"Supermodels 3 - Having It All - Calhoun, B.B." - читать интересную книгу автора (Calhoun B.B)

"Okay," I said, turning to go. "See you."
"Naira," said Chris.
"Yeah?" I turned toward him.
"I'm really glad you decided to join REACH," he said. "I think we might really be able to make a difference."
I smiled at him.
"Me too, Chris," I said.
Later that afternoon I knocked on the door of Diana Evans's studio.
The lock made a clicking sound, then the door opened and a young man with red hair peered out. "Hi, can I help you with something?" he asked.
"I'm supposed to see Ms. Evans," I said. I adjusted my portfolio of photographs under my arm. "I'm Naira Taylor."
"Oh, sure," said the man. "Jill Murray from Ford called and said you'd be over. Come on in, Naira."
He showed me into a waiting room with a green leather couch and a round glass coffee table. In the center of the coffee table was a geometric crystal vase with an enormous, spiky orange flower in it. Along all four walls of the room were photographs of models in
chrome frames, each one with Diana Evans's signature "D-E" logo in the lower right corner. I recognized a few of the photos from ads I'd seen in magazines featuring the clothes of the designer Jackie Jones.
The redheaded man went out through a side door, and I smoothed down my purple knit minidress. Go-sees are always a little strange, because they're not like a booking, where you know you have a specific job to do. A go-see doesn't guarantee anythingЧit's just a chance to make a client or photographer familiar with you so that they'll consider using you in future shoots. That's why they're called go-sees, because you go see the person and kind of let them know who you are.
I try not to let go-sees get me nervous, though. The way I see it, it doesn't do any good to get all worked up about things. After all, my job at a go-see is to just try to present myself in the best way possible and then hope that the person likes what they see of me and my book.
Just then the side door opened, and the redheaded man came back.
"You can go on in and see Ms. Evans now," he said, smiling and holding the door for me.
"Thanks," I answered.
I stood up, took a deep breath, and let it out. I find that this always helps me relax. I walked through the door.
The first thing I noticed about Diana Evans's studio was how messy it was. It was surprising, especially after the neat-looking waiting room with the exotic flower and carefully framed photographs. The walls of this room were covered with photographs, drawings, clippings from magazines, and scribbled notes. Cameras, lenses, rolls of film, and more photographs were strewn on every available surfaceЧthe shelves along the walls, the tabletops, even the chairs.
Standing in the middle of it all was a woman that I knew must be Diana Evans. She was tall and thin, with a mass of dark brown curls on top of her head. She was wearing a pair of baggy black sweat pants, a gray sweat shirt, and high-top black sneakers. I noticed that one of her sneakers had a red lace and the other one had a white lace, and that the red lace had come untied.
"Hi," she said, walking toward me and extending her hand. "Naira, right? Nice to meet you."
"Hi," I said, shaking her hand and trying not to look at her untied sneaker. "Nice to meet you, too."
"Well, why don't I have a look at your book?" she said. "Jill's told me some great things about you."
I handed her my portfolio and watched in amazement as she made her way to a tattered armchair in the corner and sat downЧright on top of some film and a photograph.
"Whoops," she said, smiling good-naturedly and pulling the slightly crushed photo out from under her. She shook her head. "Oh, well, that happens sometimes."
I'm sure it does, in this wreck of a place, I wanted to say. But of course I kept my mouth shut. It is not a good idea to insult the photographer on a go-see. Still, I was having trouble believing that this disorganized woman was actually the well-known photographer Diana Evans. From what I'd seen so far, I thought it was amazing that she ever got anything accomplished in this studio. But I'd seen her work, and it really was breathtaking.
"Please," she said, waving vaguely. "Sit."
I looked around. Where, exactly, did she think I was going to be able to sit? Finally, I
cleared a stack of photographs and papers off a metal folding chair nearby and sat down.
I watched as she opened my book. The first photograph was a shot of my face and shoulders. It was taken at the Supermodel of the World Contest, in the pool of the Ocean Plaza Hotel on the island of Luzia. In it, I look refreshed and happy, as if I'd just had a cool dip in a mountain lake. Really, though, I had been standing about waist-deep in a warm pool when the shot was taken. It had literally been a hundred degrees out that day, and the stylist and the makeup artist had to keep spraying my face. Somehow, though, I managed to keep a relaxed smile on my face. Now that it was over, I had to admit that the picture had turned out pretty well. In fact, it was one of my favorites.
"Mmmmm, nice," said Ms. Evans, turning the pages of my book. "This is great," she said, stopping at a close-up of me in a floppy straw hat. "Who took it?"
"Marian Colby," I told her.
She raised her eyebrows.
"He's a Chicago photographer," I explained. "That's where I'm from originally." I knew it was important to let her know that I'd
worked in New York, so I pointed to the photo on the opposite page. It was a magazine tear sheet that showed me in a red parka and white earmuffs. "That one was taken by Simone Grey for Style magazine."
The Style winter jacket shoot had been one of my first jobs in New York. Kerri, Paige, Cassandra, Pia, and Katerina had been booked for it too. Those pictures had actually been shot in August, when New York is incredibly hot and humid, but you couldn't tell at all. That's an amazing thing about photographs; they can make things look totally different from the way they really were when the photo was taken. But people who see them usually think they're seeing the real thing.
Diana Evans closed my book.
"Well, Naira," she said. "Thanks for letting me take a look at these. I don't think I have anything for you right now, but I'll be keeping you in mind. You have a very interesting look. Do you have a comp card?"
"Sure," I said. "In the front pocket of my book."
Composite cards are printed up by Ford with a model's name, height, hair and eye
color, and a couple of photographs. They come in handy for leaving with photographers and clients. That way, people have something to help them remember you after you leave. It's a little like my card system for remembering the modeling appointments I've had.
"All right, Naira," she said, taking out one of my cards and handing me my book. "Thanks again for coming by. I'll be in touch when I have something that seems right for you."
But I had my doubts. In fact, it didn't even seem likely that Diana Evans would be able to keep track of my comp card. Sure enough, as I was making my way toward the door I saw her put my card on top of a pile of papers on a chair.
Oh, well, I thought as I left the room. Maybe she'll think of me the next time she tries to sit there.
"Hey, Naira, wait up!"
It was the following afternoon, and as I turned from my locker, I saw Chris down the hall. He waved and jogged toward me through the crowd of kids.
"You're coming to the REACH meeting right now, aren't you?" he asked.
"Sure," I said. I reached into my locker for my biology textbook. I looked around. "Have you seen Paige?"
"Yeah, there she is, over there," said Chris, pointing over my head down the hall. He put two fingers in his mouth and let out a high whistle. "Hey, Paige! Over here!"
Paige's eyes searched the crowd until she saw us. Then she smiled and made her way over to where we were standing.