Catwalk Fail Read online

  The characters in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any mean, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Check out Jason Godfrey at www.jasongodfrey.co

  Cover Design by clanhouseonline.com

  Copyright © 2018 Jason Godfrey

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1974192571

  ISBN-13: 978-1974192571

  Dedicated to everyone I shot with, walked a runway

  with, traveled with, or waited hours with, all in the

  name of fashion and never saw again.

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 1

  Colin Bryce Hamilton

  Flew from Hong Kong to Barcelona just to shoot this commercial. Being in demand is tiring. #JetSetLife

  67 people like this.

  ONLY A COMPLETE jerk stands around sipping coffee while someone does up the laces on their trainers. This is what everyone thinks—until they’re the ones sipping the coffee.

  A woman squats at my feet adjusting the length of the bow on my black leather Pradas with the delicacy of a bomb disposal expert. I used to feel bad letting other people do this for me, then I realized letting them do it wasn’t about ego. It wasn’t about me being self-entitled. I’m simply letting them do their job. She’s a stylist. Her job is to tie my shoelaces.

  “Done. Go,” she pats me on the knee and points toward the set where I’m going to do my job. My job is to look good and, being completely honest, I’m pretty good at it.

  Walking towards the lights and the camera, I strain to check myself in any reflective surface I can find: the window of a sidewalk cafe, the metal trim of a doorway, the reflection in someone’s sunglasses. All I need is a glimpse. I’m freshly shaved. My brown hair is combed back, a few strands falling calculatedly over my face. The charcoal three-button Hugo Boss suit I’m wearing fits like it was made for me, because it was. I want to confirm that I look as good as I think I do. When I finally catch a clean glimpse at myself, it looks like I stepped out of a Gucci campaign, and I can’t help giving myself a sideways grin.

  “Beautiful,” I say, stepping onto the black plastic taped X—my mark— on the sidewalk. The female model, an American named Britney, is already standing on her mark. She blushes, thinking I’m talking about her, and says, “What?”

  I tilt my chin down, turn my head ever so slightly, and give her a small smirk. I’ve spent hours perfecting this smirk, hours staring in the mirror studying which angle best accentuates the slight dimple crease and the definition of my cheek bones. I perfected it when I lived in Cape Town, and named it Camps Bay Swagger. Models have to practice too.

  “The Catalonian architecture is beautiful. I love Barcelona—it’s so bohemian.” I read this on the in-flight magazine on the way here and have no idea what it means.

  “For sure!” Britney gushes like a schoolgirl, betraying the fact that she’s probably at least seven years younger than me. She catches herself and gnaws at her full bottom lip as her blue eyes avoid mine. “I mean, it’s different than Italy. That’s where I’m based right now. In Milan. I’m with Why Not. They’re a really good agency.”

  The mention of Milano nearly throws me off my game. Nearly. I regain my balance and wrinkle up my forehead focusing into the middle distance. I squint, even though I’m not looking at anything in particular. I’ve practiced this look for hours too, finally refining it to perfection in Athens and naming it Post-Modern Adonis. I practice modelling a lot.

  “Uh… so where are you based?” she says.

  I raise an eyebrow acting like she knocked me out of contemplative thoughts of Gaudi, though my only impression of his work is that he must have been an avid fan of hallucinogens.

  “Hong Kong, for now.” I leave it open for the possibility of Milano later. “They flew you all that way for this?”

  I nod.

  “Have you ever been to Milan?” She says this with more confidence, as if being based in Hong Kong means I haven’t been to Europe.

  “Of course.” I stifle a laugh. “I’ll be going back to Milano for the next show season.”

  “Cool,” she says quietly now that she knows the calibre of model she’s working with.

  It’s perfect timing when the assistant director tells us to get into first positions and be ready to shoot. I step forward and wrap my arms around Britney’s supple waist. This is my first position. She can’t stop her cheeks from turning red as she puts her arms around my neck.

  “Let’s go for a take,” The assistant director yells. “Brit! Colin! You guys know what to do.”

  We have to stare at each other like we’re in love while the camera moves along a track capturing us against the European background. The commercial is for a Japanese chocolate bar though I haven’t seen the product anytime during the two-day shoot, and have no idea how the montage of scenes we’ve shot of Britney and I holding hands in Barcelona is going to sell candy in Tokyo. But I don’t have to understand to get paid. Besides, I’m focused on other things. Like Britney’s tits.

  Britney, like all models, is tall and skinny. But I’m still an inch taller than her, even with her heels. And now our faces are so close that my lips are almost on her nose. I can smell her makeup and the faint scent of sun on her sandy blonde hair. With her slightly upturned nose, her high cheekbones, full red pout, and bulimic body measurements, she’s like a Barbie doll come to glorious sexy life. I don’t have to look at her until we start shooting, but I like looking at her. I like the way it makes her blush, the way it makes her hips fidget beneath the white cotton of the Carolina Herrera dress.

  “Standby. Roll camera,” The AD says and the camera whirs to life. “Action!”

  I gaze into her eyes using lust to feign love. Britney gives me a dewyeyed look—it’s her job, but I can tell she’s not acting very hard. Her fidgeting stops and her arms relax around my neck. I caress the inner curve of her lower back, feeling the top of her firm little ass. Her eyes narrow sensually and I know this isn’t an act. I focus on her lips and feel her chest rising and falling against mine. Her breathing is fast and hard. She’s almost panting.

  “Cut!” The AD yells. Cargo-pants-wearing gaffers invade our fake moment to take light readings as the camera position resets.

  “God,” Britney exhales, and stumbles away from me as her cheeks flush red. “What are you thinking about?”

  I’m thinking about her hard nipples pressed against the soft fabric of her dress. I’m thinking about how my hands felt resting on the slight curve of her lower back. I�
�m thinking about how she’ll look sprawled naked on a bed of tussled sheets.

  “Nothing,” I grin and when her blue eyes find their way back to me, I know I won’t have to imagine her naked for long.

  “I’ve wanted this since the first time I saw you,” Britney gasps, as she straddles me in her hotel bedroom. Her hands are pressed against my chest as her hips gyrate. Her firm B-cup tits are inches from my face, and like being in the presence of a majestic mountain sunset, one can’t help but think there is a higher power at work when looking at them. I’d love to reach out and cup them, but my hands are on her little hips trying to reign in her bucking.

  “I wanted to fuck you so badly.” The word fuck comes out of her mouth over stressed, like this is the second time she’s used it and is secretly delighted that she’s mustered the nerve. Britney leans down and plants a sloppy open-mouthed kiss that starts at my lips and drags itself across my face to my earlobe. Saliva drips into my ear canal. Her enthusiasm is nice, but as she begins to recklessly slam her ass up and down on me, I can’t help but fear for my erection.

  “Oh yeah! Good boy! Yes! Good boy!” She screams at the ceiling of the hotel room. I wonder if the Japanese chocolate bar clients are staying in the same hotel, and if they are, I wonder if they think some fanatic animal trainer is pushing a poodle too hard.

  Britney has a singular type of zeal I usually appreciate, but as she continues to bounce up and down on me like I’m some sort of amusement park ride, I can’t help feeling a twinge of anxiety. I have little control over Britney fucking me like a rabid honey badger. I can barely keep my grip and myself inside of her as she springs higher and higher with a complete disregard for my hard-on.

  Between bucks, I push her hips, urging her sideways on the bed so I can get on top and reduce the risk of penile dismemberment. But she ignores me and this actually seems to make her buck harder. Britney looks down at me, her mouth wide, her expression somewhere between strain and pleasure, and spits the words, “I’ll bet I’m the best Mormon you’ve ever fucked!”

  “You’re a Mormon?” I’m shocked, not at her religious disposition, but at her decision to share this fact with me at this specific point in time. I lose my concentration for a second, and for an even briefer moment, my grip on the hot Mormon. Britney happily bounds high up and out of my grasp.

  At her apex, she hangs weightless in the air for the briefest of moments. Her eyes clamped shut, her hair radiates out of her head like a strawberry blonde fan, and her mouth open too wide on one side like she’s suffered a stroke. I take a mental snapshot of her like this, her perky tits defying gravity, her face twisted yet somehow still hot. She’s lost in the moment and I’m filled with dread because I know what’s going to happen next.

  Britney smacks down on me like a wrecking ball. A crack that sounds like a tree limb snapping echoes in the hotel room. As pain ripples through me—a pain made more disconcerting when I realize the snapping noise was in fact made by my penis—all I can think is: a fucking Mormon just broke my cock.

  The Panadol box says two tablets are adequate for adults. I pop six from the foil package and chase them with a big gulp of water. All bets on recommended dosages are off when it comes to a broken penis.

  “Patatas bravas.” A waitress, with too many nose piercings and her hair cut into a mullet, places a plate of aioli covered potato in front of me. It’s a plate of pure carbs, the natural enemy of models everywhere, but I make the calorie bargain that eating this tonight is fine if I skip breakfast tomorrow.

  My groin aches and I’m about to shovel comforting fried potato into my mouth when my iPhone buzzes on the yellow countertop. A Skype profile photo of a girl pops up on my screen. I squint. The profile shot is so underexposed, so shrouded in shadow that all I can make out is brown hair and a perfect grin. Still, despite the poor quality, the girl’s hot. I’m wondering how many Panadols would be needed to resuscitate my manhood to a briefly usable state when the phone buzzes again and I realize the call is from my sister. Fuck. I decide to never remember this moment.

  I thumb the green video button.

  “Hey!” Jasmine’s grinning face pops on screen. Strands of wavy brown hair fall over her dark almond shaped eyes as she says. “You look like crap! Are you ok?”

  “I’m fine.” I manage a crippled grin though my cock ache. “Did you get a new profile picture?”

  “Oh yeah!” She says. “Uh… my friend took it. He wants to be a photographer. It’s pretty sweet, right?”

  “It looks like his flash was broken.”

  “Oh…” Jasmine looks down, the light striking her angular cheekbones as she purses her lips. She looks like a Calvin Klein Eternity campaign, and this makes me shovel aioli smeared bravas into my mouth. Little sisters should stay little forever. “It was meant to be artistic.”

  I need to go through my modelling portfolio and show Jasmine the meaning of artistic.

  “So… I want to ask you about Milan,” she says.

  “Milano.” Only the fashion inept say Milan. “That’s how the Italians say it.”

  “Milano…” Jasmine repeats like it’s magic. “You’re going back, right?”

  “Of course,” I say. Forget New York and its greasy food and oversized sports jerseys, or London where the male models are scrawny high school drop outs with cockney accents, or Paris where a normal guy has to get his hip bones sanded down to fit French cut pants. “If you want to be a top model, Milano is it.”

  Fuck everywhere else.

  “Then I’ll go there first,” my sister says. “Cause I decided I’m going to be a model!”

  “What?” I say, shaking off a plate of chorizo being offered by the mullet-stricken waitress.

  “Mom and Dad are cool with it.” Jasmine flips brown hair out of her face and suddenly it’s all too clear how terrifyingly pretty she has become. Her jawline is strong, like our father’s, but she has her mother’s dark exotic features; high cheekbones, full lips, and olive skin that is so smooth it makes me wish I had a bit of Asian blood too. “I’ve fast tracked high school, so I can get into modelling sooner.”

  “I thought you were fast tracking to get to university earlier,” I say. “I know money is tight but when I get to Milano I’ll be earning top model money. Paying for school won’t be a problem.”

  “Yeah… I guess,” she says. “But I’d rather try modelling!”

  Few things frighten me like the idea of my little sister becoming a teenage model but I knew this day would come. With Jasmine’s look and, obviously my own career as inspiration, my sister has been a ticking time bomb threatening to explode onto the fashion scene since she was twelve. Now having just turned seventeen, she’s at the ten second countdown.

  “Italy isn’t a great idea, especially without a strong book,” I say, trying to cut the blue wire on my sister’s modelling dreams. “Milano will eat you up if you’re not ready for it.”

  I’m saying this to discourage her but I’m not lying. That’s what happened to me. My first contract five years ago was in Milano. I barely had six shots in my portfolio and had no idea what I was getting into. A typical day had me casting with Dolce & Gabbana, cat-walking for Armani and posing for Fendi. After a month of watching sunglasses-wearing clients flip through my book like it was the Yellow Pages, I didn’t get a single job. I was too young and unpolished. Back then if I had to name a fashion label, I would have said Sears.

  “I can have my photographer friend shoot more stuff with me!” Jasmine beams at the idea of having her wannabe Testino buddy take more shots of her that look like a proof of life photo from Somalian pirates. I shudder that she called him a photographer.

  “It’s more than a book, Jas. It’s about learning fashion,” I say, deciding not to share the truth about her friend’s depressing lack of talent. “It’s about knowing the art of modelling.”

  That’s an art I know. Athens, Barcelona, Hamburg, Singapore, Bangkok, Taipei, Tokyo, Cape Town, Hong Kong—market after market, I became m
ore than a model. I was a student of the craft. At fashion shows I analyzed the runway swagger of the other guys—how long their strides were, how much they swung their arms when they walked, and how it all changed for the different labels.

  “You don’t walk the same way for Gucci that you walk for Diesel,” I say. Most models don’t pay attention to these details, but I do. “People think modelling is easy, but it’s a lot of hard work and dedication. You can’t just jump into it.”

  This fashion fact stuns my sister into silence.

  “You really need to think about this, Jas,” I say. “Look, I’ve got to go. We’ll talk about it some other time.”

  And before she can object, I press the End Call button. That’s over. For now.

  I may not have disarmed her entirely but I’ve managed to freeze that countdown timer on my sister’s model dreams at nine seconds. I’ll get my sister back on track.

  The mullet waitress returns grinning and tempting me with a big plate of oily croquetas. Who the fuck is this woman? Has she been sent to from future to sabotage my Milano dreams?

  I’m starving, but telling my sister about dedication reminds me of my own. It reminds me that when you’re a model you are the art. Your body is the canvas. And nobody wants a fat canvas.

  I let the croquetas pass and Mullet slinks away defeated. The Panadols are taking effect, my determination is renewed and I push the rest of the plate of bravas away.

  Discipline, perseverance, and hard work—these are my weapons in the battle to become a top model. Two more months in Hong Kong, then I’ll get a contract in Italy—and when I get to Milano, this time, things will be different.

  CHAPTER 2

  Colin Bryce Hamilton

  I’m back in Hong Kong and hitting Asylum tonight after working waaaay too hard in Spain. Ladies, could be your chance!

  46 people like this.

  ASYLUM IS AN elite lounge on Hollywood Road in Lan Kwai Fong. With its mixed crowd of socialites, celebrities, and the plain old rich, it’s the premier place in Hong Kong to be seen partying. Attracting this crowd means ensuring the club is stocked with pretty faces. This is why models are comped free dinner and drinks every night at a venue most of them could never afford.