Fashion Slaves

by Louise deTeliga

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

A girl can never have too much luck. . . Once upon a time, Josie Vaughn went from living the simple life to becoming the "it" girl of the fashion modeling scene. But the fairy tale abruptly ended, leaving her with no career, a stash of unpaid bills, and an empty social calendar. Then a twist of fate lands her back in front of the camera, and she suddenly finds herself under the spell of Marcus Ashland--the drop-dead gorgeous "it" guy of the fashion photography scene that everyone wants in their bed. And the only bed Marcus wants to be in--is Josie's. . . . When it comes to love. . . Marcus seems to have it all: youth, style, and loads of sex appeal. . .unlike Andy Wyatt--the southern millionaire businessman who does nothing for Josie's libido, although he is the sweetest man she's ever met. So why is she bothered when she runs into him with a blonde bombshell on his arm? And why can't she stop thinking about him? Now, torn between two men, Josie will have to hope for another twist of fate to give her a happily-ever-after kind of love. . . "A wicked, clever send-up of the world of fashion!"--Simon Doonan, author of Nasty--My Family and Other Glamorous Varmints

Release date: June 6, 2012

Publisher: Strapless

Print pages: 320

Sample

She should have known she’d manage to screw this one up. There were clues, after all.

Wearing four-inch spike heels was the first idiotic choice. Mountain climbing. Her whopper-size ten-anda-half feet squeezed into the needle-sharp pointed boots like one of the ugly sisters’ gelatinous hooves into Cinderella’s dainty slipper. Brilliant choice.

Josie trudged wearily up the hill through a forest of majestic firs, barely glancing at the pale sapphire sky and bloated white clouds floating above. A sheer, skim-milk sun trickled through the branches, illuminating fallen pine needles and cones and odd outcrops of brightly hued fungus clinging to ancient logs on the forest floor. When she reached a small clearing in the undergrowth, she flopped onto a rock, pulled off her boots, and massaged her swollen toes. Why did she always have to be such a pathetic fashion slave? Like anyone would ever see her here.

She watched a cow graze sleepily on a carpet of emerald grass dotted with white Alpine flowers. The soft clank of its bell infused the forest with an unusual calm. She took a deep breath of the almost palpable mountain air. Beyond exhausted.

Suddenly, out of the depths of the forest charged a group of small children, dressed in traditional Bavarian clothing. Perfect little faces. Alive with laughter, they skipped into the meadow, dancing around in circles until Josie felt nauseous watching them. Finally they fell in a giggling heap on the grass.

“Cut! Cut! That stupid goddamned cow keeps facing the wrong way! Its face is supposed to be toward the camera, not its goddamned ass! For Christ’s sake do something about it! Where’s its goddamned wrangler?” David Sarinen screamed. “And wardrobe! Christie! Pull up that boy’s lederhosen! He’s practically naked by the time he hits his mark! We’re selling yogurt, not fucking kiddie porn!” he yelled from his perch behind a camera, which was mounted on a crane that raised and lowered over the mountain set.

“It’s Josephine”—she flashed a big, fake smile at him, clambering over a plastic grassy knoll to fix the offending suede shorts—“or Josie.”

“Whatever,” he growled, “just do your fucking job.”

She bit down on her lip. Obnoxious little turd.

Second clue: work with abusive director who’s forgotten to take his meds.

Her assistant, Mala, ran in to help. “That jerk,” she hissed. “You’ve been working with him for two years. You’d think he’d remember your name by now.”

“A year too many, ” Josie mumbled, shortening the suspenders on the boy’s shorts.

“You know, he used to be one of the best in the world. It can’t be easy watching your career go down the plug hole. When I first met him he was on top of his game.”

She’d heard he was a screamer. A total bastard with a Napoleonic complex. So, before her initial interview with him, she’d dressed in her chicest, low-cut Prada dress and her highest heels. His eyeline was level with her boobs. Exactly as planned. Turned out he was quite charming, in a bratty rock ’n’ roll way. Tousled, highlighted hair. Ripped jeans, wife-beater tank, and the ubiquitous tats on his tanned arms. She told him he looked like Jon Bon Jovi. She got the job. It had been downhill ever since.

“What happened?” Mala asked.

Josie put one finger over a nostril, sniffed loudly, then tippled an imaginary drink down her throat.

“So now he’s got to shoot this crap. We all have to. Let’s face it, we’re bottom feeders. We’re scraping the depths of the advertising gene pool here. No wonder he’s pissed.”

“But Bo Benchley’s starring in this!” Mala said, like it would make the pathetic copy writing become instantly brilliant because another mega star had been paid a fortune to hawk yet another cheesy product.

“Phw!” Josie snorted. “Bo Benchley. I hear he’s a complete dickhead.”

“What’s a dickhead?” the little boy asked, eyes wide with innocence.

“Ooh.” Josie glanced around, hoping his mom or the set teacher was nowhere in earshot. “It’s nothing, Freddie. Just something you’ll encounter lots of if you stay in this business, kid. Now run along.” She patted his little blond head and propelled him back toward the other children.

“Back to One!” yelled Miles, the assistant director, shepherding the children to their beginning positions in the forest as the crew readied for another take. The cow’s legs had now been tied to sandbags and covered with foliage, hopefully preventing another bad performance. It didn’t seem too perturbed by this encumbrance, as a new roll of fresh turf had been laid down for it to chew on.

Josie stumbled off the set into the dark of the cavernous sound stage and made her way past the camera crew, trying not to trip over the masses of electric cords snaking all over the cement floor. She was starving, but the sight of congealing, grayish scrambled eggs and mummified greasy bacon on the breakfast table nearly made her retch. She’d kill for a decent cup of coffee.

She slipped out of the stage and into an elevator across the hallway. Leaning her head against the wall, she closed her eyes, drained at the thought of the tedious day stretching before her. Endless hours trapped on a plastic Alpine set, with a bunch of fat grips whose beer guts wobbled out over their jeans. And that jerkoff director. The glamour of it all.

The doors opened and she saw, to her dismay, that the top-floor cafeteria was closed. But she stepped out anyway. Her dour mood lifted instantly. Through the huge stretch of windows along one side of the building glistened the Manhattan skyline, sparkling in the early morning sun like a fabulous jewel. Postcard perfect. She strode across the room, pushed open heavy glass doors leading to a large walled-in terrace, and stepped outside.

A frigid wind whistled around her. She crossed the flagstones to the edge of the parapet and gazed across the East River, gulping in the fresh air, energized by the vision of power spread out before her. It always had that surreal quality, like a diorama in a museum, or a backdrop for a movie set. Except this was the real thing, not some spurious hack job thrown together in a dungeon in Queens, like the set downstairs.

Sometimes she still couldn’t believe she lived here. A girl from the burbs of Sydney living in New York. Pretty cool. Okay, so maybe things weren’t going as well as she’d like. An understatement to say the least. But she lived in New York, for God’s sake. How bad could it be? She was working. Advertising had been so depressed for so many months she was thrilled to finally have a job again.

She shivered and clutched her thin white shirt close to her. November. Winter loomed. Rubbing her arms to keep warm, she turned and crossed back toward the exit.

She pulled at the door. Wouldn’t open. Another tug produced nothing. What a complete weakling. Fat lot of good all those weight-training sessions did. She pulled with all her might, rattled as hard as she could, but the door wouldn’t budge. She realized, with mounting horror, that she was locked out. Oh, shit.

Oh, shit! It’s bloody glacial out here! What’ll I do ? Panicking, she banged and rattled the doors, frantically trying to pull them open. Not an inch. Nada, nothing. Shit. She peered through the glass in hopes that someone might be inside, but she couldn’t see any signs of life, and there didn’t appear to be a security camera anywhere in sight.

Ohmygod! No one knows I’m up here! “Help!” she yelled out to the magnificent view. “Help!”

Third clue: lock yourself out. Freeze to death.

She imagined her stiff, icy remains being found days, maybe weeks later. They’d have to cut open her frozen black leather McQueen pants. Underneath they’d see she’d forgotten her mum’s advice—“always wear good underwear, dear, in case you get run over by a bus”—she had on shredded knickers, and an ancient Vicki’s Secret bra clung to her frozen nipples. That’s what happens when you dress at 4:30 AM. Shit. At least she was wearing the most fabulous Louboutin boots. Which she’d charged the day before. Now she’d never have to pay for them.

Yeah, no problem. You’ll be dead, you twit.

She rattled at the doors again but realized it was useless. Shivering, she raced over to the other side of the terrace, where a row of potted fir trees rimmed the parapet. Climbing onto one of the pots, she leaned over the edge to the street below and yelled out. It was a barren wasteland down there. The studios were in the middle of a vast urban slum. Great. Not even a drag queen hooker lurked below. They only came out after dark. She yelled out again, feeling the air icing her lungs, bringing on the asthma.

Calm down! Think!

A mass of vines, their leaves withering into dormancy, trailed over the edge and down the side of the building. She considered grabbing hold of the strongest-looking one and lowering herself down. But it petered out about halfway down the building. So then what? Jump a floor or two? Yeah, right. What a pity I missed those “How to swing like Tarzan in the urban jungle” classes in the Learning Annex magazine. You just never know when they’ll come in handy.

Shut up and think!

She stared at the trees for a few seconds and figured maybe she could charge the doors and smash the glass with one. So she picked the smallest tree and set to work unearthing its roots from the wooden pot. The wind was howling now, whistling and eddying around, lifting dirt from the pot and throwing it in her face, up her nostrils, in her eyes.

Coughing and spluttering and barely able to see with all the grit and hair blowing everywhere, she dug away at the roots until she could feel them loosening. When she finally stood up and attempted to grasp the trunk, spiny branches scratched her face and she heard her shirt rip and felt a painful scraping on her right shoulder as she reached in toward the middle of the foliage.

She gasped and swore but didn’t let go, determined to yank the fir out. Using one foot as an anchor on the pot, she tugged hard until she felt the tree freeing up. She pulled with all her force and found herself on her back with the tree on top of her.

“Aahggh,” she groaned. She lay there for a few seconds, trying to catch her breath. When she managed to get up, her back ached and she was covered in dirt and there were blood spots seeping through her shirt.

She grabbed the top of the tree and dragged it until she was in a direct line with the glass doors. As she lifted the tree a huge gust of wind threw her off balance, whirling her around like a bizarre dervish. Finally righting herself, she looked toward the doors and found, to her amazement, that she was no longer alone.

In the doorway, tall and elegant in a dark suit and a black cashmere coat, stood Bo Benchley. A hunter green cashmere scarf slung nonchalantly around his neck added luster to a deeply tanned complexion. Smooth as silk.

“Oh!” she gasped, still clutching her spiny green dance partner. “Hi.” Ohmygod! It’s him! And could I possibly look any worse? She glanced past him at her reflection in the glass. Nope. Not a chance of that.

“Bit early to be lifting a Christmas tree isn’t it?” he said with his celebrated resonance, an amused condescension spread across his large face. He was huge. She could feel the space around him disappear. He took a puff of a giant cigar and stared at her.

She shrank back, mortified, and tried to smooth her rat’s nest of hair into place. Like it would make any difference at this point.

“Ahh,” she squeaked, attempting a wan smile, “I ah ...”

“Put it back,” he boomed and, flashing her a final withering look, he grasped the door handle with a gargantuan paw, opened it with the greatest of ease, and swept back inside.

She lunged after him to grab the door in case it locked again and fell in a twisted heap over the tree. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” she groaned breathlessly.

Fourth clue: make complete ass of yourself in front of celebrity. Even if he is a total dickhead.

“What the fuck happened to you?” David Sarinen hissed, as she staggered back onto the stage. “You look like a bull dyke on acid.”

“I do not! ” Josie snapped. “I just got locked—”

“Been out in the parking lot picking up tricks? You look like shit.”

“Thanks a lot,” she mumbled, feeling worse than shit. She felt like she’d been beaten up. She shuffled painfully over to the production desk.

“Are you okay?” asked Arnelle, the producer, looking horrified. “What happened? Do you need a doctor?”

“I’m fine,” Josie said sheepishly, “I just—”

“You don’t look fine.”

“She looks like shit,” David Sarinen said, walking off toward the mountain set. “Why does everyone on this crew look like shit? Why can’t I have a decent-looking crew for once? All I ever get lumbered with is this ugly bunch of morons.”

“Have you looked in the mirror lately?” Arnelle muttered after him, rolling her eyes.

“Little rat,” Josie said, examining the wreckage of her body. Her shirt was ripped to shreds and she had a large bleeding cut on the back of her shoulder.

“I think you ought to let the medic check you out,” Arnelle said. “And I want to know what happened. You really do look like shit.”

“What the fuck is with that getup? If that sweater were any tighter it’d fucking strangle you,” said David Sarinen, as he spotted her sitting back on the fake rock twenty minutes later.

“I wish you’d put it on then,” Josie said, although he had a point. The only thing she could find to change into was one of the children’s spare Tyrolean sweaters. And it did feel like she’d bust out of it any second. The sleeves were so tight she couldn’t lift her arms up and it barely came down below her bra, leaving a huge gaping area of midriff above her leather jeans. She sat up as straight as she could and sucked in her stomach so the roll of fat wouldn’t show.

“Nice tits,” he said, with a wriggle of his rodent nose.

She felt her jaw drop, but before she could think of a retort, Bo Benchley, flanked by an entourage of acolytes, entered the soundstage. A hush fell over the set.

“So where’s my mark?” he boomed, to no one in particular. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Hi there, Bo.” The director held up his tiny rodent-like hand to the enormous star. “How are you, man? Wow, you look great.”

Bo Benchley puffed on his cigar and glanced down at the rodent for a nanosecond. “I am,” he said and bounded up onto the mountain. The set shook as he pounded over the Astro Turf like a monster, leaving crushed fake edelweiss in his wake. His make-up artist and costumer chased behind him, ready to primp. He waved them away and stood for a few seconds, surveying the set with hooded eyes.

Josie, relieved he’d brought his own wardrobe stylist, hid behind a tree, pulling at her miniature sweater, and watched him. His protuberant belly, pushing over the top of olive green Ultrasuede lederhosen, was offset by spindly legs encased in knee-high yellow woolen socks with red and green ties around the tops, and a pair of green pointy-toed booties. A small boiled wool hat with a long bouncing feather perched jauntily on his monster-sized skull. He looked obscene, like some sort of perverted Austrian man-child. Not exactly a vision that would make one in any way crave a pint or two of yogurt.

“You look hilarious, Bo, just great,” chortled rat-face Sarinen, sidling up beside him. He was about half Bo’s height and he had to strain his head back to look up that far. Bo didn’t lower his gaze at all. “I was thinking—”

“The first shot will be me with the cow,” Bo thundered. “We need a close-up of my face next to his. Get the camera over here.” He pointed to a spot. The crew stood in stunned silence for a minute, not knowing whom they should obey. “Well? What the hell are you slackers waiting for? Get on with it.” He took a long drag on his cigar. “And keep those ankle biters away from me ’til I need ’em. Too damned noisy.”

The children, mute since his appearance, were nonetheless herded off the mountain as the crew rushed around. To Josie’s delight, David Sarinen shuffled off and sat down on the crane, looking humiliated.

Bo directed himself and the tethered cow in one take, then walked off the set. “Next shot is me with the ankle biters. And get a move on, slackers. I’m out of this godforsaken joint in two hours. You hear me?”

A few minutes later, as Josie knelt checking children’s costumes, he thundered back onto the mountain. Giving her a vague glance of recognition, he made a couple of cheesy faces at the kids, an attempt to loosen them up, she supposed. She quietly slunk back to her plastic rock and watched as he shot a few takes with the kids. Bo yodeled along with the Swiss Alpine music and she had to admit he was a pro. Knew his lines, had it down pat. And he was funny.

The children, finally emerging from a sort of terrified catatonia, started giggling at the faces he made at them. He’d won them over, and they jostled for his attention, laughing and asking questions.

“You’re a dickhead!” yelled one of the little boys.

“Really?” Bo said sweetly, Mr. Congeniality now. “And who told you that, young man?”

“She did,” Freddie pointed at Josie.

As no convenient chasm opened up to swallow her into the bowels of the earth, Josie just sat there—and smiled at Bo.

Fifth clue: call superstar a dickhead.

“And what exactly are you planning for an encore?” Arnelle was apoplectic.

“Suicide?” Josie mumbled, feverishly throwing her equipment into a large black nylon bag. She could still feel her cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“You’ve already committed that, honey. What were you thinking? Bo Benchley is one of the biggest names in the business! You can’t just go ’round calling famous actors dickheads!”

“Well, he is a dickhead.”

“Well, duh. But did you have to say it in front of a child?”

“David Sarinen was swearing like a trouper in front of those kids!”

“So you think that makes it okay for you to do the same? Get a grip. We’re lucky the studio teacher didn’t shut us down!”

“Do you think I should go up there and apologize? Would it help?” Josie zipped up the bag and looked at her friend.

“I think you should make a quiet exit,” Arnelle sighed.

“I’m sorry, Arnelle. I really am.”

“Me, too, Josie.”

Josie slung the bag over her shoulder and walked out, keeping her head high, although she felt like crap and she didn’t know if she’d make it to the front door without crying.

Sixth clue: get fired. Before 11:00 AM.

Well, at least she had the rest of the day off.

Hamish Kent woke with a start and that moment of panic when he couldn’t remember where the hell he was. He looked around. A limo. Yes, but where in a limo? Oh, bollocks. New York again. I hate New York, he thought. Every bloody week I’m in New York. He checked his image in both small mirrors on either side of the backseat. He ran his hand over his newly shaved head, pursed his lips, then smiled, almost grimaced, to make sure he had nothing wedged in his teeth from his first-class lunch.

“Are we nearly there yet, driver?” he said, pleased with the reflection smiling back at him. Not too shabby at all, he thought, admiring his Yves Saint Laurent suit and his navy and black checked Richard James shirt and matching tie. Utterly fabulous.

“Very close, sir. We’re just heading down Lexington. Should be about ten more minutes,” the driver shouted back at him.

Hamish wound down his window and shivered as icy air blasted over him. “Hideously dressed lot,” he said, sniffing with disdain as the limo edged past throngs of pedestrians.

“What was that, sir?”

“Nothing, just admiring your gorgeous city.”

“Thanks. I love the place,” the driver beamed into the rear- view mirror. “You here on business, Mr. Kent?”

Oh, bollocks, Hamish thought, here we go. A bloody chatterer. “Yes,” he replied, hoping that would be the last of it, but knowing it wouldn’t be.

“Lemme guess. I’m a real pro at guessing what people do.”

“Really,” Hamish said, bored stiff. He looked for the button to close the glass partition separating them.

“I just know you’re somebody famous,” the driver yelled. Hamish perked up a little. “Aren’t you whatsiz-name? Ya know, from that rock band?”

“I’m a fashion photographer,” Hamish said, trying not to appear flattered.

“That so. Wow. All them beautiful gals. Lucky guy. Do ya do them Victoria Secret photos? What a great gig that must be. Or Sports Illustrated. Now them are some hot bods. What I wouldn’t do to be a fly on the wall at one of them gigs.” He looked hopefully back at Hamish.

“I’m here to do a shoot for Vogue magazine,” Hamish said, repulsed at the mention of such publications. Sports. Hmph. And catalogues. Even worse.

“Oh,” the driver sounded disappointed, “that’s nice.”

A silence ensued, and Hamish stared back out the window as they went past Bloomingdale’s. He was thinking how awful the window displays looked when a woman in a grubby white shirt, black leather pants, and a long black coat caught his eye as she emerged from the subway, dragging a Gucci bag over her shoulder. Bedraggled, but interesting. Long blond hair, freckles. Pretty, in a sullen, over-the-hill way.

Their eyes met for an instant as she reached the edge of the sidewalk, and a flicker of recognition washed over her face.

“Stop!” he yelled at the driver. “Stop the car!”

The limo screeched to a halt at the curb, sending yellow taxis flying in its wake and a chorus of horns into action. Hamish opened the door, climbed out, and stared at his old friend.

“Down on your luck I see, darling,” he sniffed as they air kissed. “Can’t afford the real thing these days?” He glanced down at the fake Gucci bag.

“That would be the first thing out of your mouth, wouldn’t it?” Josie said.

“Get in, get in.” He grabbed the bag and threw it in the back, almost pushed her in after it, then climbed in next to her. “What on earth are you doing in this hellhole?”

Josie couldn’t believe it. Running into him after almost, what, eight years, give or take a couple. Long enough that she was flabbergasted he even recognized her.

“Well look at you,” she said, leaning back into the seat and eyeing him up and down. “All tarted up and riding around in a limo, like a flash pimp.”

“And you, darling,” he eyed her back, “look like you’ve been trolling Eleventh Avenue. Like a bit of rough trade these days?” He flicked at the collar of her torn, filthy shirt and raised an eyebrow. His tiny mouth curled up at the edges. “You look hideous.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” she said, not at all fazed, even though she should probably feel mortified by her ghastly appearance in front of one of the world’s most famous photographers. She was too tired. “I had a fight with a shrub.”

“You don’t strike me as the gardening type,” he sniffed. “More likely you were asleep under a bush. With someone on top of you.”

“Shut up.”

“Are you living out of that faux Gucci, darling?”

“Not quite yet,” she said, although at the rate she was going it might not be long.

“Which gutter can I drop you in?” he said, his gray button eyes glinting in a way that made her feel a taut hardness behind them that hadn’t been there back in the old days.

“Oh, there’s one down near Beekman Place I’m rather fond of.” She gave the address to the driver and they headed off.

She knew she had hardened over the years as well. She felt a terrified cynicism insidiously edging through her the older she got. Every glance in a mirror these days produced another wave of despair she could feel slowly calcifying her. She wondered if her eyes betrayed her the way his did.

“You’re looking rather good, darling, despite the filth,” he smiled, as if he’d read her mind and was trying to appease her. Not that he was the type to appease anybody, if he could skewer them instead.

“Poverty must agree with me,” she said, brushing at strands of hair that still had green flecks of shrubbery clinging to them.

“Filth agrees with you. Poverty is just a by-product of the filth.”

“Getting philosophical in your old age?”

“Certainly not. Just richer. I’m so rich now, I can hardly stand it.”

“Then by your theory, you must be pristinely clean as well.”

“Oh, I’m a paradigm of cleanliness, darling,” he said, and they both laughed.

They bantered back and forth for a few minutes until he asked her the inevitable and dreaded question, “So what are you doing here?”

She never quite knew how to answer that. “Well, I was engaged to a psychotic trust fund millionaire who nearly killed me, so I ran away and tried to become a fashion stylist but ended up working on shlocky commercials and even that’s a disaster” sounded a little over the top to tell someone you haven’t seen in a dog’s age. Let alone a top-notch fashion photographer who’d most likely view your meager achievements with disdain. Especially looking like she did right now.

She mumbled something about the TV commercial and film end of things and was relieved to see they were right outside her front door.

“So, . . .