Page 4 of Pageant

“Are you eating in your fucking dress for the show? That dress is worth more than you are,” the producer snarls at her.

Every head backstage turns to stare at Ayna.

The woman jabs Ayna in the belly. “How much did you eat? Look at you, you fat cow. I can see your stomach. You think I can send you down the runway looking like that? Go and throw it all up.” The producer points toward the bathroom.

Around us, several women laugh behind their hands and exchange scandalized glances. It’s not like I’ve never heard women throwing up in the bathrooms at shows, but it’s obscene for a producer to actually tell a model to do it.

“Wh—what?” Ayna stammers.

The producer mimes shoving two fingers down her throat. “Throw.Up. Stupid fucking girl. Which inbred village were you dragged from?”

Ayna moves toward the bathrooms, her face flaming, but I grab her arm.

“Stay there.” I turn to the producer. “Ayna’s not going to make herself sick on purpose. She looks beautiful, and you’re being a bully.”

The producer scours me from the roots of my hair to the pointed stilettos on my feet. Her gaze fastens on my broken nail, and her face suffuses with savage delight. “You’re even worse. How dare you come here with broken nails! Both of you, get out. You’re fired, and I’ll be telling your agencies about this.”

“I broke my nail on your stupid cans of water,” I tell her, pointing at the drink sitting in front of the mirror. “Why aren’t there cups and glasses that we can actually use while wearing these ridiculous nails?”

“How dare you talk back to me!” She starts to shout for security, and half a dozen men in black T-shirts weave through the models to get to us.

I unzip the back of my dress and let it fall to the floor, kicking off my high heels as well. Standing in a nude thong and nothing else, I tell her, “I’m leaving. But let Ayna stay. She didn’t do anything wrong.”

Behind me, Ayna starts to sob as an assistant forcibly removes her from her dress. I can’t bear the sight of her trying to cover her nakedness in front of dozens of hostile eyes, so I grab her T-shirt and jeans and help her into them.

“Your clothes,” she whispers thickly, smearing makeup and tears across her cheeks.

I mutter that I don’t care. After eighteen months of this, I’m used to standing around in nothing, or almost nothing.

You want strange men to stare at your body? Are you a slut who craves to be stared at? No daughter of mine is going to be a model. You’re getting married, and I have already chosen your husband.

Dad’s voice rings through my head, almost as brutal now as it was when I was seventeen. I pull on my shorts and an oversized T-shirt, slide into my sneakers, and grab my bag. Looping my arm through Ayna’s, I whisper to her to hold her chin up, and march her out via the back entrance.

When we’re standing on the street, I turn to her. “Don’t be afraid to stand up for yourself. The producers will walk all over you if you let them. Remember that they need you, and if you’re hungry, eat. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“They did not think so,” Ayna points out, wiping her eyes. “And they do not need us. They threw us out.”

My mouth closes. She’s not wrong there. “I guess we had bad luck. There’ll be other shows.”

Ayna pulls out of my grip, her eyes sparking with anger. “You should not have…” Words fail her and she gestures angrily around her head.Butted in. “I would have thrown up, and then I would have still been in the show.”

She bursts into sobs, muttering words like “money,” “mistake,” and “my agent,” punctuated by angry Russian. I can guess what she’s upset about. Ayna’s parents will be relying on the money she’s sending them, and if she’s fired, her failure will be her family’s shame. At such a young, unproven age, she’s worried her agency will drop her. Hell, even after dozens of shows I might be fired if that producer screams long and loud enough on the phone. I’ve already disappointed my family in every way possible, so I don’t have to worry about that, but I desperately need this money, too.

Feeling hollow, I watch Ayna hurry away from me, still crying. This was my last show in Milan, and tomorrow I’m boarding a flight back to the United States. I’m booked for Paris Fashion Week next month, but nothing after that. At nearly twenty-one, I’m edging toward being over the hill, and I have no idea what comes next.

The alleyway I’m standing in is dark and smelly, so I head up the street toward the main road. What does a twenty-year-old Russian mafia widow do with her life when she has no education and her only skill is walking in heels? With the little money I’ve made, I suppose I could enroll in community college and get a part-time job. What would I be good at? Accountancy? Hospitality? Maybe I could work in hotels. I’m good at smiling and pretending that everything’s fine. I’ve had so much practice.

The back of my neck prickles. It’s a sensation I want to ignore, but my father taught me to pay attention to the cues my body gives me.Trust your instincts, he likes to say, tapping his nose,and you won’t end up with a knife in your back.

I turn around and look down the alley. If there’s someone skulking there, I want them to know I’m not the kind of woman to walk faster and pretend that everything’s fine.

I’m not prey.

“Who’s there?”

Nothing moves. Silence answers me.

“Alo? Kto tam?” I call in Russian.Hello? Who is there?None of my dead husband’s friends have come after me so far, but that doesn’t mean they won’t.

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