Crazy about Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3(68)
Joe poured two shots into an old-fashioned glass and added it to the tray, then took out two frosted martini glasses from a freezer under the bar and added them to Julianne’s tray.
“Say…how’d that job go? The one in New York?”
Julianne sighed. “Okay. But they didn’t end up using my pictures. They used another girl instead.”
Joe clucked softly, pouring vodka carefully into the glasses. “Your day’s coming, Jules. I know it.”
Her lips twitched. After four months in Philadelphia during which she’d waitressed far more than she’d modeled, her “day” was sure taking it’s time coming.
Frances Watson, from Reingold Talent, had called Julianne several months ago out of the blue, asking if she’d ever considered a modeling career. At first Julianne was sure it was a joke—one of her half-sisters or cousins putting on a posh voice and trying to make a fool of her. She’s said a few choice words to “Frances” and hung up the phone, only to have it ring again a moment later.
“Miss Crow, it’s Frances Watson again. My phone number is 717-555-4895, and our website is www.reingoldtalent.com. Why don’t you look us up and call me back. I saw the promotional video you narrated on the Oglala Lakota College website and I’d like to talk to you about a possible modeling contract.”
Julianne’s mouth had dropped open as she stared down at the dirty kitchen floor in her mother’s double-wide trailer in shocked surprise. None of her family members could have cooked up such an intricate rouse. This had to be for real.
She’d apologized for calling the woman a kaga, which meant “demon” in Julianne’s native Lakota, and listened to what Frances Watson had to say. Apparently, Reingold Talent didn’t feel they had enough minority models in their agency portfolio and they were anxious to sign several girls who had a more unique or exotic look in anticipation of upcoming trends. Julianne had scoffed at this, fingering her lush hips and telling Frances Watson she had the wrong girl.
“I’m no model,” she explained without shame. She was fit and healthy, but a far cry from the willowy women she noticed in fashion magazines. “I’m not a small woman.”
“That’s fine,” said Frances Watson in a warm, cultured voice, like the white ladies used in the soap operas her unci, or grandmother, watched faithfully every afternoon. “I’m not looking for typical models. In fact, we would be delighted to sign some plus-size girls to our roster. What size do you wear, Julianne?”
“Fourteen,” she said, feeling her cheeks grow hot from her lie. “Or sixteen.”
“Perfect,” said Frances Watson distractedly, like she was writing down this information. “Would you be willing to come to Philadelphia next weekend? All expenses paid, of course. We could take some photos, talk about a contract, maybe even—”
Julianne hadn’t waited to hear the rest of the sales pitch. She didn’t need to. Opportunities like this one didn’t land on her scuffed-up doorstep every day and she wasn’t about to let this one pass her by.
“Yes. I’ll come.”
“Uh. Oh. Well, wonderful!” said Frances Watson, her voice surprised and pleased at the same time. “I didn’t expect—I mean, that’s terrific.”
They traded contact information and Frances Watson said her assistant would call Julianne the next day to make the arrangements. That was just over five months ago. Five months in which she’d appeared in the print and on-line catalogues for Land’s End and Soft Surroundings, and gone to a lot of go-sees. She’d booked a few more paying jobs, too, for which she’d been compensated, but plus-sized, taller-than-average Indian girls didn’t appear to be on the top of anyone’s list right now, despite Frances Watson’s continued encouragement. She felt it was just a matter of time until she was a hot commodity—she was unwavering in the opinion that Julianne “had something.”
Yeah, she thought, I have something, all right: bills piling up.
Moving from her home on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in southern South Dakota to Philadelphia had been a culture-shock in every possible way, but the worst of it had been the cost of everything. She wasn’t prepared for her $750 per month rent, or the fact that her groceries, which she considered modest, cost over $200 per month. She had to keep her skin moisturized and hair conditioned, and though Reinhold had paid for her headshots, portfolio and business cards, Julianne needed clothes for her auditions and appointments and those weren’t cheap either.
She’d expected to be on her feet by now—making regular money from frequent jobs—but it hadn’t happened yet, and things felt tighter and tighter every month.
Which was why, when she’d been approached by the man in the black hat earlier this evening, she’d listened to what he had to say regardless of his shady and unexplained appearance at the back of the tasting room where she was throwing out a bag of garbage in the dumpster for Joe.
“Hey,” he’d whispered, catching her attention. “You waitressing here tonight?”
Tamping down her fierce desire to make some quip about how much she just liked wearing waitressing outfits for fun, she’d turned to him and nodded.
“You want to make a quick $500?”
She’d sneered at him, taking a step away, back toward the door to the tasting room. Julianne wasn’t exactly a stranger to smarmy come-ons, but she certainly didn’t entertain them.