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Maji was tallish, with auburn-highlighted hair that fell to her shoulders. She turned when Rakell walked into the room, offering a courteous smile. The casting director had started introducing them when suddenly all eyes shifted over Rakell’s shoulder as Bernardo walked in with his hand on the back of a petite woman—a woman Rakell recognized as Shaina, the model she’d met at the toothpaste commercial audition, Vee’s friend. Shaina’s doe-like eyes stared up adoringly at Bernardo as they entered the room, followed by one of the other people in the audition earlier that day, who was talking to an older gentleman in a suit. A waiter dressed in all black walked in carrying two bottles of a French-labeled wine, showing them briefly to Bernardo, who nodded in approval before the waiter made sure everyone had a glass of the burgundy in their hands.
Bernardo, in his mid-fifties, wore a heather-gray suit with a vest and a black button-down shirt beneath it, the first two buttons open. A lean man, he presented with an athletic build and the swagger that comes with being one of the most sought-after actor-producers in Hollywood. He talked to the actresses as if he were there to help, to guide and teach them what he knew, sharing stories from his humble beginning, yet there was an undercurrent of arrogance.
Rakell shook his hand, his stare fixed on her. He smiled and nodded before perusing her body; she noticed his expression altered slightly before he tipped the glass to his lips. His eyes were back on her face, studying her as if visually etching her features into his memory. Then, shifting his attention back to Shaina, who had tapped his shoulder and asked him what his first audition was like, he went on detailing his early days as an actor as the small group stood, revering his stories.
The untenable wordless message being passed like a secret, salacious note in a junior high classroom was that these three women were under evaluation. They were competitors, pitted against each other. Thus, every word, eye exchange, pouty lip paired with smitten eyelash batting was being read by the master of it all, Bernardo Cappuccino, the three wannabees groveling for any piece of affirmation. Charisma formed a sparkling fog around him as if he were blowing magic dust in the eyes of everyone who chuckled at his joke attempts and tilted their heads per his slightest assertion.
Rakell forced herself to smile politely as they all sat around a large, round table. Her stomach knotted; this all felt too familiar, chiming in her brain as she watched Shaina—in her pale pink dress that barely covered her bottom, with the sweetheart neckline and off-the-shoulder sleeves—giggle almost breathlessly at Bernardo’s stories. When Shaina stood bending forward, flirtatiously touching her fingers to her pouty lips, saying she had to use the restroom, Bernado stood, cupped her elbow, and pulled her chair back, as Shaina sweetly said, “Oh, thank you, you didn’t need to do that.”
“Of course I did,” he murmured, his thumb feathering against her skin before his hand dropped from her arm. He made no attempt to hide his eyes as he watched her petite ass sashay slowly past him. The pale pink material called a dress was almost translucent, leaving little to the imagination.
Rakell couldn’t help but glimpse at Shaina’s body—petite, thin, maybe a size two after she ate a whole pizza—then shifted to the other woman, a few inches shorter than Rakell, but still tallish, with willowy narrow shoulders that seemed to draw in whenever she was addressed by the casting director or Bernardo.
Bernardo interrupted Rakell’s internal comparison of herself to the other two women, “Rakell, I understand you lived in London and attended RADA.” His gaze landed firmly on her face, his head tilting slightly as if studying her again.
“Yes, that was a few years ago, but it was a wonderful experience.” She swallowed, coaxing herself to sound light and come across as subdued, yet intelligent, but not too quick; he seems to like the more airy type.
“And you have done quite a lot of modeling for department stores and catalogs, mostly,” he added, clearing his throat, “until the big break from Sports Illuminated. Considering all the stunning models who grace their pages, it must have been exciting to have been selected as number one. They chose an unknown.” His steely gray eyes were offset by auburn hair, silverish threads creeping in around his temples. His eyes locked on hers; he tilted his chin as if waiting for a response.
She could feel the twitches of defiance creeping up her neck, hardening her jaw. Don’t, Rakell, don’t. Quickly, she reached for her water and took a sip. “Yes, it was a nice surprise, and I am continuing to work with Sports Illuminated.” Defense spiked through her voice, and one by one, several sets of eyes shifted her way. The one woman in the executive team, Victoria, shook her chin almost imperceptibly like she was telling Rakell, Soften your tone.
Rakell caught the non-verbal caution, but her psyche shot back to that day with Ms. Keller, the day she knew she’d sell her virginity to pay for her education and pursue her dream of acting. And now here she was, her body once again the target of judgment, not her talent.
Mrs. Keller’s head had snapped in my direction, her eyes boring into me; her message was clear: Shut your damn mouth. “Martin, excuse us so I can discuss the details of this arrangement with Ms. Adams.” She said my escort name with a punch, as if in reminder: that’s what you are, an escort. She continued that given my dream of becoming a model and actress, it would be wise to have a substantial financial cushion. She furthered that idea by stating—as if it were news—that I was larger than most models, and larger models and actresses have a harder time breaking into either industry. Then she looked at the computer screen and said, “You put down here that you’re a size US 10 and Euro size 40, but you and I both know that’s not quite accurate. You’re at least Euro 42, and I would assume that if it were a gown hugging those hips, which you’re hiding in that roomy dress, you are more likely a 44. I am just going to be direct: The idea of you making it beyond the types of modeling jobs you have already done and into the world of runway and supermodels is quite unlikely. I understand you’ve done some catalog work, lingerie, and swimsuit modeling. Those may help pay some of the bills, but they are not the route to becoming a successful model.” Her eyes were still fixed on me as she brought the crystal glass to her lips and took a slow, deliberate sip.
I bit my cheek, staving off the all-consuming emotions that had been churning through my body, a fusion of humiliation, anger, fear, and sadness, all the result of my powerlessness. Powerlessness over the inevitable future path. A shred of shame trickled down my spine, but I suspected I would learn to reason with that in the future. I’m not sure which brought me more shame—becoming a sex escort or having been born into a life that had me considering this path in the first place.
Jolted back to the present, compelled always to prove herself, Rakell pressed forward: “I’m actually getting a lot of other jobs as well, in commercials, some parts in movies, and I’m the face of Leather and Lace.” She sighed, all eyes on her; it was like she was defending her worthiness to even be considered for such a major role, with the God himself, Bernardo, leading the interrogation. “I will also be on the cover of their ski edition in the November issue,” she added breathlessly, trying to squeeze in one more thing from her resume.
Bernardo cough-scoffed before putting his hand up, letting Rakell know he had heard enough. “They are certainly expanding their model look. I remember when cover models had to have a certain physique, so that's good for you. It helps open the door for younger women who can look up to you as a role model.” His expression reminded her of a professor cautioning an overly enthusiastic student. She knew the message between his words, but just in case she hadn’t picked up on it, he added, “There’s a small percentage of opportunities for those with, well shall we say, an everyday body...well, it’s nice for the average woman to have the covers reflect someone they can identify with…you know, someone who enjoys food.”
Her eyes dropped to her plate, one pan-seared scallop sitting on what was left of the risotto she’d ordered because she’d enjoyed it in Italy, and Stella West Hollywood offered authentic Italian food. As the appetizers were passed, she’d had a sampling, taking care to take small bites. They had all been encouraged to order whatever they wanted, to indulge, yet as she looked at the other two actresses' meals, she realized she was the only one actually eating her food. Shaina’s plate had barely been touched: grilled fish, with only a small bite off the edge. Her eyes flitted to Maji’s plate, a chicken salad with greens. Had she even eaten a tomato?
She heard the hushed snickers as she stared at her food. “Huh, oh yes, yes, thank you.” Forced to swallow his subversive message, she gave Bernardo an innocent smile, shielding the distaste lurking behind her coy expression. She hated the guileless edge to her voice like she was grateful for anything nearing a compliment from this man. Bullshit! Just as she’d thought she was steering her own life along the path to her goals, the realization that a powerful man still controlled her hands on the wheel banged through her head.
When she opened the door to the apartment, Vee sprung up from the couch, a pizza box and a bag of Cheetos on the table in front of her. “I thought you weren’t coming home tonight,” she said, nervously looking around her, grabbing a large Seven-Eleven cup and taking a swig. “Fuck it,” she added, her eyes jumping from the large pizza box with two pieces remaining. “Okay, don’t judge; I’ll be getting rid of this.”
Rakell flung the door shut with a loud thump, all her social energy drained from a day of pretending. “Oh, will you?” She swallowed the next line, her eyes flitting across Vee’s narrow form, her clavicle bones protruding, almost fleshless.
Vee’s head whipped toward her buzzing phone as she read a text. “Shit, you didn’t say anything about going to meet Bernardo tonight. Shaina said it was the most amazing night of her life. Said you ordered…what!?” She brought the phone closer to her big eyes. “Pasta? Girl, like you seem so smart, but you ordered pasta in front of Bernardo and ate half of it?”
Rakell threw her purse on the bar that jutted between the tiny kitchen and living room. “It was risotto, and why the hell does that matter?” she asked but even as she said it, she knew that she’d sent out a signal, one indicating she wasn’t getting any smaller. But damn it, she was willing to do what it took; she wanted to call her agent and get a message to them, tell them, I’ll do anything, I didn’t sacrifice this much to be stopped because I enjoyed a few bites of food.
“It matters. Look at this picture she posted on Instagram. She said she got one with Bernardo but was asked not to post until the movie's decisions were out. Don’t you know the rules? You don’t eat in front of people like that; pick and smile. The food is just an accessory.”
“I usually order…it’s just that, I know the reputation of Stella West Hollywood, and I’ve spent time in Italy and love Italian food. I really didn’t eat that much, maybe a few more bites of risotto than I should have…” The apologetic words sputtering from her mouth felt pathetic to her own ears. Why the hell was she justifying a few bites of exquisite food to Vee? “They were encouraging,” she explained, lost in her own contradictory thoughts. Her hand went to her stomach as it hit her that she’d be in a swimsuit auditioning in front of a man who’d already made it clear she wasn’t right.
“Put the leftovers in the fridge and get rid of that food,” Vee said, pointing down the hall to Rakell’s room. “Word of advice: next time, tell me where you're going. Everything gets around in this town, and don’t ever eat during an audition dinner. Do this…” she said, waving her hand over the coffee table. Rakell looked at the pizza box, empty Cheetos bag and candy bar wrappers. “Once I finish this,” she said, holding up the 44-ounce cup, whisking her eyes over the table, “this little indulgence will no longer be a part of me.” She ran her hand up and down her body.
“I can’t. I’ll just run tomorrow, and I won’t eat,” Rakell ranted before Vee cut her off.
“You can’t out-exercise food. You have to do both, get rid of it and exercise.”
“Okay…” She didn’t have the energy to formulate an argument; her whole body was feeling the lassitude from all the deflating comments that had chipped away at the excited confidence she had when she first heard about this opportunity. Should she back out of the audition? It was nearly eleven, almost one in the morning in Austin. It was too late to call Ana or reply to her texts.
Chapter Eight
I busied myself all day, shooing aside the fleeting thoughts fueled by anxiety each time my mind went to Rakell and Bernardo. I went to the gym early, lifted heavy weights, followed by a long run, then walked through two home goods stores, scanning all one could buy to bring their house to life, passing the time aimlessly. Eventually, I Facetimed Melissa, soliciting her help to pick out a couple of rugs and new dishware and decide on some ultra-swanky remote-controlled blinds for the upstairs bedrooms. The rooms were blank slates with no furniture or any other décor. Melissa told me to send the dimensions with pictures of the rooms and offered to do some online shopping for me. I pushed back, saying she didn’t need to take care of me, but she assured me it was a welcome distraction so she wouldn’t have to think about her future. When I asked what she meant, having a pretty solid idea that she was referring to her and Tom, she brushed me off. Melissa was only going to share so much—I was still her much younger brother and her openness with me was a rarity, so I knew not to push.
