Cat still hadn’t called back. He suspected she never would.
Why am I so obsessed with her? Why do I feel so responsible? She was just another magazine girl, he told himself; there were a thousand of them in the city, beautiful and shallow, obsessing over clothes and makeup all day, posting Photogram images of donuts they would never eat. All of them from good families, all of them educated and poised, all of them working at some job for $35K a year until they met a banker who would be proud to say “My wife used to work at a magazine” for the rest of their lives. Hutton could have his pick of any of them, he told himself.
Exhausted, clutching his phone, he crawled into bed and sent a text to Callie:
u back?
He fell asleep waiting for her to respond.
Callie Court was at that very moment having a late-night cocktail at Peacock Alley with Whig Beaton Molton-Mauve Lucas, who had very kindly insisted that Callie call her Lou. They were perched on velvet stools in the artfully darkened bar, sharing a charcuterie plate—well, Callie was, anyway—and drinking Negroni cocktails. The bartender loitered at the other end of the bar, reappearing only when Lou summoned him with a flick of her polished fingers.
When Callie had landed at Newark that evening, she turned her phone on to find a breathless voicemail from her agent. RAGE wanted her for an exclusive pre-resort collection shoot in early September—during Fashion Week. There was one caveat: the editor running the shoot wanted to meet her as soon as possible.
RAGE represented the first real opportunity to make her defining image something other than the Dalí tit-crease haunting her at every bus stop and subway station, so she had cabbed it home, showered, and changed into a simple black silk T-shirt dress, then grabbed another car back into the city to meet Lou. She’d waited at Peacock Alley—the bar inside the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria—for over an hour.
As she sat alone, drinking water and scribbling in the black Moleskine notebook she used as a diary, Callie wondered if Lou would really be as glamorous as she looked in all those spreads in RAGE over the years, if she’d be as tiny. If she’d have that look of expensive frailty, like an antique vase, that all terribly rich women wear like moisturizer.
Lou hadn’t disappointed. She’d swanned into the bar around eleven thirty, begging forgiveness for her lateness in a filmy lilac georgette dress that had probably cost Callie’s annual rent. Her tiny feet were banded into metallic Valentino sandals, and she wrapped them around the stool’s legs like little vines. She ordered for them both—without looking at the menu—before launching animatedly into her vision. Callie just sat back and watched the show as Lou gestured and squeezed and winked her way through her pitch, her big booming voice still managing to be loud in a whisper.
“It’ll be part public performance and part staged shoot,” Lou was saying. “I want the background to be made up of boldfaced names, so we’ll be doing this after the Dior presentation—literally everyone will be there. I need a girl who can really act, not just pose. Your agent did send your clips, and Jonathan texted me some videos he made of you, which were very compelling.” She swirled her cocktail, the orange Campari casting a glow into the enormous stack of rubies she wore on her right hand.
Callie looked down, unconsciously covering the panther tattooed on her ring finger.
“I’d love to,” she said with absolute sincerity. “I’ll do whatever you ask. You don’t need to explain anything to me.”
“Well, I just wanted to…I’m sure you’ve heard about my colleagues,” Lou said quietly.
“Yes,” Callie said, surprised that she had brought it up. “I know them, actually. Not well, but Cat lives around the corner from a bar I work at, and I went to college with Bess.”
Lou looked shocked—I guess she didn’t really expect the fat girl with the hand tattoo to intersect her professional circles—but recovered quickly, pulling her face back into a sympathetic facade that Callie guessed was meant to telegraph seriousness.
“I’d love to. Really. I’m a twenty-nine-year-old plus-size model, you know? We work longer and we work older than straight-size girls, but I’m ready to take risks. I’ve done enough catalogs to last a lifetime.”
Lou grinned, the bar’s low lighting glinting off her enormous veneers. “That’s settled, then. We’ll have to get your measurements taken by our coordinator to start getting samples made in your size from the various houses. You’re the first plus-size model we’ve ever worked with at RAGE.”
Callie held up her glass to toast. “Cheers—I’m honored. Thank you for choosing me for this.”
Lou toasted with a quick clink and hopped off her stool, half her drink still in the glass. She hugged Callie, squeezing hard, practically groping her. “I’ve got to run, darling girl. Talk soon.” She whirled out of the bar in high gear, the lilac dress flowing behind her like a fairy cape.
Callie dismissed Hutton’s text and called her agent. The bartender dropped off a black leather folio with a hundred-plus-dollar tab inside. Callie threw down her credit card as the phone rang and rang.
“I’m in, Roger,” she squealed quietly when he finally answered. Peacock Alley—all chiaroscuro light and soft piano—wasn’t the place to be rowdy. “I’m really going to be in RAGE!”
“We’re getting you fifty thousand dollars for the shoot,” he said. “They loved those videos you’ve been making with Jonathan. He agreed to release one right before Fashion Week.”
Her stomach dropped. “Which one?” The bartender returned with the black folio, and she pocketed the receipt—her first RAGE-related expense, Callie thought with satisfaction.
“Probably the one of you eating an ice-cream sandwich while you do the dance from Rhythm Nation. It’s basically your ‘Cat Daddy.’”
Callie swallowed the rest of her cocktail in a single gulp. “Shit…Okay. I was really high when we made that.”
“It doesn’t matter. Nobody can tell. Are you ready to get famous, girl? If this shoot works out, it could be the cover of the November issue. You know, she always chooses them herself,” he said reverently, referring to Margot.
Callie climbed off her stool and grabbed her cotton tote bag, shoving her book into it as she made her way toward the Park Avenue exit. “I can’t even think about that. Let’s just get it booked and signed, okay?”
“I’m on it, sweetie. There’s an NDA, too. I’ll have it messengered over in the morning. You can’t mention this to anyone—and I mean anyone—until the shoot’s over. It’s eight weeks from now. Fashion omertà. Okay?”
“Sure. That’s fine. Listen, I have to run—I’m so beat,” she lied. “Talk tomorrow?”
“Talk tomorrow,” Roger said sweetly. “I’m proud of you, honey.”