Page 4 of Strut

I pushed Tim through the maelstrom of dour-faced workers who barely broke stride and into the closest doorway where we pulled up Google Maps and drank in the familiar street smells of bakery goods, pretzels, cooked meat, and unidentifiable sauces from the street vendors who’d set up close by.

Tim glanced up at the bluebird sky and pulled off his jacket. “Jesus, it’s October, for fuck’s sake. I’ll be sweating like a pig before I even get there.”

I raised a brow at his T-shirt. “I assume you’ve got another shirt in your model bag?”

He nodded. “I’ll change into the black one before I sign in. Last time I donned my primo shirt in the morning rush, I turned up late to the first casting with the remains of someone’s fucking bacon and egg bagel. Told the casting director it was an art installation.”

I snorted. “Got your new comp cards?”

Tim nodded, digging into his bag before holding up an A5 sized card with a series of photos and his contact details and stats. “Better, right?”

I studied the fresh images and grinned. “Much. Did that new guy from Cage do those for you?”

Tim nodded. “Yeah. And before you ask, yes, I’ve got my book, deodorant, three options of underwear, a change of shoes, sewing kit, water, snack, phone charger, and Kindle,Dad. I’m surprised I can pick my nose without your direction as to which finger to use.” He pulled a face and I laughed.

“Makeup kit and remover?”

“Yes! Now, shut up before I hit you.” Tim leaned on the door and studied his phone, then fist-pumped the air. “Yes. I’m only a block away.”

A second later I’d nailed the route to my own destination and sighed with relief. If I hoofed it, I’d get there in time for a quick bathroom blitz to mop my underarms before I hit hair and makeup. Punctuality was almost as important as looks.Be reliable. Be compliant. Be nice. Didn’t matter if a photographer or casting director was an hour behind schedule or late back from lunch and completely fucked up your day. But the model? Hell no. Not if you wanted anyone to book you again.

“Two blocks for me,” I told him. “You got a full day of castings?”

Tim pulled a pained expression. “Eight hours at least and they’re spread to hell and back. How the fuck Cage expects me to get to them all, I have no idea. I’m zigzagging all over town.” He pocketed his phone and went up on his toes to plant a kiss on my cheek. “See you tonight, babe. I’m so fucking proud of you. Think of us minions while you’re strutting your stuff for a ranking shoot.Menzone.” He sighed. “Stuff of dreams, boyo.”

I smiled at his words, knowing he actually meant them. Cut-throat didn’t even begin to describe this industry. When you queued at a fashion week casting with over a thousand hopeful models, waiting for hours to be seen for just a few seconds and knowing most would walk away with no more than a few hundred dollars at most in their pockets, if they were lucky enough to get booked at all, then you got a sniff at just how competitive the job was. The big names who actually earned a reasonable income, well, they never queued for a start.

I grabbed Tim’s arm before he turned away. “Are you okay? Moneywise, I mean? I can lend you some if you need.”

A red stain swept over Tim’s cheeks. “Nah. I’m fine. Cage fronted my gym fees and a travel advance and a deferral on rent to tide me over, plus a small cash advance.”

I frowned. Bloody hell. More debt. “It would be easier from me. You owe them enough money as it is.” Nothing Cage provided was a gift. It all racked up as agency debt that we paid off in addition to the usual twenty percent they took. And if you had agency debt, most companies tookallyour paycheque until it was cleared, which basically meant you had no income stream.

I’d worked solidly since arriving, but until recently I’d barely earned enough to cover my own ongoing Cage debt. Without my bar job, I’d have been toast. But if you weren’t getting regular bookings, you could quickly owe thousands. Most of my model friends were in agency debt up to their eyeballs, and I didn’t even want to think where Tim stood on that sliding scale.

“I’ll be fine. Catch ya later,” Tim brushed it off, but I hadn’t missed the worry in his eyes as he slipped into a spot in the torrent of pedestrians.

I watched him go with a heavy sigh. At nineteen, impossibly skinny and with that trendy big-eyed “I only eat a carrot and three raisins a day” sullen waif aesthetic currently favoured by a number of the top male designers, Tim should’ve been creaming it. He had that look down to a fine art, but he lacked the mojo to pull it off. And the biggest attribute any successful model had in their box of tricks was a kick-ass attitude. He was a bright, vivacious kid with big dreams but none of the toughness needed to survive the industry. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion, but the one time I’d tried to talk to him about it, he’d shut me down so fast he left my head spinning.

With a sigh, I turned and headed the opposite direction, barrelling my way into the moving tide of people until I found my groove in the fast lane between a hot executive with his phone to his ear and an arse to die for—a sad reminder of how long it had been since I’d been laid—and a bearded hipster sipping a coffee as dark and thick as molasses. If I’d run, I wouldn’t have gotten there any faster. New York commuters had only one walking speed—urban lethal.

I detoured into a 7-Eleven for a couple of protein bars to see me through the long day since the shoot catering the day before hadn’t exactly been model healthy. Back on the street, I began to relax as the warm familiarity of boho-chic Soho fed my soul just a little.

Not that I could afford to eat or shop in the neighbourhood, but that didn’t stop me enjoying the eclectic architecture, the cast-iron buildings, and all the art galleries, bars, and restaurants. I could soak up the ambience and imagine a future where I drank coffee at one of the artsy cafés and perused fashions in the trendy upscale boutiques. Then I’d retire to my industrial loft or coveted brownstone in pretty, cobbled-street Tribeca or maybe The Village. It was a far cry from my gaspingly tiny three-bedroom models’ apartment on East 35thStreet in Murray Hill, with its eye-watering rent that delivered about two square feet apiece for the ten models who called it home.

A block later, I peeled right at a crosswalk and headed for a converted warehouse whose top floor was the home of Monterrey Studios. It was day two of a two-day editorial shoot forMenzone Fashion Quarterly, one of the biggest international men’s fashion magazines and my highest profile editorial to date. I only ever discussed it with Tim, since landing big jobs wasn’t something you bragged about when you were sharing an apartment with nine other hungry models. But a part of me couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t the reason my bike had suddenly gone missing. I sighed. Adolescent dumbfuckery.

Male modelling was a stressful, competitive, and exploitative industry that could reduce a model to a puddle of self-doubt and then walk over their body with barely the blink of an eye. And that was just from some of the other models. Casting directors, bookers, agents, and photographers had dibs on a whole other level of douchebaggery. Not that there weren’t lots of really nice people, and I’d met a ton. It was just that there were more than the usual number of... others.

Not that it dissuaded me in the least. I loved the excitement, and I loved the challenge. I loved how each day was different. I loved meeting new people. I loved the travel, and I came alive under the lights and in front of the cameras or on the catwalk. I’d modelled in London, Paris, Amsterdam, Montreal, and Barcelona, and I’d done a ton of shoots in New York. I hadn’t seen much of the cities I’d visited, there for the shoot or the show and then out again, mostly since I never had any fucking money. But for a Kiwi kid who’d never even crossed the Cook Strait to the South Island of New Zealand, it was enthralling.

I was also slowly but surely making a name for myself as not just good in front of the camera, but easy to work with as well. Or, as one photographer called it, I was playing theKiwi card, becoming known as hard-working, honest, and easy-going. I was getting noticed and I was starting to earn better money. Higher ranking labels and magazines were booking me. Other models recognised me. Some photographers even knew me by name, which was perhaps the best indicator that I was breaking through. It was starting to happen. I could feel it in my bones.

I headed for the top floor and, after a quick visit to the bathroom, entered the cavernous studio humming with conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. It was crammed full of lighting equipment, industrial-style props, and a small army of people. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows leaked a ton of natural light into the space, and there was even a glimpse of the Hudson if you stood on the fire escape at the end of the room and peered down the street.

“Hey, Hank, Terence.” I waved to the other models I was shooting with. They looked over from where they were chatting, coffees in hand.

Hank shot me a wide smile. “Looking particularly good today, young Alec. Been Googling again, have you?”

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