Blue Velvet

“It was beautiful. It was nothing like I’d ever imagined. I enjoyed those moments and will cherish them for a lifetime.”

“You know, you could start by being a bit curvier.” The photographer’s camera lens is slowly studying her frame. How many headshots had he taken, especially from those angles. She sighed. It was the same thing over and over again.

“Now describe yourself in three words.”

Lights blaring, camera flashing on and off. On and off. Numbed brain, silent. Unable to hear her own thoughts or make them come together.

“Barbra?”

There were people acting important, and when you’re in a room full of people who think they are important, you become as useful as used tissue.

Yes, back to earth. She took a breath. Smiled. Practiced to perfection.

Three words.

“Brave. Fresh. Chic.”

“Finally. We have it, guys. It’s a wrap.”

Barbra massaged her shoulders and moved from the set, yawning and framing herself for a stretch. She had to loosen her tired and old limbs. Being forty-six was nothing like she imagined. It was worse. It felt like being old. She hated that. That fuzziness that she felt when she tried to remember a date or time. When she had to move from one seat, it took her whole body ten working days before it did anything at all, and when it did, it was a half-hearted effect. Her body didn’t care what it did, just as long as she didn’t pressure it to do so much.

Why was she doing this? Reviving a twenty-year-old career that she really had no business making see the light of day. Was she that desperate? That starved of attention? Of validation? Did she care too much about what people thought? Maybe not. An old woman like herself restarting her career? It wasn’t something done in the business. She should have a charity to help young, starving models get their foot in the industry. Better yet, be more business-like... start an organic business selling some fake fruit drink to eradicate aging, a marketing scam. She could make money selling Twinkies, as long as it promised people the flawless skin they were after.

Barbra. An imposter. Though the magazines once had been her friend and had flaunted her body for the whole world to admire, she couldn’t help thinking she was selling people poison. The idolized body that was edited and photoshopped.

She always lied in interviews.

“Eat your veggies and fruits.”

“Make time for relationships.”

“Learn to grow okay with the wrinkles and embrace changes in your body.”

If only she could take the same advice she gave to others.

She was always hopelessly dieting. She was like a yo-yo. The first weeks, eating healthy, nutritious meals. Then she would give into her cravings, binging on anything she could find. Then, to finish it off, she would throw it all up. Her healthy lifestyle nailed to a tee. She should write an eBook about that.

Make time for relationships? She hadn’t spoken to her family in over twenty years. Not that there was a lot to talk about. Her mother, a former model herself, who, after her daughter was born, decided to give it up and totally resent for it. As soon as she could get away from her mother and start modelling, took that chance and did a six-month stint in Milan. That’s her relationship life advice sorted. Perhaps she should write an eBook about it.

Let’s not forget the amount of time she plunged her face into ice water until she was numb of memory, of what was going on around her. Picked at every spot that was only visible to a trained model’s eye and exercised until, when she did land in bed, she felt ached and worn out like an old piece of leather. She should write an eBook about that.

“Barbra, lunch. 1 p.m. At that Italian restaurant joint you like.”

Her agent sounded whiny. She had a lot on her plate, and she could do with more enthusiasm from her client. It was the least she could do since she had to convince almost everybody that a worn-out model was what they needed to promote their new spring and fall collections. She knew she hadn’t wanted to take her on, but she was fresh in the game, and Barbra knew she would bite on anything that fed her way into the industry.

***

“Caesar salad without the croutons.” She elegantly passed the menu back to the waiter.

He smiled and professionally jotted it down on an expensive leather notepad.

“Your usual beverage of choice, madam?”

She nodded. There was no point in even voicing what she wanted here. For twenty years: Salad and black coffee. Not that she enjoyed it either. The leaves always tasted wilted and they added enough lemon to cause acid reflux. They also added way too much garlic that she had to come prepared to pop at least three breath mints in her mouth afterward. Why did she do it, you ask? It was why anyone would do anything. To create an image. A persona that the media could prance around the streets, while the real her could be the ordinary person no one took the time to notice. At a glance, she saw the table next to her whispering in hushed voices. Two young women in their twenties were looking at her. Envying her a little but, at the same time, in awe of her. So naïve. Hope they don’t order what I’m ordering.

“Now, I don’t want you to get offended by this, but you’re going to have to take every gig you get.”

"I understand," she said blankly.

The agent appeared agitated with the lack of enthusiasm but persevered with bright spirits.

I wish she would say what she really felt instead of trying to parade this façade of decency. Be blunt, and maybe she would earn my respect. Barbra sighed. That was never going to happen. She slowly drank her water from the weird-shaped funnel glasses. What was the point of making it that shape she would never know. You could hardly put any water in it.

“Right, we have a few venues. A few shows in Japan.”

“No.”

The agent gritted her teeth.

“What happened to Paris? And Milan? You know, as well as I do, those are the places. The only places I need to be. That small stuff isn’t going to work for me. I’m already an established model.”

“Was. We’re reviving your career. Remember?”

She said it as though she were a dead cat. That she had reincarnated into a spirit animal. So Gen Z of her.

“Japan was the best I could do, as well as some local, but still bespoke fashion houses in Spain.”

“I can’t. I won’t. It would be like a step back.” The waiter placed the disgusting salad in front of her face. She smiled and said her thanks.

“The truth is, no one is interested in trying to revive your career. They fear that with you modelling their clothes it would push them to market for an older clientele. They want their brands to remain forever youthful. Bedazzling. You’re famous, sure, as a TV icon, not a fashion icon.” The agent stopped to take a bite of her order. A burger with all the trimmings. Full of fat and cholesterol. The dripping grease on the plate was enough to make Barbra’s mouth water.

“Maybe that’s what they need. A new clientele. You should persuade them of that. Do your job.” As soon as she said that, she regretted it. She didn’t mean to sound cruel. The burger at that close range was definitely playing to that effect.

Her agent stopped mid-chew. She could see that she wanted to say something mean, but swallowed the burger slowly, a sign that she should let it go.

“We have a lot of things in common, me and you.”

“What is that?” said Barbra, and she couldn’t help but notice those two women in their twenties with salad bowls and black coffee orders.

“They don’t want us here. We stand out like sore thumbs. We don’t represent what the industry wants. They don’t want it to change. They’ve never been about inclusivity. Always about staying the same. Why change something that works, something that brings you money? It’s risky.” It’s bruising.

“What are you talking about...?” Barbra stopped herself quickly, realizing her agent was talking about her colour. She wasn’t about to argue the fact that modelling agencies had, for a long time, wanted nobody but white models. She wasn’t sure how the agent side of things worked, but she was sure it was just the same.

“That’s why I picked you. I chose you, Barbra. I want you to succeed. You may be my only shot at getting in, but I couldn’t think of anybody better to do it with.”

The sincerity broke something in Barbra’s heart.

“You’ve got something on your face.”

The agent quickly dabbed the corner of her mouth awkwardly, aware her speech was a bit more sappy than she intended.

“Their secret sauce is something else. You should try it sometime.”

Barbra shook her head politely. She knew no way in hell that would happen. Jeopardize an image of herself she had built for so long.

“Suit yourself. Now, do I have your support on those fashion venues?” she said slowly, getting up, ready to leave.

Barbra sighed.

“Yeah.”

“Good. I’ll contact you.”

“And I’ll reply.”

“Right, okay then. Bye-bye.” The agent almost ran away. Happy to get out of that situation or whatever had just happened.

“A to-go bag, please,” said Barbra gently to her attending waiter. She was going to throw this garbage in the bin as soon as she got home.

Barbra usually preferred to walk to her home residence in London but decided to take a black taxi. She was tired and exhausted from the photo shoot.

The taxi man was looking at her curiously, trying to make out who this familiar face he had probably seen plastered on magazines twenty-odd years ago.

She placed her sunglasses on and tilted her head back, thinking of absolutely nothing.

The taxi man stopped trying to guess and turned up the radio.

Britney Spears.

Could life get any worse?

***

“Mom died, and you only show up now.”

“Dang it, I forgot I had a sister who reminds me of my faults and how completely superficial I am.”

She never counted her adopted sister as a true member of the family. After all, she was adopted as a publicity stunt for her mother back in her early modelling days. She was some rescue kid from Guatemala. As soon as she was old enough, she was sent to boarding school. Her sister never resented her mother for putting her there. The opposite. Compared to her, she viewed her mother as a saviour. Maybe because she had so much heartbreak in Guatemala that any type of love would appear suffocating and true. Maria was closer to her mother. She had somehow managed a bond with the most unaffectionate mother in humanity. She hated Maria for it. She was a true-blood daughter, and she would have loved a small bit of whatever bond they had to have reached her. They were not sisters. They were strangers ten years apart who had shared an unloving mother.

“You couldn’t even come when she was sick and dying,” her adopted sister shunned her.

Barbra shrugged, not caring and due to the frosty breeze of spring. She lit a cigarette, puffing the fumes into the air.

“You sicken me.”

“Look, Mother Teresa! I never read the letters, so I’m sorry. She wouldn’t have wanted me to come anyway.”

“You have no idea. She called for you all the way through her treatment.” Her eyes went cloudy. “Sometimes, she thought it was you that came into the room. You see what I’m getting at? I would have to pretend to be you.”

“Like I said, I’m sorry.” It was hard to think someone like her mother felt she had the right to call on her or envision her.

“You changed houses and phones so many times. I didn’t know, so I decided to address letters to your agents.” Her voice darkened. Thundered. “She called for you. Aren’t you hearing me, Barbra?”

“I called for her!” Barbra shrieked, screamed. No control.

“Ever since I was a kid. Now, it’s happened to her, and I don’t see what the issue is. My whole life full of neglect, and she can’t take five minutes.” Barbra’s voice was emotional and wobbly, something she did not want. She didn’t want to cry for the mother who had left her to grow up herself.

She hadn’t meant to be so loud either. The guests in the kitchen of the old American house turned towards the garden shrubbery where both women had decided to hide themselves, tired of the fake, facetious circle of fashion friends her mother had chosen to hang around with.

They both let their eyes gaze at the huge oak tree that grew large and beautiful, something both of them remembered laying alongside as kids, when their imaginations were full and the world hadn’t hit them like a ton of bricks.

“When I lost my family, I had to start from scratch. Learn to love again. Heal again. I moved to a country I didn’t know. I learned how to speak, talk, and make new friends, and their culture. I learned, and I can only say now I have fully understood.”

“Understood what?” The hand that held the cigarette was shaking a little bit.

“That it takes time to heal. Even then, you are left with the mark. It will always be there.”

“Can I ask you a question?” She said after another much-needed wave of silence.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Why the blue? It’s a bit inappropriate.”

“My agent assures me it’s the rave in Paris.” She said sarcastically.

“Oh, Barb,” Maria rolls her eyes and smiles. She turns to enter back into the house.

“Come on then, I made your favourite, grilled cheeseburgers. You still like them, don’t you?”