With nothing more to say, I stand and begin my walk of shame.
Twenty long minutes later, I’m finally home. As I begin to push open the door to the apartment, my phone begins to ring. Shit. It’s Helen, my agent. Helen took me on as a client after my career took a nosedive two years ago. When not one other agency would touch me with a ten-foot pole, Helen believed in me.
“Hi,” I huff into the phone as I open the door to my apartment. Placing my bag down, I move into my living room. “I guess you heard the news.” There is no hiding the groan in my voice.
“Yes, I did.” My stomach sinks at the cool detachment in her words. “I’m going to give it to you straight. I can no longer book you on high profile jobs. The only thing you’ll be able to get is catalog work, not high-end couture.”
“But you don’t rep catalog models.” Please don’t cut me loose. Please say you’ll make an exception for me.
“No, I don’t,” she says with finality, and that’s when I realize the other shoe has officially dropped. Helen no longer believes in me.
I’m not good enough.
Maybe I never was . . .