How to be a Model

I groaned as my blaring alarm pulled me out of my deep and relaxing sleep, and forced my eyes open, flicking the eight o'clock alarm off. It felt like only moments ago I had shut my eyes. Pushing the thick comforter off, I slid out from the warmth of my bed, stretching wearily. It really should be illegal to wake up before nine in the morning, earliest. The cold assaulted me, and I glanced longingly back at my bed, wishing I could return to its loving warmth. Even for a few moments...  But no, I couldn't. I had to have a shower, get ready, and eat so that I would be ready for my driver to pick me up at nine-thirty to get to the Vogue photo shoot by ten sharp. My agent, Coco Jameson, had reminded me how much money was at stake with this particular shoot; not that I needed the reminding. Glancing at my cell phone, I noticed that I had three messages. Frowning, I opened the earliest one, wondering who would be sending me a text message before eight in the morning. The first two were from Coco, one at five, and one at seven, reminding me to be on time and well-groomed for the shoot. Rolling my eyes, I deleted them, and then opened the most-recent text, which was surprisingly from my father. Dad hated cell phones, and only used his when he really needed to; normally he would call me if he needed anything.

Al, would I be able to drop by sometime today? I have something important to discuss with you.

I pursed my lips, wondering what Dad needed to "discuss with me". He sounded awfully serious.

Sure, I have a shoot at 10, so maybe around 3?

Putting my phone on my bedside table, I gave my bed one last longing look before moving into the bathroom en suite adjoining my room. It was a large bathroom with a luxurious Jacuzzi, a shower made completely from glass, and a whole wall that was lined with cabinets, two sinks, and a colossal mirror the length of the wall above the sink. I gazed at the pale, tired-looking girl in the mirror. Her light blue-green eyes blinked back at me. I'd seen the body that faced me in the mirror in magazines, on billboards, on the internet, in the newspaper, and on television. Stripping off my pyjama pants and singlet, I gazed at that body now. Modelling required extreme care of the body; a healthy, balanced diet, no binge-eating, no smoking, limited alcohol, plenty of beauty products, a regular exercise regime, and more. Although these demands had seemed a little extreme when I first began modelling at the age of sixteen, the results are obvious. I have a naturally narrow build, with a tiny waist and small hips, and, thanks to modelling, a flat stomach and slender legs. I am likely one of the most healthy, fit people on the planet. Turning away from the mirror I stepped into the shower and turned on the warm spray. Sighing, I felt some of the tension and tiredness leaving me. This shoot had a lot riding on it, but I had done so many shoots before that I wasn't too worried; evidently, as I had only gone to bed at three in the morning. Bad idea. Morgan – the makeup artist – was not going to be happy with the faint bags underneath my eyes. Oh well. After deep conditioning my hair and cleansing my face, I reluctantly forced myself out from under the pounding heat. I towel-dried my hair and wrapped the towel around my body, moving out of the bathroom and into my walk-in wardrobe. Rows and rows of shoes of every kind, shape, and colour were positioned below racks of jeans, shirts, dresses, blouses, skirts, pants, and jackets. It didn't really matter what I wore to the shoot, as I would be changed into different outfits once I got there. Quickly selecting a pair of jeans that fit like a second skin, knee-high brown leather boots, and a lacy white shirt, I got dressed and returned to the bathroom. I quickly and efficiently did my makeup, highlighting my blue-green eyes with a few layers of mascara and a layer of eye-liner, before braiding my long, blonde hair. I headed out of my room into the living room, which adjoined the kitchen. Opening a small tub of yoghurt, I spooned it into a bowl of oats and added a little milk. Sitting at the kitchen bench on a bar stool I ate my breakfast while mentally making a checklist of everything that needed to be done that day. My mind went back to the text Dad sent me. It was certainly unusual. Wondering what he could want, I put my now empty bowl into the dishwasher and headed into the space room around the other side of the kitchen. I lived alone and never had any company stay the night, so the room had become a storage room for any extra clothing that I didn't wear very much (as a model you tend to accumulate clothing, but not all of it is particularly appealing to wear outside of a shoot – for example, a floor length gown with a corset bodice and dyed red ostrich feathers from the waist to the floor. Not a good look for a Saturday morning grocery run...). Glancing through the wardrobe, I contemplated (yet again) throwing out a whole lot of the clothes, or donating them to charity. I decided that I would take another look at them that afternoon after the shoot... and after Dad came over. A prickle of worry ran through me as I made my way back to my bathroom and brushed my teeth before reapplying my lip gloss and letting my hair out of the braid. What if something was wrong? Maybe Mom was sick? No, if she was, he would have just told me. But what is it then? I puzzled over this as I ran my fingers through my thick golden hair, leaving it to fall in soft waves down my back. My cell phone rang loudly from beside my bed, drawing me out of my review. I picked it up and suppressed a sigh when I saw that it was Coco. I love her, really. She's a brilliant agent, and a really smart, savvy person, but sometimes I think she'd be better suited to being a sergeant in the army.