Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
She directs me to turn, side profile, arms out, arms down, three-quarter turn. Each pose is more humiliating than the last, but her voice is so matter-of-fact that I almost forget to be embarrassed. Almost.
“You’re very photogenic,” she says, flipping the next cartridge into the camera.
I try to smile, but my lips feel numb. “Glad I could be of service,” I say, and immediately regret it.
Camille’s eyes crinkle for a split second, like she’s amused by my attempt at humor. “You’ll be even more valuable if you keep that wit,” she says. “The client enjoys candor. But not insubordination.”
“I can be good,” I say, then blush when I realize how it sounds.
She takes the last photo, then lowers the camera. “Thank you, Katherine. You can get dressed now.”
Behind the screen, I pull my clothes back on. The whole time, my cheeks burn with adrenaline and shame and something else I can’t name—an excitement that feels a little like falling because why in the world did they need boudoir photos of me? I yank my hair into a quick ponytail, then step out with an assertive step. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
Camille has stacked the Polaroids on the table, each one developing slowly into existence. I catch a glimpse of my own body in tiny, pastel rectangles: a series of luscious curves, each more real than the last.
“Will the client see these?” I ask, voice quiet.
Camille nods. “He will. But only for onboarding. After that, you’ll have control over your image.”
That feels like a lie, but I nod anyway.
She places the stack of pictures in a plain white envelope and slides it into her briefcase. “We’re done here. The client will review your file tonight. If approved, you’ll be picked up tomorrow and taken to his residence. You can start immediately, right?”
I think of the Thistle Cafe, and how little they pay.
“Yes, no problem. But is there anything else I should know?” I ask.
Camille tilts her head. “Just be yourself. Mr. Smith is very good at detecting deception. He makes a living as a writer, so he’s extraordinarily perceptive. Maybe he’ll even write you into his book.”
I almost laugh.
“Maybe,” I murmur, biting my lip, although I hope to god not. I’m so uninspiring these days, and what would he say? That I’m a cheap girl who was desperate for money?
On my way out, there are mirrors in the lobby, but I avert my eyes. I’m on a mission, and it’s better to stay focused instead of mooning about.
Outside, the air is freezing. I walk home in the heels, feeling every muscle in my calves clench with each step, and for the first time in weeks, I feel like I can handle things.
If I get picked, this is the price I have to pay. This is how you get what you want.
And maybe, if I play it right, I’ll get to decide who I am when this is all over.
3
CHAPTER THREE – WILL I BE SELECTED?
Kat
It’s almost midnight, but my apartment feels like an aquarium under siege. Blue light from the neighbor’s TV pulses through the walls. I curl up on my bed, knees to my chest and comforter scrunched like a life preserver. My pajamas are ancient: baby blue, pilled, one sleeve stretched from too many midnight snacks. I keep checking my phone, the account balance. It’s still there, the money—a number so large I keep thinking it’s a clerical error. But no, it’s real, more real than anything else in my world.
My fingers thread and unthread through my hair, newly golden, long and luscious. Even while coming home on the bus, I could tell it was getting looks. A handsome man peered over his newspaper at me, and one teenage boy even put his phone down, staring at me like he’d never seen a woman before.
I swallow. Clearly, Sweet Lies wants me to look beautiful and attractive. But for what purpose? I thumb through my contacts on my phone, hovering over Simone’s name, but after last night, I know better. If I text her about this, she’ll just show up at my door with homemade pepper spray and a spreadsheet of safe words. What I want is someone who will be gentler. Who will listen, without leaping into action. Someone like Marta.
I dial, and my buddy picks up after the first ring.
“Kat! What’s up, you insomniac?”
Marta’s voice is soft and a bit sleepy. I picture her in fuzzy pink pajamas, probably with her retainer already in her mouth, ready for bed.
“Hey, are you up? Sorry if you were…you know. Doing stuff.”
“No, no, I’m not ‘doing stuff,’ unless you mean fighting off a moth infestation in my kitchen. What’s going on?”
I hesitate. It feels ridiculous, like telling someone you’ve just won the lottery and also you’re being stalked by the IRS. “So, you know that weird job I applied for?”