Page 2 of Frankly, My Dear

“No,” she said, smiling. “And just because I’ve seen the movie a few times doesn’t mean I’m fixated.”

“A few times!” Georgia shook her head woefully.

“We’re getting off the subject, Georgia.” Selene inhaled deeply for nerve. Georgia had done so much for her. Selene owed her the courtesy of informing her first of a decision that would affect them both. She gave her agent a level look. “This is my last modeling assignment. I start classes at Columbia this fall.”

“What! Are you nuts? You’re twenty-eight years old!”

Selene bristled. “So? I won’t be the oldest student at Columbia.”

“Humph! I’ll bet you’re the only one commuting to classes from a half-million-dollar condo, though,” she commented cynically, then added, “What kind of classes?”

“Psychology.”

“Bull! That Dr. Walters really has worked a number on you, hasn’t she?”

“It has nothing to do with Dr. Walters.” Selene exhaled wearily. “For a long time I’ve been fed up with the modeling industry and its perpetuation of unrealistic expectations for the female form. We overemphasize physical appearance. Look what happened to Tessa.” Selene’s voice cracked with emotion. She was still overcome at the tragedy of her best friend’s death six months earlier.

“Selene, be practical. This profession has been very good to you. You’ve earned six million dollars in the past ten years. And even though you’re twenty-eight, I figure you’ve got at least five more years of making big bucks in high fashion. Then we can try other possibilities—books, videos, the older modeling market.”

“Oh, Georgia, you just don’t understand. Look at me.” She stood up in front of the bench and lifted her arms away from her body. “I’m five-foot-ten and I only weigh a hundred and ten pounds. I’m hungry all the time. This diet-for-life regimen is killing me. I should weight at least twenty pounds more.”

“Not under the camera, sweetheart.”

“I know. And have you seen some of the waifish younger models coming up, following in Kate Moss’s footsteps? Criminey! They look like anorexic pre-teens wearing their mothers’ clothes. And all these gimmicks you keep having me try!” She slanted Georgia a reproving look.

“Don’t start on the collagen injections in your lips again. I like the Kim Basinger look on you, and it was right for this assignment.”

“How about this big hair?” Selene flicked the ends of her long, permed, dark brunette hair that cascaded over her shoulders and down to the middle of her back.

“It’s sexy.”

“Easy for you to say! It takes two hours to dry every day, and if I don’t use a diffuser, I frizz up into a god-awful bush.”

“No one ever said beauty comes easy,” Georgia muttered defensively.

“Then you talked me into getting a full-body tan for those revealing swimsuits last month. I’ll probably end up with skin cancer someday. And these dark contact lenses make me feel like I’m wearing sunglasses.”

“Well, you didn’t follow my advice on the breast reduction surgery.”

“And a good thing, too. Breasts are in again, you know.”

“Only in Playboy. Vogue still wants pancakes. You ready to do a centerfold?” she asked with a snicker.

“Hardly.”

Georgia pulled Selene back down to the bench and patted her hand. “Selene, there’s a downside to every occupation. You’ve been paid big bucks for your efforts.”

“I have been, I admit that. And I’m thankful, but the bottom line is that I’m getting out. This is my last assignment.” Selene felt no remorse over dropping her career, but she did regret having to disappoint Georgia.

“We’ll see,” Georgia said skeptically. “I’ll bet you’re bored silly in six months. You’ll be back. Don’t wait too long, though, babe. You know how the public forgets. And whatever you do, don’t balloon up on sugar donuts.” She gave Selene a friendly hug and looped her arm in hers. “Come on. We better get back to the hotel before Phillipe has a hissy fit.”

They passed through Jackson Square, once called the Place d’Armes, and its surrounding historic buildings known as the Cabildo. When the melodious bells of St. Louis Cathedral pealed out a call to Mass, Selene closed her eyes and fancied the chimes were a divine blessing for her new life.

As they moved on through the quaint streets of the French Quarter with its wonderfully preserved, two-and three-story Creole buildings and intricate, lace-like iron balconies, Selene brooded silently. Finally, she confided, “I have a problem.”

“Uh oh! Something besides chucking your whole career for a silly whim?”

Selene smiled at her friend’s tart reply. “Yes. Lilith has put a voodoo curse on me. She claims to be a descendant of Marie Laveau, some voodoo queen.”