Campaign Planning

Campaign Planning
Elona
The moment I stepped through the glass doors of VFS, the smell of hairspray, coffee, perfume, and fabric hit me. There was something almost comforting about it. The building was always alive in a way that made it difficult to think about anything outside of it, but also difficult to move past the fact that these girls know my life and Tristan…everything around it by now. People moved quickly from one room to another, garment bags hung from racks, assistants carried clipboards, models crossed the polished floor in heels, and somewhere in the background, a hair dryer roared continuously. Usually, I loved it, but today, I needed it. I needed the noise, something ordinary. I needed to pretend for a few hours that my life wasn’t sitting inside a courtroom.
“Elona!” I turned around. One of the assistants waved me over.
“Morning.”
“Morning. You are needed upstairs for measurements.”
“Already?” I asked in surprise.
She laughed. “Apparently, you’re getting taller.”
I smiled faintly. “I’d better be. I’m still paying for these heels.”
She laughed and disappeared around the corner.
I headed upstairs. The campaign Madame Delance had mentioned yesterday had been sitting in the back of my mind since she told me about it. A fountain, rain and a dress. The words had sounded almost ridiculous when she had first described them. The kind of campaign that belonged in a perfume commercial, where everything moved in slow motion and nobody ever had frizzy hair or mascara running down their face.
I walked into the fitting room and found several of the other girls already there.
Jasmine was sitting on a counter, scrolling through her phone while another model stood in front of a mirror.
She looked up when I entered, but said nothing.
“Morning,” Jasmine said.
“Morning,” I replied. She studied my face.
“Are you okay?”
I smiled. “I’m fine.”
She gave me a look. “You look tired.”
“I didn’t sleep much.”
“Same.” She said. She glanced around before lowering her voice. “Is it today?”
I knew immediately what she meant.
“Yes.”
Her expression softened. “Grace?”
“I don’t know what will happen in that courtroom.”
Jasmine put her phone down. “Are you nervous?”
I hesitated. “About Tristan?”
She nodded. “About everything.”
I looked down at my hands. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel anymore.”
Her expression became serious. “That’s probably because you’re trying to feel everything at once.” I looked at her. She shrugged. “That’s what I’d be doing.”
A small smile escaped me. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m terrible at advice.”
“You seem pretty good at it.”
“That’s because I give advice I don’t follow.” I laughed quietly.
For a moment, the heaviness lifted and then Madame Delance entered. She had a portfolio tucked beneath one arm. The room seemed to change whenever she walked into it.
“Good morning, ladies.” Everyone greeted her. She looked around. “Elona, come with me when you’re finished here.”
“Okay.”
She smiled. “And don’t worry. I’m not stealing you.” That smile was rare.
Jasmine murmured, “That’s what they all say.”
Madame Delance heard her. She laughed. “Very funny, Jasmine.”
Jasmine grinned and then she walked away. I watched her go. Yesterday she had told me she was rooting for me. Even though Grace was her daughter. She showed me my portfolio for the campaign. I still hadn’t quite figured out what to do with that kindness. It meant more than she probably realized.
A woman holding a measuring tape approached me. “Arms up, please.” I raised my arms. The tape went around my waist. “Relax.”
“I am relaxed,” I told her.
“You’ve been holding your breath.”
I let it out. She laughed. “That’s better.” She measured my waist, hips, bust, inseam, shoulders, then my arm length. “Turn.” I turned. “Perfect.” She wrote everything down. “Have you changed anything since your last measurements?”
“No,” I replied.
“Weight?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Another assistant came over with a clipboard.
“Can we get your shoe size?”
“Seven.”
“Still?” She asked.
“Still,” I replied. She wrote it down.
I glanced towards the clothing racks. There were several garment bags hanging together, each marked with names. I spotted mine. My heart gave a strange little jump. This was real. The campaign was actually happening. A month from now, after my birthday. After everything that was happening now had hopefully settled into something I could breathe through. I wondered what my life would look like then. I didn’t know, and that scared me.
“Elona.” I looked up. Madame Delance was standing at the doorway. “Come.”
I followed her into her office. She closed the door behind us and placed the portfolio on the table. “I wanted you to see this properly.”
I sat opposite her. She opened it. The first page showed the campaign concept. A woman standing beneath falling water. It wasn’t natural rain, it was manufactured rain. The image was dramatic, almost dreamlike. Water cascaded around the model while she stood completely still, wearing a dress that was short, and looked like a beautiful nightgown but also something to go out in, like a club. This was something I would describe when I see it in person because I know a sketch cannot do it justice unless you see it in person. But this was more beautiful than the last time I looked at it.
I stared. “Oh.”
Madame Delance smiled. “Exactly.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It is.” She said as if she was proud of herself. She turned the page. “The campaign is being shot individually. You won’t be sharing the frame with the other girls.”
I looked up. “So we’re all doing separate versions?”
“Yes.” She pointed to the next page. “Each model has her own styling, her own lighting, her own dress, but the concept remains consistent with water, movement, stillness and emotion.” She closed the portfolio halfway. “I wanted you to have something to look forward to.”
I looked at her. There was something in her voice that made my smile fade. “Thank you.”
She nodded. “You deserve something good.”
I swallowed. “Even with everything happening?”
“Especially with everything happening.” For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then she said quietly, “Don’t let what’s happening around you become your entire identity.”
I looked down. “I’m trying.”
“I know. How is your endo?” She asked.
“Well…as I’m sitting here, I am feeling some pain and discomfort, but I am taking my pills for the symptoms. I do have an appointment tomorrow, it’s only a checkup. I promise, I won’t disappoint you.” I said, I really didn’t want to disappoint her or myself.
She reached across the table and tapped the portfolio. “This is work. This is your future. Don’t let anyone take that from you. But with Endo, it might interfere with your daily activities, so I hope that it won’t interfere with campaigns or you being on the runway. I just want what is best for you. I see a lot of potential in you, and you remind me of myself, so I am rooting for you. And all the best with your checkup, please let me know what is being said so that I can plan accordingly. But don’t let anything else get to you.” She said.
My throat tightened. “I won’t.”
“I hope you don’t.” She gathered the portfolio. “Now go eat something.”
I stood up and left the office feeling strangely lighter. I made my way downstairs and took my break in one of the quieter corners near the back of the building.
I had barely opened my bottle of water when my phone rang. It was Tristan. My heart immediately changed rhythm.
I answered. “Hi.”
His voice came through quietly. “Hey.”
I smiled. “Are you okay?”
“That’s supposed to be my question.”
“I asked first.”
He laughed softly. “I’ve been better.”
My smile faded. “How bad was it?”
There was a pause. “The hearing?” He asked.
“Yes.”
He exhaled. “Not exactly what I wanted. Grace takes the stand tomorrow.”
My stomach tightened. “I’m sorry that she has to take the stand. I wish all of this was over for your sake.” Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. There was silence. “Tristan.”
“I’m okay.” He said, but I could hear the tiredness in his voice. I wish I was there by his side too. “This is not your fault. I should’ve listened and just not confronted her.”
“Me too. You don’t sound okay.”
“I’m nervous.”
The honesty in his voice made my chest ache. “I wish I could be there.”
“You don’t need to be.”
“I want to.”
“I know.”
I closed my eyes. “Are you scared?”
He didn’t answer immediately. “Yes.”
My eyes opened. “For yourself?”
“No.” I knew what he meant.
“Me?”
“You.”
I swallowed. “Tristan, I’m okay.”
“I know.”
“Whatever she says tomorrow, we will deal with it.”
“That’s what Reggie keeps telling me.”
“Maybe because he’s right.”
“Don’t take his side.”
I smiled. “I’m not.”
He went quiet. I could almost picture him sitting somewhere with his hand over his face. “I hate that you’re going to have to hear all of this. I hate that they are going to talk about the baby.” My throat tightened. For a moment, I couldn’t answer. I looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry.” He said.
“Don’t apologize for something you didn’t do.”
“I should have protected you.”
“You can’t protect me from everything.”
“I should have.”
“Tristan.”
I heard his breath catch.
“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
The words sat between us. I sucked in a deep breath, “I have an appointment tomorrow with Dr Matthews-”“Is everything okay? Are you okay?” Flare-ups?” He was now more concerned about me.“I was having some discomfort before we had sex and then after, also some pain, it comes with Endo.” “Fuck. Elona, please tell me when you’re feeling that way so that I’m not selfish. I’m sorry.-”“I wanted it too, so stop feeling bad. But my appointment is for tomorrow after 2 PM-”“I’m going with you.” He interrupted me.“No, you have the case to see to,” I said.“I will go with you whether you like it or not. Last time I checked I’m technically still your guardian even though you are almost nineteen years old. My schedule allows but even if anything came up even if there was a the court thing tomorrow, I would put you first. So I will take you myself.” There was no arguing with him on this one. “Fine. I will be happy.” I said. Then I heard someone calling my name from across the room.
“Elona!” I turned around. “One second!”
Tristan heard. “You need to go?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll call you later.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
There was a pause. “Okay.”
I smiled. “Good luck tomorrow, and thank you in advance for accompanying me to the checkup tomorrow.”
“Thank you, and you’re welcome.”
“And Tristan?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t let Grace decide who you are.”
There was silence, and then he said softly, “I love you.”
My chest tightened. “I love you too.” I ended the call. For a few seconds, I simply stared at my phone. Tomorrow, Grace would sit on that stand, he would tell her story, talk about Tristan and about me. She might talk about my pregnancy. She might say things I didn’t want to hear. But there was nothing I could do about tomorrow from this chair. So I stood.
I picked up my water. At least Tristan would be with me tomorrow. I didn’t know what would happen between now and when the campaign date arrives. But for the first time in days, I let myself imagine standing beneath that artificial rain, wearing something beautiful, with cameras pointed at me and nothing to hide. Maybe that was enough. Maybe hope didn’t have to be enormous. Maybe sometimes it was simply a date written on a page. A campaign waiting for me. A birthday I hadn’t reached yet. And the quiet belief that, somehow, I would still be here when it came, and so would Tristan.