Still shaking her hand, I try again. “I’m not sure...I was supposed to see Mr. Manson. He told me to come here. To work. I’m Stacey Schmidt?” Hoping my name will ring a bell.
“You’re not here for the eleven o’clock open call?”
“No. I met Mr. Manson at the Feyenoord Faces contest.”
“The contest? You mean...are you the winner?”
“No.” Trying to decide if her emphasis was on winner or you. “I was at the contest in Nepean. Mr. Manson saw me and told me he could find me work here in Toronto.”
“Modelling work?”
I don’t dignify that with an answer.
Rianne sits back down, swivels to a computer, and clatters at the keyboard. “There’s no note. He didn’t mention anything.” She gazes at me again. “Well, like I said, Chelsea’s lost.”
“Can I wait for him at least? If he’s just having lunch...”
She laughs. “Chelsea used to have a sign up that said OUT TO LUNCH. IF NOT BACK BY DINNER, OUT TO DINNER. Trust me. He won’t be back for a while.” Wheeling around to her computer again, she adds, “I might as well get your measurements then. Age?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Height?”
“Six-one.”
“Weight?”
“One seventy-five.”
“Jacket?”
“Forty-two tall.”
“Waist?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Inseam?”
“Thirty-four.”
“Crotch?”
“What?”
“Just kidding.” She grins mischievously. “Sports?”
“Tennis, skiing, rugby, volleyball, football, horseback riding...”
Rianne glances up at me, then continues typing.
“Do I have to name them all? Everything except basketball and golf.”
“Fine. Any special talents? Singing? Acting?”
I think for a minute. “Well, I play the cello. And I’m a pretty good photographer.”
“We’ll just put no. Keep your portfolio, and when you meet Chelsea, we can talk about putting together a new book, new comp cards, and everything else.”
That smacks of money.
“If you’re going to be working here, I’ll give you this.” She hands me a Feyenoord appointment book: small, white, plain except for FEYENOORD in bold black letters. I tuck it into my satchel.
“The best thing...” Rianne looks at my bags. “Where are you staying, by the way?”
“Mr. Manson said he would take care of that.”
“Figures. The model apartments are full right now. What you could do, though...I know a couple of guys who might have room. I’m sure Crispen and Augustus wouldn’t mind.”
Rianne picks up the phone. I search the wall for my would-be hosts. Crispen and Augustus aren’t hard to find. Two chocolate chips in a bowl of ice cream.
“Busy.” She hangs up. “They don’t live far.” She draws a rough map on the back of a cheque marked VOID. It’s made out to Jeanette Grenier for $2,554.35. “While you’re there, tell them Eva from Greece will be here tomorrow morning at 9:30. That means they should get here at 9:15. Make sure and tell them that. Nine-fifteen. And tell Breffni to pack a smile. He’ll know what I mean. And here.” She scribbles some numbers on the back of the cheque. “My number. In case you need anything.”
From beneath her hat it’s hard to tell if anything means a hair dryer or a hand job.
Suddenly buffeted by the nuclear winds of the subway, I sway perilously close to the pit below. Grey steel, brown pools, yellow wrappers, and I’ve heard there are rats. The subway skrees to a stop. Crowds lunge. I hoist my suitcase onto my head like an African porter, follow the surge and grab an awkward slice of the pole. Through a corner of the window I spot a mother, a child, and its balloon rising at the top of the escalator. The mother sees the train coming and starts sprinting, dragging the child, who goes limp with the instincts of a kitten. But three chimes, the doors snap, and “Osgoode next!” We lurch into the night, packed like cigarettes.
All around me, many hues and shades of Africans. The popcorn staccato of Chinese. A nun with a small beard circulates through the car selling cookies. A short bald man in a spotless baseball uniform cleans out his ear and smells his finger in disbelief.
With one hand I search for my new Feyenoord book, pull it out, imagine it overflowing with appointments, go-sees, shoots, contacts, names, and numbers. Sharon Davis and Liz Barron, the important halves of Davis-Barron Models International, said my smile would be worth a fortune in Toronto. Said it smiling, thinking of their five percent of everything. Peering at my empty appointment book, I’m skeptical. I don’t believe much at face value. I don’t accept things until I see them for myself. A glass of water drunk upside down curing hiccoughs. Energizer batteries actually lasting longer. Catalogue shoots really running more than an hour as promised. Modelling is a business built on broken pledges. They guarantee you the moon and hand you a match.
All Sharon and Liz told me before leaving was to be careful, and to be myself. Advice as useful as aromatherapy. I’m not the country cousin. I did, after all, live in Montreal for almost a year. And why would I want to be myself, anyway, when the point of leaving is to leave myself, to slough off my old life like a snake skin?
A sudden stop and I swing halfway around the pole like a stripper.
Outside, confused by the boo-blahs of angry taxis, the greasy streets sweating rivulets of people, the smell of onions and ketchup, I stand in the backwash of a bus and have to move. Left or right, I don’t know. I feel as if an invisible man is throwing sand in my eyes. Rianne said the apartment was only about two hundred yards from the bookstore. But two hundred yards is as good as a mile when you don’t know where you’re going.
There seems to be no way to cross Bloor Street. Lexuses and BMWS, distracted by falling stock prices and cell phones, ignore streetlights. I follow a small knot of pedestrians. We cross halfway against the light, straddling the painted yellow lines, until the winking of brake lights promises safety. We weave between the stopped cars like hyenas among the wildebeest, nervous, skittish, ready to evade a sudden charge until we reach the sanctuary of the sidewalk.
Everywhere bums gumming for change. Some stretched out in sunny corners. Others curled up in alleyways like withered leaves.
A woman on the corner wears a DIET BY PHONE placard over her suit like armour, a playing-card soldier from Wonderland. I’ve never seen so many young Asians. Chinese men with walkie-talkies and cell phones. Korean women in Donna Karen mini-suits, hair tinted gold or red.
I’m almost run over by a procession of squealing kids. They’re on a field trip. Arms linked with string. Behind them their teacher leads them like huskies past me through the streets.
An old turtle stands on a welcome mat strumming