Happy Faces
A joke was made at a politician’s expense.
“Ha!” shouted Ilia. “Such a bastard.”
The corner of the bar where she sat was quiet. Peter leaned forward and absorbed the bouquet of his beer. Anne leaned back and put her hands on her lap.
“Well? Isn’t he?” asked Ilia. A cheery grin sat lopsided on her face. She instinctively pulled her collar closed.
“Well, yeah,” said Peter, “but keep it down.”
“Okay, okay,” replied Ilia.
“So, Ilia,” asked Anne. Peter looked up. “What was this big announcement you had for us?”
“Oh! That,” replied Ilia, grinning. “My agent finally found a shoot for me. A commercial shoot that pays.”
Peter asked, “Your agent?”
“Yes, Roland, I told you about him last week.”
“Right, the one who said you were the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen,” said Peter.
“Yes! Aren’t I?”
“So, Roland?” prompted Anne.
“Yes! Roland. He found a shoot for me. Tomorrow, actually. I’m sure I’ll have plenty of pictures for you next week.”
“I’m sure,” said Peter. “Will you be in any of them?”
“Funny,” answered Ilia.
Anne laughed and took a drink. “Looking forward to it.”
Anne stared into the distance for a moment and then asked, “Do you need a chaperone?”
“What? Oh, no,” said Ilia. “These guys are professionals. Perfectly safe.”
“Hm, okay. Well…”
“Don’t worry, Anne,” said Ilia.
“Maybe you should worry,” said Peter.
“Why?” asked Ilia. She lifted her eyebrows.
Peter laughed, “They work for Anne.”
“Oh, fuck you!” said Anne.
Peter laughed and said, “Keep it down.”
“Ha!” yelled Ilia.
The Desert
Ilia sat in a chair. No one was in the room. A sliding glass window sat halfway up the wall opposite her. A nice secretary sat on the other side. Ilia looked at her hands and practiced smiling. She was startled when the secretary called her name through an open door.
“Ilia?”
“Yes!”
“Come with me, please.”
Ilia got up and followed the secretary through the door into a dimly lit hallway.
“Do you have a chaperone?” asked the secretary.
“Oh, no, I don’t think I need one. Do you think I need one?”
A glance. “You’ll be fine.”
The secretary led Ilia to a door. She knocked, and it opened.
The secretary stepped through first and announced Ilia. Ilia sauntered in and gave the photographer her best smile. Glitter. The producer waved at her, motioning toward three chairs on the back wall. She sat down in the middle chair. It was black and uncomfortable with torn vinyl under her forearms.
The producer whispered to the photographer, “Do you think her tits are big enough?” The photographer shrugged. He didn’t look at Ilia. She wasn’t there. But she heard.
The photographer went to Ilia. “Please take your clothes off. You can wear this.” He handed her a black silk robe. “We have some stuff to finish,” he said as he went back to the lighting.
Take her clothes off? Roland had not mentioned that. She considered leaving, but her facade refused to leave the room with her. She undressed and put the robe on. She waited for ten minutes before they noticed her again.
Ilia settled back into the cracked chair. She crossed her ankles. There was a breeze in the room that she now felt. She looked up at the ceiling.
“Step up, dear.”
No.
Ilia stepped onto an X. She instinctively pulled her collar closed. “Yes?”
Evidence
Ilia sat in her car. The bar’s blinking marquee intermittently glared on her windshield. She was nervous. She took out her phone and flipped through the pictures. Still, she found nothing suitable. Everywhere her boobs were on display. She would need to invent a lie. She would tell her friends the shoot was cancelled. There were difficulties, and they rescheduled. There was no need to produce evidence.
Ilia sat in her car. The bar blinked. It accused. Instinctively, she pulled her collar closed. She reached inside and tugged her facade free.
She walked to the bar. The marquee blinked. Her walk was stop motion. Her face was orange.
