Read Changing Scenes (Changing Teams #2) Online
Authors: Jennifer Allis Provost
Changing Scenes (Changing Teams #2)
Changing Scenes
Changes, Book Two
Jennifer Allis Provost
Changing Scenes
Copyright © 2015 by Jennifer Allis Provost.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: January 2016
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-442-4
ISBN-10: 1-68058-442-1
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For those who didn’t let their past define them.
Living well is the best revenge.
Table of Contents
Astrid
“Can you take those out?”
I gave the production assistant a long, cold look. I knew exactly what he was referring to, but I wasn’t going to make this easy for him. “Take what out?”
“Your contacts,” he replied. “The client wants a natural look.”
“I’m not wearing contacts.”
“Yeah, right.” He laughed, only to get real quiet real fast when I glared at him. If I’ve had to explain this once I’ve had to explain it a thousand times, and I liked it less with each retelling. Yes, I’m black. Yes, my eyes are green. No, I have no idea how I won the genetic lottery.
“Check my driver’s license if you don’t believe me,” I said. “Will my eye color be a problem?”
He stood there staring at me, opening and closing his mouth like a fish, then he walked away, presumably to find someone with functional vocal cords to help him out. I returned my attention to the mirror and frowned at my hair. It had been done up in tight curls, which wasn’t my favorite look. Still, for the three thousand dollar fee I was getting for this session, I could deal with it.
“Ms. Janvier.”
I glanced over my shoulder; the assistant was back, and he had the photographer and one of the makeup artists flanking him. “Yes?”
“Forgive us, we didn’t realize that your natural eye color is so…unusual,” the photographer said. “An agency error, clearly. However, Tara here assures me that we can fix things.”
I looked Tara, the makeup artist, up and down. “Fix what, exactly?”
“Your eye color,” Tara said. “I have a few sets of colored contacts. We’ll just find the right brown, and you’ll be good to go.” She opened the blue case she was holding, revealing rows and rows of colored contacts.
“Excuse me?” I said, rising to my feet. “You want me to put colored plastic in my eyes? Because my eyes are green and not brown?”
The photographer gave me the most condescending of looks, and said, “The call was for a woman of African descent, not just a dark-skinned woman. Be grateful we’re working with you at all instead of sending you home.”
I don’t know what made my blood boil more, his nasty face or his nasty words. “You know what? I think I will go home. Good luck finding a real black woman.”
I grabbed my bag and headed toward the dressing area, but the photographer grabbed my arm. “Ms. Janvier, wait,” he said. “We have a schedule to keep!”
“Too bad, and don’t touch me,” I said. I stepped behind a screen and took off the fabulously expensive gown I was supposed to be photographed in, and put my own clothes back on. The photographer and his crew were squawking away, complaining about missed deadlines and fines and other things I really didn’t care about. Once I was dressed I stalked off the set without another word.
Was that an extreme reaction? Yes, but I felt more than justified. I’ve worked hard to build my career, and make a name for myself both in and out of the fashion scene. Everyone knows me, either from my modeling, my innovative work as a makeup artist, or my legendary parties. Everyone knows that I’m a trend setter, not a follower. When someone booked me, it was because they appreciated my uniqueness. For those fools to suggest I cover up one of the best parts of myself was beyond insulting.
I hailed a cab and gave the driver my address. As it pulled into traffic my hands started shaking, and the impact of what I’d done hit me. I’d just walked out of a shoot, and a very well paying shoot at that. The fee would have covered this month’s rent, one of my Visa bills, and I’d have enough left over for a new outfit. If I didn’t buy shoes I could even throw a party.
Ha. I always buy shoes.
My phone buzzed in my bag, and I assumed it was my agency calling to find out why I bailed. It wasn’t the first time I’d walked off a shoot, but I’d never walked off one this prestigious before. Whatever. I had my pride.
I took out my phone and checked the display; it wasn’t my agency calling, it was American Express. Shit, I knew I never should have taken out that account. I only get paid when I work, which meant that some months I made tons of bank, others not so much. Really, that’s how this whole credit card drama began in the first place.
Last month had been one of the lean ones, but I’d promised my best friend Britt a party to celebrate her and Sam’s engagement. My trusty Amex and I stocked up on food and booze, and I got a fabulous new dress and two pairs of shoes; skyscraper-high heels for the beginning of the night, and trendy flats for after midnight. Then a series of unfortunate events attacked my finances—first one of my shoots had been cancelled, and now I’d walked out of today’s session like the rocket scientist I am.
I rejected the call and stared out the cab window. Maybe I could go back to the shoot, smooth things over with the photographer. Maybe wearing contacts wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe pigs would fly out of my ass.
My phone buzzed again; this time it was my agency, Archer Modeling Agency.
“Did you hear?” I asked by way of greeting.
“Did we ever,” Mindy replied. “You’re not exactly John’s favorite right now.”
John was Mindy’s brother, and the owner of the agency. “I haven’t been on his good side in a long time, despite all the money I bring you guys,” I said. I was their top model, out earning the rest by at least twenty percent. Every time a major label hired me John hated me a little bit more, and I loved every second of it.
“Yeah, well, money’s not everything,” she said. “The agency has a reputation to maintain. If we get known for models who storm off the set, then no one will be making any money, not me, not you, not John.”
I hated it when she made sense. I hated it even more when she made sense because I’d done something dumb. “You’re right,” I sighed. “I’m sorry. I promise if a photographer pisses me off again I’ll call you before I do anything dramatic.”
“Thank you. Did they really tell you to put contacts in?”
“Sure did. Questioned my blackness and everything.” My phone beeped; the good people at Visa were calling on the other line. How nice of them to check on me. “So, do you have anything else you can book me for?”
“Not really,” Mindy said. “We’ve scheduled everything out to the end of the year. What with the holidays coming up there just isn’t as much of a call for work.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, wondering if that was the real reason. With my luck, John was punishing me for my little fit by withholding the decent work. “Call me if you get anything in?”
“I will. Take care, Astrid.”
“You too.”
I hung up just as the cab got to my building. I gave the driver my last twenty, stepped out into the crisp autumn air, and looked up toward my apartment. If I got a new place, a studio like Britt’s place, I could save almost a thousand per month. Of course, a studio would mean the loss of my fancy address, my doorman, and seriously compromise my parties. Not to mention that new apartments required down payments and security deposits, two things I definitely did not have.
My phone buzzed again; three different bill collectors in less than an hour. That had to be a record, even for me. I declined the call, squared my shoulders, and entered my building. I would figure this out. I didn’t have a choice.
Astrid
An hour later I was sitting on my living room floor, and had my assorted financial paperwork spread out around me. On one sheet was my bank statement, on another my Visa card bill, then my other Visa card bill, that stupid American Express my brother had talked me into, some store credit accounts, the interest statement on that personal loan I’d taken out a year or so ago…
I covered my face with my hands and hunched over. How had this happened? I was so far in debt I couldn’t even see the sky, and all for what? So I could look stylish? So I could throw parties where the expensive booze never stopped flowing? What had all these fancy shoes and top shelf vodkas ever done for me?
Nothing, that’s what.
Back when I was first getting into New York’s fashion scene I knew I had to make a splash to stand out. Mind you, I’ve always been unique; black women with startlingly green eyes aren’t exactly a dime a dozen. But my eye color wasn’t nearly enough, at least not in this town, so I decided to be fabulous. You know what? Fabulous is expensive.
Sure, I had regular gigs and sure, I made good money. But there was always the next party, and I couldn’t wear the same dress I’d worn to the last party now, could I? Not to mention that any old shoes wouldn’t do; they needed to sport designer labels, but those labels had to be from the right designer. All this fabulosity left me with miles of designer footwear, yet my kitchen cabinets only had a box of crackers and an ancient tin of hot cocoa. Stupid cocoa didn’t even have marshmallows.
I wasn’t always like this, a fashionista desperately trying to out-cool everyone around her. When I was younger I wanted to own a shop, and stock it with all sorts of fun things like local art and vintage books and colorful jewelry. Then my cousin Michael got into photography and performance art, and he’d needed someone who understood dark complexions to help him with makeup…
Well, the shopkeeper dream died on the vine, let’s put it that way.
I didn’t mind that my life hadn’t turned out the way I’d envisioned. Some people held on to their childhood aspirations, but I believed that life was ever changing. Besides, when I was a twelve-year-old dreaming of arranging artwork and polishing jewelry, I hadn’t known the life of a model existed, with all the fancy parties and beautiful clothes. My life was fun and exciting, nothing like I’d ever thought it would be, and I wouldn’t change a thing.
Except for the debt. That can go.
I straightened my back and rolled my shoulders, then I smoothed out the form I’d been clutching. It was an application for yet another credit card, this one with a low interest rate for the first twelve months. If I can get approved for this card, and transfer the balances from a few others onto it, I could save a few hundred dollars a month. That had been my plan when I opened Visa Number Two, but then Fashion Week hit and I used my newly cleared card for wardrobe and party expenses. That was two months ago, and now I was broker than I’d ever been.
That would not happen this time, not with this new card. This time, I would be good.
My phone vibrated from underneath the paperwork. It was a text message from my bestie, Britt, asking if I’d like to meet her for lunch. I shuffled through my paperwork; Visa Number One had just over one hundred dollars available. Good, I can eat today. And I know of a place that takes plastic.
Astrid: Sure. Café near my place in 30?
Britt: Sounds good. Got to tell you all about Iowa!!!!
That girl had a punctuation addiction. I dropped my phone and looked at the credit card application again. The form claimed easy acceptance, either online or right over the phone. Thirty minutes was just long enough for me to call in my information, move some balances, and get my life under control. If I can transfer a few accounts, maybe I can pay down my debt in a few months or a year. Then I can start keeping the money I earn, and do things other people do, like take vacations and grocery shop.
Maybe I’ll be able to breathe again.
***
I got to Café Luna about fifty minutes after I’d texted Britt; anyone who knows me is aware that tardiness is part of my charm. Even though it was the second weekend in November, the day was warm, with the bright autumn sun reflecting off the restaurant and shop windows. Britt had claimed one of the outdoor bistro tables, and was practically jumping out of her skin.
“You’re here,” she squealed, jumping up and hugging me.
“Of course I am,” I said, as I hugged her back. Britt hadn’t been gone very long, but I’d missed her. “We’re here to talk about Iowa?” I asked as we sat. Britt had gone there with Sam so she could meet his parents. I’m sure Sam’s parents had a few questions for them as well, being that Britt was the first girl he’d ever brought home. “Trying to bore me to death?”
“Sam’s rich and we’re getting married,” Britt said in a rush, bouncing up and down in her seat. “We went to his parents’ and his stupid aunt died and left him her life insurance. The whole thing!”
“Wow.” I glanced at Britt’s engagement ring; it was a vintage art deco ring that featured three rectangular emeralds surrounded by diamond baguettes. I’d known about the ring before she did, since Sam had taken Michael jewelry shopping. Neither one of them had a clue about what they were doing, but luckily for Britt, Michael texted me pictures of various rings, asking my opinion. After the fifth perfectly awful ring, I hopped in a cab and helped them pick out the exquisite piece that Britt ended up with.
“Wait—when you say Sam’s aunt, do you mean
the
aunt?” I asked. Sam had had a pretty horrific childhood, and it had all been the fault of his Aunt Sophia. “The bad one?”
“Yeah,” Britt replied. “It seems she had an abundance of guilt, and made Sam her sole beneficiary.” Britt fingered the edge of her napkin, then she shook her head. “Anyway, she’s not the point. The point is that Sam’s loaded now, so we can open our own studio and get married sooner than we thought!”
“Wow.” I was saying that a lot. “So you mean to tell me that just like that, you went from single Britt, living off oatmeal and bargain bin fruit, to affianced Britt dining on Champagne and caviar?”
“Well, it’s not that much money,” Britt said sheepishly. “And a studio plus a wedding are two pretty big expenses. I’m sure we’ll be poor again after all that happens.”
“I bet,” I said. “So? When’s the wedding?”
Britt giggled. “As soon as possible.”
“Are you pregnant?” I demanded.
“No,” she shot back. “But I love him, and I…I just want us to start our lives together. So does Sam. Is that so bad?”
I smiled and replied, “Not at all. In fact, it’s the best news I’ve heard in a while.” The waiter came by and deposited two glasses of red wine, a loaf of garlic bread with a side of marinara sauce, and a plate of calamari between us. “Based on this spread I assume you’ve decided to leave modeling behind.”
“I don’t know,” Britt said, tearing off a piece of bread. Yeah, she’d gotten the one stuffed with mozzarella and gorgonzola. “I mean, I like modeling, and it pays well. Besides, with me and Sam opening our own studio, he’ll need someone to pose for him.”
“Mm hmm. Something tells me those pictures will never see publication,” I said, ripping off my own piece of bread and dipping it in marinara sauce. Since I didn’t have any work lined up, I might as well indulge.
Britt giggled. “Sam and I are perfectly capable of restraint, especially on a full set. Besides, at least part of the studio will be for my art. Depending on where we end up, we might set up a small gallery or store front, get some cash sales.” She sipped her wine, then asked, “So, what do you think? Is it a good plan?”
I moved some calamari to my plate and grabbed another slice of bread, remembering the girl I’d been ten years ago. She would have jumped at the chance to own her own retail space, to make her own schedule and live a creative, carefree life. “I think it’s a great plan.”
