterworks. Tears begin cascading down my cheeks.
With nothing more to say, I stand and begin my walk of shame.
Twenty long minutes later, I’m finally home. As I begin to push open the door to the apartment, my phone begins to ring. Shit. It’s Helen, my agent. Helen took me on as a client after my career took a nosedive two years ago. When not one other agency would touch me with a ten-foot pole, Helen believed in me.
“Hi,” I huff into the phone as I open the door to my apartment. Placing my bag down, I move into my living room. “I guess you heard the news.” There is no hiding the groan in my voice.
“Yes, I did.” My stomach sinks at the cool detachment in her words. “I’m going to give it to you straight. I can no longer book you on high profile jobs. The only thing you’ll be able to get is catalog work, not high-end couture.”
“But you don’t rep catalog models.” Please don’t cut me loose. Please say you’ll make an exception for me.
“No, I don’t,” she says with finality, and that’s when I realize the other shoe has officially dropped. Helen no longer believes in me.
I’m not good enough.
Maybe I never was . . .
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