When the White Knight Falls
When the White Knight Falls
Virginia Wallace
ISBN 978-1-914301-01-8
https://amzn.to/3qFcjT6
Prologue
Vinyl car seats…
Vinyl car seats aren’t comfy, not at all. They’re not like old couch cushions, resting upon worn-out, well broken-in sofas, into which one can comfortably settle. No, vinyl seats are cold and unforgiving. They don’t conform to the human posterior; they swelter in the summer and radiate winter’s chill like a cowhide icicle. Kate hated vinyl cushions of any kind. They reminded her of the leather seats in her father’s chauffeured Bentley, and she hadn’t liked those either.
Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, Kate tried desperately to find a position that wouldn’t make her behind ache. She was rather tall for a woman, and this backseat was, as Dr. Seuss would have put it, “three sizes too small” for her frame. And this whole situation would have been much, much easier without the handcuffs!
Giving up on the prospect of finding an accommodating position, Kate leaned back and stared at herself in the rearview mirror. The police officer assigned as her “babysitter” was sitting coolly in the front, listening to the radio. The Los Angeles Police had ordered a female officer to arrest her. Smart move, thought Kate sourly. The last thing the LAPD needs is the famous Kathryn McCoy suing them for sexual harassment.
Kate met her own brilliant sapphire gaze, hoping against hope that this was all just a bad dream. Just a little while ago she’d been going about her business; she still had her makeup on, for crying out loud! Not that most people thought she needed it. Her long, straight, jet black hair and porcelain complexion were usually adornment enough.
This can’t be happening, thought Kate. But the flashing police lights belied her wishful thought. The street upon which the police car was parked was inarguably picturesque; palm trees lined the thoroughfare, and the surrounding cityscape was defined by beautiful stonework. This part of L.A. was no place for horror … but here she was, living out a nightmare.
Hanging her head in despair, Kate entertained a brief fantasy of suicide. She’d just suffered a death in her family, and her exhausting career had pushed her to the breaking point. Relationship issues had caused her personal life to become an emotional roller coaster. She’d been on the edge for quite some time … and now this.
The police car was rather stuffy. Kate wondered absently if her makeup had melted enough to expose those stubborn freckles across the bridge of her nose. She had been pampered and spoiled her entire life, from her upbringing in Long Island to her current situation in California. Being cuffed and rudely shoved into a cruiser was not something to which she was accustomed.
Kate lifted her head as a detective approached the car. He motioned to the officer in the front seat and waited outside the rear door. “I can exit myself, thank you,” said Kate as the officer opened the door. She was in no mood to be rough-housed out of the backseat. Stepping primly from the vehicle, she balanced carefully on her high heels, adjusting the back of her evening gown as best she could manage with cuffs on.
“May I help you?” she asked the detective coldly.
“Is this yours, Miss McCoy?” asked the detective calmly, reaching into an opaque evidence bag.
Please don’t, pleaded Kate inside. I don’t want to see it. She turned her gaze away as the officer held up something upon which she couldn’t bear to look: a violin bow, broken in half and covered in blood.
“Is this yours?” repeated the detective.
Kate bit her lip, remembering vividly the words of her Virginian friend, old Jerry. If you’re forced to defend yourself, NEVER talk to the police! One misspoken word, and they can hang you. Shut the hell up and wait for a lawyer!
“Miss McCoy,” said the detective, assuming a patronizing tone. “I need to know what happened in there. If you don’t tell me what he did to you, I can’t help you. I’ll have to book you on the charge we arrested you for.”
A police officer can’t help you, Jerry had said. They work for the district attorney, and the district attorney’s job is to convict you. Resolved to keep her cool, Kate just stared defiantly at the detective.
“Miss McCoy—” began the detective.
“If you’re going to grill me for the third time in four hours,” said Kate between clenched teeth, “then by all means call me ‘Kate’!”
“Kate,” re-started the detective, “I need your story.”
“Ask my lawyer,” retorted Kate.
“Then, Kate, you leave me no choice,” sighed the detective. “Your ‘rock ‘n’ roll’ friend is dead, apparently by your hand. This is your violin bow, and there was no one else on the scene. You have blood on your hands and your dress, and your prints are all over the place.”
“Lawyer!” said Kate firmly.
“I heard you the first time,” said the detective.
Kate waited for his next words, knowing that they would spell out her doom.
“Kathryn Leigh McCoy,” said the detective, “I’m going to charge you with murder in the second degree. Are you sure you don’t have something to say?”
Kate looked away, half-amused by the detective’s last-minute attempt to coerce a damning statement out of her. “Yes, sir,” she said contritely. “Yes, I do.”
“What is it, Kate?” said the detective, assuming a falsely intimate tone. Kate looked daggers at him. “Kate?”
“May I get back into the car, please?”
“That’s it, Miss McCoy?”
“No!” spat Kate.
“What else?”
“AND,” screamed Kate at the top of her lungs, “I WANT MY LAWYER ALREADY!!!”
Chapter One
“Alec, he’s missing notes.” Kate pulled off her headset in exasperation, moaning as she laid her head in her hands. “Actually, he’s missing a lot of notes!”
“Well, the guy before him was pretty good,” said Alec, idly watching the bassist plunking away on the other side of the sound-studio glass. “But you didn’t like him.”
“Alec, he showed up higher than a kite!” snapped Kate. “He smelled like a Christmas tree, and I didn’t wanna work with him!”
“Fair enough,” said Alec patiently. “Shall we dismiss this guy and call in the next applicant?”
“Please do,” sighed Kate. She’d been here all morning with her boyfriend Alec, their new producer, and the studio staff. The lights were giving her a headache, and the endless parade of bass solos was beginning to sound more like meaningless noise than actual music.
It was beginning to annoy Kate that Alec was so calm about this whole affair; he leaned against the studio wall, as sedate as he ever was. Tall, well-muscled and brutally handsome, he looked like a romance-novel hero, stepping right off of a cheesy Harlequin cover. He shook out his long, sandy-brown hair as lazily as though he were in his own living room. His flaming emerald eyes were as relaxed as a man’s eyes possibly could be, and his square-jawed, chiseled face, decorated with its usual five o’clock shadow, was completely serene. How could a man be so casual about everything?!
“Perhaps,” said Alec and Kate’s record producer with unaccustomed diplomacy, “we should stop for today? We have one more audition session scheduled for tomorrow, and Miss McCoy has a promo photoshoot this afternoon. Enough for one day, yes?”
“Thank you,” sighed Kate.
She was more than a little wary of their producer, one Bernie Shapiro. He had started his company, Merrimac Records, with the money he’d made from his former business as an independent talent rep. He was a short man, rotund and aging, with a nasal New Jersey accent. There was just something about him that Kate didn’t trust, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
Alec, however, seemed to like him well enough, and Kate trusted Alec; that would have to do for now. She excused herself from the studio, leaving Alec to discuss the audition tapes with Bernie.
Desperate for sunshine and fresh air, Kate decided to walk to her new apartment. She stepped out into the busy street, hoisting her purse. It was a nice day outside. Los Angeles was beautiful, or at least this part was. The streets were lined with palm trees, and the buildings were styled with a distinctly Spanish flair. The sidewalks were busy at all hours here, reminding Kate of her native New York.
She had to walk quickly and carefully to avoid bumping into the motley crew of passers-by, but at least she was outside and free of that terribly confining studio. Her apartment was three blocks away, in a gated and pleasantly landscaped building. Alec’s new home was down the hallway from hers (something that Kate found comforting), and his lifelong friend Ted was rooming with him. L.A. was a strange place to Kate, but at least she wasn’t alone.
Kate rounded the nearest corner, grateful that the crowd had thinned out a little here. She had an hour to herself before the studio would send a cab to fetch her. They’d scheduled her for a photo shoot this afternoon, something that struck her as more than a little daunting; she’d never thought of herself as a model.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Alec had finished his promotional photoshoot yesterday, and he hadn’t seemed terribly bothered by the experience. Kate hadn’t seen the photos yet; hopefully he’d give her some copies. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Ted had not been asked to pose for any promotional material. Ted was a bit heavy-set, and more than a little hairy. Music, apparently, was much like movies in that it revolved around the “pretty people”.
Kate swiped her key fob to open the front gate and followed the stone walk to her building. Feeling more upbeat, she mounted the steps and headed upstairs. She and Alec were on the third floor, but Kate didn’t mind the climb; the living room window gave her a bird’s-eye view of the street below, which she liked. She hated to think what a place like this cost in downtown L.A. She was uneasily aware that every expense that she and Alec racked up was being carefully tabulated, and would be deducted from their profits when they actually began touring and selling albums. They weren’t making money—not yet. They were just making … debt. This was the “nature of the beast”, as Alec had explained to her.
Kate unlocked the door, entered her apartment and flopped gratefully onto the couch. She’d rolled up and packed all of her old movie posters and had promptly hung them up upon moving in here. They made her feel more at home, her posters. Kate gave Humphrey Bogart a flirty wink as she stretched out on the couch.
Closing her eyes, she kicked off her shoes and tried to relax. She could still hear bass music in her head, some of it decent and some of it … well, not so much. Her fatigue was quickly getting the better of her, though, and the plunking bass notes faded into pleasant oblivion as sleep claimed her.
Kate slept like the dead, until the thunderous notes of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony rudely awakened her. She reached groggily for her cellular phone. She hated cellphones; she’d never had one until now, but the studio had insisted. She flipped it open. “Hello?” she groaned.
“Your cab, Miss McCoy,” chirped a cheerful voice with a noticeable California accent. Kate thought he sounded like Keanu Reeves with a lateral lisp. “I’m out front.”
“Coming,” groaned Kate, rising stiffly from the couch.
She went downstairs and climbed into the cab, feeling her anxiety mounting. The cabbie turned out to be an older man, quite friendly, and he chatted all the way to their destination.
Allied Photography, read Kate silently from the sign in front of the luxuriously modern building. So this was it, then. Her big modeling debut. The studio would cover all the cab bills, but Kate gave the cabbie a tip anyway. He thanked her as she exited the car and closed the door.
You can do this, Kate told herself as she took a deep breath and began walking. Alec did it, and he’s a construction worker. Her self-directed reassurances didn’t help much; her training as a classical musician had done little to prepare her for situations such as these.
She flashed her studio identification card at the doorman and entered hesitantly. Her shoot would be on the second floor, she’d been told, in Studio D. Fighting a growing sense of dread, Kate mounted the nearby stairwell.
She opened the door, squinting from the bright lights. There were several young women flitting about, hovering around an aging cameraman who was fiddling with a large camera.
“Oh, my stars!” gushed the photographer, adjusting his black beret. “You must be Miss McCoy. It’s soooo nice to meet you!”
Accepting his enthusiastic handshake, Kate murmured a bashful “Hello”.
“Your dressing area has been all arranged,” lisped the photographer, motioning toward a folding partition in the corner. “And your clothes are all laid out. This is gonna be soooo much fun! Take your time getting dressed, honey. Sasha here will do your makeup when you’re finished.”
The photographer was friendly enough, and Kate decided that she liked him, for the moment, at least. She ducked behind the partition and dropped her purse, reaching for the clothing laid out on a folding table. She picked up the handiest garment and wrinkled her nose. It was a skirt—sort of.
Trying it on, Kate thought briefly that someone must have made a mistake. The skirt barely covered her panties, and it was so tight that she had to tug it over her curvy hips. She’d faxed over all of her measurements to the studio; how could this have happened?! Surveying herself in the mirror as she leaned against the wall, Kate realized, aghast, that the photography staff had not made a mistake. In addition to the scandalous excuse for a skirt, they’d also laid out a thong panty. She hated thongs!
Making an experimental, and rather stiff, pirouette in the mirror, Kate was appalled to see her own pair of bikinis printing clearly upon her undersized skirt, hence the thong. She brushed aside the offending undergarment and picked up the lacy black top they’d chosen. Good lord, she wasn’t even trying this on. It was cut clear down to her belly button; most of her bra would be showing. Apparently, they’d thought of that, too; underneath the top was a skimpy black thing, a bra that she doubted would even hold her bust.
Kate closed her eyes, fighting the rising tide of rage boiling within her. I am a musician, she thought furiously. I am not a piece of meat. I am willing to be pretty if I must, but I am NOT a sex object!!!
“Excuse me?” said Kate loudly, stripping off the offending skirt.
“Yes, dear?” asked the photographer from behind the screen.
“This,” said Kate firmly, tossing the skirt over the partition, “is too short and too tight. I am also not wearing this,” she added, tossing the thong over, “and this is too low cut.” She balled up the top, and tossed it as well. “And I’m gonna fall right out of this!” she finished, throwing the bra. “If you don’t have anything decent, we’re not doing this at all!”
She ignored the whispered “Ooh, what a diva” from one of the production girls.
“Well, honey, this isn’t the Bible Belt,” sighed the photographer. “The fans like ‘sexy’, you know?”
“I don’t care what they like!” snapped Kate. “This isn’t happening! Find me something respectable, or you can go back to shooting birthday photos.”
“Can you live with your shoes?” asked the photographer sarcastically.
Eyeing the black stiletto heels underneath the folding table, Kate sighed. “I can live with the shoes,” she conceded dismissively. “The shoes are fine.”
There were a great many rude comments exchanged after that, but at last Kate got her way; the photographer agreed to let her wear her own jeans instead of the skirt. She did end up wearing the top, but only after one of the girls dug her up a black camisole to put underneath it, which negated the need for the “barely there” bra.
Kate finally emerged from behind the partition, glaring defiantly at the studio staff. She sat silently as one of the young women plastered her face with heavy makeup and outfitted her with a pair of earrings.
Kate tried to follow the photographer’s instructions when the shoot was underway, but she was aware that her motions were mechanical and her expressions somewhat forced. She was angry, more so than she’d been in a long time. She’d agreed to being photographed, but she had not agreed to be a pornographic paper doll. She’d let the record company fire her before she agreed to any such thing.
After changing back into her comfortable t-shirt, Kate tried to be polite as she exited the studio. But her goodbyes were strained, and she could tell that the photographer was annoyed with her.
Climbing back into her summoned cab, Kate felt a sense of impending doom. What was this, exactly, that she’d signed up for?!
***
“I promise you,” said Alec grimly “that you will never be made to expose yourself like that. Keep telling ’em to kiss your rear end, and I’ll back you up every time. I’ll talk to Bernie about this; he needs to reign in his photographers.”
“Thank you,” whispered Kate, taking a sip of her wine as she leaned against Alec’s shoulder. “I was so angry that I wanted to walk right out of there!”
“Don’t blame you,” said Alec, taking a gulp of beer. “Ted’s at the studio, going over the bass recordings. Looks like you were a bit burned out.”
“I’m sorry,” said Kate contritely.
“S’okay,” said Alec gently. “Just relax for a bit, okay?”
Setting her wine down on the coffee table, Kate pulled Alec’s arm around her shoulder and leaned in and snuggled close to him. “Are you sure we made the right decision? You know, by agreeing to sign on with the record company?”
“No,” said Alec bluntly, kissing Kate on the cheek. “But would you have been happier wondering what might have happened if we didn’t?”
“No…” murmured Kate sleepily. “I suppose not.”
Virginia Wallace
ISBN 978-1-914301-01-8
https://amzn.to/3qFcjT6
Prologue
Vinyl car seats…
Vinyl car seats aren’t comfy, not at all. They’re not like old couch cushions, resting upon worn-out, well broken-in sofas, into which one can comfortably settle. No, vinyl seats are cold and unforgiving. They don’t conform to the human posterior; they swelter in the summer and radiate winter’s chill like a cowhide icicle. Kate hated vinyl cushions of any kind. They reminded her of the leather seats in her father’s chauffeured Bentley, and she hadn’t liked those either.
Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, Kate tried desperately to find a position that wouldn’t make her behind ache. She was rather tall for a woman, and this backseat was, as Dr. Seuss would have put it, “three sizes too small” for her frame. And this whole situation would have been much, much easier without the handcuffs!
Giving up on the prospect of finding an accommodating position, Kate leaned back and stared at herself in the rearview mirror. The police officer assigned as her “babysitter” was sitting coolly in the front, listening to the radio. The Los Angeles Police had ordered a female officer to arrest her. Smart move, thought Kate sourly. The last thing the LAPD needs is the famous Kathryn McCoy suing them for sexual harassment.
Kate met her own brilliant sapphire gaze, hoping against hope that this was all just a bad dream. Just a little while ago she’d been going about her business; she still had her makeup on, for crying out loud! Not that most people thought she needed it. Her long, straight, jet black hair and porcelain complexion were usually adornment enough.
This can’t be happening, thought Kate. But the flashing police lights belied her wishful thought. The street upon which the police car was parked was inarguably picturesque; palm trees lined the thoroughfare, and the surrounding cityscape was defined by beautiful stonework. This part of L.A. was no place for horror … but here she was, living out a nightmare.
Hanging her head in despair, Kate entertained a brief fantasy of suicide. She’d just suffered a death in her family, and her exhausting career had pushed her to the breaking point. Relationship issues had caused her personal life to become an emotional roller coaster. She’d been on the edge for quite some time … and now this.
The police car was rather stuffy. Kate wondered absently if her makeup had melted enough to expose those stubborn freckles across the bridge of her nose. She had been pampered and spoiled her entire life, from her upbringing in Long Island to her current situation in California. Being cuffed and rudely shoved into a cruiser was not something to which she was accustomed.
Kate lifted her head as a detective approached the car. He motioned to the officer in the front seat and waited outside the rear door. “I can exit myself, thank you,” said Kate as the officer opened the door. She was in no mood to be rough-housed out of the backseat. Stepping primly from the vehicle, she balanced carefully on her high heels, adjusting the back of her evening gown as best she could manage with cuffs on.
“May I help you?” she asked the detective coldly.
“Is this yours, Miss McCoy?” asked the detective calmly, reaching into an opaque evidence bag.
Please don’t, pleaded Kate inside. I don’t want to see it. She turned her gaze away as the officer held up something upon which she couldn’t bear to look: a violin bow, broken in half and covered in blood.
“Is this yours?” repeated the detective.
Kate bit her lip, remembering vividly the words of her Virginian friend, old Jerry. If you’re forced to defend yourself, NEVER talk to the police! One misspoken word, and they can hang you. Shut the hell up and wait for a lawyer!
“Miss McCoy,” said the detective, assuming a patronizing tone. “I need to know what happened in there. If you don’t tell me what he did to you, I can’t help you. I’ll have to book you on the charge we arrested you for.”
A police officer can’t help you, Jerry had said. They work for the district attorney, and the district attorney’s job is to convict you. Resolved to keep her cool, Kate just stared defiantly at the detective.
“Miss McCoy—” began the detective.
“If you’re going to grill me for the third time in four hours,” said Kate between clenched teeth, “then by all means call me ‘Kate’!”
“Kate,” re-started the detective, “I need your story.”
“Ask my lawyer,” retorted Kate.
“Then, Kate, you leave me no choice,” sighed the detective. “Your ‘rock ‘n’ roll’ friend is dead, apparently by your hand. This is your violin bow, and there was no one else on the scene. You have blood on your hands and your dress, and your prints are all over the place.”
“Lawyer!” said Kate firmly.
“I heard you the first time,” said the detective.
Kate waited for his next words, knowing that they would spell out her doom.
“Kathryn Leigh McCoy,” said the detective, “I’m going to charge you with murder in the second degree. Are you sure you don’t have something to say?”
Kate looked away, half-amused by the detective’s last-minute attempt to coerce a damning statement out of her. “Yes, sir,” she said contritely. “Yes, I do.”
“What is it, Kate?” said the detective, assuming a falsely intimate tone. Kate looked daggers at him. “Kate?”
“May I get back into the car, please?”
“That’s it, Miss McCoy?”
“No!” spat Kate.
“What else?”
“AND,” screamed Kate at the top of her lungs, “I WANT MY LAWYER ALREADY!!!”
Chapter One
“Alec, he’s missing notes.” Kate pulled off her headset in exasperation, moaning as she laid her head in her hands. “Actually, he’s missing a lot of notes!”
“Well, the guy before him was pretty good,” said Alec, idly watching the bassist plunking away on the other side of the sound-studio glass. “But you didn’t like him.”
“Alec, he showed up higher than a kite!” snapped Kate. “He smelled like a Christmas tree, and I didn’t wanna work with him!”
“Fair enough,” said Alec patiently. “Shall we dismiss this guy and call in the next applicant?”
“Please do,” sighed Kate. She’d been here all morning with her boyfriend Alec, their new producer, and the studio staff. The lights were giving her a headache, and the endless parade of bass solos was beginning to sound more like meaningless noise than actual music.
It was beginning to annoy Kate that Alec was so calm about this whole affair; he leaned against the studio wall, as sedate as he ever was. Tall, well-muscled and brutally handsome, he looked like a romance-novel hero, stepping right off of a cheesy Harlequin cover. He shook out his long, sandy-brown hair as lazily as though he were in his own living room. His flaming emerald eyes were as relaxed as a man’s eyes possibly could be, and his square-jawed, chiseled face, decorated with its usual five o’clock shadow, was completely serene. How could a man be so casual about everything?!
“Perhaps,” said Alec and Kate’s record producer with unaccustomed diplomacy, “we should stop for today? We have one more audition session scheduled for tomorrow, and Miss McCoy has a promo photoshoot this afternoon. Enough for one day, yes?”
“Thank you,” sighed Kate.
She was more than a little wary of their producer, one Bernie Shapiro. He had started his company, Merrimac Records, with the money he’d made from his former business as an independent talent rep. He was a short man, rotund and aging, with a nasal New Jersey accent. There was just something about him that Kate didn’t trust, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
Alec, however, seemed to like him well enough, and Kate trusted Alec; that would have to do for now. She excused herself from the studio, leaving Alec to discuss the audition tapes with Bernie.
Desperate for sunshine and fresh air, Kate decided to walk to her new apartment. She stepped out into the busy street, hoisting her purse. It was a nice day outside. Los Angeles was beautiful, or at least this part was. The streets were lined with palm trees, and the buildings were styled with a distinctly Spanish flair. The sidewalks were busy at all hours here, reminding Kate of her native New York.
She had to walk quickly and carefully to avoid bumping into the motley crew of passers-by, but at least she was outside and free of that terribly confining studio. Her apartment was three blocks away, in a gated and pleasantly landscaped building. Alec’s new home was down the hallway from hers (something that Kate found comforting), and his lifelong friend Ted was rooming with him. L.A. was a strange place to Kate, but at least she wasn’t alone.
Kate rounded the nearest corner, grateful that the crowd had thinned out a little here. She had an hour to herself before the studio would send a cab to fetch her. They’d scheduled her for a photo shoot this afternoon, something that struck her as more than a little daunting; she’d never thought of herself as a model.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Alec had finished his promotional photoshoot yesterday, and he hadn’t seemed terribly bothered by the experience. Kate hadn’t seen the photos yet; hopefully he’d give her some copies. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Ted had not been asked to pose for any promotional material. Ted was a bit heavy-set, and more than a little hairy. Music, apparently, was much like movies in that it revolved around the “pretty people”.
Kate swiped her key fob to open the front gate and followed the stone walk to her building. Feeling more upbeat, she mounted the steps and headed upstairs. She and Alec were on the third floor, but Kate didn’t mind the climb; the living room window gave her a bird’s-eye view of the street below, which she liked. She hated to think what a place like this cost in downtown L.A. She was uneasily aware that every expense that she and Alec racked up was being carefully tabulated, and would be deducted from their profits when they actually began touring and selling albums. They weren’t making money—not yet. They were just making … debt. This was the “nature of the beast”, as Alec had explained to her.
Kate unlocked the door, entered her apartment and flopped gratefully onto the couch. She’d rolled up and packed all of her old movie posters and had promptly hung them up upon moving in here. They made her feel more at home, her posters. Kate gave Humphrey Bogart a flirty wink as she stretched out on the couch.
Closing her eyes, she kicked off her shoes and tried to relax. She could still hear bass music in her head, some of it decent and some of it … well, not so much. Her fatigue was quickly getting the better of her, though, and the plunking bass notes faded into pleasant oblivion as sleep claimed her.
Kate slept like the dead, until the thunderous notes of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony rudely awakened her. She reached groggily for her cellular phone. She hated cellphones; she’d never had one until now, but the studio had insisted. She flipped it open. “Hello?” she groaned.
“Your cab, Miss McCoy,” chirped a cheerful voice with a noticeable California accent. Kate thought he sounded like Keanu Reeves with a lateral lisp. “I’m out front.”
“Coming,” groaned Kate, rising stiffly from the couch.
She went downstairs and climbed into the cab, feeling her anxiety mounting. The cabbie turned out to be an older man, quite friendly, and he chatted all the way to their destination.
Allied Photography, read Kate silently from the sign in front of the luxuriously modern building. So this was it, then. Her big modeling debut. The studio would cover all the cab bills, but Kate gave the cabbie a tip anyway. He thanked her as she exited the car and closed the door.
You can do this, Kate told herself as she took a deep breath and began walking. Alec did it, and he’s a construction worker. Her self-directed reassurances didn’t help much; her training as a classical musician had done little to prepare her for situations such as these.
She flashed her studio identification card at the doorman and entered hesitantly. Her shoot would be on the second floor, she’d been told, in Studio D. Fighting a growing sense of dread, Kate mounted the nearby stairwell.
She opened the door, squinting from the bright lights. There were several young women flitting about, hovering around an aging cameraman who was fiddling with a large camera.
“Oh, my stars!” gushed the photographer, adjusting his black beret. “You must be Miss McCoy. It’s soooo nice to meet you!”
Accepting his enthusiastic handshake, Kate murmured a bashful “Hello”.
“Your dressing area has been all arranged,” lisped the photographer, motioning toward a folding partition in the corner. “And your clothes are all laid out. This is gonna be soooo much fun! Take your time getting dressed, honey. Sasha here will do your makeup when you’re finished.”
The photographer was friendly enough, and Kate decided that she liked him, for the moment, at least. She ducked behind the partition and dropped her purse, reaching for the clothing laid out on a folding table. She picked up the handiest garment and wrinkled her nose. It was a skirt—sort of.
Trying it on, Kate thought briefly that someone must have made a mistake. The skirt barely covered her panties, and it was so tight that she had to tug it over her curvy hips. She’d faxed over all of her measurements to the studio; how could this have happened?! Surveying herself in the mirror as she leaned against the wall, Kate realized, aghast, that the photography staff had not made a mistake. In addition to the scandalous excuse for a skirt, they’d also laid out a thong panty. She hated thongs!
Making an experimental, and rather stiff, pirouette in the mirror, Kate was appalled to see her own pair of bikinis printing clearly upon her undersized skirt, hence the thong. She brushed aside the offending undergarment and picked up the lacy black top they’d chosen. Good lord, she wasn’t even trying this on. It was cut clear down to her belly button; most of her bra would be showing. Apparently, they’d thought of that, too; underneath the top was a skimpy black thing, a bra that she doubted would even hold her bust.
Kate closed her eyes, fighting the rising tide of rage boiling within her. I am a musician, she thought furiously. I am not a piece of meat. I am willing to be pretty if I must, but I am NOT a sex object!!!
“Excuse me?” said Kate loudly, stripping off the offending skirt.
“Yes, dear?” asked the photographer from behind the screen.
“This,” said Kate firmly, tossing the skirt over the partition, “is too short and too tight. I am also not wearing this,” she added, tossing the thong over, “and this is too low cut.” She balled up the top, and tossed it as well. “And I’m gonna fall right out of this!” she finished, throwing the bra. “If you don’t have anything decent, we’re not doing this at all!”
She ignored the whispered “Ooh, what a diva” from one of the production girls.
“Well, honey, this isn’t the Bible Belt,” sighed the photographer. “The fans like ‘sexy’, you know?”
“I don’t care what they like!” snapped Kate. “This isn’t happening! Find me something respectable, or you can go back to shooting birthday photos.”
“Can you live with your shoes?” asked the photographer sarcastically.
Eyeing the black stiletto heels underneath the folding table, Kate sighed. “I can live with the shoes,” she conceded dismissively. “The shoes are fine.”
There were a great many rude comments exchanged after that, but at last Kate got her way; the photographer agreed to let her wear her own jeans instead of the skirt. She did end up wearing the top, but only after one of the girls dug her up a black camisole to put underneath it, which negated the need for the “barely there” bra.
Kate finally emerged from behind the partition, glaring defiantly at the studio staff. She sat silently as one of the young women plastered her face with heavy makeup and outfitted her with a pair of earrings.
Kate tried to follow the photographer’s instructions when the shoot was underway, but she was aware that her motions were mechanical and her expressions somewhat forced. She was angry, more so than she’d been in a long time. She’d agreed to being photographed, but she had not agreed to be a pornographic paper doll. She’d let the record company fire her before she agreed to any such thing.
After changing back into her comfortable t-shirt, Kate tried to be polite as she exited the studio. But her goodbyes were strained, and she could tell that the photographer was annoyed with her.
Climbing back into her summoned cab, Kate felt a sense of impending doom. What was this, exactly, that she’d signed up for?!
***
“I promise you,” said Alec grimly “that you will never be made to expose yourself like that. Keep telling ’em to kiss your rear end, and I’ll back you up every time. I’ll talk to Bernie about this; he needs to reign in his photographers.”
“Thank you,” whispered Kate, taking a sip of her wine as she leaned against Alec’s shoulder. “I was so angry that I wanted to walk right out of there!”
“Don’t blame you,” said Alec, taking a gulp of beer. “Ted’s at the studio, going over the bass recordings. Looks like you were a bit burned out.”
“I’m sorry,” said Kate contritely.
“S’okay,” said Alec gently. “Just relax for a bit, okay?”
Setting her wine down on the coffee table, Kate pulled Alec’s arm around her shoulder and leaned in and snuggled close to him. “Are you sure we made the right decision? You know, by agreeing to sign on with the record company?”
“No,” said Alec bluntly, kissing Kate on the cheek. “But would you have been happier wondering what might have happened if we didn’t?”
“No…” murmured Kate sleepily. “I suppose not.”
No comments have been added yet.
