"Look, Arse! These clothes are AWESOME!"
"Don't thank me, Chelsea. Thank the fashion designer."
Chelsea runs to the photographer, jumps on her neck (she almost drops the exorbitant expensive camera along with the even more expensive lens she was connecting to it) and kisses her on the cheek: "Thank you, thank you, these clothes are AWESOME!"
The photographer shows a faint smile; she knows what looking good does to you. Chelsea looks good. Someone tamed her carrot-orange half-long curls in a topknot, her freckles have disappeared behind half a kilo of river clay, her light eyelashes have been painted black which makes her green eyes even prettier, and the lipstick on her thin lips has to be redone again because it was designed to smile and not to smear on the face of a photographer.
The light architect has placed a large mirror nearby, so Chelsea can admire herself. Mirrors drive her crazy. I guess it's the American culture: they cover 800-metres-tall buildings completely with mirrors, to see their own ego.
These clothes make her look good. The ragged jeans she wore this morning might have cost a fortune, but all they show is 'too much', of everything. This black summer dress with an elegant print of white orchids and the broad leather belt give her the curves of a Spanish guitar. Well… Make that a Spanish bass guitar because even Houdini himself can't make Chelsea's overweight disappear. We didn't hire Harry Houdini. We've hired The Nerd and Photoshop. Chelsea's smile doesn't need Photoshop: its authentic pleasure favours her more than the dress. Elegant black shoes with sturdy heels and some silver (or silver looking) jewellery give the finishing touch. Chelsea looks good.
Belén, the photographer, talks constantly to Chelsea while she shoots photos from different angles: "You look good. Don't look so angry, my angel. You're much prettier when you smile. Don't look so afraid, the camera won't eat you. Put your left hand behind you. Relax. That's better, that's the smile that favours you best. That's it. Don't look into the camera. Look in that large mirror over there. Do you see how pretty you are? Now ditch the smile and look haughty. Not arrogant, not overconfident, not stubborn. Superior with a natural dominance. You're the Queen of England. You don't pay attention to paparazzi. Don't show your teeth, you're not a tiger on a rabbit hunt. You're the Lion Queen, looking over her kingdom, and it's all going well. That's what I mean. That's my angel…"
Belén is good. She's expensive too. Her normal fee for a half-an-hour job like this was more than the budget The Boss allowed me to finance this entire best-day-ever day. Luxembourg's Prime Minister cut LSD budgets drastically since our mission in Brest, especially after The Boss ordered to spend over 12 million euros of Luxembourg tax money to buy the bronze medal that put our country at Number One of the European Games. Success has its price, as everybody knows.
Belén knows the price of success. She tells Chelsea all the secrets of success while she takes shots: "For a perfect photo, you have to look successful, my angel. Imagine you're rich. Not just a little rich, but so rich that your accountant has to hire an accountant to find out how much money you have. Lots of money is the first step to success because money solves every problem. Now imagine you're also famous. Not just a little famous, but so famous that the screen of your mobile phone isn't wide enough to show the number of followers you have on your Facebook page. Fame brings more money and money brings more fame. And when you imagine you're rich and famous, you look successful, and I take photos of you, and we'll show them to everybody, and they'll think you're successful, therefore they want to be like you, and that's what makes you famous, and rich, and successful. My photos make your dreams come true. I'm an artist; I create success. My photos make you successful. Look into the camera, my angel. Feel successful. That's it. That's exactly it. You're a natural."
I'm learning important lessons here. I always thought that if you study and work hard, you'll become successful. That might have been the way in the old days, but the new generation has found a better way, the highway: money => fame =>=> success ;-)
Belén is the best because she's the most expensive. But I have this problem with our budget. First, I asked Belén to lower her fee (after all, it's a year of my salary for only half an hour of her work), but she told me she didn't like to work an entire year if she can earn the same money in half an hour, and she's the best, and modelling is veeery haaard wooork, and it's not just half an hour, but also the getting up early, and it takes so much time to come here, and when she's finished, she has to travel home again, and the costs are huge, and the public transport in Spain isn't famous for its efficiency either, and…
And that was just the woman who took the pictures. I had to swindle the make-up artist, I had to cheat the light architect (everybody here walks around with sunglasses, so I wonder why we need those two 5-watt LED-lights), I had to exploit the designer of Chelsea's fashion, I had to deceive the limo driver who transports this circus, I had to squeeze the Alcalde to let Chelsea open the golf tournament, and I had to trick all those other people I'll need during the rest of the day. You can't change other people, but you can use the carrot and the stick to motivate them to do what you ask.
Sex and money are the New Gods of modern society. People do everything for a dollar or a kiss. My first carrot was to offer money and buy loyalty, but #1, The Boss, vetoed it for budget reasons. My second carrot was to offer my gorgeous 1,67 metre, tall 56 kilos light body for hot and steamy sex, but that wasn't an attraction either. I'd run out of carrots, but my butcher knife has two cutting edges, so I tried the other side: the stick.
My stick was simple: I wanted to hit my hired helpers with the same two New Gods, lust and greed. The Nerd is good at finding secrets. He sent me a list of profitable frauds and secret love affairs. I told my new best friends what I knew about their secrets. Everybody has something to hide. The bigger the fish, the harder the smell. I could tell them or I could tell the world. Fear and fame are complementary forces for him who wields the stick.
I'm Secret Service. Secret information is a powerful weapon. A DNA test in the database of a hospital proved that Belén's husband wasn't the father of Belén's child, and Belén didn't share that info with anyone. The fashion designer liked to walk around in women's clothes, but it would hurt his reputation if others found out. The light architect had done a few jobs in a darkroom without telling the tax office, and the driver of the limo had done a few private taxi rides for friends and relatives (he has a big family and lots of friends) without telling the owner of the company. The Alcalde was a giveaway: that voluptuous woman with the toothpaste smile wasn't his wife, and she wasn't his sister either. The Alcalde had told his mistress that he was in the middle of the painful process of divorcing his wife, but he hadn't told his wife anything yet. When the mistress asked why it took so long, he lied to her that his almost-ex-wife was causing problems at the negotiations: "I gave her seven children, and now she wants to give them back!" The mistress had told the entire story to her most intimate friend, via WhatsApp. All The Nerd had to do was copy-and-paste it to me.
So Belén gives us a portfolio of professional photos with a 99% discount, the designer supplies a 50.000-euro-worth handmade creation for the price of three metres of fabric bought in Thailand, and all the others are happy to cooperate for free to give Chelsea her best-day-ever.
"Pfff. Can we take a break? This modelling is really veeery haaard wooork, you know."
"Just a few more photos and we're done here, my angel. First, we'll do some close-ups. Look lustful. I want you to look good in this one. Seduce me. Your friend Sandra-Dee will be green and yellow with envy when she sees you like this. Oh, you have such beautiful green eyes. They are by far your best assets for conquering any man's heart."
My blood runs cold. I'm shaking in my shoes. How does a Spanish photographer know that Chelsea and Sandra-Dee are best friends? Because I told her that. Because I try to get Chelsea on my side by using her envy of Sandra-Dee against her. That's supposed to be a secret. Chelsea should not find out that I'm playing games with her. Belén is giving my secrets away for free. My stick backfires in my face…
Chelsea doesn't seem to notice. Perhaps she's used to everybody, knowing everything about her. Perhaps she's just concentrating on the really veeery haaard wooork of sitting in a chair in a garden, looking lustful.
"Give everyone in the camera a big kiss. Not like that. Put your tongue back. Cows kiss with their tongue. Purse your lips. Look sexy. Put your hands under your breasts and push them up. That's it. Open the top button of your dress. Show us some flesh. Open one button more. You're doing great. Every boy in the world will fall in love with you when they see these photos. Bend over. Open one button more. Show me your centrefold. The camera loves you…"
Chelsea glances to the side where the giant mirror lets her see herself like Belén wants the world to see her. She freezes. She realises what she looks like. Immediately, she sits back and puts her clothes back on.
"What are you doing? You ruin it all! Nobody will pay for photos of a woman who's afraid to show even her bare neck!"
"So this is what it's all about? Do you want to sell photos of me to porn magazines? So all those playboys can play with themselves while they fall in love with my centerfold? Don't you know who I am? I'm not some kind of cheap hooker, you know."
Belén ruins it all: "What do you think? That some chubby teen like you can make it in the world of glitter and glamour? Don't you know how hard real models have to work to get there? Years of beauty operations, lustrums of throwing up anorexia, decades of starvation to get their healthy, modern role-model figure. Did you know that the most successful models start their career kicking policemen in the nuts, so they can spend months or even years in prison, far away from the temptation of all that fine food, condemned to a water-and-bread diet? That's the kind of sacrifice success asks these days. Did you think an elephant like you could just catwalk into a room full of glass and mirrors to break and enter the model world without any effort? If you want to be hired and admired, take off your clothes, my angel."
Chelsea is back on earth. The steam comes out of her ears when she tries to attack Belén. The tortures I see in her eyes make the Spanish Inquisition look like a child's birthday in a ballpark of a hamburger restaurant. I jump between the two harpies. I need all my strength to hold her back, while she shouts: "Do you know who I am? One phone call from me to my father…."
Belén shouts back: "And what? Your father wants to pay more than any magazine in the world for pictures of a nude you, to avoid I publish them. I can easily make you a famous hooker, but it will be a cheap hooker, my angel in a centrefold…"
I try to calm them, which isn't easy at all. Chelsea is about my size, I'm trained, I'm male, and I'm older too, but I'm a featherweight. Chelsea fights «no rules female wrestling» in the heavyweight class over 90 kilos. I need all my muscle power to keep her from crushing Belén (who's a head taller than her, but a featherweight like me).
"Don't do this, Chelsea. You are high above that woman. Her words only show how she thinks, which says nothing about you and everything about herself. You are not like her. Belén is going to apologise. Now. She didn't mean it. She will take the memory card out of her camera, and hand it over to me, to guarantee nobody will ever do anything with those photos without your consent. Right? Belén? You can start by saying sorry. Now. Or do you want me to tell Chelsea a few secrets about you, so she can expose you on her Facebook page? Do you know how many people follow Chelsea's Facebook page? Well, imagine the number of horny men, interested in looking at your nude, bare-boned body in the centrefold of Playboy Magazine, and multiply that with around 50 million. So? Belén? What will it be?"
"I'm sorry."
Chelsea has stopped fighting me, but her green eyes still spit out the poison of her anger: "I can't hear you!"
"Then you should start by listening to others instead of only listening to yourself! I SAID I'M SORRY!"
I keep my position between the two fighting furies, watching Chelsea closely, while I hold my hand behind me and say to Belén: "Your SD-card, please. In return for my silence."
I hear a few clicks and feel something small being pressed into my hand. Belén's voice is cold as the feet of a Finnish farmer: "It's not a set of photos you have there. It's art, which I created. That card is a part of me, and you ripped it out. My memory has just been sold to a nasty, nasty man who can only think of taking advantage of me, all because of one minor mistake I made when I was younger. You should be ashamed of yourself, Mister."
I click the card in the slot of my spiPhone, cut and paste all the files to my internal memory, and send them to the LSD webspace in the cloud, so The Nerd can Photoshop them and publish the results.
A few seconds later, I get his confirmation of receipt, a short message: «Those last photos are HOT! Do you keep the rest for yourself? What must I do to become a spy like you?»
My answer is even shorter: «Grow up!»
* * *
"Do you have nude photos of Belén? Did you just blackmail her?", Chelsea asks when we're back in the Ferrari, on our way to the next adventure.
"Hush. I can't tell you that. Officially, it's a secret of the state. But who cares if I have those photos or not? Would you be interested in seeing Belén naked? She's skinny as a nail. I like women with a little flesh on their bones, a few curves here and there, like a Spanish guitar."
"You are awful. Men are only interested in women with big breasts and big arses."
I feel hurt. It's not my fault that only a small 99% of men ruin the reputation of all the others: "You shouldn't generalise men that easily. Didn't I tell you? I'm not that kind of man. My parents taught me to treat women with respect and tolerance, not as walking talking sex dolls. I admire you as a person, and I see you as a unique individual, but I hope you realise that the rest of the world are all unique individuals too, perhaps not as unique as you, but not products of a Barbie-and-Ken-factory either."
"I never liked Barbie."
"I know. I've read your story on your Facebook page, about how you punished your Barbie by letting her bake greasy pancakes for breakfast in her little Barbie kitchen. You gave her an entire chocolate cake for lunch and five pizzas for dinner, to make her fat and ugly. It worked perfectly; the Barbie you got for your next birthday had twenty percent more waist size."
Chelsea laughs out loud: "Yeah, that was a stunt of the factory because now all the old clothes didn't fit anymore. She needed to buy an entire walk-in closet of new fashion. I had to whine for almost a week before my dad gave me the money."
I share the laughter, and I mean it. I feared Belén and her stupid professionalism had blown the day, but it seems I did the right thing and kept Chelsea on my side. Chelsea and Arsenal, together, fighting the ugly, skinny enemy with the camera… Sharing an enemy is about the oldest trick in the book, but it still works splendidly.
Chelsea confesses another reason for her a good mood: "Did you see my Facebook page? Look!"
"I can't look, Chelsea. I'm driving. Tell me what I should see."
"I have 500 friends now. Because of that hole-in-one video?"
"It's possible."
"It's possible? It's fantastic!"
"Don't cheer the victory before the game has ended, dear. Those are new friends. They might unlike you again when you make the wrong moves on your timeline. New friends are nice, but old, trusted friends are forever."
"Do you think those photos were a wrong move? Do you think I'm a terrible model? Do you agree with that horrible woman, Belén?"
I can't believe my ears. Chelsea, asking me about my opinion? It must be true what they say about women and fashion: a change on the outside makes a difference on the inside.
"Belén was just jealous of you. She tried for years to become a model herself. When she didn't make it, she moved to the other side of the camera. Then she sees you, a natural… Can you imagine how she feels? The jealousy of insignificant, unsuccessful people is part of the price you have to pay for rising from the masses. But does it matter what I think? Does it matter what Belén thinks, or what your father thinks, or what the rest of the world thinks? An old Arab proverb says «the dogs bark, but the caravan moves on». It means that you shouldn't stop your mission because of all the bad things others think or say. I think they are jealous of you and your success, but the only thing that really matters is what you think. You won't see Belén ever again in your life, but when you look at the photos she took of you, with the light and the make-up and the beautiful garden… and don't forget the clothes. You really look good in that dress. After all the fuzz and the fighting, she forgot to ask for it back. I have your jeans and your shirt in the boot, by the way, so if you want to change back, we might—"
"No, I like this dress. Don't you think it's too sexy? Or should I open up a bit more?"
I like how Chelsea already has opened up a bit more after the photoshoot. But I don't say that, of course. It's not about me having a good time; it's about her enjoying herself.
"I think you can best decide for yourself, dear. Women know more about fashion and clothes than men do. I don't know nothing, and even less about how to dress."
Chelsea turns the mirror of the car to look at herself: "I think it's best to keep it as it is."