Chapter3
Sierra bolted awake. Her phone had been ringing off the hook.
She had been in deep sleep, deep in a dream where she had been talking to her mother. Her mother had asked her how she was. Sierra had launched into an elaborate lie, telling Tasha that her life had been wonderful the moment she had stepped into New York City. Then she realized she had been talking into her phone for an hour and that its battery had been long dead.
“H’llo,” she mumbled groggily.
“Girl, you rang?” an unfamiliar voice asked.
“Who—?” she forced herself to sit up from her uncomfortable bed.
“It’s Tyrone,” the voice on the other line said with a laugh.
“Tyrone,” Sierra cleared her throat. “Dang, what time is it?”
“It’s time to get yo butt off of that bed and start workin’,” Tyrone told her.
Sierra sighed. “Ty, I lost my chance.”
“Lost your what?”
“The agency that was supposed to hire me closed three days ago.”
There was silence on his end for a few seconds. “Oh, so you came to the Big Apple for nothing?”
Sierra shook her head. “Damn it, Tyrone. Couldn’t you at least have given some words of comfort? I’m alone, I’m almost broke—”
“I’m sorry sweetie, but I kinda assumed you’d go places.”
“I did. About fifteen blocks,” Sierra said glumly.
Tyrone laughed aloud then immediately quieted. “Well, you’re a pretty face. You’ll find a job.”
“I could go back to Rushport. I still have enough money for a one-way ticket—”
“And face failure? Honey, I left Rushport to be someone big. I haven’t gone back even if I haven’t been big. I’m still busting my boo-tay to be someone, and it’s been five years since I left. Let your pride talk to you for once. You’re here for a reason.”
“I was selfish; I only thought about myself,” Sierra told him.
“Isn’t that a good thing? You know what you want.”
“Maybe Mom and Dad were right.”
“About what? That it wasn’t a good idea for you to move away and try to make a difference in your life? You told me before that you were going to start your master’s here. Use that smart brain of yours to do what you want.”
“I’m alone here.”
“And you’re afraid of that? Make friends, dammit.”
“You’re my friend.”
“Honey, I can’t be with you all the time,” Tyrone sassed her. “So you better get your boo-tay up and about to look for work.”
“I need your help,” Sierra found herself saying, even if she didn’t want to. The things that people did when they were desperate…
“Of course I’ll help you. Imma need some sleep first. My shift ended at five today,” Tyrone said with a yawn. “I’ll get back to you in a few. In the meantime, you get yourself outta bed and try to find a job, all right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ll call you later.”
Tyrone ended the call quickly. In her worry about her current jobless state, she had forgotten Tyrone worked two jobs. One was as a hairdresser and the other, on the weekend, was as a server in a yuppies bar. She remembered Tyrone as a middle schooler; he had been out of the closet and was proud of his sexuality. It was a rare occurrence in a town such as theirs. Tyrone was loud and dressed louder.
He had dated an older black man, and that was the last straw for his father, who had died of a heart attack the moment he’d found out. Tyrone had attended the funeral and set off for New York an hour after the senior Mitchell had been buried, changing from a plain black suit to flashy tights and a tank top with military boots.
She liked Tyrone because he was honest and a rare gem. True, they had a strange friendship, but Sierra and Tyrone had hung out as often as they could when he’d still lived in Rushport; they were neighbors, after all. Tyrone had booked the apartment she was staying in. She had asked him to find the cheapest place he could, and Tyrone did not disappoint. Everything screamed cheap and almost contagious.
This was a far cry from the little comforts she’d had back in Rushport. They weren’t a rich family, but her father did his best to provide for them. Asking her parents to support her was something she could never imagine doing, even if she was lying in a gutter, sleeping on newspapers.
She finally got up, remembering she had day-old bread to eat for this morning and some marmalade from yesterday as well. She ate it quickly and drank water to force the stale bread down her gullet.
This isn’t so bad, she told herself, nothing I can’t handle.
She planned to buy groceries that night, noticing a discount for some food products when it was nearing closing time. She still had money to spare for food and rent for another few days. That wasn’t too bad. She remembered she had printed out her resume, a few copies of it, aside from her photo portfolio. She had splurged a bit on that, and she winced, remembering the price. It was something she slightly regretted.
Sierra held on to Ms. Chesterton’s appraisal. She had thought she was beautiful, but Sierra knew there was something more to being a model than just being beautiful. So Sierra worked on her brain. The opportunity of a short-cut to her goals came with Vanessa’s proposal. She had taken the positive judgement blindly. She had truly believed she was beautiful enough to model.
There’s the ego for you, she told herself sardonically as she dried her hair with a thin towel. Fall had begun, and while she was used to cold temperatures, having a busted heater wouldn’t help with her survival in New York.
Thirty minutes later, with a carefully made face that looked au naturale, Sierra set off to find a job. Five hours later, she realized it was no walk in Central Park. Some had said she was over-qualified, some asked her why she didn’t become a model instead, and others laughed and said she could apply as a mannequin for the high-end retailers.
She had graduated with a degree in Human Resource Management, and yet, here she was, unable to get a job of her own. She had walked in flats, which was a good thing, or she would have never survived the job hunt. She ate a bagel for lunch, which was filling. At that moment, Sierra didn’t care about her weight or the cellulite on her thighs. She was starving but had to keep her budget in check.
Why did it take so long for the clock to strike eight-thirty? Then she could march into the grocery store and hoard some food. Tyrone was probably still asleep, and she had been checking her phone constantly to hear from him, a product of her renewed anxiety with joblessness. Was she beginning to doubt herself? She thought about applying at a modeling agency the following day, and that meant walking around wearing heels and with a fresh face. She needed rest tonight so she could look nice tomorrow.
Sierra had gotten home at a quarter past nine in the evening, with a paper bag full of food. She plopped down on the bed and closed her eyes. She was about to drift off to sleep when she realized she hadn’t taken her makeup off. With a groan, she stood up and reached for a makeup cleanser towelette. She slowly took off the makeup, determined to look pretty tomorrow without so much as powder on her face.
A few minutes after cleaning herself up, she crawled for her bed and pulled the threadbare covers around her body. She fell asleep in a heartbeat.
***
The following day, Sierra woke up at six in the morning, determined to track down modeling agencies that were hiring. She hoped these were legit agencies, as she listed the ones that were closest to her apartment first. She looked at the exclusive modeling agencies addresses longingly, wondering if she could just march in get and get hired in an instant. She could try, she told herself. She had the confidence. She probably didn’t have the Victoria’s Secret appeal, but there were millions of other fashion brands that would most likely hire her.
She hoped her head wasn’t too high up the clouds. She was only out to help herself survive. She couldn’t count on anyone but herself anyway. She had limited choices and would make the best out of it.
Four hours and three rejections later, Sierra felt her confidence slowly ebbing away, just like yesterday. These were the smaller agencies she had gone to, the smaller presentable agencies that had given her reasons. The reasons ranged from “we don’t need your looks for anything at the moment” to “you’re too exotic.”
Too exotic? She was American, for cryin’ out loud. Sure, her father’s and mother’s parents had mixed heritage, but wasn’t America founded on that? She stopped walking and found herself sitting on a bench in a pocket park, just a few blocks away from Wilhelmina Models. She was running out of portfolios and resumes for today, which was bad because she was still in desperate need for a job.
She looked at the people passing by, lost in her thoughts, wondering if Tyrone had remembered her today, wondering if her mother and father were thinking about her (she was eighty-percent sure they were). Her stomach grumbled, and she realized it was nearing lunch time. She had checked her face earlier in a previous modeling agency’s bathroom and saw she looked stressed out rather than fresh-faced. That was bad, and it was barely noon. Would they approve of a model with the shiniest T-zone in all of New York?
A man passed by her, talking irately on his phone.
“I already said I don’t care how much it costs, can’t you tell that idiot to do what he’s supposed to do?” he snapped.
Sierra looked away, knowing it wasn’t her business to intrude.
“The point is, this launch is only days away,” Ben said. “Correction, it’s two days away. Wait, why am I having problems over lights? You’re my secretary. You should be coordinating this with the people I’m paying a lot for. Jesus.”
Ben continued walking toward a building with bronze letters spelling out his grandfather’s name. It was a four-story edifice, a satellite office that wasn’t in the Upper East Side where he normally held office. This had been Orion’s first showroom in New York, nearly forty years ago, and despite the glitzy, newer building, Claus Eriksson kept it for sentimental reasons.
Ben didn’t want to take it down either. This building housed other offices and a few other establishments that were connected to the company. The security guard saw him and greeted him while he was on his phone. He gave a quick wave and stepped into an elevator, pressing the button for the fourth floor.
He was met with a busy office scenario; it was an eclectic mix of Swedish furniture, American industrial architecture, and bonsai plants by the windowsills. Ben liked to keep plants around; it calmed him. He saw another secretary that stayed in this office, and he told her to call his other secretary.
He then closed his office door, trying to breathe in heavily to calm himself down. There wasn’t much to do in this building, but he needed to check on the other companies. He checked emails and saw a deal had pushed through for their tire company. Now the tires were going to be made in Indonesia with European standards for a fraction of the cost.
He nodded to himself. Well, at least that was something positive about the day. His phone rang, and he picked it up.
“Yes?” he said as he read through emails on the computer screen again.
“Would you prefer blondes or brunettes this time?”
“What?” he sounded distracted. “Why is that my problem? You’ve already discussed—”
“Just to make sure,” the secretary from the other building prodded.
“Mix them up for all I care, just make them prettier than the last time. Pick smart girls we can drill a bit of car sense into. How’s that for a change?” he muttered, placing the receiver down.
An hour had passed when he received another call.
“Sir, your car is here.”
“Why is it so early?” he began to get annoyed.
“Your mother’s dinner, sir,” the secretary reminded him.
Ben sighed and thanked the secretary. He had almost forgotten about that. Grace wouldn’t like it if he missed dinner with her. He got into the waiting car and called his mother, telling her he was on his way.
Grace lived near Central Park. She lived alone with a few maids or with her sisters who often visited her. It was a ten-million dollar purchase Claus had made many years ago, in the hopes that she would be distracted from his infidelity. Ingrid also slept in the house once in a while if she got bored living with her son.
He arrived at half-past six in the evening and saw his mother setting up cutlery in the formal dining room.
“Ma,” he greeted.
She smiled and stretched out her arms. “And there’s my favorite son.”
“’Cause you only have one,” he replied, embracing his mother who stood at five feet and three inches as opposed to his six-foot three-inch frame.
“Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me,” Grace laughed. “Your grandma’s just changing,” she said, dressed in a loose, pastel-colored dress that reminded him of flappers from the 1920s.
“You look nice and I look like crap,” Ben remarked.
“Go wash your face and hands,” Grace tutted. “I made meatballs with lingonberry jam.”
Ben grinned, feeling like a child all over again. There was nothing like a home-cooked meal and a traditional meal he had enjoyed ever since. His mother, although American, learned how to cook Swedish cuisine perfectly, which was perhaps why Ingrid adored her even more.
His grandmother walked in and her eyes lit up, seeing her first grandson. “Ah, there’s the handsome pojke.”
Ben kissed his grandmother’s cheek. “Mama, ”
“Fine, of course. As usual,” she replied as her grandson helped her sit down.
Dinner went well—they discussed current events, asked him how the company was, how he was managing… until they reached the topic of Denise.
“So, I heard you and that pretty girl Denise broke up,” Ingrid began slowly.
Ben’s eyes narrowed, and he took a sip of wine. “Well, you heard right.”
“What happened?” Grace quickly asked.
Ben sighed. “Look, we broke up.”
Ingrid was studying him intently. “You mean to say you broke up with her.” She didn’t ask. She stated the obvious. Ben knew this and tried to defend himself, a futile effort really.
“Why do you always think it’s my fault?” he asked as he scooped some mashed potatoes.
“Hasn’t it always been?” Ingrid sounded critical of her grandson now. Heaven knows she would take a bullet for him, but the boy never seemed to settle down. “That was the longest relationship you’ve ever been in, and we liked her.”
“You’ve always liked my girlfriends.”
“I didn’t like the gold digger.”
“We just had a few dinners out. She wasn’t my girlfriend.”
“Fine. But I liked Denise,” Ingrid told him.
“There’ll be others,” Ben said brusquely.
“And there you go again,” Grace exhaled. “Sweetie, can’t you just give me a grandchild and give your mama a great grandchild?”
“I’m not a factory, you know. And I think my life is alright as it is.”
“We were thinking,” Grace began, and Ben didn’t like the sound of it already. “We were thinking if you settled down, you’d be more at ease—”
“Because I’m not right now?” Ben replied testily. “Mom, you know how work gets me all antsy. Denise added to that. She was demanding so much from me, something I couldn’t give.”
Ingrid shrugged and took a gulp of wine. “Ben, there’s nothing more we want than to see you happy. And not end up like your father.”
“I don’t plan on having a stroke anytime soon, well not like I can plan to not have it. But yeah, I have a feeling I’m far from some crippling illness.”
Grace’s hand covered his. “I don’t want you overworking yourself. There are so many things to enjoy. Relationships are one. I think they’re important.”
Ben shook his head, remembering his mother’s tears upon discovering her husband’s first affair. “I don’t think I’m meant for relationships right now, especially marriage.”
“You probably haven’t found the right girl yet.”
“I don’t plan to,” Ben replied.
“Ben, I’m not going to live forever,” Ingrid suddenly told him in a soft voice.
“Mama, please don’t say that,” Ben said, hating that he imagined his grandmother dead the moment she said it.
“If I could just see you truly happy in a relationship, then I think I can die happier than most horrid, boring old people.”
“You’re not horrid, and you’re not boring; you’re not even old,” Ben told his grandmother. “Look, if I find her, I’ll never let go of her.”
Ben said this in the most sincere way he could. He wouldn’t hear the end of this, he knew. Especially when they’d liked Denise so much. They’d do anything so that he’d get back with her, lauding her as a potential daughter-in-law. He took a silent, deep breath and controlled his temper. He had just seen his mother and grandmother, and this wasn’t the time to get all riled up about how great Denise was as a girlfriend. He steered the conversation into something else, which he regretted later on.
“So, Aunt Julia told me about the reunion in Nice this December.”
“Ah, yes. Just a tiny reunion. Glad you were still able to check your messenger,” Grace said.
Julia was his father’s younger sister, who still maintained close ties to his mother despite the separation.
“I remember she asked if you were going to bring Denise,” Grace continued.
“Well, if she’s that curious, you can tell her I’m not bringing Denise. Someone else maybe.”
Ingrid’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve met someone else already?”
Ben shrugged. “You’re good at finding things out, Mama.”
Ingrid laughed. “Well, well, well. This is an interesting development.”
“I hope we meet her,” Grace added.
Ben forced a smile.