Security

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I feel his eyes on me and it shouldn’t matter because everyone’s eyes are on me but Cole’s attention is one of the only things that can still make me feel uncomfortable. I know what he’s thinking. I know that he can’t stand the burning heat; that he wants nothing more than to go back to the hotel bar and order a scotch on the rocks. But he doesn’t. He can’t. He has to wait until we’re done, he has to lean against the Audi in his heat-absorbing black t-shirt and jeans and wait until the photoshoot’s over.Cole knows me like I know him and it isn’t healthy. We have history. I’ve overshared and maybe he has too but his secrets aren’t worth millions of dollars to gossip magazines. I should keep my mouth shut but what can I say? He’s easy to talk to. He listens. I don’t think I could live without him.***It’s midsummer in LA and we’re shooting outdoors, doing the first cover option for Blank magazine. There’ll be a choice of three covers by the time the day is done, plus ten shots to accompany the interview article inside. I’m wearing a metallic-look multicolored leather jacket and in the heat, it looks as though the colors are literally melting into each other.I can’t decide which I hate more; the jacket, the Alexander Wang sweater it covers, or the skintight Gucci jeans suffocating my legs. In between shots, I gaze longingly at the clothes rails the stylists are rifling through. T-shirts. Floaty blouses. Maxi-dresses. Anything would be better than leather meets wool meets denim.The heat is relentless; the sky cloudless and the sun so hot that every five minutes my makeup requires retouching. I am eternally grateful for the wind machine even though the shot calls for it to provide little more than a gentle breeze. The set designer has struggled to diffuse the direct sunlight but Marc, the photographer, is optimistic.“Beautiful, beautiful,” he yells, “Walk towards the camera, Lana. Slowly! Yes, yes! Perfect!”Marc Jenkins is the next Mario Testino, Jenny tells me. Jenny’s my agent. She’s also the closest thing I have to a friend and I trust her because if I didn’t, I’d be lost. She organizes everything, even packs my suitcase. Our relationship teeters on the border between professional and social. When she asked for my approval for the engagement announcement, she hesitated a second at the door.“We don’t have to do it so soon, Lana,” she’d said.“Why would we wait?” I’d asked and she’d paused like she had something more to say but then she’d nodded and disappeared.The statement was released yesterday. I approved the final draft a week ago, but seeing it reproduced on the internet and knowing that millions of strangers are reading it feels surreal. Why did I say yes? The answer’s obvious. Brandon is perfect in all the conventional ways. He has money, a good heart, good looks and all of these qualities are wrapped up in a tantalizing promise of security. There’s only one problem. Cole.I don’t talk to Brandon about the things that worry me. He gets the sunshine, the smiles, the laughter and champagne. Cole gets the rain. He drives, I talk. Sometimes he replies. Most of the time he just listens. I know it’s careless, but I can’t help sharing, unable to shake the feeling that he somehow understands. Perhaps it’s because he’s been the only constant since my professional life began. Two years older than me, his first Ümraniye Escort job came around at the same time as mine, only he had to fight off violent paparazzi for a tiny percentage of the money I got for sauntering down a runway.Eight years have passed, and I’m pretty sure he’s felt each one of them. Eight years of being dragged around the world, of having to endure endless stalkers and journalists. I know it’s wearing thin on him. He wants more from life. He had a thing with one of the VS hairstylists six months ago and I had Jenny surreptitiously get rid of her. He knew. We didn’t talk about it but the way he looked at me the day after made me feel as though he knew my darkest secrets.I know he’s seen the press release but we haven’t spoken about it in the same way we never talk about our relationships. I have a feeling it’s the final straw, though. The tension between us has become unbearable; it’s reached the point where he puts the radio on when we’re in the car alone. He’s never said, but I know he doesn’t like Brandon, or at least what Brandon represents. I have an uneasy feeling that he’s going to do something radical, something unexpected and unstoppable but why would he? He knows the way the world works.We had one night and I’ve tried desperately to draw a line under it. But how do you forget something that changed everything you’ve ever believed in? Brandon and I were going steady at the time; had hit a one-year milestone and Cole had been on the verge of moving on, finding a place to settle down, a regular job. I couldn’t lose him. Fucking him hadn’t been an official part of the plan but when it happened, I couldn’t regret it. He knew how to fuck and wasn’t afraid to go hard. Sex with him brought up every emotion I’d ever had even though the act itself was unapologetically physical.Bodies. Sweat. Desperation. Intimidation. He’s the only man who towers over me. He must be six-four, maybe even six-five and my god, he made me feel everything he had on me. Height, weight, strength. Even his confidence eclipsed mine.I can’t forget. The memory taunts me night after night, torturing me with what could have been. I know it’s counter-productive but I don’t stop myself dreaming about the way he touched me. Touched probably isn’t the right word. Grabbed. Scratched. Ravaged. Reached in and took everything I could give and then some more too. There’s something addictive about losing responsibility, about being helpless, about being so thoroughly taken.***“Okay, let’s go for the next shot,” Marc yells, finally satisfied with the third cover. “Ten minutes, guys!”His accent makes everyone smile. It’s cut like glass, so impossibly British like Michael Caine in the movies. He’s handsome in a conventional way. Elise and Sara, the make-up girls, are watching him and laughing, daring one another to ask him out.“Come on everyone!” Mandy snaps. She’s the producer and her voice immediately moderates my smile. I don’t know if she’s intentionally bitchy or if the stress is getting to her. Either way, I’m not a fan.I head into the makeshift dressing room, the stylists in tow. Different outfit, different makeup, different hair. We move fast and methodically, keeping on track with the schedule. It’s the second time I’ve worked with Marc and while the energy on set is buzzing, I Ümraniye Escort Bayan can’t enjoy it. Everything is in place, I’m comfortable with the crew and the music is pulsing but I don’t feel it. I do my job, of course, but if it were someone other than Marc behind the camera, I probably would have played hooky.“Beautiful,” he encourages, as we go through the motions of the next shot. “Perfect. Hold that face! Yes! Walk towards me.Gio, keep up! Yes!”It happened too fast. It’s the first time the thought occurs to me because I’m usually busy telling myself how lucky I am and how I need to appreciate it all. But it’s been too much. Too many castings, photo-shoots, hours in hair and makeup, and way too many bitchy Mail articles. All of it has left no time for me to be me. I’m not even sure who Lana Kent is anymore. The version of myself I recall is still trying to remember her locker code at junior high.Young. Innocent. Despite my height, I’d felt invisible at school. A giraffe. A freak. The insults stopped when I signed with IMG or maybe I just wasn’t around to hear them. Life changed. Colorado turned into New York City, Paris, London, Milan. At sixteen, I walked twenty three shows at NYFW. Marc Jacobs, Versace, Chanel, Valentino. I met people I’d read about in magazines. I preferred them in the magazines.High school had to be finished by correspondence and it became a conscious task to stay in touch with my family. The media loves my family. Two older brothers; one a dentist, one a hotshot criminal defense lawyer. Dad’s been an ER doctor his entire life. Mom, an elementary school teacher. Picket fences and apple pies. Birthday parties and neighborhood bake sales. Life goes on.Everyone uses what they have. Academics use their brains. Athletes use their bodies. Singers use their voices. Girls like me use their looks. It’s typical of society to deride us but there’s nothing wrong with utilizing your qualities. If I wanted to, I could wear unflattering clothes and work at a supermarket but I’d be wasting what I have. When it comes down to it, everyone has something and if you get a chance to use it, you’d be crazy not to.It’s a self-serving attempt at justification, but what else is there? What else do you tell yourself when you walk down a runway for thousands of dollars while kids are starving the world over? Everyone’s stuck in a loop, chasing work, chasing money, chasing happiness and even though you know fulfillment can only come from within, isn’t it easier when everything outside falls into place?***It’s the last shot of the day and the sun hasn’t waned. The look is sexy-casual, a white tank over ripped denim shorts and wedge sandals. During the Blank interview I said something careless about feeling as though opportunities had come to me rather than being earned, as though I’d been ‘hitching’ rides from people in the industry. The writer made a big hitchhiking metaphor about it in her article and so Marc wants a shot to show it.The stylists have taken to the theme with joy, draping me in beaded jewelry; going straight for the hippie look. I can’t blame them. Fashion can be so outlandish that’s it’s nice to have an actual story behind a look. My sweat-dampened hair is down in tousled waves, but apparently, it suits the shot. I’ve also been handed a battered Escort Ümraniye old suitcase, the likes of which I imagine as a feature piece in a minimalist NYC loft.“Isn’t that suitcase too old?” Cole asks. Everyone looks at him, surprise at the interruption quickly morphing into disdain. I can almost hear their identical thoughts: What the fuck does a security guy know?Mandy looks at the suitcase, then narrows her eyes at Cole.“Too old?” she snaps.Cole’s broad shoulders lift in a shrug.“Well, she’s some rich girl hitching a ride. Her clothes are new, expensive. The case is such an obvious prop.”I stare at him. He doesn’t look at me.The prop stylist is making angry noises and the set designer is trying to calm him. Mandy is livid. She hates the heat, she hates Marc and right now, I’m pretty sure she detests Cole. She deploys one of her patented withering stares on him. He looks back at her expectantly.“The case is fine,” she eventually announces to no-one in particular. “Lana, hold your arm out.”Marc isn’t happy. He scrutinizes the scene and shakes his head.“It’s not suggestive enough,” he frowns. “Nobody’s thinking she’s actually gonna get picked up. We need a car in the background.” He spins around and points at Cole.“You.”Cole raises an eyebrow.“What?”“Take your car fifty meters down the road, turn and then crawl it back up. When I say stop, you stop. Okay?”Cole doesn’t move. He chews his gum with a frown.“I’m security,” he says but he eventually walks around to the driver’s side of the Audi and gets in, slamming the door shut. He’s pissed off and not afraid to show it. I drop my arm and set the suitcase down. All eyes are on Cole as he starts the car and moves off with unnecessary speed, leaving an angry cloud of dust in his wake. The smell of gas hits me and I can’t help inhaling. It’s almost enough to make my head spin.“Maybe cross your legs,” Marc deliberates as he surveys me. “Yeah.”The Chainsmokers pound out of the speakers. The crew is restless, trying to surreptitiously pack up without Mandy noticing. Marc holds up a hand, signaling for Cole to stop. The Audi screeches to a halt, then backs up a little as if to compensate. I resume the pose. Marc starts shooting.“Beautiful,” he enthuses, moving to get another shot. “Keep that face! Brilliant. Shift your weight to the other leg. Perfect!”Thankfully, it doesn’t take long until he’s satisfied. I change quickly in the dressing room, not wanting to delay anyone and step outside to let the stylists finish up. Mandy is stomping around the half-dismantled set, yelling at her assistants. Marc is swiping through photos on his tablet.I take a long drink of water, eyes narrowed against the sun. Cole’s walking over, ready to leave. He looks endlessly attractive but more than that, he looks like home. I try to swallow the thought. It was just sex. Sex is nothing. It doesn’t count. I have a goddamn fiancée. I try to think about Brandon but my mind goes grey with suits and paperwork. What the fuck is wrong with me? As much as I try to stay calm and cool, my heart is thumping faster as Cole gets closer.His shadow falls over me, blocking out the burning sun.“Hey,” he says. “Ready to go?”***The paparazzi are outside the hotel so instead of walking into a mob armed with flashing cameras, Cole parks up next to the delivery entrance and we slip inside unnoticed. Apparently, we’re still not safe. Jenny gives word that journalists masquerading as guests are currently loitering outside my suite. We wind up having to go to Cole’s room. It’s small, with no balcony, and definitely no sea view.I set my bag down tentatively on the floor and watch as he looks out the window.

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