The Wig, the Bitch & the Meltdown Page 4

  An assistant brought him a latte and two People magazines. The British Royal family were making babies. His favorite section of People was the red-carpet gowns and the fashion dos and don’ts. There was Keisha in a ‘fashion don’t.’ He held it up for De La Renta. “She really shouldn’t be allowed to dress herself.”

  The glam guru guffawed. “Don’t I know it? Mother has terrible taste.”

  When the bell buzzed, Pablo had to cover his eyes to walk across the studio and get his hair washed and scalp massaged. It was the full treatment today and he wondered if he had enough cash in his pocket for a tip. When he got back to De La Renta’s chair, the mirror was covered with a black hairdressing gown. “I don’t trust you not to peek,” De La Renta teased. He fluffed some product into Pablo’s hair and pulled out the hairdryer. The sculpting took as long as the cut.

  They both got texts from Keisha at the same time.

  Keisha TEXT: B there in ten.

  “Almost done. You go slip in the back for the reveal.” De La Renta handed Pablo a small plastic case. “Mother wants a complete overhaul, so pop these in as well.”

  Pablo looked down at the contact lenses he was supposed to slip into his virgin eyes and almost panicked. “How do you put them in?”

  “Girl,” De La Renta giggled. “You brand new.”

  It took a few tries and a lot of eye drops, but the lenses finally floated where they belonged.

  “Where’s my creative director?” They could hear Keisha calling from the front room.

  “You ready, Mommy?” De La Renta shouted from the back room and bustled out to greet her. Pablo waited for a second, then slipped out the door as De La Renta announced, “I present the first Model Muse makeover!”

  Pablo thrust his hips forward and pouted as he strutted his stuff into the salon and did a three-point turn, his head tilted over one shoulder.

  Keisha shrieked and applauded. “Bring it on. Yes. You’re genius, De La Renta. Pure genius.”

  “True dat.” De La Renta preened himself.

  Surrounded by mirrors, Pablo looked at the stranger standing before his ecstatic friends. Close cropped hair, no curls. Silver grey instead of black. Grey eyes.

  “Oh, my, God. I look fucking amazing.”

  “You look fucking fierce,” Keisha praised.

  Something about having his eyes a different color made him feel different inside, more confident, and sexy. He leaned in closer to the mirror to look into the windows of his soul. He almost didn’t look biracial anymore—he looked other, except for his nose. It was just broad enough to speak to his ethnicity. He turned his face right and then left. The cut swept up over his ears, revealing his own fine chin and cheekbones. He was almost perfect. Almost. “Do you think I should get a nose job?”

  That afternoon, a much-needed rain poured down on a dusty Manhattan as Keisha and her new creative director rode in the chauffeured Escalade traveling north on the FDR. Staring at his new reflection in the tinted windows, transfixed by his grey eyes and the grey New York City rain that was sheeting down the street, Pablo tried to remember if he’d taken his antidepressant that morning. If he hadn’t, that could explain the sudden sense of detachment and loneliness. Perhaps it was just the weather…

  The pressure of starting a new show had worn on both of them over the past few weeks, and tempers had flared—hers. Today, it was a relief to see Keisha finally lightening up. She had every reason to be in a good mood. He did too, for that matter. So why did he feel the low pressure of depression coming on? He had to snap out of it. They were about to do something really big together. He had to be in top form like his partner, who was always in top form.

  Keisha snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Pablo.”

  “Sorry?”

  “What’s going on in that brain of yours?”

  “I can’t get over how I look now.”

  She laughed.

  “Well, I was just saying this first production meeting is really important. We have to set the stage for how we work with everyone.” She paused and looked at him, meaningfully. “It’s you and me in control, no matter what anyone else thinks.”

  “It’s all about you, Mommy,” he quipped.

  “Awe, my little porcelain prince,” she teased. “I’m gonna tell you a secret.”

  He turned to her expectantly.

  “Model Muse is gonna blow up. It’s gonna build my empire. Kashing In Productions.”

  “Ummmm. You might wanna rethink that name. Hashtag keeping it real.”

  “Ya think? Well, some ghetto kid in Compton owns the URL and is tryin’ to make me pay him a thousand dollars for it.”

  “Hello, hashtag queen of cheap?” He used his trademark gesture, crossing his fingers in the air as he laughed out loud. “Cut the kid a break and throw him some coins. Didn’t you and your brother have it hard growing up on the west coast in Compton? Hell, buy the URL and hire him to do your website.”

  Keisha shifted in her seat as she tightened her upper lip. “I dunno.”

  “Generosity makes you feel like a million dollars, rather than just being worth a million dollars.”

  “I’m worth a lot more than a million.” For a second, he thought she was going to snap his head off. Instead, she laughed.

  “Which reminds me. I found you an assistant. Finally.”

  “That took long enough.”

  “You keep me pretty busy.”

  She had too. And Pablo hadn’t minded until she snapped her fingers at him to pick her panties up off the floor. Finding someone for her to flog was no easy task, though. He called his alma mater Parsons, the Fashion Institute of Technology, and all of the other art colleges in New York City to see if there were any soon-to-be-graduates desperate for work—someone smart enough to foresee problems and solve them, but not so smart she (or he) didn’t want to be verbally abused. The assistant didn’t need to understand Keisha—that was Pablo’s still-to-be determined job description.

  Pulling up outside of the network, the driver hopped out to hold an umbrella over her head as he opened the door to the Escalade and they jumped out to rush into the lobby. Inside, shaking the wet from their shoes, Keisha looked at him. “Are you ready for this?”

  It was such a rhetorical question Pablo didn’t even bother to answer. As they came off the elevator, Pablo could hear the receptionist speaking into the intercom. “Miss Keisha Kash is here.”

  “Send them in,” a boisterous voice crackled over the speaker.

  They were ushered into a conference room made of glass walls, where a small group of people sat around a large metal table that could’ve easily sat twenty, comfortably. Their new colleagues. Pablo paused and let Keisha walk past him with a dramatic swish.

  Tall, dark and handsome did not begin to describe the man standing up to greet his new star. “Keisha Kash. We’re so honored to have you as the host and EP of Model Muse. I’m Broyce Miller, Network Exec in charge of the show. We spoke on the phone.”

  Keisha smiled broadly at him. “Finally, we meet.”

  Broyce looked delighted. “So, let me introduce everybody to you.” He pulled out a chair for the Supermodel to sit in. Pablo grabbed a seat on the fringe. “This is Joe Vong, formerly EP of our hit docu-reality show, OFFICERZ.”

  Pablo wondered what EP stood for. As if reading his mind, Broyce added, “Executive producer. He’s our showrunner, overseeing all production.”

  “OFFICERZ?” Keisha paused and looked over at Vong. “That just got canceled, didn’t it?”

  Vong had the paunch of a man who spent too many hours sitting in his office, and the face of a man who yelled a lot. The petite and oddly boyish-looking Korean didn’t look happy. “It got moved to a bad time slot. That killed the show.”

  “I’m sure it did, Mr. Joe,” she said as she slipped into her creepy child’s voice.

  Pablo knew from the moment she sa
id Mr. Joe something was wrong, but what or why, he had no idea.

  “Rachel Simpleton, your supervising producer,” Broyce continued.

  Rachel had the earnest and gaunt look of a vegan, and Pablo wondered if she’d purposely dressed down for the meeting. He also wondered if he stooped down and looked under the table if she would be wearing Birkenstocks on her feet.

  “And we’re extremely lucky to have Luciana Velásquez casting for us. She just left IMG as head of their women’s division.”

  Pablo was impressed at how Broyce Miller kept deferring to Keisha throughout the introductions.

  Keisha looked over at Luciana, a tight fake smile curling the side of her lips. “Shanna, is it? I thought I knew everyone over at IMG.” She shrugged. “Hmm, nice to meet you.”

  “Luciana.” The casting director smiled back and started to flip through her papers. “I actually booked you on the Swarovski Christmas campaign. But that was years ago. You were a new face then.”

  Pablo cringed at the ageist comment. Was the woman an idiot?

  Like a mythical harpy about to eat its kill, Keisha didn’t blink.

  Broyce jumped into the potential fray. “I just want to say that the network feels Model Muse is going to be a huge hit with someone of your caliber at the helm.”

  “And it will be.” Keisha gestured in Pablo’s direction. “I want you all to meet Pablo Michaels, my creative director and right-hand man.”

  Overcome by a wave of bashful shyness, Pablo simply waved. Keisha moved like a cresting wave toward the front of the room and leaned on the table. “Pablo worked for Fern Mallis and made his mark art directing and co-producing the Michael Kors show last winter. I’m sure you all heard about it. It got enormous press because of his innovative stylings. Everyone who works with Pablo, loves Pablo. He’s gonna werk his fashion connections with stylists and photographers for us, so we have real cred, as well as ratings. And he’s ours—exclusively. The only real fashion insider we have, other than me, of course.”

  Pablo could hear the rippling of hair standing on the back of the casting director’s neck. “Well, as a seasoned booker at the biggest modeling agency in the world for eight years,” Luciana fired back without missing a beat—Snarl! Hiss. Catfight—“I think I have a little experience in fashion.”

  With the grace of a maître d’, Broyce Miller diffused the friction in the room by quickly announcing, “Now that everybody knows each other, Luciana, why don’t you bring in this season’s models?”

  “Happy to.” She jumped up and opened the conference room door to a parade of stunning young female specimens. They snaked across the room in a crooked line, then turned to face the team, posing awkwardly with one leg bent and toe pointed. It felt suspiciously like a Miss America pageant, without the tits and ass. “First, we have Angela.” Luciana gestured for a stick of a girl to step forward.

  Keisha stood up. The girls sighed in collective awe at their muse. “Thank you. You can all leave now.”

  The models looked at Luciana and then at each other.

  “We’re good.” Keisha flicked her perfectly manicured fingernails at them.

  They wiggled back out of the room.

  “I’m sorry. Did you want them to wait in the hall?” Luciana closed the door firmly behind the last contestant.

  Keisha walked around the conference room table. Her I’m gonna eat your liver smile slowly spread over her face. Pablo wondered if Luciana would have any flesh left after the altercation that was about to ensue. The casting director looked completely unaware that she was about to become Keisha’s lunch.

  “I’m sorry, Lucia.” Keisha leaned on the table and looked at the rest of the team. “You have it all wrong. My show is all about the Cinderella story. I need to build girls from the ground up. I need a little more broken bird. You feel me?”

  “Yeah, I feel you. And it’s Luciana! Lou…See…Anna.”

  Keisha ignored her. “I need girls that are odd-looking, fragile. Girls who have never walked a runway or posed in front of a real camera before. Girls who come from poor backgrounds and are struggling to be seen by modeling agents on social media. Real girls.” She looked at Pablo as if making sure she’d explained the idea he’d given her. “Girls like me.”

  He nodded and added, “Keisha was thinking we could have an open call where we’d choose twenty girls with popular Instagram accounts to appear on the first episode. From that group, we’ll select ten finalists who’d live together in the apartment where we’d film and follow them day-by-day.”

  “Of the ones selected from the larger group, get me at least four black girls. Three chocolate and one mocha-skinned—but she can’t look like me.” Keisha turned to Pablo. “Was there anything else we discussed that Lucy should know?”

  “A redhead, a brunette, two blondes and one plus-sized girl.”

  “What would I do without you?” Her eyes twinkled merrily at the havoc she was creating around them.

  “What about an Asian girl?” Joe hissed.

  “And we’ll need a Latina,” Luciana added. She was about to explode.

  “Brilliant. Your Cinderella idea is fantastic.” Broyce swooped into the fray like a soldier disarming a bomb, without the protective garments. “So, let’s make the finalist count a lucky number thirteen by adding one Asian girl and two Latinas. The network loves inclusivity. We’re all here to support your vision, Keisha. You’re the star.” He turned to the irate casting director, his voice soft and kind. “Luciana, I’m sure you can find us girls who are a little more pedestrian but have the potential of becoming swans?”

  “Broken birds flying in,” the fiery Latina muttered. “Lemme figure out how to pull off an open call on such short notice. I’ll email the details later today.”

  Broyce tilted his head toward Keisha in a silent query—was that okay with her? She pursed her lips and gave him a flirty smile, then shrugged as if she didn’t care. She didn’t. She had won the first round, and that was all that mattered. Everyone in the room now knew who was really in charge. Pablo was surprised at her business acumen but even more astonished by her ruthlessness.

  “Now, should we discuss the judges?” Broyce took the stack of folders sitting in front of Luciana and began to hand them out. Pablo found the gesture reassuring. The guy was a true diplomat; he knew how to give Keisha her due while protecting Luciana from further animosity. “In the interest of saving everyone’s time,” he introduced the next item on the agenda, “Luciana and I have whittled our selection of judges to four minor or formerly major celebrities. Let me add here that budget is a concern. All of these people fall within our budget and are aware they’re under consideration.”

  A projection screen lowered behind them, and they all turned to see the first face.

  “Miss Thing,” Luciana began, “has coached almost every great Supermodel on her walk, including Keisha, and continues to have a semi-lucrative career teaching top models all over the world how to own the runway.”

  Pablo knew instantly why Miss Thing was chosen. Controversy. He was known for his twitter account profile: For all my LGBTQXYZ rainbow-colored friends of the alphabet. I am not bisexual, transsexual, or a transvestite. I’m a gay man who parades around in women’s couture to confuse white, straight America. He was inappropriate, flamboyant, wickedly witty, and had been a runway coach since the dawn of time. He was going to be a handful.

  “A six-foot five-inch man in heels teaching the walk can make for some humorous moments,” Broyce added. “We’re also counting on a gay audience tuning in, as well as young women and—”

  “Dirty old men,” Joe Vong said under his breath.

  Luciana flicked the next judge’s photograph onto the big screen. “Sasha Berenson.”

  Pablo nearly swooned. The undisputed, highest paid Supermodel of the world, whose nine-year Estée Lauder cosmetic contract had been unprecedented, and who he’d loved since he was thirteen
was right before him! As a teenager, he’d plastered her Vogue covers on his bedroom walls. Sadly, she was the casualty of numerous botched plastic surgery attempts. As Broyce flicked another image of her onto the screen, Pablo realized it looked as if she’d had another frankenlift. Still, she would give the show credibility where Miss Thing gave it edge.

  “Since Sasha can be very outspoken, we expect some great soundbites out of her,” Broyce said. “She’ll be our Simon Cowell for Model Muse.”

  Pablo liked both decisions and nodded, glancing over at Keisha to see if she agreed. Her eyes were narrow slits of gold glaring at the face of the first lady of Supermodels. She noticeably relaxed when she saw Pablo’s approval, though.

  “And because the American public are anglophiles, and we need a hot straight guy on the panel,” Luciana added, “fashion photographer, Mason Hughes is our uber-blonde Brit.”

  The homophobic prick. Now it was Pablo’s turn to narrow his eyes. He was definitely handsome, but Pablo had always thought that Mason Hughes had all the sex appeal of a smooth parts Ken Doll.

  “Ooh, I love me some eye candy.” Keisha smiled broadly at Pablo and giggled.

  “Exactly,” Broyce said.

  The last photo on the giant screen was none other than Keisha Kash, herself.

  “Our model’s muse.” Luciana and Broyce cooed together. Had they rehearsed the moment, or were they just psychically attuned to sucking up?

  Keisha stood up, letting the image project on her body. As she moved back and forth, the photograph of her younger, svelter physique undulated across her chest. “I’ve created a fierce show, and with talent like this, I think we’re looking at an exciting first season.”

  “And hopefully many more.” Broyce stood up, joining the shimmering model’s flickering light. “We have a top-notch executive team and with you at the helm, I think we can have a hit TV show. Thank you, everybody.”