Airhead - Cabot Meg (читаем книги онлайн без регистрации TXT) 📗

‘Gosh,’ I said. ‘Thanks. But I have a shoot.’

Even if I hadn’t, no way would I waste any of my precious time going to Whitney Robertson’s penthouse so she could show me the wrong way to compute the area of a triangle. Or try on different-coloured sparkle eyeshadow, or whatever it is the Walking Dead do in their spare time.

‘Some other time though,’ I added with a smile when I saw her face fall.

As soon as she saw the smile, Whitney smiled back.

‘Great!’ she gushed. ‘Well, toodle-oo!’

Seriously. That’s what she said to me. Toodle-oo.

I kind of wished Cosy had been with me, because I could have looked down at her and gone, ‘Well, Toto. I guess we’re not in Kansas any more.’

Except that I’ve never actually been to Kansas.

Although I’m fairly sure Nikki has. Nikki’s been everywhere.

Except where I most want to be.

Twenty-two

The Elle shoot was a snap compared to the Vanity Fair shoot the day before. For one thing, I at least had a little bit of an idea what I was supposed to be doing now. Plus, I didn’t have to smush my boobs against anyone this time, or wrap myself around anyone else’s physical person (such as Brandon Stark). This time, it was just me.

Don’t get me wrong. I still had to smile just the right way, but it was more important that the gowns I was wearing flowed right. I swear, every two minutes I heard, ‘Wait — hold on —’ and someone was running over to adjust a fold or smooth a wrinkle. It was a little maddening.

And even though I don’t particularly care about fashion, I sort of get it now. I mean, about why other people care about it, and why it’s interesting and sort of important to some people.

The truth is, fashion can be sort of… well, fun.

I know! I never ‘got’ fashion before. Clothes were just things you threw on to keep from being naked or cold.

But the dresses — I mean, gowns — that were at this shoot were so gorgeous, I actually caught my breath when I saw them on me. I can’t even imagine where you’d WEAR a bright red long dress trimmed with dyed black ostrich feathers with a neckline that plunges to your sternum. I mean, except maybe to the Oscars.

But I couldn’t help but be curious about who’d designed them — which surprised the people at the shoot, because they said I should have known without asking, just by the feel and look of them.

But then Kelly reminded them quickly of my head injury (which the hairstylist, Vivian, had already found). And then they all wanted to talk about that (my interview was going to run in the same issue, but I wasn’t meeting the journalist who was doing it until Saturday).

Anyway, they all took great pleasure in telling me about the designers who had gowns at the shoot, and other favourite designers of Nikki’s as well. And I have to admit, their stories were kind of interesting. Like, even my MOM would have gotten a kick out of the story of Miuccia Prada, a feminist mime who took over her grandfather’s leather goods company in 1978, making ‘Miu Miu’ one of the thirty most powerful women in Europe (according to the Wall Street Journal), with an estimated fortune of 1.4 billion dollars.

And Coco Chanel, who popularized the little black dress for women and founded a fashion empire, becoming the only fashion designer ever to make Time magazine’s 100 Most Influential People of the Twentieth Century.

All this — plus the lecture the make-up guy gave me about the dark circles under my eyes, thanks to my lack of sleep, and the fact that my mom would not stop calling (but I couldn’t exactly pick up in the middle of a fashion shoot), my employer is maybe (OK, probably) spying on me, and the tugging and wrenching and holding my breath required to get me into the corsets I needed to squeeze into some of the gowns — was enough to keep my mind off what had happened in school earlier that day with Christopher. The fact that I nearly passed out several times, the corsets were so tight, and that I could barely move helped too.

The truth was, I don’t know how Nikki did it. I was supposed to stare off into the distance as if I was gazing at a far-off star (when really what I was looking at was a piece of paint peeling off the rafters on the ceiling) while NOT thinking about how I couldn’t breathe and my feet hurt and how tired I was…

… and, oh yeah, how everyone saw me being carried out of Cave last night like I was the drunk one, not my so-called boyfriend, and that the guy I’d actually like to be dating by the way doesn’t know I’m alive?

No, I mean, literally doesn’t know I’m alive. He thinks I’m dead, and I can’t tell him I’m not. And he isn’t too impressed with the new body I’m in. In fact, he might just be the only guy on the planet who’s not.

How can anyone concentrate on looking beautiful when all that is going on around them, and inside their head as well? Modelling isn’t easy. Modelling is actually really hard. Modelling is ACTING. You have to ACT like you’re actually enjoying yourself, when the truth is, every single inch of you is hurting and uncomfortable… most of all your heart.

I mean, if you’re me.

I was almost sagging with exhaustion when the art director, Veronica, said, ‘I think that’s all we need, Nikki. You can go now.’

I swear I nearly ripped that last couture gown off, I wanted to get out of there so badly.

‘… you’ve got the Vogue shoot tomorrow at three… ’ Kelly was telling me as I ran down the steps to the limo.

‘I know,’ I yelled over my shoulder.

‘And don’t go out tonight,’ she shouted at me as I collapsed into the back seat. ‘You need to get some sleep! You looked awful today.’

‘I won’t!’ I slammed the limo door behind me. Finally! We didn’t have much time.

‘We’re making a stop before we go to the loft,’ I said to the driver. ‘The computer store on Prince and Greene.’

The driver looked at me sceptically in the rear-view mirror. ‘It’s almost eight o’clock, Miss Howard.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘The store is open late on Thursdays.’

I sank back against the leather seat and watched as we glided along Park Avenue, making our way downtown. I’d realized as I’d been standing there ‘gazing at a far-off star’ that I couldn’t take Nikki Howard’s Stark-brand hot-pink laptop to school tomorrow for Christopher to set up my email account on. For one thing, it was just too embarrassing. I mean, seriously — hot pink?

And for another, how could I be sure it didn’t have some other kind of tracking software built into it with which Stark Enterprises was watching my every move online? No. I needed a whole new, non-Stark computer. Just like I needed a new, non-Stark cellphone on which to talk to my parents.

I’d pick up both on the way home. Thank God the Apple store was open until nine on Thursday nights.

And I had Nikki Howard’s platinum American Express card.

There were perks to being rich and famous after all.

Especially when you’re rich, famous and have your face plastered all over a Stark Megastore a few blocks away from the computer store, and everyone in there recognizes you the minute you walk in. Even late as it was, there was a queue. But when you’re Nikki Howard, I’m sorry to say, you get treated differently from everyone else. A salesperson came right over to me, almost before I’d gotten ten feet into the store, and I heard the usual buzzing that started everywhere I seemed to go. He asked if he could help me, and I told him what I wanted.

And he told me to wait right there while he went and got it.

As much as being Nikki seriously sucked sometimes, it could seriously rock at other times. I had my new laptop and phone and was out the door ten minutes and fourteen autographs later.

It was as I was waiting for the limo driver to swing around and pick me up (he’d been forced to circle while I shopped due to the number of mounted cops in the area) that I heard a voice behind me say, ‘Nikki?’ and I turned around expecting to see another autograph hunter…