Read Online 2 Death of a Supermodel by Christine DeMaio-Rice - Free Book Online
Authors: Christine DeMaio-Rice
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snort?”
“On or off the record?”
“For now, we’re off, but I reserve the right to bring you in for an on-the-record talk if I think you have more to say.”
Laura mentally reconstructed the morning. She reviewed all the times she’d seen Thomasina in the previous weeks for fittings and blah-blahing with Ruby in the office. She thought of all the times the model’s presence had annoyed her and how the gossiping had made Ruby squeal instead of work, times Thomasina could have been out partying, but instead hung around the office for an hour between gigs.
“I think I saw her eat like three times in the past four months. She was a freak about what she put in her body.”
“Ever notice what came out?”
“Catty remarks in a German accent.”
“Since this is the second murder to take place in a ten-yard radius of you, I’d keep the wisecracks to a minimum.” He really was more fun when his girlfriend did his laundry.
“She puked. They all puke. It’s like a reflex. Their stomachs are temporary receptacles for lettuce and almonds.”
“And you let them?”
“What did you want me to do?”
“You’re supposed to report it to MAAB.”
“Oh, you know what? The whole model-babysitting thing is getting really old. Who reports high school football players who work out four hours a day to bulk up? Who reports Sumo wrestlers who eat so much they can’t wear pants? What about the actor who loses weight to play an Auschwitz victim? Who reports those people? Nobody.”
“That’s because—”
She’d heard it all before. “Because they’re professionals? And somehow these girls aren’t? They make five thousand dollars a day, and all they have to do for that money is walk back and forth and stay really, really skinny. That’s their job. But we let football players, at any age, mind you, turn into Mack trucks. Why are they allowed to distort their bodies for our pleasure, but the models aren’t?”
“Don’t tell me. You have a theory.”
“Because they’re men. We trust that men have control over their bodies, but women don’t. Women need nannies. And little girls are supposedly getting unrealistic ideas about body image because, again, they have no control over their own minds. But boys? Do we wonder if they’re going to turn their arms into bazookas? Or distort their upper bodies to look like football players? No! Because there’s an obesity epidemic at the same time we’re freaking out about what grown women do to their bodies for a buck. So did she puke? You bet she did. Did she starve herself? Yes indeed. Because that’s her job. If you don’t like it, you should take a long hard look at yourself the next time you cheer on a linebacker.”
Samuelson, Cangemi’s partner, poked his head out and, with a nod, told them it was time to go. Cangemi nodded back and turned his attention back to Laura. “I’m not sure if you’re an original thinker or very stupid.”
“When you figure it out, let me know.”
Laura fielded a few late-night texts about the next day’s shoot: something about permits, which the safety team had, something else about Chase Charmain’s dietary needs, and plenty else about the model change. Rowena’s measurements were so close to Thomasina’s, no middle of the night fitting was required, and any problems could be adjusted with a little basting and cutting. She went downstairs to update Ruby, but found her on the couch fifteen minutes into a sleeping pill. The cops had taped off her apartment. Her sister would probably be borrowing her clothes for the duration.
Laura went to bed, but she hadn’t taken a pill, and she was too buzzed to close her eyes. So she memorized the cracks in the ceiling and wondered what the hell was going on in her own house. The police had been looking for something in Ruby’s apartment, and Thomasina had been poisoned. Obviously, they thought Ruby had some of the poison in the apartment. But they didn’t know her sister. Ruby
“On or off the record?”
“For now, we’re off, but I reserve the right to bring you in for an on-the-record talk if I think you have more to say.”
Laura mentally reconstructed the morning. She reviewed all the times she’d seen Thomasina in the previous weeks for fittings and blah-blahing with Ruby in the office. She thought of all the times the model’s presence had annoyed her and how the gossiping had made Ruby squeal instead of work, times Thomasina could have been out partying, but instead hung around the office for an hour between gigs.
“I think I saw her eat like three times in the past four months. She was a freak about what she put in her body.”
“Ever notice what came out?”
“Catty remarks in a German accent.”
“Since this is the second murder to take place in a ten-yard radius of you, I’d keep the wisecracks to a minimum.” He really was more fun when his girlfriend did his laundry.
“She puked. They all puke. It’s like a reflex. Their stomachs are temporary receptacles for lettuce and almonds.”
“And you let them?”
“What did you want me to do?”
“You’re supposed to report it to MAAB.”
“Oh, you know what? The whole model-babysitting thing is getting really old. Who reports high school football players who work out four hours a day to bulk up? Who reports Sumo wrestlers who eat so much they can’t wear pants? What about the actor who loses weight to play an Auschwitz victim? Who reports those people? Nobody.”
“That’s because—”
She’d heard it all before. “Because they’re professionals? And somehow these girls aren’t? They make five thousand dollars a day, and all they have to do for that money is walk back and forth and stay really, really skinny. That’s their job. But we let football players, at any age, mind you, turn into Mack trucks. Why are they allowed to distort their bodies for our pleasure, but the models aren’t?”
“Don’t tell me. You have a theory.”
“Because they’re men. We trust that men have control over their bodies, but women don’t. Women need nannies. And little girls are supposedly getting unrealistic ideas about body image because, again, they have no control over their own minds. But boys? Do we wonder if they’re going to turn their arms into bazookas? Or distort their upper bodies to look like football players? No! Because there’s an obesity epidemic at the same time we’re freaking out about what grown women do to their bodies for a buck. So did she puke? You bet she did. Did she starve herself? Yes indeed. Because that’s her job. If you don’t like it, you should take a long hard look at yourself the next time you cheer on a linebacker.”
Samuelson, Cangemi’s partner, poked his head out and, with a nod, told them it was time to go. Cangemi nodded back and turned his attention back to Laura. “I’m not sure if you’re an original thinker or very stupid.”
“When you figure it out, let me know.”
Laura fielded a few late-night texts about the next day’s shoot: something about permits, which the safety team had, something else about Chase Charmain’s dietary needs, and plenty else about the model change. Rowena’s measurements were so close to Thomasina’s, no middle of the night fitting was required, and any problems could be adjusted with a little basting and cutting. She went downstairs to update Ruby, but found her on the couch fifteen minutes into a sleeping pill. The cops had taped off her apartment. Her sister would probably be borrowing her clothes for the duration.
Laura went to bed, but she hadn’t taken a pill, and she was too buzzed to close her eyes. So she memorized the cracks in the ceiling and wondered what the hell was going on in her own house. The police had been looking for something in Ruby’s apartment, and Thomasina had been poisoned. Obviously, they thought Ruby had some of the poison in the apartment. But they didn’t know her sister. Ruby
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