Feyenoord Faces contest.
Cindy opens the tent flap. “You know, the chair’s still out there.”
“What chair?” Tairhun asks from behind Sandor’s hat. We all drop what we’re doing and peer through the flap.
Zoë forgot to take off the huge red collapsible beach chair put up during the spring scene, and there it is, on the left end of the t. Otto’s at the top of the ramp, cruising nonchalantly around it, pretending it’s part of the set.
“Stacey! Take it with you when you come off,” Tairhun says, pushing me toward the flap. “Don’t worry. Here.” He throws me a pair of sunglasses. “You’re done. Go!”
On the mike Sandrine the announcer, cool as ever, talks about the construction of the vest, what other accessories would be hot. She’s an old pro. She could go on for hours. Otto’s still there, doing laps up and down the tiny ramp, opening and closing his jacket like a goldfish gasping for oxygen. As we pass each other on the stairs, he shoots me a glare that would fry onions. I mouth “Sorry” and step up onto the runway.
For some reason the runway is also called the ramp, which evokes images of takeoffs and landings. Magical properties. Models suddenly gifted with the power of flight. “Ramp” is a strange name for something that’s totally horizontal. A perceptual illusion. It bends light, it’s curved, it’s tilted, enabling models to ascend or descend to different levels.
“And here we have the last of our outfits from Merriweather’s,” Sandrine announces.
Up the ramp I go, look side to side. Like a hammerhead. Trying not to slip on smooth masking-taped soles. After the show, I’ll return the shoes, minus the tape, to Stetton’s for a full refund, satisfaction guaranteed, although I’ll probably have to go all the way to the east-end outlet because it’s show season and they’re starting to recognize my face.
“At work, rest, or play this beautiful jacket from Merriweather’s Men’s Boutique is guaranteed to impress. One hundred percent wool, doubleknit, with invisible stitching.”
I’m in full stride, attempting to get my groove on, but the music’s too fast. Techno at two hundred beats per minute, and the treble speakers aren’t working. From far away it sounds like a bass drum player on speed— boom boom boom boom till he’s dragged offstage by the rest of the orchestra. It’s like taking a stroll on a treadmill stuck on Jog.
“You’ll notice the pants,” Sandrine says, “pleatless with a slim line that’s very popular this spring.”
I’m into my pant turn, hoping the hems don’t come undone. Of course, they haven’t been altered for the show, and Tairhun was too busy with Sandor to fix them. In a panic I taped all the excess material to the inside of the pant leg, but I can feel it loosening with each step. Plant leg left, left hand in pocket, half-turn, hand out of pocket, half smile to the crowd, pivot, walk again.
“The trench coat is fifty percent cotton, warm but breathable, with a removable lining...” I fling off the coat and sling it over my shoulder, exposing the red lining. “Which is always handy when the weather warms up. If the weather warms up.”
The crowd chuckles. Sandrine will use the same line tomorrow.
“You can find his sunglasses at In the Shades, located on the third floor, left at the escalators.”
I slip them off my eyes onto the top of my head. Finally I can see.
I’m at the top of the t, next to the red beach chair. I ignore it, edge carefully around it, pretend it’s not there, smiling the whole way. Most guys on the runway don’t smile. They try to play cool: smirk, jaw clenched like a fist, hair by “stylists,” attitude by Armani. They creep around the runway in a seductive slouch, or else strut a slow goose step, chest out, butt in, fooling no one. This ain’t Milan. You can’t be cocky in rugby pants, shirts with crests, reversible belts. A big-time model came up from New York to give a runway workshop back when I was starting out, and he told us never to smile; it shows you’ve got something to hide. But this is Nepean, not New York, and they book me every season for this crap, and smiling’s got everything to do with it. When I’m on the runway, it’s as if I’m walking past the girl at the bar who I’ve been eyeing all night. And just when she thinks I’m going to pass her by, blam! Turn and give her the smile.
My mother saved up for years for that smile. My teeth were wired in grade five until grade nine when I decided I couldn’t afford to talk with bits of carrot and salami dangling from my teeth. My mother was running out of money, anyway, so she didn’t put up a fight and I was left with a perfect half smile—top teeth straight like A’s, bottom teeth crooked like cops. When I’m on the ramp, I ignore the guys in the crowd, who either like the clothes or don’t. I focus on the women, give each a secret smile, as if to say, “I put this outfit on just for you.”
When I head back down the runway, I spot an old lady sitting beside a walker. I smile. She smiles back. A group of whistling sisters are gathered near the edge of the ramp. I smile. They’ll probably hang around the tent after the show, waiting for me to come out. Mulattos are a rare breed in Nepean. I see a white woman on a bench by the side of the stage. She’s so obese she can’t close her legs—a roll of fat hangs between her thighs like a marsupial’s pouch. I smile, anyway. In the front row at the bottom of the ramp, there’s a photographer—an older man, probably from the mall’s marketing team, but you never know. I smile. But the camera only clicks when I turn away.
Manson’s just sitting down, almost an hour late. I’ve never seen him in person before, but it isn’t hard to pick him out. Today his hair’s black. He has a black goatee, streaked with grey. Should I smile? Surely everyone else has tried to catch his eye and wink their way to first place—a one-year contract with Feyenoord.
There are no guarantees in modelling, but Feyenoord models, even the guys, can make almost $150 an hour. You never hear about that kind of money in Nepean. Girls around here make enough to buy their first CD burner, or maybe a custom-made prom dress. Our guys always have other jobs—they’re cabinet makers, computer-software designers, government consultants, just modelling to say they can. No full-time models in these parts. Of course, every so often a local girl is sent down to Toronto, never to be heard from again. But a contract with Feyenoord gives any model a name that’s worth something. And a name is worth everything in this business.
I decide to play it cool. After all, anybody who knows anything knows the real contest is tomorrow. Tomorrow’s show is for the unknowns. Modelling virgins, culled from travelling mall booths and blurry Polaroids. The winners from today’s contest will then be judged against tomorrow’s winners. We’re the warm-up act, the freak show of this travelling circus. Hurry, hurry, step right up! See the skinny girl with no eyebrows... Come one, come all! Next up, the man with the permanent smile! Tomorrow Manson will beat the bushes for his new Dumbo. The joy, after all, is in the chase. Most of us have already been discovered, and put back. Too small. Too hairy. No hips. Too hippy.
Finding myself in front of him, I grin, after all, but Manson’s busy examining his cappuccino. At the edge of the ramp I slip the shades back on. The look-away into the crowd. And there she is—Melody, two rows back, trying to hide behind a pillar outside Fenway Shoes.
I pause. I have to be sure. Everything’s brownish-yellow through the tint of cheap sunglasses, but I’m positive it’s her. Short, cutting-board blonde, well-leavened breasts swelling under her tight sweater—grey knit, short-sleeved—which I gave her for Christmas. Skin white like rye bread. What’s she doing here? And how did she find out about the show? I didn’t tell her. I never invite her to any
