Hothouse Flower

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DAISY CALLOWAY

4:30 a.m.

Since I arrived in Paris three days ago, I’ve slept five hours, and I’m not really sure if it can be considered sleep. I woke up screaming and thrashing at an “invisible enemy” as Ryke calls it. I can barely even remember what was grabbing me in my nightmare, but that kind of sleep is something I don’t want to return to.

Right now I am pumped full of caffeinated drinks and diet pills. I used to smoke cigarettes, the nicotine high fairly decent to keep me awake during long shoots. But when Ryke started teaching me how to ride a motorcycle, he convinced me to stop smoking. I haven’t touched a cigarette since. I don’t crave the nicotine at all. I just ache for sleep or at least a shot of adrenaline.

On the runway yesterday, I literally thought I was floating across the glassy surface in five-inch heels. I wore a peacock headpiece. I was so close to flapping my arms, and in my mind, I had already raced off the stage, down the street and jumped into an ice cold lake. I have no idea why that sounds so appealing, but it does. Anything but standing around, waiting. Sitting in chairs, waiting. So much waiting. I can’t decide if I’m more bored or more tired.

I cup a steaming coffee while a stylist pulls every small strand of my hair into a braid. I look like Medusa or possibly a dreaded girl on Venice Beach. I’d think it was cool if it didn’t take so long. I shift so much in the seat that the stylist threatens to take my coffee away.

This job would suit a million other people better than it does me.

People buzz around us, constantly moving, but it’s usually not the models who are doing the buzzing. It’s production assistants wearing microphone headsets, holding clipboards, and makeup artists and designers. I am stationary. Basically no more human than an article of clothing that a PA carries on a hanger.

A brunette model with a splattering of freckles across her cheeks sits in a makeup chair next to me. She’s getting the same braid treatment. I met her about a month ago when she signed with Revolution Modeling, Inc. The same agency as mine. Our hotel rooms are across from each other. Christina is only fifteen and thin as a rail. She reminds me a little of how I was when I first began my career. Quiet, reserved, observant—just taking it all in.

She lets out her fourth big yawn.

“Here,” I say, passing her my coffee.

“Thanks.” She smiles. “My parents don’t usually let me drink caffeine, but I don’t think they’d mind if they saw how much I’m working.”

“They didn’t come?” I frown. My mom always supervised my time at Fashion Week. At first, I thought it was because she was protecting me, but later, I wondered if it was because she wanted to be a part of this world and was afraid of missing out. Now that seems more likely.

“No. They couldn’t afford to fly here.”

She’s from Kansas, and she said it almost bankrupt her parents just to go to New York at the chance of landing an agent. Now she’s the sole breadwinner for her family. I can’t imagine that, and I think having Christina around has humbled me a little more.

“If someone offers you coke,” I tell her, “I’d just say no, okay?”

Her eyes grow as she looks between both of our stylists, who don’t even flinch, and then back to me. Cocaine is a lot of people’s upper of choice. When I was fifteen, I tried it during Fashion Week. A guy shook a little plastic packet at me and said, “This’ll help you stay awake.”

Two lines later, I’d officially jumped into the deep end of adulthood—or what felt like grown up experiences.

Christina realizes that no one really cares that I admitted to cocaine circulating around, and she nods. “Yeah, okay.”

I lean back in the chair as soon as a makeup artist decides to work on me. I’m getting double duty, two stylists at once. She pinches my chin to turn my head towards her, and she stares disapprovingly at the bags underneath my eyes.

My stomach makes an audible noise, gurgling. The stylist hands me a granola bar.

“Just eat a couple bites,” she says. “You can throw it up later.”

“I’m not into the whole bulimic thing,” I say. “Or the anorexic thing.” I sense the makeup artist listening a little too closely. Sometimes I forget that they can sell anything I say to a gossip magazine. They’ll be identified as an “inside source” when they’re quoted. “Thanks for the bar,” I tell her. I’ll taste it. I’m too hungry not to.

My body is already slowly eating itself. It’s the main reason why I want to quit modeling. My health has been tanking from the sleep stuff—add this and I know I may do some damage.

I chew on the gritty bar that tastes more like tree bark than peanut butter and almonds. Christina is finished before me since she has less hair to braid. I’m going to be here for another two hours, I swear. At least the makeup artist has joined the other girl in the braiding. I tried to do a strand by my face, but the stylist slapped my hand away.

The chair fills quickly beside me. A male model slouches down, holding a whole bowl of fruit. He notices the granola bar in my hand. “Where’d you get that?” he asks enviously.

“The tree people,” I tell him, taking another bite and passing him the granola. “What’s wrong with the fruit?”

He bites the bar and sinks back in his chair like he’s in food heaven. It makes me smile, one of the first times I’ve done so since arriving in Paris.

“Carbs,” he says, answering my question. “Craft service only has fruit and raw vegetables.” He takes a swig from his water bottle. “They told us we can eat whatever we want, but either all the waifs scarfed down the crackers and sandwiches or someone tricked me.”

“They don’t want anyone to overeat,” I say. “Some years the selection is better.”

“Last year,” he says with a nod. “Last year was better. They had muffins.”

I groan. “Don’t talk about muffins.”

“Blueberry and banana nut.”

“You are a cruel, cruel person…” I trail off and get a good look at him, realizing I’ve never met this model before.

“Ian,” he says, taking another bite of my bar. He has muscles, not a “waif” as he called the naturally skinny guys. His face is classically beautiful like a Greek statue. I’ve seen him in a cologne ad, I think. He holds out the granola to me.

“You finish it,” I say.

“I’ll trade you.” He raises the fruit. “It’s no muffin, but…” He smiles. And of course, it’s gorgeous, full white teeth, bright and welcoming.

I like this guy. He speaks my food language. “I’ll take it.” We swap. “I’m Daisy, by the way.”

“I know. I think I sat on your face at a bus stop today.”

I mock gasp. “You sat on my face? Impossible. I don’t let strangers do that.”

He laughs. A stylist sprays blue dye in his hair. Fashion designers are crazy. I should know, Rose is one. Though she didn’t get invited here. She’s still back in Philly.

“So,” he says, “I’m six-two, blue eyes, brown hair, twenty-five…” He tilts his head towards me as his stylist pauses to reach for hair spray. “I can list off my measurements, but something tells me you won’t care about the size of my chest.” This reminds me of a similar conversation that I had with Ryke once upon a time. He was trying to convince me to eat cake.

“Your hips also don’t have to be measured in the morning,” I told him.

“They can be,” Ryke said. “Will you eat the fucking cake if I measure my hips?”

“And your ass.”

“You want to know the size of my ass?” His brows rose.

“Yep.”

“Eat the cake.”

I smile more out of remembrance from that moment than out of attraction towards Ian.

I shake my head at Ian. “Only your ass.”

He grins. “I only give that to girls I really like.”

“Damn,” I say. A pit sinks to my stomach. We’re flirting. I don’t want to taint that memory I had with Ryke by continuing this banter with Ian. It’s starting to make me a little nauseous. Maybe that’s the fruit or the one bite of tree bark. But this could be a good thing. He could be my number seven. This is what Ryke wanted, right? Stop hanging onto what could be, Daisy. Let Ryke and the past go.

Ian wears an easygoing smile as he checks me out. “You want to meet up later?” he asks.

Maybe commenting on his ass was a bigger signal than I thought. Ryke never acted on the flirty nature of our conversations. Sometimes I forget that not everyone is like him. Most guys will prod further, not stop at a point. They want the sex. All of it. Not just the dirty talk. Maybe this is a good thing. It doesn’t feel that way.

But I think about going back to my room late tonight after runways. The balcony doors don’t have deadbolts, so it’d be really easy for someone to punch through the glass and just unlock the door from the inside. I couldn’t sleep the first night because I kept glancing at that door. Maybe having Ian around will help me calm down…and maybe sex will help me sleep without Ambien. I haven’t tried it before, but I also never wanted to medicate with sex.

I didn’t want to have Lily’s problem.

These new possibilities sound better than my current situation. So I give Ian my cell number. I also didn’t want anyone to know my hotel room, but I don’t think it’ll hurt to just tell Ian.

I feel like there’s no perfect choice here. There are a lot of negatives, a few positives, and so I just have to pick.

“Know where I can find these tree people?” he asks, waving an empty granola wrapper.

I smile. He’s not too bad.

I think I just made my decision.