Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [74]
I don’t know what to say, and don’t want to ask him again if he’s sure. “So does that mean you like what I turned in?”
“Like it?” he brays. “Like it? Darling, it’s ace. You and ‘Party Girl’ are going to take us to the next level. I have no doubts now—not that I did before, mind you. But after reading your copy, which is lively and sexy and at times laugh-out-loud funny, we’re all terribly excited.”
My heart continues to do its dance and I don’t say anything because I don’t think I know the words that are supposed to accompany the ecstatic feeling flowing through me. In a strange way, this moment reminds me of sitting in Robert’s office being fired. This can’t be happening, my inner voice seems to be saying, but it is.
19
“Tres belle,” Jean-Paul coos as his camera snaps away. Three assistants flank him, holding various and sundry lights and pieces of equipment, and a hairdresser, makeup artist, and clothing stylist stand to the side—ready to rush in should they see something on me that doesn’t look exactly perfect.
While this shoot—which is taking place in the penthouse of the Chateau Marmont, which I happen to know rents for $10,000 a day—is far more exciting and surreal than anything I’ve ever experienced, I’m doing a decent job of acting like I’m used to having everything revolve around me, and assistants fetching me Evian, apples, or really whatever else I might desire. I’m afraid that if I let on how shocked I am by the sheer amount of money clearly being spent on my shoot, I’ll reveal just how small-time I am.
The stylist, a well-known one whom I’d actually interviewed over the phone several times while I was working at Absolutely Fabulous, had greeted me when I got here with racks of everything from Armani gowns and Gucci blouses to Chloe suits and Marc Jacobs jeans.
“Tim said he wanted us to shoot the photos for your next several columns,” the stylist informed me. “Since we don’t know what’s going to be in the columns yet, he said we should choose a bunch of different looks: casual, dressy, sexy, demure, whatever we could think of.”
I nod and decide not to remind her that we’ve spoken before. It was, I think, a lifetime ago.
She has me try on beautiful skirts, dresses, shirts and jeans—even lingerie from La Perla—and while I usually obsess over my protruding stomach, she seems to know exactly what’s going to hide the tummy and play up my assets and I end up feeling like all I’ve ever needed in order to feel constantly beautiful was a stylist.
Jean-Paul came over to introduce himself when we were first going through the clothes, and I immediately found him sexy, even though the stylist has already warned me that he’s a “dog,” “pig,” and every other animal you can imagine. Figures I’d like him.
“Ah, you are truly exquisite,” he said with a strong French accent and devilish smile. “The photos will take themselves.” He continued to watch me as the stylist pinned the gown I was wearing so that it hoisted my cleavage up.
And then, once I’ve been made up and gelled and sprayed and shellacked until I look like the supermodel version of myself, Jean-Paul starts snapping. The entirety of my knowledge about modeling has been culled from America’s Next Top Model, but one thing I’m positive of is that I love having my picture taken. Apparently, I cried nonstop for my first three months of life, until a professional photographer showed up to shoot me and I suddenly gave him the biggest, most toothless grin a person who’s only been alive for ninety days possibly could. As I switch my poses around, Jean-Paul mumbles words like magnifique, belle, and tres belle.
In between shots, Jean-Paul and I smoke while his assistants set up the lights for the next set of pictures, and a stand-in takes the place where I’ll be. Then, when I’m done with my cigarette, the stylist comes and gets me to change. Rather than allowing all of this treatment to bring out my inner diva, I’m the very picture of kindness, asking everyone else how they’re doing. I swear,