CHAPTER 6
Cate
When I was little, my mom used to take me down the shore for the day. We rarely spent the night—she couldn’t afford the time off work or the price of an Atlantic City hotel room—but every once in a blue moon, we would splurge and stay over. To me, there was nothing more thrilling than the way the boardwalk transformed at nightfall. I loved everything about it. The colorful blinking lights of the rides and arcades, the shiny lure of those souvenir shops, the smell of delicious food cooking in the salty ocean air.
Of course, once Chip came on the scene, my mom and I stopped going, and there was a several-year gap when I never saw the ocean. Fortunately, that changed again when I became friends with Wendy. Her parents had a beachfront condo in Margate, about twenty minutes south of AC, and they would often invite me to stay with them. Wendy and I had a blast there. It was where I learned to drink and smoke and hook up with random guys who I wouldn’t have to later face in school. But being on the boardwalk at night always made me a little bit nostalgic, too, thinking about that fleeting, magical part of my childhood when it was just my mom and me.
On one of those trips, Wendy met a boy she really liked. While the two of them were off making out somewhere, I strolled along Steel Pier alone, eating cotton candy and avoiding eye contact. Feeling melancholy and resentful toward Chip, I wasn’t in the mood to flirt or talk to anyone at all, so I was extra annoyed when some lady approached me with a bright smile.
“Excuse me,” she said in a polished voice. “May I ask your name?”
I hesitated, as it was so instilled in me not to answer these sorts of questions from strangers. But we were in a public place, and this woman didn’t look like a kidnapper, so I told her.
She nodded and said, “And how old are you, Cate?”
“Sixteen,” I said, warily.
The lady reached into her quilted black Chanel bag, like the one Wendy’s mother carried. She pulled her hand back out and gave me a business card.
“My name is Barbara Bell,” she said. “I’m a talent scout for a modeling agency.”
In a state of disbelief, I looked down at the card and saw the words Elite Model Management.
“Is this the same Elite that reps Naomi Campbell and Linda Evangelista?” I asked.
“Yes! One and the same!” she said, looking surprised. “You’re familiar with us?”
“Yes,” I said, thinking that my fascination with fashion models was paying off.
“And have you done any modeling, Cate?”
“No,” I said with a nervous laugh. “I haven’t.”
“Well, Cate, you’re a stunning young woman…. I’d love to set up a meeting with you and your parents. Do you think that would be possible?”
“Um, maybe…” I said. “I’d have to ask them.”
My mind was racing. This woman could not be serious. Maybe she was one of the child molesters Chip had warned me about? Then I remembered the photos that Wendy and I had taken in her bedroom—how pretty I’d looked in them—and wondered if maybe she really was a legitimate model scout and saw some potential in me.
“Well, I do hope you give me a call,” Barbara said. “Because I really think you have something special.”
—
For some reason, I didn’t tell Wendy about Barbara for the rest of that week. Maybe I thought she’d be jealous; maybe I worried that she’d be skeptical and dash the hopes I could feel building inside me. In any event, I kept the secret until I got home and told my mom. She seemed to feel that Barbara Bell was for real and was as giddy as a kid on Christmas morning, talking about photo shoots in the Caribbean and catwalks in Europe. For a second, I got caught up in her excitement, but then I reminded myself that my mom didn’t always have the best judgment. As much as I hated to agree with anything Chip had to say, he was a little bit right about that. After all, she’d married him.
Besides, even if Barbara was legit, she was probably wrong about me. I calculated that for every so-called story of discovery, there had to be a dozen misfires. Girls who seemed pretty or interesting in a certain golden moment—only to get under the bright lights of a studio and falter. I told myself that the whole thing was way too risky. I needed to save myself a lot of trouble and disappointment and just say no.
But every time I thought about throwing away Barbara’s business card, a little voice in my head reminded me that this could be my ticket out. My shot to get away from Chip. And maybe not just an out for me, but for my mom, too.
So I went out on a limb and asked for his permission. Miraculously, he gave it to me, likely because he had dollar signs in his eyes. I called Barbara, and the following week, my mom and I boarded the New Jersey Transit train to Manhattan. After arriving in Penn Station, we walked over to Elite’s Fifth Avenue offices, then rode the elevator up to the twenty-fourth floor. I was so excited, but it all felt very abstract until we pushed open the glass doors and saw gigantic photos of Linda, Naomi, and Cindy adorning the walls of the reception area.
“Wow,” I whispered, getting chills.
“I know,” my mom whispered back, shaking her head, staring up at Cindy. “This could be you one day.”
I took a deep breath as a stylish receptionist looked up and asked if she could help us. I gave her my name and said I had an appointment with Barbara, and she smiled, nodded, and picked up her phone.
A second later, another well-dressed woman arrived. She introduced herself as Tonya, Barbara’s assistant, and ushered us down the hall to a conference room with modern furniture and a gorgeous view of the park.
“May I get you something to drink?” Tonya said. “Coffee, tea, soda?”
“Um, do you have Diet Pepsi?” my mom asked in a voice that was a little shaky.
“Yes. We do. And for you, Cate?”
“I’ll take one, too, please,” I said.
Once alone, my mom and I debated which seats to take, talking in whispers. We decided to sit facing the windows. A moment later, Tonya returned with our sodas poured into tall glasses with cubes of ice and skinny straws and told us Barbara would be right with us.
As we waited, I got more and more nervous, questioning my outfit, my makeup, and especially my high ponytail, which I worried made me look too young. Then again, maybe that was a good thing. I knew plenty of models got their start earlier than sixteen. For the next five long minutes, as I sipped my soda and tried to block out my mom’s nervous chatter, I kept thinking that there was no way this could be happening. No way it would work out. At some point, though, I gritted my teeth—literally—and told myself that was no way to approach life. I had to stop panicking. If I didn’t calm down and believe in myself, at least a little bit, how could anyone else?
Before I could answer my own question, Barbara walked into the room flanked by two men and made introductions. Everyone shook my hand, then my mom’s, before sitting down at the table and making a bunch of small talk about the weather, and our train ride into the city, and my school year so far. At some point, as I started to calm down a little, Barbara segued to the reason we were here, talking about my appearance, praising my features and figure.
“But you’re more than a pretty face, Cate,” she said. “I watched you on the boardwalk. You have poise and confidence. An aura. The trademark of Elite models.”
I thanked her, stunned by her compliments. It was the best I’d ever felt about myself.
“We would love for you to join the Elite family,” Barbara said, beaming at me.
“Oh, wow…thank you,” I said, my heart pounding. I was going to be not only a model but part of a family? My mind was blown.
“Is that a yes?”
I nodded, speechless and overwhelmed.
“Wonderful!” Barbara said, quickly turning things over to the men, who began to describe what they called “next steps.” They talked about setting up a test shoot to get me headshots and comp cards—basically a portfolio of marketing materials. I would then be assigned a booker at the agency, who would submit my portfolio to various clients and set up castings for me—which were like auditions. From there, I just had to show up to the casting calls and make a good impression. If a client liked what they saw, they would call my booker, send out a contract, and schedule the shoot.
I nodded, but I must have looked uneasy, because Barbara said, “It might sound overwhelming, but that’s what we’re here for. To help you navigate the process.”
One of the men nodded and then chimed in. “Yes. Barbara is right. Elite will be with you every step of the way. There is no agency out there who will better protect your interests while also promoting you in this competitive marketplace.”
I smiled and said thank you.
“Do you have any questions?” Barbara asked, looking at me first, then my mom.
“No,” I said, shaking my head.
“No,” my mom echoed.
“Great! Here’s your contract. It’s standard language that all of our models sign,” Barbara said, sliding me a sheet of paper. “Take your time reviewing it. No pressure. If you need to go home first and talk it over with your father—or perhaps a lawyer—that’s fine, too.”
“No,” I said, cutting her off. There was no way I was going to give Chip the chance to change his mind. “I’m ready to sign. Right now.”
—
Later that week, my mom and I returned to the city for my test shoot. When we arrived at the studio, we were met by a small crowd, including a photographer, an art director, a hairstylist, a makeup artist, a fashion designer, and various scurrying assistants. I was told that clothes would be provided for me, and that I should come with no product in my hair and a clean, makeup-free face. I followed instructions, but wasn’t happy about the way I looked, and half expected them to cancel the shoot when they saw my flat hair and the huge zit on my chin. But nobody seemed fazed, and the hairstylist and makeup artist quickly got to work.
Over the next two hours, I was transformed multiple times. In the first shot, I wore blue jeans and a white T-shirt with natural makeup and wavy hair; in the second, I had on a black lace cocktail dress with dramatic, smoky eyes and a straighter but still very full hairdo; and in the third, I wore a white string bikini with hair so curly it looked permed and lots of shimmery gold makeup.
Sitting there in the swivel chair and getting my hair and makeup done was the easy part. The hard part was posing under those bright lights with everyone staring at me as the photographer gave me hundreds of instructions to sit, stand, look up, look down, look to the left, look to the right, lower my chin, raise my chin, smile, smile more, smile less, smile with my eyes, don’t smile. It was exhausting, and I’d never felt so awkward and self-conscious, like I was playing a game of Twister in high heels and being judged on style points. But as the shoot progressed, things got a little easier, and I learned that the key was to try to relax, ignore all the people in the room, and pretend to be somewhere else, preferably somewhere far away. I was good at that; living with Chip had given me plenty of practice.
At the end of the session, after I was back in my own clothes, the art director gave me a little hug and said, “Great job, Cate. You’re a pro.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling more relieved than anything else. Like I’d passed another test and tricked them all into believing I was something I wasn’t.
—
A few days later, my mom and I returned to New York for the third time in less than two weeks to meet with my assigned booking agent, a woman named Daisy, who reminded me of Yoko Ono. We chatted for a while, getting to know each other, before Daisy mentioned the test shoot and the great feedback she’d gotten.
“They said you were a very hard worker—and so polite. Which goes a long way in this business.”
I nodded, wondering if there was a but coming. Perhaps she was about to tell me that the photos hadn’t turned out and they needed to redo them. Or maybe the news was even worse. Maybe some higher-up had decided that none of this was going to work out after all.
I held my breath as Daisy splayed about a dozen photos of me on the glass coffee table between us. I looked down as I heard my mom gasp.
“Wow,” I said, my eyes darting from picture to picture. I hardly recognized myself. I looked like a movie star.
“Do you like them?” Daisy asked.
It felt like a rhetorical question, but I answered it anyway.
“I mean…yes, sure,” I said, noticing there was no trace of the zit that had been on my chin the day of the shoot. My skin looked flawless, in fact, and my arms and legs looked more toned and tanned than they were in real life. “I can’t believe this is me. Did someone doctor these photos or something?”
Daisy laughed, then said that the images had been retouched. It was the first time I’d ever heard that word.
“How do they do that?” I asked her.
Daisy explained that it was a process in the darkroom where they pieced together separate images to create the perfect photo.
“Do they do this with everyone?” I asked. Maybe that’s what made supermodels supermodels: they were actually perfect without all the retouching.
Daisy smiled and said yes, everyone. Then she paused and her face got very serious as she said, “Listen, Cate. I want you to remember something as you move forward in your career.”
I nodded, listening as intently as I could.
“You’re going to be rejected and criticized and picked apart. Endlessly. You’ll be told you aren’t thin enough or pretty enough or good enough. And ultimately, at the end of it all, you’re going to be told you’re too old. No matter how successful you become, you will eventually be replaced by someone younger.”
The speech was the opposite of what I’d expected, but for some reason it made me like Daisy even more than I already did.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” she asked, staring into my eyes.
“Yes. I do,” I said, wondering what about her statement could possibly confuse anyone.
Daisy pushed her glasses up on her nose and said, “And? Does that scare you?”
This question was more difficult to answer, and I pondered it a few seconds before shaking my head no. What scared me was the thought of Chip putting my mom in the hospital, maybe even killing her. Not the idea of someone telling me I was fat.
“Good,” Daisy said. “Because the sooner you realize that there is no such thing as perfection—and this entire business is an illusion—the better off you’ll be.”
—
Over the next month, I returned to the city a half dozen times for casting calls, racking up rejections along with absences from school. Chip seemed to revel in my failure, reminding me that I wasn’t model material and gloating that he’d been right—that the whole thing was a scam. He also complained that I should be in school (as if he cared at all about my education) and that my mom should be home, cleaning and cooking and stroking his ego and doing God knows what else she did for him. It made me shudder to think about it.
Then, just as Chip was on the verge of making me quit before I’d even started, I got booked for my first job. Then my second and third and fourth. None of the jobs were with major fashion houses or big brands, and Daisy seemed to think they were small potatoes, but it felt like a lot of money to me. More important, I was gaining valuable experience and building a résumé. Daisy promised that if I kept working hard, it was only a matter of time before I got my big break.
“One minute you’re modeling a twenty-dollar skirt for Macy’s, and the next you’re wearing Versace on a catwalk in Milan,” she said.
So I kept working hard and saving what little money Chip didn’t take from me. You’d think the funds he siphoned off would have been enough to keep him off my back, but the more I made, the more he seemed to hate me. At first, I thought maybe he was jealous, but that really didn’t make sense. How could a middle-aged cop be jealous of a teenaged model? Then I thought it had to do with my mom—that he hated how happy and proud she got when she was looking at pictures of me in catalogs and magazines, because it meant less attention for him. In part, it was probably both of those things.
But I came to realize that it was mostly about power and control. Everything with Chip boiled down to that. It wasn’t so much that he hated me, or even my success, but that he resented the confidence and independence that came along with that success. They clearly threatened him. I think he intuitively understood that if I got strong and made enough money, he wouldn’t have as much control over my mom. The bottom line was that Chip needed me to “know my place,” and if he sensed for one second that I didn’t or that, in his words, I was getting “too big for my britches,” he went berserk. So I kept a low profile around the house and often reminded my mom, who wasn’t as savvy about these dynamics, never to mention my career or casting calls within his earshot.
All the while, I counted down the days until my eighteenth birthday, knowing that I could move out of my house the second it was legally permissible—and that Chip couldn’t track me down and drag me back home as some sort of a power play. I felt myself regularly drifting into dream mode, imagining a small apartment in the city—one with two bedrooms so my mom could come with me. We could re-create a version of our old life in Hackensack, only slightly more glamorous, and minus the loser guys.
—
In September of my senior year, a rep from Calvin Klein contacted Daisy, inviting me to a small, exclusive casting call. The agent said they were looking for a “relative unknown—a fresh face with star power” and that they thought I fit the bill. I couldn’t believe it. In my mind, nobody was bigger or more iconic than Calvin Klein, except maybe Ralph Lauren, though I preferred Calvin’s simple, seductive aesthetic to Ralph’s snobbish, preppy one. As excited and hopeful as I was, I was also a little worried. Not about getting rejected, but about getting picked. I knew that my landing Calvin Klein would upset the precarious power dynamic in our household. If Chip could no longer call me “bush league” and “second-rate,” it would push him over the edge.
The night before my audition, as I was in bed trying to fall asleep, he went on a rampage. Like clockwork. Through the door of my bedroom, I heard him ranting about me—and of all things, Pepper’s litter box. Chip despised Pepper (probably because Pepper didn’t give a shit about Chip) and was always threatening to give him away or, when he was really pissed, put him down.
I put my pillow over my head, but Chip’s voice still got louder. He shouted about what a spoiled, irresponsible diva I was, and how I never “lifted a damn finger around here.” When he was right outside my door, I could hear my mom begging him to leave me alone, saying that I needed my sleep for my “big day” tomorrow.
I shook my head, knowing she’d just made things infinitely worse. It was going to be a long night—and we were both screwed. It was inevitable. So before we could go through the whole tired routine of him pounding on the door and threatening to kick it down, I opened it, staring right into his eyes. For one second, he looked surprised—maybe a little disappointed—that I wasn’t cowering in the corner.
“I’m really sorry, Chip,” I said, facing the music, getting it over with.
“What are you sorry for?” he shouted, his face bright red. He was still in his full uniform, gun in his holster and all, with Pepper’s litter box at his feet. “Tell me exactly what you’re sorry for.”
It was the usual song and dance, and one I could never get right. I was either too specific or not specific enough. I was either being flippant or groveling in a way he found disingenuous.
“I’m sorry for not changing the litter box,” I said, glancing down at it, keeping my voice low and steady, trying to hit the right note.
“When did you change this fucking thing last?” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “And don’t lie to me.”
It was a no-win, because I’d changed the litter box two days ago—and the directions on the box said I had three to four days. So I opted to lie, saying, “I’m not sure. It’s been a few days. I’m sorry.”
“The hell you are. You’re a spoiled fucking brat. You think you’re too good for this house, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t, Chip,” I said, making fleeting eye contact with my mom, another tactical error. He hated when he felt like she was on my side, especially if that meant we were aligned against him.
“YES, YOU FUCKING DO! AND DON’T LOOK AT YOUR MOTHER!”
I bit my lip, nodded, and mumbled again that I was sorry. But he was already on to his next move, reaching down for the litter box, then raising it over his head with both hands. I stared at him, confused, then realized with horror what he was about to do. Sure enough, he hurled the entire plastic bin at me as hard as he could. I ducked my head as cat litter and pellets of cat poop flew across my room, landing all over my shag carpet, my desk, my bed.
“Clean this fucking mess up. NOW!” he said, looking so satisfied. Downright proud of himself.
I nodded, quickly dropping to my knees and scraping up cat litter with my bare hands. It was a completely futile exercise, especially because the trash can was on the other side of the room.
“I’ll get the vacuum cleaner,” I heard my mom say.
“No! Don’t you dare help her! You do everything for her!” Chip shouted. As he turned and stormed back down the hall, I prayed that he wasn’t looking for Pepper. Fortunately, the front door slammed, and his engine turned over in the carport outside my window. Only at that point did I look back up at my mom.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” she said, tears in her eyes.
I started to tell her it was okay, like I always did. Instead, something snapped inside me. “Why in the world would you tell him about the casting call?” I demanded to know. “He always tries to ruin everything!”
“I—I—was excited.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Well, there’s nothing to be excited about. I’m not gonna get it.”
As I went to get the vacuum cleaner, I realized, once again, that I was screwed and alone. It crossed my mind to call Wendy—and go over to her house for the night—maybe finally confide in her and her parents what was happening in my house. But in the long run that would backfire. Not even Mr. Fine, with all his power, could do anything to stop a police officer. More likely, he’d tell Wendy that it was too dangerous to be my friend. Mr. Fine was a good man, but he would put his child’s safety first, the exact opposite of what was happening at my house. Besides, Wendy and I weren’t even as close as we had been. I was so busy working that Kimberly had moved back up in the pecking order. Sometimes I felt like Wendy rubbed that in my face, going out of her way to let me know how much fun I was always missing, and how bad she felt for me. To be fair, I think she actually did feel sorry for me, as I think Wendy’s worst nightmare would have been to miss both homecoming and prom, as I had. But her constant sympathy only made me feel more left out, like I was straddling two worlds, truly belonging in neither.
When I returned with the vacuum cleaner, my mom was stripping the sheets and pillowcases from my bed, still talking about Calvin Klein, and how she just knew I would get picked. It was her Stepford Wife robot mode; her eyes were glassy and her voice stilted as she fell into a catatonic denial.
“No, Mom. I’ll tell you what’s gonna happen,” I said, staring at her. “I’m gonna clean this room for the next two hours. And by then, Chip will come home and tell me I didn’t do it right and start screaming again and find some kind of an excuse to beat on you. Maybe break your nose…And tomorrow I’m gonna show up at that audition looking like a zombie with bloodshot eyes and they’re gonna laugh me out of the room. Which is exactly what Chip wants.”
My mom’s chin trembled. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry,” she said. Because she knew it was true.
And, of course, it was true. Everything I said turned out to be correct, with only one exception: Chip didn’t break my mom’s nose; he broke her collarbone.
—
As Chip took my mom to the ER, undoubtedly with another lie about her falling down the stairs, I lay awake all night, worrying that Chip’s abuse seemed to be escalating. Finally, my alarm went off, and I got up and went to my casting. Afterward, Daisy called and asked me how it went.
“It was a disaster,” I said.
“Oh, no. What happened?”
I took a deep breath, fighting back tears. “I don’t know…I just…I didn’t get much sleep last night. And I—I just couldn’t get it together. They started asking me questions, and I couldn’t think…I sucked…I’m sorry, Daisy.”
“Don’t apologize to me, honey,” Daisy said. “This just happens sometimes.”
Yes, I thought. And sometimes your mother ends up in the ER with a broken collarbone. That happens sometimes, too.
—
A few hours later, Daisy called me back.
“Cate?” she said. “Are you sitting down?”
“Yes,” I said, thinking that she didn’t have to coddle me. She had no idea what a thick skin I had. “What did they say? I bombed it, right?”
“No,” she said with a giddy laugh. “You got it!”
“What?” I said, confused.
“You got the job. They picked you!” Daisy said.
“There’s no way,” I said, thinking that it had to be some kind of joke. “I—I practically broke down in tears—”
“I know you did,” Daisy said. “They said they could tell you were upset about something, but that they loved your vulnerability…. They said you were raw and real and perfect for this campaign.”
“They did?” I said, in a complete state of disbelief.
“Yes. They did…. Congratulations, Catherine Cooper. You’re the face of the next Calvin Klein campaign.”