Our fiction prof, Ian Roy, asked us to choose a profession yesterday... write from any perspective about it. I chose this one because it would never in a million years be my real life.....
Seven thirty a.m. the phone rings. Dragging herself out of her empty bed early--the second time this week--Lauralee stumbles to her Gucci purse, fumbling through the debris to catch the call before they give up. It’s Elite, as she had hoped, with another job today at nine. Thank God. Stretching her lower back, she glances at the mess in her room, considers doing just one line to get the morning jump started and then catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Oh boy, not today. As it is, it’s going to take some doing to be ready for the cameras.
Juggling a bite of apple and a jumbo cup of coffee, she wipes steam from the bathroom mirror and studies her reflection. Her famously familiar long, lean arms, perfectly tanned skin, small empty breasts, and grey-green eyes look back. Scrutinizing the web of fine lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes, Lauralee slathers on a thick layer of moisturizer and pulls her hair into a thick band. It won’t be long before the make-up artists will consult more with the photographers about shadows and airbrush. It won’t be long before the latest batch of girls will be getting the morning calls.
Pulling on tights and a baggy t-shirt; scooping up dresses for the shoot; tossing shoes, bangles, scarves, and a handful of jewelry into a Lauren bag; she swills her coffee and changes her mind. Just one line. It will make those famous eyes sparkle in the shots. No one will notice the wrinkles there. No one will see the despair.