“I saw you sitting here on your own and thought I should come over and say hello. Are you alone?” she asked, bending her head close to mine. I had once seen a show on television in India about women like this, women who preferred other women. Faced with it now, I was terrified.
“I’m actually waiting for someone,” I replied. “Two men,” I felt compelled to add.
A smile appeared on Claire’s face.
“Good. That’s just what I thought,” she said. “Perhaps we can team up?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “I am waiting to meet with two men, for my work.”
She smiled once more, and lifted her hand so it rested on my shoulder.
“I manage a small group,” she said. “Very beautiful, cultured women only. And our clients are in the most upper classes-wealthy, powerful, highly accomplished. They need to be seen with only the very best women. I’m going with two of them to Monte Carlo next week, to attend a party being hosted by one of the richest men in Italy. There is room on his jet for one more. I’d love it if you could join us.”
I stared at her blankly.
Claire sat back in her chair, the smile suddenly leaving her face.
“You really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? My, how long have you been in Paris? What do you do here?”
I then spotted Dimitri and his client walking toward us. As she stood up to leave, Claire smiled in the direction of the fashion executive I was about to meet, who leaned over and kissed her on both cheeks, calling her by her French name.
“You know each other?” he asked, looking straight at me.
“We just met,” Claire said. “I saw her sitting alone and came over to say hello. Lovely girl. I hope you do good things with her.”
“We plan to,” Dimitri said, ending the interlude. “And I must inform you,” he said, a frisson of coldness entering his eyes, “that mademoiselle here is not one for you.”
“Apologies for the lateness,” said the fashion executive, who introduced himself as Thierry as Claire scuttled away. “Charmed to meet you. May I order you another drink?”
Forty-five minutes later, Thierry and Dimitri had ironed out details that were incomprehensible to me as I sat on my hands and chewed on my bottom lip. For my benefit, they spoke mostly in English, occasionally lapsing into French, talking about endorsements and residuals and commissions and cover shoots. I needn’t really even have been there, although every so often Thierry would look my way, his cool blue eyes setting off his silvery hair. He had a perfect white smile, a few deep crevices in his forehead, and the longest fingers I had ever seen on a man. Apart from making sure he was pronouncing my name correctly, and asking me what it meant, he barely spoke to me. He squinted at my streak a few times, and then looked away again.
By the end of the evening, Dimitri and Thierry shook hands and promised that the paperwork would be signed in the morning. I, however, still had no idea what Dimitri had promised me to until a few days later, when Juliette brought home a copy of Women’s Wear Daily and showed me a feature about Viva, its sale to Groupe Montaigne, and how it was poised to undergo a major revamp, including hiring a new spokesmodel for its next collection.
Three days later, a shiny black car came by the café to pick me up and to take me to a photography studio off rue Cambon. When I walked in, still in the salwar kameez I had worn to work that day, everybody stopped talking. A tall and extremely thin British man named Robert welcomed me, telling me he would be taking the pictures.
“Do you know what I’m doing?” I asked, realizing how stupid the question sounded.
“New international ad campaign for Viva,” he said, stepping back and looking at me, as if through a camera lens. “You’re their girl. Super exciting. Brand-new collection. The clothes are hot, finally,” he added.
A blond woman with a friendly face guided me to a lit-up mirror in one corner, a tall chair set in front of it. From a large black suitcase she fished out dozens of eyeshadows and lip glosses, laying them out in front of me and asking me if I had any preferences. In the mirror, I saw Dimitri entering the studio and making his way toward me.
“Dimitri, I am grateful for what you have done, but I must make one thing clear,” I blurted out before he even had the chance to say hello.
“You need to tell me what I am doing before I start doing it. I arrived here, and felt like a fool. I know that my career is in your hands, but I need to know what you are up to with me. I am sure I will agree to it, but you must tell me.”
He nodded sheepishly.
“I didn’t want you to concern yourself with these boring details. Just trust me. I am capable,” he said.
“I am sure of that,” I said as the blond woman applied foundation to my face with a wedge-shaped sponge. “But this is my life too. Let’s be partners in it.”
Compared to the exercise in humiliation I had undergone the previous week during my first real modeling job, this particular event was almost enjoyable. Everyone in the studio was uniquely focused on me, weighing in on whether my hair should be flatter or fuller, whether to go with the pink lipstick or the burgundy. Lights were moved around, music turned on so I could, Robert said, “get into the mood,” and food was brought to me on pale green ceramic platters. When the time came for me to be photographed, I was told to stand on a large X-mark taped onto the floor, a sheath of thick white paper behind me. Robert told me where to look, where to put my hands, how much or little to smile, and I followed his instructions without thinking. He told me he could see that I was new to this but that I would pick it up in no time, and I felt reassured by that. He would only look frustrated when I lapsed into the habit-one that I thought all models had-of pouting like some coy Bollywood heroine about to be romanced for the first time.
“Stop that,” he said when I did it for the fifth time. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like an idiot.”
Even though Robert told me that he would have to take hundreds of pictures to find the perfect few that the company would use, I was still amazed at how long it took and how many outfits I was asked to change into. At one point, five people in the room were debating the merits of a particular belt, or would spend twenty minutes rearranging a cuff on my shirt. I couldn’t imagine that the people who read the magazines these pictures would be used in would notice if a crease or a fold wasn’t exactly where it should be. I did more poses than at one of my yoga classes back home-hands on hips, hands on butt, hands in air, legs crossed and then set apart, hair in ponytail one minute or spilling onto my shoulders the next. Even I, as accustomed as I was to the sight of me, didn’t realize I had this many faces.
Five hours later, Robert announced that we were done. As his assistants packed everything away, he said he wanted to show me some Polaroids which, he explained, were always taken at the start of each session to make sure the lighting was right.
“In the end, I think this is the one they’ll go with,” he said. He lifted up a small square, showing me a photo of a girl I couldn’t recognize. She was wearing skinny low-cut jeans that were held up by a thick belt covered in stones, and a sunshine yellow halter top. Her hair was combed completely straight and parted in the center. Large hoop earrings dangled from her ears, a thick ring studding her middle finger. She stood there, legs about a foot apart, her right thumb hooked through one of her belt loops. She looked like me, but older, sleeker, smarter-like in one of Nilu’s magazines. She had, in her eyes, not even a hint of the fear of Allah preparing to destroy her. Her face betrayed none of the sadness of being made an orphan, and showed no sign of the loss of an entire life before this, an entire culture. As I stared at the sunny strength of the girl in the photo, I started to cry, knowing that I so much wanted to be her, but never could.