CHAPTER 8
Cate
On the morning of my eighteenth birthday, just after Chip had left for work, I woke up my mom and told her I was moving out; my bags had been packed the night before.
“Where are you going?” she asked, sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes.
“I’m moving in with my model friend Elna,” I said. “To her place on the Upper East Side.”
It was the first I’d told her of my plan, but she didn’t look surprised. “I’m so happy for you, sweetie,” she said, blinking back tears. I wasn’t sure if they were happy tears or sad. Likely they were both, which was how I was feeling, along with so many other emotions.
“I’m going to come back for you, Mom,” I said. “Soon. I promise. I just need to save a little more money—and get my own place. We can be roommates again. Like old times.”
“Oh, sweetie—you know I can’t do that—”
“Yes, you can, Mom. There are tons of waitress jobs in the city. Really nice restaurants where the tips are just huge. Or you could find something else to do—there are so many jobs to be had—I’d love to have a full-time manager. I could really use the help. What do you think, Mom? You know you aren’t happy here. You have to get away from him.” By that point, I was rambling—and a little frantic, because I knew it was pretty futile.
“I can’t leave,” she said, cutting me off, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Why not?”
“I just can’t.”
“Yes, you can, Mom!” I said, putting on my best life coach face. “You have to. You know you do.”
She took a deep breath and did her best to smile back at me. “Okay, sweetie,” she said. “We’ll see.”
“Yes, Mom,” I said, feeling so determined. “We will.”
—
A few hours later, I was unloading my bags into Elna’s second bedroom, which had recently been vacated by another friend of ours who had quit modeling to get married. Aside from the guilt over leaving my mom behind, I was excited and hopeful. Elna was the most inspiring person I knew. She had grown up in Johannesburg, South Africa, in the thick of the apartheid era. After her real father was killed in the Soweto Uprising, her mother remarried a bigger monster than my stepfather. He hit her mother but also molested Elna, the abuse starting when she was eleven. Three years and a back-alley abortion later, Elna worked up the nerve to tell her mother what was going on, at which point her stepfather called her a liar; her mother sided with her husband, and they both kicked her out of the house. From there, Elna made her way to Cape Town, living on the streets until she was discovered by a British fashion photographer on the beach at Camps Bay.
Within days of my meeting Elna, she had shared this entire story with me, sparing no gory details. Beyond the heartbreak of her story, the thing that struck me the most was her complete lack of shame. I had still never told a soul about Chip. Elna would end up being the first.
It was before I moved in with her, but while I was crashing at her place after a late night of work. We were exhausted and punchy, and had another early wake-up, but instead of going to bed, we opened a bottle of red wine, caught a buzz, and curled up in her bed together, talking. At one point, Elna asked why I never dated anyone or mentioned guys. “Are you a lesbian?”
“No,” I said. “I just don’t have time to date.”
“Yeah. But you have time to fuck, don’t you?” she said with a little grin. “I mean, everyone has time to fuck.”
I laughed, thinking that Elna could be so blunt—so different from Wendy and my old Montclair friends. But given the life she’d led, I guess there wasn’t much reason to sugarcoat things.
“Yeah,” I said, laughing. “I suppose I do have time for that.”
“And?”
“And…nothing,” I said, staring at one of Elna’s dangling false lashes. She was so bad about removing them after we worked, sometimes not even bothering to wash her face at night, which was crazy given that she had the most flawless skin I’d ever seen.
“Wait. Are you a virgin?”
“No,” I said, then told her about Jared, the Burberry model I’d met on a shoot last summer, my only real boyfriend to date.
“How long did you go out?”
“Only about three months,” I said. “And the whole thing was long distance. He works in LA.”
“Were you in love?”
I made a face and said no, not even close.
“Have you ever been?”
I shook my head, thinking that there was no way I would bring anyone home to Chip and my mom, which made it sort of hard to have a boyfriend. I went out on a limb and told her as much, alluding to my “difficult home life.”
“Difficult how?”
“My stepfather’s a dick.”
Elna’s light green eyes narrowed. “Is he abusive?”
“He hits my mom. He’s just a run-of-the-mill asshole to me.” I gave her a few examples, including the litter box story, then said, “It’s not nearly as bad as what you went through—”
Elna cut me off and said, “Abuse is abuse. And your mother is allowing it, just like mine did.”
“Yeah. But there’s really nothing she can do.”
“Bullshit!” Elna said, sitting up, now animated. “She could protect you. And she’s not. You need to leave, Cate.”
“I will. As soon as I graduate high school,” I said, though I was on the verge of flunking most of my classes due to unexcused absences and missed assignments and abysmal test scores.
“You can get your GED,” she said. “It’s what everyone does.”
“Yeah. It’s not just that, though. I can’t leave my mom,” I told her, explaining how, in recent months, I’d been able to quell some of Chip’s attacks simply by giving him cash. And when that didn’t work, I’d get in his way—physically.
“Oh. So you pay the bills—and now you’re her bodyguard?”
I stiffened, feeling both resentful and defensive at once. “There’s really nothing she could do. I think he’d try to kill her if she stood up to him—”
“Well,” Elna said with a surprisingly callous shrug. “That’s the price of poker.”
“Elna!” I said. “You can’t blame the victim!”
“You’re a victim, too,” she said. “And she’s your mother. And I’m sorry she’s suffering, but if she won’t protect you, you have to protect yourself. Get the fuck out of there. Every woman for herself.”
—
From that point on, Elna and I were a team, fiercely protecting each other. She became my best friend. In some ways, she felt like the only real friend I’d ever had.
I stayed in touch with Wendy, even after she went off to Cornell, pledging a sorority and falling in love with the man she’d eventually marry. She annoyed Elna to no end, who criticized the way Wendy only surfaced for the big, glamorous moments—like Fashion Week or other high-end parties. “I feel like she uses you,” Elna said once.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I said.
“Well, at the very least, she’s a fair-weather friend.”
Maybe that was true, but I explained that it really wasn’t Wendy’s fault. She was just sheltered, having never worked a day in her life, save for a short stint at the Gap that she quit because she “hated folding.” Wendy had absolutely no clue how grueling being a model really was. The obscene hours. The shoots that would last all night. The endless flights and jet lag and waking up in hotels and forgetting where we were. The starvation diets that gave new meaning to running on empty, as we were told that there was no such thing as too thin and some of our friends who had to be hospitalized for anorexia were praised for looking like skeletons. Hell, there was really no such thing as a model without an eating disorder; it was more a question of degree and method. Elna chose to binge and purge, but I couldn’t stand the feeling of throwing up, so I went the extreme exercise route. Sometimes I’d go to the gym and ride the bike for three hours at a time, paying the price for a few chips and guacamole. Nicotine helped, too, a pack a day being standard fare for most models, Elna and me included.
We did have a no-hard-drugs pact, though—Elna had been down that road and was determined never to relapse. My reason had more to do with wanting to stay in control of my body and mind and emotions. Along those lines, I continued to hold guys at arm’s length, noticing that the nice ones generally didn’t pursue me anyway, perhaps too intimidated by the toughness I did my best to project. The ones who seemed confident in the beginning turned out to be the most insecure. They talked a big game at first, bragging to their friends that they were dating a model, but most of them could only take so much before a steamy photo shoot or long trip would push them over the edge. Sometimes I would break up with them from sheer annoyance; in other cases, they would preemptively dump me, quickly transitioning to a safer girlfriend with a less threatening lifestyle. Meanwhile, I reminded myself to stick to casual dating with men who couldn’t disappoint me.
—
In the spring of 1995, I was in the Hamptons on yet another Obsession shoot. It was miserable. To be honest, beach shoots were always miserable, the sand blowing in your eyes and chafing your skin, to say nothing of the freezing water. That day was actually sunny and sixty, but the wind still made it feel like winter. While the art directors, fashion designers, and photographers wore puffy down coats and boots, I faux frolicked in the ice-cold surf wearing nothing but a bikini and a sheer white linen blouse.
Between takes, the team did their best to warm me up, though that had more to do with not wanting my skin to look blue in the photos than with my actual comfort. During one of those breaks, as I sat under a heat lamp, sipping green tea from a thermos, I spotted him walking toward us with his dog. The one and only Joe Kingsley.
Curtis, my favorite makeup artist and close friend, saw him at the same time. “Holy shit, girl! Is that who I think it is?” he whisper-shouted, grabbing my arm.
“It sure is,” I said, marveling at seeing Joe Kingsley in person but also wondering why I was so surprised when sightings of him were quite commonplace in the city and in the Hamptons. In fact, almost everyone I knew had encountered him at some point.
But this was my first time, and apparently the same was true for Curtis, because he sighed and said, “He’s even hotter in person. Look at those legs. I can’t handle it.”
“I know,” I said, squinting into the sun, then shielding my eyes to get a better look. He was wearing black athletic shorts, a gray sweatshirt, and a rainbow-striped beanie, complete with a big red pom-pom. It was equal parts adorable and absurd.
“And I love Thursday,” Curtis said.
“Who?”
“His dog. That’s the name of his dog.”
“Oh,” I said, nodding, thinking that there was no bit of celebrity trivia that Curtis didn’t know.
We kept staring as Joe flung a Frisbee toward the ocean and Thursday bounded after it. He leaped into the air, narrowly missing before frantically paddling into the surf as Joe clapped, either caught up in the moment or aware that he had an audience. The latter seemed more likely.
“Mercy,” Curtis breathed. “That’s the sexiest man to ever walk the Earth. Dead or alive.”
“Dead men can’t walk,” I said, blowing my nose. I was starting to catch a cold.
Curtis pushed my hand away from my face, then blended the makeup around my nose with an egg-shaped sponge before turning back to gawk at Joe.
“I wonder if he’s still with Margaret Braswell—”
“Margaret Braswell?” I said, remembering the petite brunette Joe had dated when he was at Harvard. I hadn’t heard her name in years. “I thought he was dating Phoebe Mills?”
“God, girl. Keep up. He got back together with Margaret ages ago.”
“Oh. I didn’t know,” I said, memories returning of my Joe Kingsley stalking days. How much those pictures of him had brought me comfort, especially that one of him on the beach with the shark’s tooth necklace. I smiled to myself, thinking how incredible it was that we were both here now, in the Hamptons. My thirteen-year-old self wouldn’t have believed it.
Suddenly, Joe turned and tossed the Frisbee again, this time away from the shoreline, in our direction. It sailed through the air, landing just feet away from us.
“Oh my God,” Curtis said. “He did that on purpose.”
“No, he didn’t,” I said as Thursday ran toward us, and Joe followed him.
“He so did,” Curtis hissed under his breath, barely able to contain his excitement. “He wants to meet you.”
“You just said he’s dating Margaret?”
“So what? Maybe they just broke up. Or…maybe they’re about to break up. If you get my drift.”
“Whatever,” I said, rolling my eyes, as Thursday bypassed the Frisbee and trotted over to our chairs.
Curtis kneeled to pet him, saying, “Good boy, Thursday! The best boy, aren’t you?”
“You’re shameless,” I added under my breath, shaking my head as Joe caught up to his dog.
“Get over here, you rascal,” Joe said. He then looked up at us and said, “Gosh, I’m sorry. He never listens!”
“Don’t be sorry. He’s adorable!” Curtis gushed. “What’s his name?”
Shameless, I thought again, as Joe told him what he already knew.
“Thursday! What a cute name! How’d you come up with that?”
“ ’Cause I adopted him on a Thursday,” Joe said. “And it’s the best day of the week. You have the whole weekend to look forward to.”
“Oh my God. Today’s Thursday!” Curtis said. “What are the chances?”
“About one in seven,” I deadpanned.
Joe laughed, his face lighting up, then looked directly into my eyes. I held his gaze, feeling a little light-headed. I’d met celebrities before, but no one near this famous—or handsome. Overwhelmed, I had to glance away for a second. When I looked back his way, he was still staring at me.
“I’m Joe, by the way,” he said, extending his arm.
I gave him a half smile, then shook his hand. “I’m Cate. And this is Curtis.”
“It’s great to meet you both,” he said, nodding earnestly.
“Oh, my goodness. Same,” Curtis said. “I’m a big fan. Huge.”
“Thanks, man,” Joe mumbled. A fleeting but unmistakably uncomfortable look crossed his face. “So…what are you guys working on today? A movie?”
“No. It’s a campaign for Calvin Klein,” Curtis said, though we technically weren’t supposed to be divulging any details of the shoot. “Cate is our talent. I’m sure you recognize her?”
I rolled my eyes and said, “I’m sure he doesn’t.”
“Actually,” Joe said, staring at me with a look of deep concentration. “You do look familiar.”
“Yeah, right,” I said.
He wouldn’t have been the first person to recognize me. But it was almost always girls or gay men, with an occasional creeper thrown in.
“I’m serious,” Joe continued, his face becoming more earnest by the second. “You look really familiar.” He squinted a little and then said, “Wait. Are you on a billboard near LaGuardia?”
“Oh my God, yes! She is!” Curtis said.
Joe looked smug as he gave me a wink. “Yep. I knew it. I never forget a face. Not one as pretty as yours, anyway.”
It was the kind of line that usually sounded cheesy, but Joe’s delivery was so sincere that it disarmed me, and I could feel my heart flutter a little as I thanked him.
“So where are you from?” Joe asked me.
“New Jersey.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Montclair.”
“You live there now?”
I shook my head and said, “No. Not since high school. I live in the city.”
Joe nodded and said, “And how long have you been modeling?”
“Since I was sixteen,” I said, wondering if he was really trying to discern whether I had gone to college. It was something a lot of people tried to figure out by asking the same sorts of questions.
“But she’s way more than just a pretty face,” Curtis chimed in.
I shot him a look to tone it down, but he ignored it and continued to promote me. “She’s a whole mood…and nobody has more style…. She could be the next Anna Wintour. Only not as mean.”
“Maybe as mean,” I said with a smile, hoping to shut Curtis up.
Joe laughed, then bit his lip and lowered his voice. “Well. I’ll keep my eye out for you, for sure.”
He seemed to be flirting with me, and I suddenly felt weak—butterflies-in-my-stomach and clammy-hands weak. I told myself to get a grip. Joe was just a charming guy—everyone knew that—and any second, he would move on with his dog and his day and his life.
But as the minutes passed, he stayed so focused, locked in on me, asking me more questions. Meanwhile, Thursday panted at our feet and Curtis fussed with his makeup kit, humming Whitney Houston’s “How Will I Know.”
“Well, I guess I should let you get back to work,” he said after another few minutes of small talk.
“Yeah,” I said, glancing over at the crew—who were clearly getting restless.
“Maybe I’ll see you around…at Bubby’s or The Odeon,” he said, two of the places I’d mentioned when he asked where I liked to hang out.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“Hopefully,” he said, staring into my eyes again, his face so serious.
As he held my gaze, I felt the strangest sensation. A connection. It was almost as if I’d known him in another life—or at least for a long time in this one. I reminded myself that everyone probably felt this way when meeting Joe—that it was a function of his fame, along with all the photographs we’d seen of him over the years. We felt like we knew him, but that was obviously only one-sided, illusory.
A few seconds later, Joe asked for my phone number, saying he’d love to get together sometime. Before I could answer, Curtis was handing over one of his business cards, my name and number written on the back.
“Thanks, man,” Joe said, grinning at Curtis. Then his face grew serious again as he gazed back at me, holding the card up. “So I can call you?” he said.
“Sure…why not?” I said with a little shrug, doing my best to play it cool, telling myself that the chances of him actually calling were remote at best.