Page 19 of The Artist and the Muse

Just then, Rachelle Steven’s booming, French-accented voice, surprisingly loud for her petite frame, thundered through the dressing room. “Georgia and Sergio, you’ll be up first for this shoot. We want you in the matching Ralph Lauren sweaters. It’ll be perfect for our fall preppy shoot.”

Or maybe not. God had a sense of humour and it was cruel indeed.

I grabbed the clothing items tagged with my name and went in to change. I sat down in the makeup chair while the makeup artist made idle small talk with me. She brushed foundation onto my face, concealed my dark circles, and applied a light dusting of blush on my cheeks. Meanwhile, I tried not to let thoughts of the past resurface. It was a losing battle.

I hadn’t seen Sergio Cavalli since I’d locked eyes with him at his engagement party. He’d marched over when his fiancée was distracted and cornered me, demanding to know why I’d come to his party with someone else. Never mind thathehad been the one who’d ditched me for another woman and broken off our relationship of publicity.

When I finished in the makeup chair and walked over to the area where the photoshoot was happening, bile crawled up my throat. I took a swig of La Croix from an intern who offered me a can, hoping the strawberry and peach-flavoured bubbly water would calm my nerves.

Sergio locked eyes with me. I waited to see fury and disdain in his eyes like the last time I’d seen him. Instead, he was strangely calm. Not the icy levelheadedness masking his anger, which he had worn at his engagement party. Instead, it looked like the calm of a man who was at peace with himself, and with life.

That couldn’t be right. I was probably confused because I hadn’t had my morning coffee.

“Georgia,” he said, after I’d remained silent for long enough that it was awkward. “It’s good to see you.”

Still cautious of him, I said, “Do you always lie to your former fake girlfriends?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I—”

“Or do you reserve that for women whom you called a ‘harlot without a conscience or a single ounce of remorse for their actions’?” I made air quotes with my red-painted nails. I was exaggerating his last words to me, but they were accurate enough that he blanched.

Sergio looked down at his feet. He was probably thinking of his next chess move. Men like him never changed. Arrogant and entitled, believing they were God’s gift to women everywhere.

“Sergio! Georgia.” Rachelle marched over in her Louboutins, her made-up face betraying no emotion down to her pencilled eyebrows. She fussed with Sergio’s tie before moving on to fix a crooked zipper on my skirt and straighten out my top. I held still, feeling less like a human and more like a mannequin. Sergio’s gaze darted around the room but never landed on mine.

“You’re needed over here.”

She pointed at where a photographer was setting up his equipment next to a set that held a plush green loveseat, a golden lamp on a dresser, and little else.

The photographer gave us directions. I questioned why Rachelle was pairing us together, since it should have been obvious that we hated each other. But who was I to question the whims of Rachelle Stevens, who wouldn’t care if I told her about our troubled history? She probably knew about it already and was just using our past to stir up drama when the photos were printed. So, I said nothing more to Sergio as I tried my best to follow the photographer’s instructions.

“Georgia, lie down on the loveseat. Sergio, you’ll stand behind it and gaze down at her,” he instructed in Italian-accented English. Why were so many reminders of Italy and the past popping up for me today? “Now, look like you’re in love.”

It went on for an excruciating ten minutes.Smile, but not too much. Lie still, but hold your head up so your hair fallsjustoveryour left shoulder. Turn your body to the right, but not too much—you’ll wrinkle the sweater. After contorting myself according to his directions while the cameras flashed and I kept my expression somewhat pleasant, I finally relaxed when the photographer said we were done.

“I’m sure there will be something usable here,” the photographer muttered under his breath. He might have thought I couldn’t hear him, but little did he know I’d spent my childhood waiting for the sounds of my mom coming home from her late-night shifts at the casino as a blackjack dealer.

After we shot a few more poses in different outfits, my portion of the photoshoot with Sergio was finished. I moved on to other photos with different models. I changed blindly, fingers feeling oddly numb as I undid the various fasteners and zippers and buttons. I couldn’t have said what I was wearing or what fancy designer had made my clothes. I couldn’t even count how many outfit changes there were.

All I knew was the sense of resounding dread that reverberated throughout my body whenever I thought about having to see Sergio again. Accidentally locking eyes across the room would be too much, let alone shooting a campaign with him. I didn’t know why he still had this effect on me. The only thing I could remember was getting the text message from him saying he was ending our relationship. Then I’d seen the engagement announcement in the New York Times a few days later, telling me he’d gotten engaged to someone else.

I’d never loved him, so why did I feel this way? Why should I have been surprised that a man who had treated me like a trophy, and whom I’d treated like a tool to use, would throw me away when someone newer, shinier, and better-looking came along?

Maybe because you thought you were different. Because you thought you were smart enough to not be publicly humiliated by a man. Because you thought it wouldn’t matter if a man treated you as arm candy to beparaded around at parties for his reputation, since that was just part of being emotionally detached.

Finally, after going through the last outfit changes and makeup and hair touchups, we were done. The girls hung around the vanities, gossiping or just catching up. Some of them were my casual acquaintances—though Leana was more like a frenemy after she’d once gotten George into trouble during his brief stint as a bouncer—but I didn’t feel like talking to any of them.

Most of them knew what had happened between me and Sergio. At least, they knew the facts: he’d broken off our fake relationship and immediately gotten engaged to another woman. What they didn’t know was how he’d made me feel. Like a toy to make him feel better about the brokenness splintered through his life.

I’d never told them any of this, and had never seen a reason to. In this industry, after all, we were all glorified mannequins, there to accentuate the clothes or jewellery. To sell anti-aging creams and makeup. We weren’t chosen for anything more than our looks and ability to pose and walk down the runway.

Certainly, no one cared about a model’s emotions or thoughts or philosophies. I’d gone into Anthropology partially because I was tired of being looked at from the outside. I wanted to be on the outside, looking at others.

I’d always felt like an outsider to the Steele clan too. Not merely because of a different last name, but also because my upbringing had been so different from theirs. Now, I could say we were on the same playing field, since I’d earned all my money from modelling and a few savvy investments. Growing up, though? I’d been a shabby outsider, too different from Abby and Alex to ever fully fit in. I loved my cousins (even Alex when he was being annoying) but we’d never fully understand or relate to each other.

And I thought I had contented myself with that. With feeling lonely. But then George Devereaux had steamrolled his way into my life, and I’d been proven wrong.

“Any plans for tonight?” Leana asked, throwing an arm around my shoulders as she sat next to me in the makeup chair, taking off her heavy eyeshadow.

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