Kiss Me in the Dark Anthology - Monica James Page 0,109
door to the interview room swung open and a ruffled blonde emerged. Her heels made a tsk sound as she hastily crossed the floor between us all and it reminded me of my mother, her finger wagging, tongue clacking as she chastised me.
“Cosima Lombardi.”
My head snapped up and I took in the sight of the slim redhead who called my name. She had freckles and a pinched look that I could empathize with; it was obviously stressful catering to exacting businessmen and neurotic models. I smiled demurely at her as I moved passed her through the doorway she stood in, but she only blinked up at me and closed the door firmly behind us.
I took a deep breath to center myself, pulling every particle of confidence like a shield around myself, before I turned around to face the panel for the go-see.
Four people would be my judges. The first was perhaps my biggest challenge, Freida Liv. Arguably the most successful model in the world in the past ten years, she was heartrendingly beautiful. Her golden hair was cut short, she had been one of the first to adopt the radical page boy cut twelve years ago, and showcased a perfectly symmetrical face made striking with pale, luminous blue eyes. Despite her beauty, her expression was unattractive, pinched and distorted as if someone were pulling her apart. I guessed someone was, after all, since she was interviewing for her replacement.
The other was an older man, deeply tanned with eyes like the faded denim of his button-up shirt and brilliant white blonde hair. This was Jensen Brask, the infamous director of the St. Aubyn fashion house who often forced his models to commit heinous mental tasks before hiring them. Modelling might seem glamorous, he was once recorded saying, but it required true mental fortitude. I was surprised he was here, at the second casting call, when I knew this was only the intermediate step in the selection process. He watched me with a slight frown as I stepped before them, my arms at my sides, my face carefully devoid of emotion. It was always this way at go-sees, the inevitable staring contest while they judged you unashamedly on every physical asset they could reach with their eyes and imaginations. In my limited experience, it was best to stand still and take it.
Next to him sat Willa Percy, the CEO and founder of Looking Glass Models, one of the largest modelling agencies in the world. If I landed this job, not only would it secure me this massive, international campaign but also a place on Willa Percy’s golden docket. She was a beautifully groomed African-American woman clad entirely in Chanel, but there was a look in her eyes that didn’t speak of class but of ruthless, poverty-given ambition.
I knew that look because I’d seen it in my eyes often when I looked in the mirror.
The final critic was none other than the man I’d be modelling beside in the campaigns, Jace Galantine. In less than three years, he had appeared on the American model scene and without skipping a beat, he became one of the biggest names in the industry. Now, he had secured his place as the male face of the St. Aubyn brand, and he had the authority to veto whomever he wanted as his female accomplice. He was staring at me intently; his square cut facial features compressed as he studied me.
Boldly, I met his gaze and winked slowly at him.
He blinked before erupting into throaty laughter that was absurdly attractive. “Who is this, Renna?”
The redhead checked her clipboard. “Cosima Moore, 17 years old, Italian, Tivoli Models Roma.”
The judges efficiently located my headshot amid their folders and spent a moment reading it over. It was a short portfolio, and I wrung my hands nervously when Freida Liv tossed it aside with a flick of her thin wrist.
“Your biggest campaign was in June with Mila Cosmetic,” Willa Percy confirmed. “And most recently Intimissimi lingerie?”
“Yes, I was lucky enough to work with some of the most talented people in Italy.” The memory of my time with Intimissimi warmed me, and I felt my usual confidence return, straightening my spine.
“Yes, well, this isn’t a dinky little national campaign.” Freida Liv stared at me with her glacier eyes. “Things are done differently here at St. Aubyn. You have some good runway experience…” She flipped carelessly through the photos of my runway walks for Dolce & Gabbana and Valentino. “But that isn’t what St. Aubyn