“Felicia’s in PR,” said Stavros, biting into a bagel. “She comes highly recommended. I just thought, with everything going on, we could use her expertise.”
As she smeared jam onto a piece of whole-wheat toast, Felicia used words like “visibility” and “ubiquitous” and “mercurial.” She told me that the marketing people at Elle were using today’s shoot as part of a campaign, to expand past the “rich, white, and thin or brassy, bold, and black thing that fashion is all about.
“You represent a new demographic, a new era of multiculturalism,” she said, noticing the confusion on my face.
“I’ll break it down like this, honey. Being born Muslim was probably the best thing that ever happened to you.”
Chapter Nineteen
Every budding fashion model, to ensure her success, needed to have some sort of social life. There were parties galore in New York, parties every night of the week, some in other glamorous cities. I was even being invited to one of the overseas ones, on a boat in St. Tropez the following month.
But in New York, Felicia handpicked the events I would go to, and would often escort me herself. There, she would deposit me with a Park Avenue socialite or a foreign aristocrat before surrendering her position as a shield between me and the paparazzi who attended these things. She told me delightedly that her job was made so much easier by the fact that I would never be seen with a cigarette or snorting cocaine or gulping from a bottle of beer, my panties exposed, a high-class hellion on heroin. She was relieved that no caption beneath a picture of me would ever say: HOT NEW MODEL TANAYA SHAH CAUGHT LAP-DANCING BAD-BOY ROCKER.
She dressed me in black halter tops and laced a shawl through my bent elbows. She taught me how to smile for the cameras, poised and pretty like the blue-blooded heiresses who graced the society pages. Whereas the small student-run newspaper in Paris that ran a grainy picture of me after my first little stint on the catwalk there had misspelled my name, now it was not only spelled correctly but typed in bold letters, as if suddenly, with four dress changes on a lit-up catwalk, I was no longer small and faded and gray, but dark, dramatic, and destined to be known.
Peering through the peephole, I could see that it was Stavros standing outside my door, a suit bag slung over his shoulder. Tightening my bathrobe, I opened the door and allowed him to step in. He took a look around at the immaculate room.
“Oh, the maid service has been here already?” he asked. “Didn’t think they could be this efficient in St. Tropez during the height of the social season. My room is a mess.”
“I did it,” I said, glancing proudly at the perfectly made bed and the shiny coffee table.
Stavros stared at me, puzzled.
“You cleaned your own room? That’s why people stay in hotels-so they don’t have to do housework. They have maids here for that.”
“Oh, I know that,” I said, now embarrassed. I felt close to Stavros, but still, there’s no way I could have told him that, until today, I had never stayed in a hotel before, and that I thought that utilizing the services of the maid I had seen in the corridor earlier would cost extra. I had even brought my own towel, carried my own bag up to my room, and had had absolutely no idea what to do with the little card with the magnetic strip they had given me downstairs, having to wait until an employee passed by to open my door.
Later that evening, I waited nervously in the lobby for Stavros. A woman sitting across from me looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her until she walked up to me, threw her arms around me, and gave me a hug.
“Tanaya, we met last year in Paris, at the Hôtel Costes. Remember? Claire?”
It suddenly came back to me. The Asian girl who wanted to befriend me and who Dimitri had later told me was a high-priced call girl.
“I’ve been in New York a lot recently, for business you know. I’ve seen you in the papers a few times. You sure have done well for yourself, although I’m not convinced about your goody-two-shoes thing.” She sneered. “So, what brings you to St. Tropez?”
“The AIDS fundraiser,” I said, adjusting the straps of my lemon-yellow chiffon gown, the one Pasha had made for me.
“Are you alone?” she asked, suddenly sweet. “I’ve been wanting to get into that event. Maybe I could come with? As you can see, I’m dressed for it.” She lifted up her hands and twirled around to show me her chocolate-colored gown covered with turquoise beads. For someone who had apparently no plans that evening, she certainly looked very nice.
“I was waiting around, you know, to see what turned up,” she said, an enigmatic smile on her face. “There are lots of bigwigs in town for this event, and a few of them will be needing some company. I can come with you, and maybe we can hook up with someone afterwards?”
“My agent is taking me,” I said, moving away. “I’m just waiting for him. So thank you, but no.”
The gold doors of the elevator opened that minute, and Stavros appeared through them, looking more handsome than ever in a tuxedo. Claire’s face lit up when she saw him.
“So that’s your handler,” she said, looking at him rather longingly. “Anyway, have a nice night, and maybe I’ll run into you again sometime.” She placed an icy kiss on my cheek.
A speedboat took us to a huge white yacht that sat serenely in the middle of the sea. It was a perfect night, cool and clear, like Mumbai right before monsoon season. Stavros held my hand and helped me off the boat and onto the floating palace, from where I could hear the sound of glasses clinking and piano keys tinkling and young women giggling. The yacht was owned by a software billionaire who had loaned it out to the charity for use that evening, and where guests had paid $5,000 each to dine on caviar and lobster medallions. Pasha, who had suddenly become my new best friend and had stopped talking about how pudgy I was, was hosting a table and had invited me, even paying for my airfare and hotel stay. Stavros insisted on coming along to chaperone me, for which I was immensely relieved.
“Ah, you made it. Welcome,” Pasha said, kissing me on both cheeks. “The dress looks divine on you, darling. You do me so very proud. Now, quick smile for the boys,” he said, twirling me around to face fourteen men with cameras. He placed me to his right at the table, a famous pop star he often dressed sat on his other side. Across from me was a rap artist who went by the name Baby Slut, and who was famous for the tiny, stublike dreadlocks pinched into his cropped hair and the sparkling sapphire embedded in one of his front teeth. He smiled at me as I sat down, the blue shine between his lips looking almost sinister. He put down his glass of champagne, heaved himself and all his gold accoutrements up from his seat, and came over, crouching down next to me.
“Hey, you the new model girl, yeah?” he asked, rubbing his pinky finger against mine, which I had read somewhere was known to be his particular mating call. “You look mighty fine. You wanna be my boo?”
Stavros, who was sitting next to me, diplomatically ushered Baby Slut back to his seat, turning my attention back to Pasha, who continued to pose congenially with me as the photographers circled the room. But as soon as the first course was being served and they were asked to leave, he stopped talking to me entirely.
“Sure I can’t tempt you with a glass of wine?” Stavros joked, his shoulder rubbing against mine, the smell of vetiver coming off his freshly shaved skin. “Are you at least having a nice time?”
“Yes, but only because you’re here.” I smiled back at him, suddenly feeling warm and grateful.