Nathalie van Walsum Fuson - The Luckiest Girls

The Luckiest Girls is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Special thanks to my fellow writers and beta readers, especially Natasha Boyd, for her astute feedback and invaluable advice about everything to do with publishing, and Mimi Thompson, for accompanying me to writing conferences and joining me for long writing sessions at our favorite coffee shops. Many thanks to Laura Bonner of WME for her enthusiastic support and for guiding me through multiple rewrites of the manuscript. My thanks also to Sarah Hall, who was there with me in the beginning when I was one of the Luckiest Girls, for her positivity and encouragement. My thanks to the many brilliant and talented photographers, models, designers and artists whom I had the great fortune of meeting and working with when I modeled in my teens and twenties, all of whom in some way have provided me with material for this book. Many thanks to the extremely talented Micaela Alcaido for her beautiful cover design. (You can see more of her stunning work on her website: www.micaelaalcaino.com. ) Most of all, my deepest thanks to my family: to my parents for their unwavering encouragement, to my husband, Brad, for standing by me through all-night writing benders and bouts of despair as I waited for replies from publishers, and especially to my most honest and insightful critics, my wonderful daughters Sasha and Katia.

I ve read the Vanity Fair article about Gigi Towers so many times that the pages of my decade-old copy have come loose at the spine. It describes how Gigi made the Towers Agency the most famous modeling agency in the world, and how, of the thousands of girls who apply to join the agency every year, less than one percent make the cut. Of these, Gigi selects a handful of girls the very luckiest to live in her house as she grooms them for stardom. The article calls Gigi the young models fairy godmother, and it tells how she just loves these girls that she takes under her wings so much, theyre like her babies or something and she would do anything for them. Thats the best part of the article, the absolute punchline, because there is only one teenage girl who can actually claim her as a grandmother and whom she should have some personal interest in, and thats me. And Gigi is more interested in her cat than she is in me. But then her cat is actually pretty.

Making a Graceful Entrance

Do not rush into an event but enter gracefully, carrying yourself with poise and confidence. Smile, and introduce yourself with the firm knowledge that, no matter where you are, you have the right to be there and you are exactly where you belong. - From Living a Model Life: Beauty and Style Tips from Gigi Towers by Gigi Towers.

Its pouring with icy rain when the taxi cab drops me in front of the brownstone house in Greenwich Village, and by the time I drag my suitcase up the front steps Im sopping wet, my hair plastered across my face. I ring the doorbell several times before a tall and totally stunning blonde opens it. She stares at me with open-mouthed bewilderment, blinks her saucer-like blue eyes and says, I think youre at the wrong place. This is Gigi Towers house.

I know, I reply, shivering.

She looks at my suitcase in disbelief. Are you one of Gigis girls?

Yup. Im Jane. Shes obviously not going to invite me in so I haul my suitcase into the foyer, no help from her.

Campbell, whos that? A pair of long legs descend the stairs, topped by a small-waisted torso and an exquisite face under a curtain of silky straight jet-black hair.

This is Jane. Shes one of the new models.

Theres a short pause. Are you sure about that? the other girl whispers to Campbell out of the side of her mouth.

Thats what she said, Campbell hisses back.

No, I didnt, I interject. I said I was one of Gigis girls. I am. Im her granddaughter.

I can read their little minds: How did Gigi produce that? Then the second girl laughs and extends her hand. Hi, Jane. Im Ling Wei. Please excuse Campbell, shes an idiot, its very sad.

Im not sure if Lings joking or not. Campbell just keeps smiling, so maybe Lings right. I wriggle out of my jacket and shake rainwater from my hair like a shaggy dog, and the girls take a step back.

Gigi said you wouldnt be here until next week, though. Sorry about your dad, Ling adds, wiping water droplets from her shirt.

What about her dad? Campbell asks.

Ling rolls her eyes and gives Campbell an exasperated look.

You know, Steven Archer? The artist who was married to Gigis daughter? He DIED, Campbell. Remember when Gigi went to the funeral in Colorado? It was even in the New York Times. Like you ever read the New York Times.

Oh, yeah, he was in a helicopter accident. It crashed into the side of a mountain, right? Campbell catches my eye. Ohsorry. Welp, Im late. Hey, did you let your car go? Damn. Now I have to call one.

It takes me a second to find my voice.

Maybe you know where Im supposed to take my suitcase, I say to Ling, who seems like the smarter one of the pair.

I dont know. I guess the single room on the third floor, Ling shrugs. Margo would know. Shes the housekeeper but shes out. Campbell and Maya are in the third floor double, and Brigitte and Isabel and I are on the fourth floor.

I proceed to drag my bag upstairs. I was hoping one of them would give me a hand but I wouldnt want them to break a nail or something. Although Campbell does offer some helpful advice in the form of Be careful not to scuff the walls or Gigi will kill you.

On the third floor theres a small room to the left, decorated in white and pale blue. I kick off my wet boots and pull some dry clothes out of my suitcase. But right after Ive changed into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt I hear the front door slam all the way downstairs and a very agitated voice rising from the stairwell. Stomp stomp stomp, up the stairs come heavy footsteps.

Ah mon dieu! shrieks a stocky middle-aged woman whom I assume is Margo, and who stands in the doorway staring at me with, I kid you not, terror, clutching her chest. You are TOO EARLY! It is not possible!

Of course its possible because here I am but I am not about to argue with this woman who is now clapping her hands at my suitcase like its a misbehaving dog or something.

Non. Do not unpack. This room is for Sophia Thompson, she snaps.

Even I know who Sophia Thompson is. Shes on the cover of this months Seventeen Magazine with a story about her careers meteoric rise. I hate that expression, meteoric rise. Meteors fall. Everybody knows that.

As I shove things back into my suitcase she starts jabbing at her cell phone. Oh, what to tell Gigi? She turns away, speaking in rapid French, then silence as she listens.