Page 109 of Start With A Slap

1. Call about applying, make appointment? Could namedrop Sever to expedite the process.

2. At same time of the appointment, book Citrine for a bogus date nearby

3. Run into Citrine when she returns to the agency after being stood up by her fake date. Super timing-dependent, could bomb.

4. Get her to talk. Somehow.

Each step had the potential to fail, and she wouldn’t have a second chance, so she had to make sure it was perfect. Luckily, her job had made her great at planning, great at phone calls, and great at getting people comfortable with talking about sensitiveissues. She’d also, as much as it pained her to admit, learned a thing or two from the great manipulator himself, Sever Mark.

Was she great at acting? TBD. Based on the few musical theater roles she won in junior high, she was a better actor than she was a singer, but that was a low bar. The only acting she’d done since then was in Sever’s den, wrapped in sheer pantyhose, saying,I can offer you total dedication, Mr. Mark.

He seemed to buy it.

After much preparation, she called the number on the card and pretended to be some big-shot’s personal assistant, she wouldn’t give his name just yet as privacy was his top priority. To get around the screening process and payment, she said her boss wanted to meet Citrine at a public place first—a hotel bar in Beverly Hills at Happy Hour. One block away from the agency. Yes, of course she could bring a chaperone, as long as he was discreet. He would stand beside her and order a Sazerac on the rocks.

She couldn’t believe that worked.

The next step was a little easier. She waited a day to call again, this time as a girl named Layla who had been given a card by a man she met at a party; she was a little buzzed that night so she couldn’t remember his name, it was something like Lever... or Seven? He said he was a friend of the agency owner or president or whatever. Could she, um, apply? Oh, tonight? Sorry, can’t make it tonight. How about tomorrow at 6:15?

The cloak and dagger of it all gave Ivy a strange thrill; a sense of empowerment that she hadn’t felt in weeks. She even wore sunglasses and the ponytail that she usually reserved for workouts and yoga, as if that would make a difference. When she arrived at Masterson Models, Brothel Edition, she had to remind herself she was there to get answers, not a lesson in espionage.

“Hi, I called earlier? I’m Layla,” Ivy said nervously. “I’m interested in um, modeling?”

“Yes, we’re so happy you could come in,” said the receptionist with a broad smile.

As Ivy had suspected, the Sever name drop, however veiled, was her golden ticket. She pushed it a little by asking, “Is the guy I met famous or something?”

The receptionist looked at the door beyond and said, “I’m not allowed to say.” She handed her a clipboard. “Fill this out and sign at the x’s. Just basic information. Then we’ll get into the nitty-gritty.”

“Thanks.” Ivy brought it to the couch and noticed a catalog for walk-in clients. It had a smaller roster than the website, so it was either a sampling, or featured those who were hand-picked for this particular work. She opened it up and perused the pages in the blonde section, wondering how many of them had been in Sever’s den, and stopped at Citrine.

“Jenna, what happened?”

“I got a no-show! We waited like forty-five minutes. So rude.”

Ivy looked up. Just as she’d hoped, it was Citrine. Real name Jenna.

“Sorry, hon. I’ll see if I can get you something else for tonight.”

“Thanks.” Drumming her nails on the reception desk, she gave Ivy a polite smile.

“Oh hey,” Ivy said, pointing at the book. “It’s you.”

“Oh. Yeah. Were you looking, or...?”

“No, I’m applying. Thinking about it, anyway.” She put the book down on the table in front of her. “You’re all so pretty, I don’t know if I can measure up.”

“Oh my god, you’re totally pretty! But honestly? It’s not so much about looks.”

“It’s not? Guess I have a lot to learn.”

“That’s okay,” Citrine said. “In this job, you learn quick.”

The receptionist returned with a card. “Ten o’clock party at the Mondrian.”

“Ugh, I hate parties,” she said, taking the card.

Ivy watched her leave, gave it a second, and followed her out.

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