Enticed:A Dangerous Connection (Secrets) (3 page)

“I know how to do that,” I tell her. “In fact, my phone takes pretty good photos. Do you think I could use that to make my portfolio?”

“I don’t know why not. If the photos are good quality.”

“And I know how to load them onto a computer. And how to post them on social networks and all that.”

She brightens. “Well, perhaps that is the way to make a portfolio nowadays.”

“Yes,” I say eagerly. “Most people communicate through e-mail and social media. I’ll bet I can build an electronic portfolio.”

She waves her hand. “Maybe you can. But all that technology is Greek to me.”

Now I’m excited as I imagine putting on different outfits and taking various shots of myself as I build an electronic portfolio. “I’m sure I can do this,” I tell her enthusiastically. “And maybe I can get Michelle to help me.”

“That sounds like a good plan, Simi. And I’ll find out when we can schedule the fashion show at Marley’s. In the meantime, you work on your portfolio and do not forget to practice, practice, practice.” She hands me her portfolio. “Why don’t you take this with you, dear. It might help you to pose for your own photographs.”

“Really?” I’m surprised she’d part with this treasure. “You don’t mind if I borrow it?”

“Just take good care of it.”

“I will.” I nod.

She gets a thoughtful look now, as if she’s making some sort of plan. “And I will try to contact someone from my old agency.”

“Agency?”

“Modeling agency. Anyone who needs a model — whether it’s for a fashion show or advertising or whatever — goes through an agent. They call your agent and explain what they’re looking for. Then the agent decides which models are best suited for the assignment and sends them out. If you’re chosen for the job, your agent goes over the contract for you, and some agencies, like the one I worked for, will pay you an advance.” She makes a slightly smug smile. “I was with Ford.”

“Ford, the cars?”

“No. Ford, the modeling agency. Just the most prestigious modeling agency in the country. Perhaps in the world. At least they were when I was working for them. Ford was started in New York by the Ford family, back in the forties I believe. But there’s one in Los Angeles, too.” She stands, rubbing her hands together eagerly. “In fact, I should give them a call
right now
. Perhaps Bernice still works there.”

“Bernice?”

“Bernice McDaniels was a model with me in the sixties. But she became an agent after she was too old to model anymore. It’s possible she’s still working there now.” She heads for the kitchen. “Excuse me while I try to see if I can find their number.”

Feeling excited and hopeful, I wait, eavesdropping as Mrs. Norbert speaks to someone at this prestigious Ford agency. Is it possible that before I leave here today, she will have found a real connection for me? At what might be the biggest modeling agency in the world? I’m so excited I can barely breathe. But when she returns, I can tell by her expression that she hasn’t been successful.

“Bernice has passed on,” she tells me in a dejected tone. “More than five years ago.” She shakes her head. “Lung cancer. Very, very sad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes, so am I.”

“And the woman I spoke to sounded very young. Naturally, she’d never heard of me before, but that was no excuse for her rudeness.”

“She was rude to you?”

She waves her hand. “Well, dismissive anyway. She told me that their agency was not actively seeking new clients. In other words, she gave me the brush-off.” She sighs. “Oh well. Ford is not the only fish in the sea. I suspect there are dozens of perfectly good agencies in the Los Angeles area.”

“Yes, I’m sure there are.”

“So, you go and work on your portfolio. And practice everything I showed you until it feels natural. And I’ll let you know about the fashion show at Marley’s.”

“And what about agencies?” I ask eagerly. “Should I look into finding one that is interested in me?”

“Oh no, dear. Not yet. It’s too early for that. There are things we should work on. And then we should do some research and find out what agency would be best for you. I’m sure I still have some friends around who can help us with these questions.” She sadly shakes her head. “Oh, poor Bernice … and lung cancer. Well, it’s no wonder since we all smoked far too much back then. But who knew?”

I express my sympathy again and, clutching Mrs. Norbert’s old portfolio to my chest, thank her for her time, promise to practice, and then leave. I’m so excited about making my electronic portfolio that I can barely contain myself as I hurry back to our apartment.

I kick off the red high heels, which are killing my feet, then go straight to my bedroom, which is still a mess from all the outfits I tried on, and frantically dig through the pile of clothes. Somehow I need to put together some stylish-looking ensembles. There’s no time to waste in getting my portfolio together. It’s already the end of June, and if I’m going to make it as a model this summer, I need to get to work.

Finally, I’ve arranged what I think are some good outfits. I lay them out on my bed, complete with shoes, sandals, and boots, and I take turns trying them on. I even attempt to take some photos, but I realize that to get good quality shots, I will definitely need some help. So I call Michelle and enthusiastically tell her about my meeting with Mrs. Norbert and how she lent me her portfolio, and how I’m going to make my own electronic portfolio, and even that I’m going to model in a real fashion show. However, I don’t admit that it’s only at Marley’s Dress Shop. After all, Michelle doesn’t need to hear all the details.

Fortunately, she catches my enthusiasm, and before I hang up, I have her word that she’ll come over here tomorrow to play photographer for me. Not only that, but she promises to bring along her mom’s digital camera as well as some of her own accessories. Michelle might not like buying clothes so much, probably because of her weight, but she adores accessories and has a great selection of costume jewelry, scarves, hats, and belts. Just what I need to round out my outfits and look like a real fashionista.

While my mom vegges in front of the TV, I spend the evening cruising through agency websites, but remembering Mrs. Norbert’s advice, I resist the temptation to start filling out applications. I want to wait and see if she comes up with something. Besides, I should have my portfolio ready to go first. However, I do list the most promising websites in my Favorites folder. I also create a new Facebook page.

While my other page, the one I started back in middle school, is mostly just a way to connect with a few people, primarily Michelle, sharing goofy photos and jokes and various links, this new Facebook page will be devoted entirely to fashion — and to me. I can’t wait to start filling it up with my portfolio shots. I really feel like I am on my way, and maybe by July I’ll start landing some real modeling jobs. It could happen — I believe it!

… [CHAPTER 3]………………

M
ichelle shows up around ten on Thursday morning, lugging in two bags filled with her fabulous accessory collection. Together, we finesse my outfits, deciding what goes with what, and an hour later I am posing in front of the cream-colored sheet we’d taped to the wall that separates the kitchen from the living room. But after a few shots, Michelle decides that our lighting is insufficient. So we pull up all the blinds and then get every single lamp in the house. After arranging them on tables and stools all around me, we remove the lamp shades and turn the lights all on.

“Much better,” Michelle says as she takes more photos.

Although the apartment looks like a hurricane hit it and the lamplight is making it uncomfortably warm, Michelle and I press on into the afternoon, taking more and more photos. I pose in dresses, pants, shorts, swimsuits, skirts, even my Hello Kitty pajamas and fluffy pink slippers, which look a little goofy, but as Michelle points out, you never know. Finally, we’re both exhausted, and I have less than thirty minutes to put the apartment back into place before Mom comes home.

I turn on the AC, although I’m not supposed to do this since we’re on a strict budget, but Mom will freak out over how hot it is in here. As I’m running around frantically restoring order, Michelle is loading all the photos onto my computer for me.

“Some of them are really good,” she says as she returns to the living room. “You’re actually pretty photogenic.”

“Really?” I pause from adjusting the lamp shade. “You think so?”

She nods. “Maybe you really will make a good model.”

“Thanks!” I hug her. “And thanks for your help today. No way could I have done this without you.”

“So you won’t forget me once you become rich and famous and get your photo on the cover of
Elle
or
Vogue
?” I can hear the teasing tone in her voice, but her expression is serious.

“You will always be my best friend.”

“Cool.” She starts collecting her accessories now, loading them into the bags. “I can’t wait to see your portfolio when it’s done.”

“I’ll send it to you,” I promise. “My goal is to get it put together before this weekend. And then I plan to send it out right away.”

“Are you still babysitting for the bratty Burk twins?”

“Yeah.” I replace the lamp on the end table. “Don’t remind me.”

We’ve just finished up and Michelle is leaving as Mom gets home. Fortunately the apartment looks fairly normal now, and Mom is none the wiser about how I tore it all up. I can tell by her face that she’s had a hard day at work, and feeling enthused from our photo session, I even offer to fix dinner.

“That would be fantastic.” She dumps her purse on the table and kicks off her shoes. “And I’ll take a shower and put my feet up.”

As I scavenge in the freezer and the kitchen cabinets for something interesting to make for dinner, I try to imagine what it would feel like to have some interesting food and ingredients at my fingertips for a change. Maybe someday. In the meantime, we’ll have to settle for frozen chicken enchiladas, which I heat in the microwave. But I do slice up a cantaloupe to go with it, and Mom doesn’t complain at my meager offering. I tell her a little about our photo shoot, but her enthusiasm has definitely gone downhill since yesterday.

Finally, she admits that she’s worried the escrow company is thinking about letting people go. “I might have to start looking for another job,” she says as we’re finishing up dinner.

“Oh …” I frown as I clear the table. “Well, I’ll do what I can to help out.”

“And don’t give up your babysitting job,” she says as she gets up.

I promise her that I won’t, and after she retreats to her room, I continue to clean the kitchen. It’s only a matter of time until I’ll be making enough money to not only quit babysitting but help out if Mom loses her job.

I really believe my life is about to change — doors are about to open. As I scrub the sink, I remember back in middle school when Hannah Whittier made fun of me for wearing a Gap shirt that she was certain had belonged to her. Naturally I denied it. But when she claimed her mom had donated a bunch of her old clothes to a nearby Goodwill, I’m sure my face gave me away — I had found the shirt there the previous weekend.

She and her mean, snooty friends thought that was hilarious. They called me Miss Goody Goodwill for the rest of the year. I never wore that shirt again, and I learned to shop at thrift stores in other towns.

As soon as I’m done in the kitchen, I go straight to my room and begin sorting through the photos Michelle took today. This laptop is pretty old and slow — Trista gave it to my mom several years ago when she upgraded to a better one — but I’m the one who uses it most of the time. And fortunately, the apartment building has free Internet. I’m so driven to get this portfolio right that I work until I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. To my surprise, it’s almost two in the morning when I finally shut down.

The next day I get up and go straight back to work on this project. After hearing about Mom’s job situation, I am determined to get this thing up and running this weekend. I make a folder containing about forty photos similar to the shots in Mrs. Norbert’s portfolio, all of which I’ve titled and numbered. And if I say so myself, it looks fairly professional. At least to me. In the afternoon, I load about twenty photos onto my Facebook page.

And then Trista calls to ask if I can babysit tonight. “I know it’s short notice and I know you usually go to youth group on Fridays, but the UPS guy that always delivers to the salon, you know the one who’s always so sweet and polite, well, he finally asked me out, and he seems like such a good guy and I just couldn’t say no, Simi.”

I want to tell her no and that I really need to go to youth group, but I remember Mom’s job situation and reluctantly agree. Besides, the twins go to bed at seven thirty so I’ll only be chasing after them for a couple of hours. So, really, it will be a piece of cake compared to the weekend. Besides that, I can take my laptop and continue to work on my project once they’re asleep.

“So can you be here by five?” she asks hopefully. “To help with the twins while I get ready? You know what a handful they can be when they know I’m going somewhere in the evening.”

“Yeah, I do know. And yeah, I’ll be there by five.”

So at a little before five, I leave Mom a note. And with the laptop in my backpack, I trudge down the stairs to Trista’s apartment on the first floor. Trista and the twins have only lived here about a year. They moved in right after Trista’s husband, Scott, turned into a three-time loser. At least that’s what Mom and Trista call him now. First Scott lost his job, then he lost their house, and finally he lost Trista and the kids by having an affair with one of their neighbors. I used to think he was a pretty cool guy, but now I know he was just a big jerk, which seriously makes me question my discernment skills when it comes to men.

Not that I need to be too concerned about that just yet. But when I become a model, I might need to hone my ability to detect whether or not a guy is the real deal. I hope Trista is right about this UPS dude. She’s been crushing on him for a couple of months now, and I must admit he seems like a good catch. And for Trista’s sake, I hope he’s all she thinks he is.