Page 9 of Cabin Fever
I balk, but then rattle off the numbers, trying to keep my voice even. These very numbers could be worth money. Camille takes notes, nodding with each answer.
She looks up at last, eyes sharp. “You’re very beautiful, Kat. You know that, don’t you?”
I shake my head, unsure if it’s a trick question.
She leans in, voice low. “You’re perfect for this, if you follow the terms exactly. The client is a great man, he’s just particular in some ways. But you’re a great fit.”
I almost laugh. “Okay,” I say softly.
Camille studies my face for a long moment, and then glances at her watch. Then she looks back at me, her gaze steady. “This assignment could change your life, Kat. But only if you’re willing to let it.”
The words settle between us like a dare. I picture my future life. One without money stress. One where I don’t eat old pastries from the cafe for lunch. One where I can finally pay my tuition, maybe even get ahead for once. I think about my mom, and how she always said survival is about compromise.
I square my shoulders and meet Camille’s gaze. “I’m ready,” I say.
Her smile is quick, efficient. “Excellent. Then let’s get started with those photos. If you could put these on please.”
She reaches for something by her seat, then slides the shoebox across the table. I open the lid. Inside is a pair of pale nude heels, the kind you see on Instagram influencers. I touch the smooth surface, still unsure whether this is a gift or a threat.
“What are these for?” I ask, confused.
“For the photoshoot, of course!” Camille chirps, a little too bright. “We can’t have you in your sneakers.”
“Oh okay,” I say dubiously. “But what will I wear with them? It’ll look weird with my slacks and sweater.”
Camille gets a mischievous look in her eyes.
“Why don’t we go to the studio first,” she says. “I’m sure we’ll figure it out there.”
Then, she stands and moves to the hallway. I’m still for a moment, wondering what’s going on, but then I trail her down the hall and into a brightly lit room where there are lights everywhere, as well as a stark white backdrop.
“We like to do things professionally at Sweet Lies, and that includes photo shoots,” Camille explains. “Please, change behind the screen,” she says, gesturing to an oriental screen in the corner.
I slink behind the panels, and then stop short.
“Wait, Camille, I don’t see any clothes here,” I say. “What should I wear?”
The manager doesn’t seem surprised.
“Just your bra and panties, with the heels of course. It’s fine.”
I stop and stare, surprised. My bra and panties? What in the world? But against my better judgment, I strip off my clothes and stare at my lush figure in a full-size mirror, clad only in a lacy pink bra and matching panties. What in the world is going on? But dollar signs flash before my eyes, and I swallow.Success is about compromise. Before I realize it, I’ve stepped into the heels, and wobbled out from behind the screen.
“Perfect,” Camille purrs, eyeing me up and down. “You’re very beautiful, Kat, and the client appreciates your cooperation.”
“So what should I do?” I ask helplessly.
Camille gives me a slow, clinical once-over, then gestures to the white backdrop. “Please stand here. Shoulders back.”
I do as I’m told. The first flash from the Polaroid camera is blinding. I hear the whir of the film ejecting, the mechanical crunch of the picture sliding into Camille’s hand.
She directs me to turn, side profile, arms out, arms down, three-quarter turn. Each pose is more humiliating than the last, but her voice is so matter-of-fact that I almost forget to be embarrassed. Almost.
“You’re very photogenic,” she says, flipping the next cartridge into the camera.
I try to smile, but my lips feel numb. “Glad I could be of service,” I say, and immediately regret it.
Camille’s eyes crinkle for a split second, like she’s amused by my attempt at humor. “You’ll be even more valuable if you keep that wit,” she says. “The client enjoys candor. But not insubordination.”
