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“Would it be too much to ask for water? I didn’t think to grab one before I left the house.”
“Of course. I’ll go get you a bottle. In the meantime, Melody, this is Nick, our stylist. Nick, Melody. She’s taking Brittany’s place for the day. Donnie said to use the same look for her.”
“I’m on it,” he agrees, pushing me into his swivel chair sitting in front of a brilliantly lit three-way mirror.
Savannah wasn’t joking. Between Nick and his team of hairdressers and my makeup artist, Helen, I’m fully done up as some kind of metallic-skinned futuristic robot woman before I can blink. In less than ten minutes, I hardly look human.
I’m unrecognizable.
And at the same time, they’ve accentuated my features until I’ve taken on a kind of alien beauty.
The costume department helps me slip into a metallic-silver jumpsuit that hugs my curves in all the right places. The zipper front stops just below my belly button, creating a plunging neckline that I could easily pop out of if not for the fashion tape. Somehow, the outfit is a stunning combination of sexy and tomboyish, leaving me in awe of whoever designed it.
The last touch is a pair of metallic-looking platform pumps that bring my height up to six-foot-five.
Within fifteen minutes of arriving, I’m thrust before the modeling screen alongside three robotic-looking men and two metallic women.
“Alright, my pretties. Let’s get this party started!” the photographer calls without a moment to spare.
I don’t even have a chance to introduce myself to my fellow models before we’re being directed into the desired poses. My heart pounds with the thrill of a challenge as I do my best to follow instructions. Pairing with my given male-robot model, I strike a stance, then follow it with another based on the prompts given by our fast-paced photographer.
Take after take, the artist calls out a pose. And once again, I feel like I’m running a marathon as he gives us mere seconds to adjust before the bright camera flashes resume.
It’s nothing like the photoshoot I did for Dani that one time years ago—when she was putting together a modeling portfolio for one of her college photography classes. This is a full-on production, where every second counts, and being professional means nailing each given task without room for error.
“Bellissima! Bellissima!” the photographer calls out between instructions. His Italian accent is rich and artistically fitting in the creative and crazy space.
And though I know he’s complimenting us, I can only hope that “us” actually includes me because I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.
Finally, after what feels like hours of striking poses and holding them until my muscles burn, the photographer calls for a break. My limbs shake from the adrenaline and exhaustion of my day as I finally let my arms relax at my sides. Careful to avoid twisting an ankle in my platform heels, I make my way off the backdrop stage and toward the drink table.
“You’re a natural, bella ragazza. How long have you been modeling?” the photographer asks, stepping up beside me as I gulp the contents of a water bottle.
I inhale water at the unexpected compliment and immediately start coughing. Covering my mouth, I attempt to apologize as I clear my lungs. “Um, this is my first shoot,” I admit hoarsely.
The photographer’s dark, professionally sculpted eyebrows creep up his forehead toward his shock of curly black hair. “You are joking,” he says, his accent shaping the structure of his sentence in a pleasantly formal manner.
Careful not to disrupt my hair, I shake my head to show I’m serious.
“Well, in that case, I want you back here first thing tomorrow. Yes?”
“You… want me for a second day?” The hesitancy in my question gives away my disbelief, and I kick myself for lacking the confidence to appear polished. “I mean, of course. I’d be happy to.”
“Very good. Now, take five minutes, and then I expect you back on stage.”
I nod, putting the water bottle back to my lips to hydrate while I still can. The photographer spins to sashay away. But as if he’s had a thought, he turns back to look at me.
“My name is Donnie, by the way. You are?”
“Melody. Melody O’Mara,” I say, shaking the hand he offers.
“I suspect we are going to get to know each other very well, bella ragazza.” And with that, he leaves without another word.
Slack-jawed, I stare after him, scarcely daring to believe the immensity of the compliment he just paid me.
The rest of the shoot is as hectic as the first part, and I’m stunned to find that I’ve been at it for nearly five hours by the time we’re done. I send Silvia a text, apologizing for taking longer than I anticipated and telling her I’m on my way. Then I quickly scrub the makeup from my face, don my original clothes, and race back across town to collect Gabby.
Head spinning as I slump onto one of the subway seats, I rest my head back against the glass to catch my breath. I can hardly believe what a whirlwind of a day I’ve had. This is probably why most models don’t become moms before they have established careers. I feel like a chicken running around with its head cut off.
