She could almost hear her mother's thoughts: this is what we've been waiting for.
Fifteen, apparently, was a wonderful age to get scouted. Not that her age actually mattered next to the very fact that her jawline caught the attention of a former model who now held an administrative position at a New York agency. Having just arrived, Eve was sitting alone at a smoothie shop and contemplating whether to get a mango yogurt smoothie or the berry one when a statuesque woman about twice her age approached her.
A few weeks and even fewer walk-ins later, the woman practically adopted her and got her signed at Elite. And her mother, a model before she had gotten pregnant by Mr. Morgan, -- a budding entrepreneur then -- couldn't have been prouder. She lavished her with even more attention if that was possible, and took her shopping while constantly murmuring encouragement. "You'll be successful one day, sweetie, I promise you you'll have your name known by all of them." She referred to the designers before she condescendingly said that there was never a doubt in her mind.
Oh, but there was. Her mother had never been aware that she spoke of a paradox just a short while later. She talked of her modeling days, the hype of Eve's signing still obviously present in their home, and told her daughter that she could have actually mentioned Eve's name to her former manager. She even said she thought about it several times before but wanted to see if Eve's face could grab the attention of the scouts on her own.
This forced Eve to want to prove her mother wrong, that she could build a career without her shadow and the use of her name. Tucking in a box her scripts, (art) materials, books, music and other things neatly, she never quite got the chance to figure out for herself what talent she'd rather have. Modeling seemed predestined, and with her mother's pride overwhelming her own, Eve sought to stick to it.
Three years later, the what ifs still linger.
Thompson has been horribly silent the whole week. Late that Tuesday night, Eve picks up her phone and sighs. For some god awful reason, remembering the first time she gets signed leads her to remember him.
Everything's sort of chained, in an abstract sort of way.
Modeling was an eccentric hazard. Usually, runway shows involved people placing tape over her nipples, putting several hundred ounces of product in her hair, fights with other models because the dresses have been switched and fuck you, this one doesn't fit, and lots of fun. Sometimes, she was only glad that her name isn't glittering up there (yet), that she was only a regular catwalker, because the stress levels would certainly border on insane.
Photoshoots involved colorful liquids poured over her or dust covering half of her face or bending over railways or dancing like a lunatic or scary outfits which honestly seemed more fit for a sacrificial goat or a male model which sometimes happened to be her friend breathing down her collarbones.
Eve supposed it was a life she could get used to, what with all the dollars she was earning and the things her clients gifted her. The attention wasn't half bad either, and perhaps it's safe to say there's an adrenaline rush that comes with the camera flashes. But sometimes getting used to something didn't mean anything.
If she was being honest, the company wasn't half as bad as she expected. The friends she made, most of them anyway, understood. Partying, drinking on their night off, it was unspoken that they were all just pretty dolls in a race and it's not a test of who finishes first. It's a test of who doesn't get left behind but manages never to reach the finish line. The finish line would be an awful, awful prize. She knew that.
It happened right after her photoshoot for a non-major perfume line.
His apartment was pretty, typical Upper East Side, although his couch was a bit threadbare. Neither of them minded as their touches grew more frantic, more desperate. He smirked as she straddled him and whispered, "We're all trying to be innocent, but it isn't a very easy thing, is it?"
Every time someone asked, she always said it was a story for another day.
Eve hangs up, slams the phone down, and decides to do her theater homework.
2087
annaxmalina
jacobvanloon
theartofmadeline
vaporwave
kaledo-art
kianamaiart
