“Well, you’ve also got a smart mouth. I like that. My name’s Demos, like I said. I own the Demos Modeling Agency on Madison at Fifty-third. I’m legit, just ask Dickie over there, not some sort of punk who hits on women. I’d like to do some layouts on you. Won’t cost you a dime. I’ll provide the photographer and the outfits. You interested?”
“You don’t look like a punk.”
“I’m not, scout’s honor. And no, you don’t have to strip to your skin for these shots. I don’t do calendars or provide fodder for the skin magazines. I do fashion stuff, all legit, as I said. If you’re good, you’ll make a lot of money and so will I. How old are you?”
“Twenty-two, just graduated last spring from Columbia, degree in psychology. I know, worthless, but it’s something at least.”
“You ever done any modeling before?”
She shook her head, then said, “That woman who was in here. She’s a model. I recognized her. She was in my dentist’s office.”
“That was the
“You want a replacement Janine?”
He looked at her closely, silent for too long a time. Finally, “No, I want something entirely new and you just might be it.” He sat back, brooding now, and tossed down the rest of his whiskey.
“Actually, you’ve got ageless bones. That’s the key in most cases. Well? Do you want to give it a shot, Lindsay Foxe?”
“When?”
“Tomorrow, say at one o’clock?”
“Why not? As of two hours ago, I’m no longer a publicist.”
“Are you tied up with any guy?”
She was instantly still. “No.”
“Good. Boyfriends can be a real pain in the ass when it comes to scheduling shoots at weird hours.”
“No boyfriends.”
“You sound like that’s permanent.”
“It is, Mr. Demos. It is.”
“You’re into women?”
“No. I’m not into anything.”
“Good. If things turn out, you’re going to have to knock off about ten pounds, maybe fifteen. The camera adds it on, you know.”
“I’ve heard. Ten pounds is a lot. Fifteen pounds sounds impossible. I’m not a featherweight. In fact, I’m on the light side right now. I don’t know if I could do it or if I’d even want to starve myself like that.”
“Well, I’m getting ahead of myself anyway. You might look like a geek on film. Those gorgeous cheekbones of yours just might fade away into the sunset. That jaw of yours might look like a ballbuster’s on film. Too, you’re a little old to be starting all this. You think about it, Lindsay. Call me in the morning and let me know. Don’t let those gorgeous eyes get bloodshot tonight, will you?”
“It’s hard to believe all this is for real, that you’re for real. It’s like a B movie.”
“I know,” Demos said, and grinned, showing a slight space between his front teeth. “But then again, I’ve always thought life was based on a B movie. But the thing is, Lindsay, successful models don’t just magically appear in my office. It’s the dogs that usually come to an office. I found Janine at a party down in the Village. She had crooked teeth and bleached-out hair, but I saw the possibilities. Two of my very successful models I found just like you—in bars. One of them had to have an ear job. One model I spotted at my aunt’s funeral, another one my mom had picked out for a blind date. You never know. If an agency is going to be successful—like mine is—why, then, the eyes are always searching. So, call me, all right?”
As Lindsay said later that evening to Gayle Werth over margaritas, chips, and hot sauce at Los Panchos, “Maybe I’ll be on the cover of
“Sure, sweetie. And maybe you’ll get elected to the United Nations.”
“They don’t do elections, Gayle.”
“I’m just saying don’t get your hopes up, Lindsay. The man could be a real slime bucket, he could be a pervert, a wanted criminal. You’ll check him out before you head over there, won’t you?”
“I already did. He’s very well-known. He’s big-time. He’s in the phone book and his address is fancy and quite real. I even called
Gayle shrugged. “I’m going with you tomorrow. I’m not taking any chances that you’ll be too trusting and sign away the farm.”
“Me, trusting?” That was truly a surprise to Lindsay. “You’re joking.”
“No. You’re naive as hell, Lindsay. Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you. I saw that psychology creep of yours, Dr. Gruska, this morning when I was on campus checking on gymnastics courses. He nearly ran to catch up with me. Can’t you just see him with his tweeds flapping? He wanted to know how you were. He wanted your phone number.”
Lindsay choked on a tortilla chip and grabbed for her glass of water. “You didn’t—”
“Don’t worry. I gave him a number, all right, made it up right then and there. He walked away a happy creep.”
“I wonder what he wants?”
“He probably wants what every man wants. He wants inside your jeans.”
“I don’t think so. His father wouldn’t allow it.”
Gayle waved a tortilla chip at her. “You’re an odd duck, Lindsay. I go along thinking you’re so unworldly, but then I see this other side of you. All cynical and funny, at least on the surface. Sometimes I just don’t understand you at all.”
“Nothing to understand,” Lindsay said, and called to Ernesto for two more margaritas, frozen, with salt.
8
It was a hot day in mid-July, not even noon yet, and already in the low nineties. Lindsay was regret-ting her long walk to the Demos Agency, but she’d gained two pounds, and walking and sweating was the easiest way to get it off. She came around Fifty-third Street and looked up, half-expecting to see Glen waving from the eleventh floor of the pre-World War II building, a solid brick, dark and dirty, needing a good hosing down, like most of the other buildings on the block. She didn’t see Glen. Still, she smiled, knowing that today would be as much fun as she could expect from the modeling grind. She was doing a makeup layout for Lancome and the ad-agency people in charge of the shoot were funny and bright, and practical jokers. Well, today she’d be the one to get the laugh—she looked like dog meat and when they saw her they were going to scream.
Lindsay bent down to pull up her baggy army socks, a nice touch she’d thought, especially with the puke- green stretched-out cotton sweatshirt pulled over the tops of her ragged jeans. When she straightened, she saw a beautifully dressed woman emerge from a taxi, a vision really, in cool pink silk that should have clashed with her shining auburn tapered bob, but didn’t. Lindsay could only stare at her. Inside, she jolted, recognition warring with deep, deep pain. She shook her head, as if to deny what she saw, then said very quietly, “Sydney, is that you? Sydney?” Her half-sister turned and stared at her, taking in the moussed-backed ponytail held with a rubber band, the shiny face devoid of makeup, and the hideous green sweatshirt.
She said nothing, merely stood there looking beautiful and slender and perfect, as always, now looking at Lindsay’s face, her hair, the dangling Coke-bottle earrings.
“Sydney? It is you, isn’t it?”
“Hello, Lindsay. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
Lindsay didn’t know what to say. There’d been no warning of any sort, no one had bothered to tell her Sydney
