A/N: This story will get an update about once a week since I'm afraid that is as far as I can commit and also accomplish at this point. My life has become a little hectic :) If anything changes, you'll see :)
Turns out no amount of praying and/or begging worked. Mary Lou really had submitted an application in my name to the contest. And for whatever sad, sappy or stupid reason they actually really had chosen me as the lucky girl. Not that I felt particularly lucky or wanted to be chosen. For all I cared, they could gladly take the runner-up.
"But look at him," Mary Lou almost demanded while magically pulling out a novel with him on the cover, as well as pushing her phone into my face, presenting me with an Instagram account that seemed to show him. Only him. diehardromance
A few clicks later her phone was once more shoved into my face, this time displaying a different Instagram page, though, still with him being the only subject, it seemed. lancaster_models
"Who has two Instagram accounts?" was, oddly enough, the first question that popped out of my mouth. Yeah, really, the most important ones first.
"Not sure which of these are actually his. The first one I think is a fan account that gets sent all kinds of pictures from private people who just spotted him somewhere to professionals who work with him. The second one, I think, is his agency. Not sure he actually has his own account," Mary Lou explained while typing wildly. Probably trying to locate his own private account. Not that it mattered, or that I cared. But has that ever stopped my best friend? No.
"You do realize he's probably photoshopped from head to toe. No one can look that good in real life. Like… this goes against every law of nature."
"But there are plenty of pictures online from regular people who spotted him somewhere and these are certainly not photoshopped."
"Says who? If you haven't seen it with your own damn eyes, you can't trust it to be real. Lesson number one. How often do you hear any of our friends complain about a date they went on with some guy they met online? How he looked so good and dreamy and then meeting him in the real world, he looked like an entirely different person? If it is online, it can't be trusted to be automatically true. And romance novels clearly wouldn't put an Average Joe on their cover, would they?"
"Exactly," Mary Lou exclaimed, almost as if I had just made an argument in her favour. "They wouldn't. So, they would cast someone hot to put up there, right?"
"Or they would just cast anyone who's willing to do it, put a ton of makeup on and let the rest be done by magic, aka Photoshop."
"When did you become so cynical?" she asked, and I needed to laugh.
"Ever since I woke up in the real world," I smiled. "Everyone and their mother posts photos only retouched these days, never posting the original or one that makes us look bad or ugly. So why would this guy, his agent and everyone else involved be any different? I'm certain they slimmed the face, darkened the tan a little, added a little more muscle while also adding a six pack and then just lengthened the entire thing, making him seem like the dreamiest, hottest, most beautiful guy that every girl and woman all over the world can dream and fantasize about."
"I don't believe that," Mary Lou replied stern, looking like I was about to a burst a huge bubble and she would fight me come hell or high water.
"I guess we'll never know who'd be right," I just said, figuring that was the easiest way to end an argument before it even really arose.
"Well, actually…," she started and realized too late what I had just walked in to. "There is. You won a cover shot, so you can see first hand whether he's just photoshopped," she said, waving once more the piece of paper in front of me.
"Or I don't and we let the mystery forever be unsolved," I offered, which went down as well as you'd expect.
"You know, there's something else I remember from that night. And that was you declaring you needed to change a few things and maybe get out of your comfort zone since said zone so far hasn't managed to work for you or done you much good. Orr, Morelli and your previous dating history are prime examples for that. You said that maybe the guy for you and a slightly more exciting life were outside your comfort zone. And that you might as well go after a guy like him," she went on, waving her phone for a change in front of my face.
"I was drunk. Not knowing your limits and figuring you can conquer anything this world has to offer is regular drunk talk. Also, that still doesn't mean he really looks like that."
"So, go and find out. Even if it is just for this argument's sake. The entire thing is outside your usual conform zone, so it could be good for you and a valid learning experience." Somehow that last statement made her sound equally therapist and school teacher. Not that she was officially either.
"No," I repeated myself, almost shouting. "This is the worst idea ever. I mean, what am I supposed to do there? Look all loved up with a guy I have never met before and get semi-naked or dressed in barely decent clothes? I can already see my mother's obituary when she would see pictures of me on the cover of a romance novel. She'd die instantly. Wouldn't even be able to finish her ever so popular 'why me?' thought. She barely survived when I announced my current work place."
"Steph, you work in a lingerie store. It's not an adult toy store or something sinister. Just a shop where woman buy underwear that is decent and practical, but certainly not made for seducing a guy, despite what the rumours say. By the way, you also said 'Screw my mother' that night. Just saying."
"I say that almost every day of the week. That doesn't mean I actually do something that might result in pissing her off. Also, if memory serves right, I only said it that night because she was hellbent on me going and fixing things with Morelli."
"She is still rather bent on the idea of you fixing things with Morelli," Mary Lou reminded me. "Imagine what a strong message it would send when you land a guy like that." To make her point clear once more, she waved the paper again.
"Who says I even want to land a guy like that?" I asked, seeing my best friend look at me in disbelief.
"Are you kidding me? Why wouldn't you want to land a guy like that? Look at him, he's just… perfect!" she exclaimed, almost as if I hadn't seen his perfection the first four times she had shoved a picture of him in my face.
"Again, Photoshop."
Mary Lou let out a sigh at my repetition. I don't really know what it was that had me going on with this, seeing as I really couldn't and didn't care. I guess the fact that if I gave up on this debate, I'd be packing my things and would show up at whatever event I needed to get to for the shot. And that wasn't going to happen.
"I guess if you are so hellbent on the Photoshop theory, you will need to go and prove me wrong. No other way around."
Since this was most likely not getting resolved anytime soon, I figured I could give her some leeway and work this from a different angle.
"Okay, let's say he is, as a matter of fact, looking like that - which I highly doubt, but whatever. I bet he has a really shitty personally, is an arrogant bastard or just so out of touch with a real, average woman, he'd probably refuse to work with me out of principle. That principle being his reputation and ego."
"So, it's either one or the other? Either he does not look like the pictures or he has such a shitty character with arrogance and high-maintenance streaks? He can't be good-looking and a perfect gentleman who appreciates the true beauty of a woman?"
"Is there actually any point in me arguing this? I mean, will whatever I say actually steer you away from whatever picture you managed to make up in your mind?"
"No," Mary Lou answered truthfully. At least she was honest. "Well," she replied a second later again. "An eyewitness report, maybe. Go there and report back to me."
That was the moment I gave up, knowing if one of us wasn't giving in, we would be having this discussion for another few hours. And well, if she wanted, her dreams and ideals shattered…
"Fine," I finally said, seeing her squeal excitedly once more. "But don't come crying when I tell you he isn't perfect, neither in looks nor behaviour."
I already regretted agreeing to this, mainly because I knew I'd feel stupid and ridiculous. It probably took a certain kind of person to like these kinds of things, posing in front of a camera, pretending to do things or feel something while someone in the background yelled instructions or made you feel stupid. But for my best friend, I was willing to put my own discomfort aside and just go with it. Oh, and also in order to win this argument. I'd prove her wrong, probably shatter a few of her dreams, but be done and over with.
XXXX
Mary Lou had given me the announcement letter that congratulated me to my win and also provided contact details in order to organize this entire thing. I still couldn't believe I really was doing this a few weeks later when I walked into a warehouse that was, at one point, remodelled into a set location for photoshoots. Even when I stepped into the place, I still wasn't sure what to expect and found myself with the same question I had wondered about the past few weeks. 'Why was I doing this?'
"You must be Stephanie," someone greeted me, surprisingly the moment I actually set foot inside. It was a tall, lanky blonde with a clipboard under her arm, a Styrofoam cup of a popular coffee chain in one hand, and her other hand stretched towards me. Instead of what I had assumed was a greeting with a handshake, her empty hand was placed on my back and I was being directed towards my right.
"Make-Up and wardrobe are already waiting for you. We expected you to be here about half an hour ago, to be honest. But I guess we'll make it work, we have to," she said and sent a firm smile my way, which seemed more politeness than it was meant as friendly.
"I was told to be here by 10," I said, looking at my watch and noticing I was actually here five minutes early. What she was she talking about half an hour ago?
"They told you ten, yes, but it is to be expected to be here early. Super early. Like 'on time' time!"
"'On time' time?" I asked, confused. What the hell was she talking about and was she aware that she made no sense whatsoever and simply seemed to make up words? What was 'one time' time supposed to mean? "And I'm actually five minutes early," I announced as well, which got me only a look that seemed rather annoying.
"That's late already."
"I'm sorry," I mumbled, not sure what I was apologizing for. I was told 10, and I was here at 10. What was her problem? If this was how the entire thing would go down, they could expect me to walk out sooner or later, not caring whether they had their stupid cover or not.
Instead of a reply, I got some sort of grunt and was pushed down a make-up chair a second later. "She's finally here," Ms. Congeniality announced to probably no one in particular and then was gone, most likely off to find someone else to confuse with her word creations and be her charming self with.
"Look at you," someone almost cooed next to me. "You look adorable, not like any of the usual women that get sent by their agencies. I'm Agnes, by the way, the make-up artist."
"I'm Stephanie," I replied, returning Agnes' soft smile. "I… um… I won this event?!"
"Oh, you are the contest winner," she replied, seeming even more excited. "How wonderful. You must be really excited and nervous, but trust me, dear, there is no reason for me. Everyone is usually really nice and gentle. The worst is Delaney. The woman who greeted you and brought you to me."
"Oh, you mean Miss Happy-and-Cheerful?" I asked, making it hopefully obvious that I was sarcastic.
"That's her. Don't take it personal, she is like that with everyone. She is a stickler for punctuality and making up time schedules that apparently no one gets except for her. 'On-time'-time' is her favourite thing to say and I think no one here actually understands what she means or refers to."
"So, she's the worst in regards to people here?"
"Yeah, pretty much. Everyone else is really happy and loves working these shoots. They are fun and less stressful and straining than some other things."
"Would the… um… male lead in this agree as well?" I asked, slightly amused.
"Yeah, Ranger is very easy going. And obviously easy on the eyes, which makes things a lot easier," she said, laughing a second later. "But yeah, he is an absolute sweetheart. Just don't tell him I called him that."
"Ranger? I thought his name was Carlos? Or Ricardo? I got rather conflicting information online," I replied, feeling slightly stupid for seeming so clueless. Maybe I should have researched a little more thorough. Judging by the confused look Agnes threw my way, she seemed surprised I didn't know all the details or at least the basics.
"Not a fan?" she asked, though it sounded more like a fact and statement. My silence to her question was probably all the answer she needed and all of a sudden she was smiling at me widely.
"Oh, I love you already," Agnes declared, and I wasn't entirely certain what had caused her exclamation. "The girls that get usually sent by various agencies are one step away from worshipping every step he takes and the one previous contest winner we had was almost fainting at the sight of him. Maybe that was a bit annoying since it took the photographer probably a good hundred pictures until something half-decent came out of it. There are also the few ones that get sent by the agencies that are just plain arrogant for no real or justifiable reason. I can already tell, you don't fit into any of these categories. So, you are actually a breath of fresh air."
About twenty minutes after I had been put into the make-up chair, I was done and sent off to Wardrobe. Having no clue what I was getting into, I was greeted by another friendly face, who seemed just as smiley and excited as Agnes was.
While my research with regard to my partner of the day had been for whatever reason sparse, my research into covers of such books wasn't. I had wanted to know what women usually dress in and found a field of possibilities. It seemed there wasn't a look that didn't make it onto a cover sooner or later. And when I say there wasn't one, I really mean it. Well, except for completely naked anyway. But for me it was almost the same standing in front of a total stranger in just a barely there bra and panties, or if they weren't there altogether. On the other hand, wouldn't that at least be a better option than being dressed in full 18th century clothing, like some Lady or Countess?
As it turns out, while both options seemed semi-favourable, nothing actually prepared me for what I would end up wearing.
"Ex-cuse me?" I said, looking probably slightly shocked at the few scraps of cloth I was holding. Was this even technically considered clothing when it probably wouldn't cover a lot?
"Well," the wardrobe girl said, who had by now introduced herself as Ginger. "The book is about a female… I believe the correct term is… pleasure slave." As if that actually explained anything. Well… it probably did, but it wasn't like that made it all the better. Maybe 18th century clothing wasn't so bad after all. Could we get back to that?
"I'm almost certain they are called sex slaves. But a less sinister name would probably be Concubine." The fact that I actually knew that left even me surprised and slightly speechless. "Out of sheer curiosity, do woman usually get a say in the getup?"
"They usually know what they sign up for," she shrugged with a soft smile still on her lips. I was almost certain that by now it had probably spread around that I wasn't the usual pro that showed up for these shoots.
"Just to clarify, is this all I am supposed to wear, or does the ensemble come with something else? Like… a cardigan or something?" I asked, the desperation in my voice probably quite audible.
For a second, the girl looked at me with even more confusion, before she shrugged. "That's it," she finally announced, slaying all my hopes, and shoved me towards some sort of box. "You can get changed in there and then we'll see how everything fits. There are a lot of strings, so we can work it out very well. If you need help, holler," she said, closed the curtain and seemed gone. Or was just waiting outside the mobile changing room until I presented my construction of wardrobe.
To say my outfit had a lot of strings was an actual understatement. It probably took me already ten minutes just to figure out which strings belonged where exactly. And even when I had figured it out, I wasn't entirely certain they actually were in the correct places. I felt a little like Princess Leia in the original Star Wars movies, when she was in some sort of slave position as well and looked almost like her. Just with even less cloth–unless I, of course, remembered that scene incorrectly.
When I was done—or looked at least like I could be done—I pushed the curtain back and made sure I was more or less presentable, and that everything that needed to be covered actually was.
"Please tell me I got some of these strings wrong and that by correcting them this outfit will magically produce more fabric and seem a lot more decent," I exclaimed, turning my head backwards to see whether I maybe was wearing this thing backwards.
I expected Ginger to be waiting, seeing as I had heard someone rummage outside my changing room, but was surprised when I wasn't spotting her but someone entirely different. My male companion for the day. Who looked at me with somewhat wide eyes, raised eyebrows and a smile.