A Broken Kind of Beautiful (6 page)

“And?”

“He’s more smitten now than he was then.”

Oh, she knew. She could tell last night how smitten he was. He hadn’t laid eyes on anybody but her. Not even the gorgeous young Gabriela. What did Clara Vans matter, or anybody else, when she had the undivided adoration of the CEO of Ventino handbags?

“And given your track record with men, you’re bound to tear his heart out by next week and officially burn all your bridges.”

“It was a little harmless flirting.”

“Not to Ventino, it wasn’t.” Bruce pulled at his jaw and shook his head.

Her fingers turned cold. So did her heart. She’d lost her contract—her only sure thing. Fashion editors didn’t want her anymore, at least not Clara. And in a few months, she’d be a twenty-five-year-old freelance model with no prospects. She’d gone from the runways of Milan and Paris and London to this.

Ivy closed her eyes, fighting against her growing sense of desperation. Who was she without modeling? And why did she feel as if she’d lived a thousand lifetimes when she’d barely lived one? She rubbed circles into her pounding temples. When she opened her eyes, she spotted an envelope on her sofa table. The one from NYU. A listlessness oozed through her body, weighting her arms until they sank by her sides like a pair of matching anchors.

“I want your butt at the agency in thirty minutes.” Bruce walked to the door and flung it open. “Thirty minutes. I have a job for you.”

Twenty-seven minutes, three bottles of water, and four Advil later, Ivy walked through the front doors of the Olsen Modeling Agency—a hub of energy, even at ten thirty on a Friday morning. Despite the dull thumping in the base of her skull, Ivy smiled. Bruce had a job for her. Everything was going to be fine. She walked up to the front desk, heels clicking against white marble flooring. “Hey, Maya, did you get to watch last week’s episode of
The Bachelorette
?”

Maya looked up from her work, bright eyed and fresh faced. “I can’t believe Drew got a rose. How could she pick him over Jason?”

“I was just as puzzled as you, sister.” Ivy glanced at her watch. “Is Bruce ready for me?”

“He said he didn’t want to be bothered until—”

A hum of excitement interrupted Maya’s words. Vera Morrell, the newest and hottest face on the market, strutted down the hall, bookended by another of Bruce’s personal assistants and the agency’s summer intern—temporary
gofer and agent-wannabe. They each wore a Bluetooth, scrolled through their iPhones, and fussed over Vera as they exited the building. Neither one gave Ivy a second look.

“I guess he’s ready for you now,” Maya said kindly.

Squaring her shoulders, Ivy marched down the hall, knocked once, then swung open the door to Bruce’s office.

He tore his crossed feet from the top of his desk, scattering loose papers onto the floor, sat upright in his chair, and hung up the phone. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Apparently, he didn’t like having his personal space barged into any more than she did. “Right on time. Exactly like you taught me.” She held out her wrist and pointed to her watch. “Just trying to maintain my professional reputation, Bruce.”

“Sit down.”

“You said you have a job for me.”

He set his elbows on top of some papers and steepled his fingers.

“Well?” She scooted onto one of the chairs facing his desk.

“Your mother called me last night.”

Ivy’s heart squeezed. Surely he didn’t mean Renee. Because she’d disappeared several weeks ago, shortly after learning the full extent of James’s illness. The timing of her disappearance from the rehab facility was no coincidence. Even after all these years, the grip James had on her mother’s heart was unwavering. “My mom is AWOL.”

Bruce waved his hand. “You know who I mean.”

“What does Marilyn have to do with my career?” She’d never wanted Ivy to get involved in the industry in the first place.

“It has to do with her bridal boutique in Greenbrier—Something New.”

Ivy crossed her arms and leaned back. Where exactly was he going with this?

“She designs her own line of wedding gowns. I guess she’s starting to
make quite a name for herself. Ellie Chan—that new pop singer—wore one of Marilyn’s gowns in her wedding last year and now everybody wants to see what all the fuss is about.”

“How exciting.”

Bruce picked up the pen near his elbow and gave it a few clicks. “She wants you to be the face of her new advertising campaign. I said you’d do it.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?”

“Wedding dresses? You want me to model wedding dresses for Marilyn?” She tipped her head back and laughed, only the notes came out warped. “Please tell me you see the irony.”

“It’s a good idea. She’s got an editorial shoot lined up with
Southern Brides
magazine and several other jobs after that.”

“Why would Marilyn want me?”

Bruce shrugged. “Does it matter?”

Ivy shook her head. Go back to Greenbrier? Work with Marilyn? Model wedding dresses, of all things? The idea was beyond ludicrous. “Send me on some go-sees. I’ll get other jobs.”

Bruce dropped his pen. “Ivy …”

“What do you want me to do, Bruce? Dye my hair? Lose weight? I’ll do whatever it takes.” To get jobs. To win the public’s approval. She’d do anything.

“There’s nothing you can do, Ivy. You’re getting older, and younger models are flooding the market. It’s the way this industry works. You know that.”

She hated the softness in his voice. She didn’t want his pity; she wanted his confidence. “You’re not even trying.”

“Nobody wants a twenty-five-year-old model at their go-sees. Especially not one who is losing it.”

“I don’t turn twenty-five for a few more months, and I’m not losing it. Send me to Europe. Or Tokyo. I don’t care. I’ll even go to Toronto. But I’m
not going anywhere near Greenbrier.” The last thing she needed to do was cuddle up with her past.

“You’ve already done those circuits. Twice. And I don’t have time to baby-sit.”

“Baby-sit?”

“Your interactions with Ventino aside, you got wasted at a party in front of some of the industry’s top professionals and you represent my name.” Bruce pointed to his chest. “Charles Creighton called me to report that you were wild and out of control and, quote, ‘had a tongue like a viper.’ ”

He thought she was wild and out of control because she had a few drinks and spoke her mind? Never mind the models strung out on coke, like Annalise, or the ones flashing the paparazzi, like Vera Morrell. She pinched the bridge of her nose. She felt like a moldy bag of cheese tossed in the trash because she’d reached her expiration date. “Why don’t you say what this is really about?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She brought her hands to her lap. “Your brother’s dead, so you no longer have to do him any favors. He didn’t want me around, so you took me away, and now you don’t have to bother anymore.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m being ridiculous? He hasn’t even been buried two weeks and you’re already trying to get rid of me.”

Bruce shook his head, like he was disgusted by her accusation. “This was never about your dad.”

“What was it about, then?” But even as she asked the question, Ivy already knew the answer. It was about Bruce. It was always about him and how much profit he could make off her. Well, he’d made plenty. He’d wrung her dry. He’d taken everything. Her soul included.

“You’ve had a ten-year career and enough money in savings to set you up comfortably for a long time to come. You should count your blessings.”

Ivy laughed. “My blessings?”

“Do you know how long models usually last in this industry from the time they sign with an agency? Six weeks. Six weeks, Ivy. Most of them don’t make it into a single editorial. They walk a few runways and that’s it.” Bruce leaned back in his chair. “You’ve been around for a decade.”

And it wasn’t enough. At least not enough to be remembered. That ever-elusive door into the supermodel realm—where age mattered much less than fame and name recognition—still remained out of reach. She’d thought, after a year with Reynolds Cosmetics, she’d reached the threshold. But now, with that ripped away, her future spilled into a giant abyss—one she couldn’t see into no matter how hard she tried. She gripped the arms of her chair and stared at the wall, annoyed at the thickness crowding her throat.

“I didn’t do anybody any favors,” Bruce said.

“Just yourself, right? I’ve lost my usefulness, so now it’s time to chuck me.”

“You’re sitting in my office. Obviously I haven’t chucked you.”

“You’re exiling me to Podunk, South Carolina. Same thing.”

“There aren’t any other options, kid. You need to get your head on straight. I need an excuse to get you out of New York before you break Ventino’s heart. And I hate to break it to you, Ivy, but nobody else is making any offers.”

7

The indistinct chatter of dinner conversation circled the room as Davis looked at the menu without really seeing it. Joan Calloway, a woman with spiky copper hair and lime-green glasses, sat across from him. Marilyn sat to his left. Joan worked out of Charleston, the headquarters for
Southern Brides
. She met Marilyn and Davis halfway, in a little town called Sutton Creek, and now they sat in a small Sicilian diner, ready to talk about the editorial. Joan set her menu down. “I am so thrilled you are going to do the shoot, Davis. As soon as I saw your work, I fell in love.”

The waitress saved him from attempting a response. “Have all y’all decided what you’re going to eat tonight?” she asked with a friendly smile.

Joan handed over her menu. “I’ll have the orange and fennel salad.”

The waitress turned to Marilyn.

“The same, please.”

Davis picked the first thing he found. “How about the eggplant caponata?”

“Sure thing.” The young lady took all three menus and left to punch in their orders.

“Let’s talk about the shoot, shall we?” Joan pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “The current fashion trend right now is quirky and chic. Which is exactly the kind of dress your aunt makes. But as you well know, fashion is fickle. I need to capture this trend before things change.

“I’m thinking a four- to six-picture spread. I’m thinking big contrast. Historic south meets contemporary brides.” Joan used her hands when she spoke, bracketing the air as if framing an imaginary caption. “I’m friends with Candace Lipowitz, the manager of the old Primrose Plantation in Greenbrier. She’s agreed to meet with you Sunday morning to give you a
private tour. That way you can check out the location and get a storyboard together for me. We need to get this photo shoot done pronto if we have any chance of running it in the August issue.”

Davis blinked. It was as if somebody had picked him out of the warm sun and tossed him into a pool, no chance to dip in his toes. One minute he was the maintenance man at Cornerstone Church, and the next he was sitting with a fashion editor for a major bridal magazine, listening as she rattled off all sorts of familiar details, and he couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

“When is our model due to arrive?” Joan asked.

Marilyn sipped sweet tea through a straw. “Ivy’s flight arrives on Saturday.”

“Never in a million years did I think somebody like Ivy Clark would shoot for my magazine. And you, my photographer? This is going to be the best editorial we’ve ever done.” She reached across the table and gripped Marilyn’s hand. “This is going to bring your bridal wear line into the public eye, honey. I wouldn’t be surprised if brides come calling from all across America. And you, young man”—Joan kept Marilyn’s hand pinned beneath hers but turned her eyes on Davis—“you’d better free up your schedule. I know more work offers will come.”

Her words might as well have been a clap of thunder over his head. The question he couldn’t shake since yesterday blinked in his mind’s eye like a flashing sign.

What was he doing?

Marilyn patted his forearm with her unoccupied hand. “It’s going to be the perfect jumping-off point for our campaign. Just think how much money we’ll raise for the art program. Sara will be thrilled.”