A Not-So-Simple Life by Melody Carlson Page B

stiffly on a hard plastic chair, pretending to read a fashion rag but actually watching as young people, both guys and girls, came and went through the office. They were—obviously models, and although they didn’t give me the time of day, I couldn’t help but study them.
    And as I studied them, I came to the realization that (1) I did not fit in with these people, (2) I would never fit into their fashion scene, and (3) the sooner I got out of this place, the better for everyone. I was about to sneak out the door when the receptionist informed me that Ms. Montgomery would see me now.
    Her office was starkly modern with pale, glossy wood floors and chairs that, like in the reception area, were molded plastic, shiny and black. Several chrome-framed shots of models adorned the white walls, and her desk was glass andchrome with very little on top. She seemed to be coordinated with her office in a sleek black dress and a long silver pendant as the only accent, well, besides a pair of black-rimmed glasses that gave her a stern look. Her hair was glossy silver and straight, cut short in the back and long in front, which in my opinion accentuated a rather long nose. Still, she was attractive in a severe fifty-something sort of way—the kind of looks that demand respect.
    Anyway, I was glad that I’d worn black today since it seemed to be her favorite color. Quick introductions were made, and I could tell that she expected me to call her Ms. Montgomery. Then she told me to sit in the hard plastic chair across from her. I sat down, keeping my back straight but unsure what to do with my legs. I wanted to cross them but wasn’t sure if that was proper.
    “Maya Stark…” She said my name slowly. “Nick Stark’s daughter, I understand.”
    I nodded without saying anything. Really, what was there to say?
    She peered curiously at me now. “So tell me, Maya Stark. Why does Nick Stark’s daughter wish to become a model? The truth, please.”
    I looked evenly back at her and remembered what Myrna had told me last night—this woman didn’t want any attitude. And I didn’t plan to give her any.
    “The truth is, I never really wantedto be a model. I just need to make money, and Myrna suggested modeling.”
    Her narrow brows arched ever so slightly. “And why does Nick Stark’s daughter need to earn her own money?”
    “To live.”
    She picked up a silver pen now, holding it like a cigarette and rocking it between her fingers. “Have you any experience?”
    So I told her about working at Ralph Lauren’s and how I often wore the clothes there. “That’s kind of like modeling, isn’t it?”
    She nodded, then wrote something down with her silver pen.
    “Look,” I said quickly, knowing that this wasn’t only crazy but futile, “I’m obviously not the model type, and I don’t want to waste your—”
    “Hush.”
    So I shut my mouth and waited.
    “I seriously doubt whether you know enough about fashion to determine who is and who is not ‘the modeling type,’ as you put it. But I have more than thirty years of experience in this industry. How about you let me be the judge of that? Now stand up.”
    “Huh?”
    “Do not say ‘huh.’”
    “Pardon me?”
    “Stand up.”
    So I stood.
    “Now walk.”
    I took a breath, then walked across the floor, turned around when I was nearly to the wall, and walked back.
    She gasped. “Good grief.”
    “What?”
    “You walk like a farmer.”
    “Why, thank you,” I said a bit smugly. “I do have a garden, and I wouldn’t mind—”
    “Hush! Now turn around. Do a slow three-sixty.”
    So I slowly turned.
    “Hold your chin up.”
    I held my chin up.
    “How tall are you?”
    “I…uh…I’m not sure.” I was flashing back to Vivian and the comments she’d made about my height. Still, I knew that height was an advantage in this part of the fashion world.
    “And I suppose you don’t know how much you weigh either?”
    “Well, no…”
    “Do you happen to know what size