“Break. Let’s pick up again in fifteen—”
One of the assistants switches on a trio of portable heaters, another offers the women sips of water through a straw. The photographer’s editing his images on the monitor. He’s criticizing aspects of the lighting, claiming the scene won’t render when they sculpt this environment for the streams. I make my way to Zhou.
“Excuse me—Kelly?”
She smiles. “Yes?”
An odd sensation, talking to her—I’m so used to seeing her as a stand-in for Albion that I wonder if Albion’s here, or has been here, that if Kelly turns away quickly enough I might see a flash of hair that matches the crimson of her mouth, like there’s another, truer, world covered over by the one we’re in.
“I’m—um,” I say, swallowing. “Excuse me, I’m—my name’s John Dominic Blaxton—”
“Oh, Mr. Blaxton,” she says, “I’m Kelly Lee—I’d shake your hand, but my fingers are caked with this stuff. Four hours this morning in the makeup chair to get this applied—”
She holds up her hands so I can see they’re gold. The other two models have fallen into a conversation about sushi while a makeup assistant sprays metallic paint to smooth out their sheen.
“That’s all right,” I tell her, our Adware updating friend statuses and synching connections—the closest we have is through Nirvana Modeling’s link to Gavril and once Kelly notices I have friend status with him, she says, “You’re actually friends with Gavril? Oh my God, I flag his blog on my Lucy account. He does amazing work—”
The photographer says, “Start wrapping it up—”
“How can I help you, Mr. Blaxton?” says Kelly. “Nirvana probably forwarded you my portfolio, but I have other work samples to send if you’d like to see more—”
Everything about her is familiar from the City, but only familiar in the way a dream of an unfamiliar place can seem familiar.
“I have reason to believe you can help me find a man named Mook—”
“Mook?” she says.
“You’ve worked with him—”
“Look,” she says, “I really don’t have time for this—”
Her body’s gone stiff, her demeanor sour.
“The man has taken everything from me,” I tell her, trying to keep calm.
“If you want to book me for work, go through the agency,” she says. “I only work through the agency—”
“I can pay you for your time,” I tell her. “I don’t have much, but I’ll give you everything I have if you can help me. I need to talk with him—”
“I really can’t get involved in something like this,” she says. “I thought you’d be interested in my professional work. I’d be happy to send you my portfolio, if that would help. If you want to book me, go through the agency—”
“Please stand to the side,” says the photographer and I back out from the ring of light.
“We’re really going to need you to leave,” says one of the assistants.
“Just call the cops. He’s trespassing at this point—”
“I don’t want any trouble,” I tell them. “I can get you in touch with Gavril. Kelly—what do you want? I know he’s working on Anthropologie right now, I know that. I just need to know about this man. Please, I can set it up for you—”
“Talk to me after,” she says. “I don’t want to fuck up the job I already have—”
“Fine, sure,” I say. “I’ll—after the shoot. I’ll wait outside—”
I back out of the cell. There’s a burst of laughter from the models—about me, I suppose, to cut the tension. I’m washed over with a wave of shame and hate and cold sweat. I’ve fucked it up—Theresa, I’ve fucked it up. Ascending from the fort the aura of the shoot disappears and once I’m in the bland sun, buffeted by wind rushing in from the bay, I feel like I’d left the chamber of a goddess but fumbled my chance for grace. Three hours waiting on a park bench beside a two-hundred-year-old cannon. The Fort Point information pop-ups ping me so often I almost miss Kelly’s ping when it comes. She asks if I’m still around and tells me to meet her. She flags herself and I follow hovering arrows in the Adware, pointing my way to her.
The moment you see me, she texts, disable your connection—
I find her sitting on a park bench. She’s still painted gold, the lines of gold leaf flashing in the sun, but she wears a red wool coat. A few tourists ask to take her picture and she smiles hesitantly but lets them. I disable my connection.
“I’m sorry about the scene I was causing,” I tell her. “Back there—”
She stands from the park bench. Nearly as tall as I am, but thin. She lights a cigarette and asks me to walk with her toward the water. We don’t talk, and I’m aware of the attention she elicits from the crowds we pass—she must be used to being noticed, anyway, but painted gold she looks like an alien among a lesser race of beings. Most don’t stare, not obviously—though I do spot a few people baldly ogling her, probably recording her with their retinal cams. There are pay streams, things like Candid Candies and Real Girls, full of vids just like these would be, of women unknowingly filmed and served up in the Adware for men in their privacy to swallow whole. At the water, Kelly takes another drag on her cigarette while I gape at the Golden Gate Bridge above us, stretching to distant hills, wondering at its immensity and trying to imagine how men in a different century than my own had constructed this thing, let alone dreamed it.
“Mook’s not his name,” she says.
“I don’t know his name. I don’t know anything about him—”
“That’s good. We’ll call him Mook, then. The work I do for Mook is all private stuff, off the books,” she says. “If my agency knew about it, they’d drop me and I can’t afford that. They own my image. The stuff for Mook is a different deal—”
“I understand,” I tell her. “I shouldn’t have barged in like that. I should have told you up front what I needed—”
“It’s all right,” she says. “If you would have told me up front, I would have told you to go fuck yourself. We’re here together now, though. And if you’re hooked up with Gavril, in some way, if that’s true, then you’re legit—”
“He’s my cousin,” I tell her. “I’m not in the industry—”
“I don’t want to talk with you here,” she says. “I don’t want anyone from the shoot starting rumors about who you are. I want them to forget the word Mook and forget about this afternoon. I’m serious—if word gets around that I’m working jobs outside the agency, my career is fucked. I only have a few years before I’m replaced by younger girls, so I need to float all the work I can. I can’t fuck this up—”
“I didn’t mean any trouble,” I tell her. She takes a final drag before tamping out the cigarette and saving the rest for later.
“Fuck it,” she says. “Here’s what you can do for me. Get out of here. Tell my agent that you met with me and liked what you saw, that I was agreeable and have the perfect look, that you’re interested in hiring me but will get back to him—”