Lucky spent the afternoon at a dark, wood-paneled pub tucked on one of the winding streets near Avery’s. Hampstead was so unrelentingly quaint it was hard not to be charmed by it. Especially when the sun was shining and would continue doing so until after nine p.m., especially when the ivy-trellised pub looked like something out of an eighteenth-century storybook, especially when there was a youngish and not-bad-looking bartender (he was in school for figurative painting, he assured her) giving her free pints in exchange, seemingly, for the pleasure of being able to cast his trained eye upon her. Lucky spent a cheerful handful of hours drinking and playing darts for cigarettes with a gaggle of sunburned older British men, all while being gazed at longingly by the starstruck bartender. She stepped outside for a smoke and checked her phone. Another message from her agent. Buoyed by the beers and feeling the liquid impenetrability that came from riding the first wave of a new drunk, she deleted it without reading it. For the first time since she was fifteen, she was out of a job. To celebrate, she went back inside for another round.
By the time she left the pub, she had won five cigarettes and was on a first-name basis with a throng of London’s finest male retirees, all of whom agreed that having a job was a complete waste of time. She took the bus all the way to the club to kill time, a journey that took the better part of two hours. The novelty of riding on the top of a double-decker was not lost on her, especially as she had managed to nab the prized pair of seats at the very front, sprawling her long legs across both seats to ward off any potential neighbors. From this vantage, she could watch London through the huge plexiglass window unfolding beneath its leafy canopy of trees. Unlike in New York, in which heat was considered a right from May to September, every warm summer day in London felt special, fleeting. Women in the bright dresses they’d been waiting all year to wear flitted in and out of shops, barefoot men kicked soccer balls around huge green parks, old men in short sleeves relaxed outside of cafés, hookah pipes in hand. Lucky watched it all from her perch with a gentle remove only possible for her when several pints deep. She was perfectly drunk, not yet blacked out, but no longer fully in time and space. The best word she could think of for this state was untethered; she was a balloon slipping lightly out of the world’s grasping hand.
As the bus meandered through the sun-dappled streets, she sat back and thought of Avery. Her sister was a fool for giving all this up to live full-time in reality. Avery had taken it too far by getting hooked on heroin, that was her mistake. She should have stuck with the classics: booze, weed, coke, pills, and the occasional psychedelic. Like Lucky, who knew what she was doing. She could handle her shit, she thought with drunken satisfaction, which meant, unlike Avery, she would never have to stop. A warm breeze curled from the fanning bus doors up to the top deck. The bustle of the city, of life in general, felt very far below. Like a bird safe in its nest, Lucky propped her sunglasses on her nose, tucked her chin to her chest, and slipped away.
—
She was not dreaming so much as remembering. The shoot was at a studio downtown by the Hudson River, which she liked because it had pinball machines in the hallway she could play on in her breaks between shots. She was better at pinball than modeling, she thought. That day was particularly bad because she had to do lines. She was reading from a sheet of paper held behind the camera by the director’s assistant, but she kept fucking up. She was bad at reading aloud and always avoided it at school, not because she couldn’t read, but because she’d get too nervous and forget to breathe.
All right, let’s try it again, said the photographer. Take your time.
But the more self-conscious she grew, the harder it was to catch her breath. The lights were too hot, and she could feel beads of sweat coalescing on her upper lip. That couldn’t look good. She wanted to wipe her face on her sleeve but she was wearing silk and that probably wasn’t allowed either. She wished she could get everyone to blink simultaneously, just give her one second to herself to at least dry her face off, but everyone’s eyes stayed on her. It never occurred to her that she could ask for a break. She was trying to discreetly blot her face with the back of her hand when she heard snickers from two of the stylists by the racks. She glanced over to see them exchange a look that said, Surprise, surprise, a model who can’t read. It wasn’t the first time she’d caught sight of the contempt for her just beneath the surface of other women, nor would it be the last. She was five foot ten, one hundred and twelve pounds, and fifteen years old. She was the beauty standard these women were being held to and, whether consciously or not, they hated her for it. Join the club, she wanted to tell them. She hated herself too.
The photographer gave her an appraising look, then to her relief smiled kindly at her. He had long sandy hair and the insouciantly cheerful air of someone raised around an abundance of sunshine and money. He also, Lucky had been breathlessly informed by the makeup artist, had recently started dating a household-name supermodel. Lucky understood that he was very important and had been told multiple times by her agency how fortunate she was to be chosen by him in the very first year of her career. He stepped away from the camera and gave her another encouraging smile.
You know what? he said. We’ll just shoot some stills. In fact, why don’t we clear the set for a second? Just me, you, and my assistant, Jared, here.
Lucky nodded with relief and watched as hair, makeup, styling, and various crew began to trickle off set to wait in the craft services area, where they would all undoubtedly talk about her.
Can I just? said one of the makeup artists, quickly darting forward to blot her face and dust it with a fine powder. Good luck, she whispered without enthusiasm, then disappeared too.
The photographer picked up his camera and gave her a cheerful wink.
All right, my love, he said. Let’s have you standing.
He circled around her, clicking away, and Lucky moved with him instinctively. The truth was, she was a natural. When Lucky saw photos of herself after the fact, she was always amazed by how different she appeared compared to how she had felt taking them. She looked mature and completely at home in herself. Like a woman.
You’re doing great, Lucy, said the photographer.
It’s Lucky, she whispered. Then added automatically, Sorry.
Lucky, of course. He made a show of slapping his forehead. That’s a perfect name for you. How old are you, Lucky?
Fifteen, she said, then quickly returned her face to a look of blank inscrutability.
Wow, I would have guessed older by the way you carry yourself. You must have an old soul, Lucky.
Lucky was pretty sure her soul was also fifteen, but she nodded anyway. They kept shooting for a while, the photographer’s face obscured behind his camera, Lucky focusing on looking sexy but a little scared, as she’d been taught, when he stopped suddenly. She was afraid he was going to tell her it wasn’t working and send her home, but instead he ran a hand through his hair and grinned.
Okay, I want to try something. He handed the camera to his assistant without taking his eyes off her. Let’s try the Pentax with black and white. He beckoned her closer. Do you mind kneeling?
She hesitated and the photographer motioned to his assistant.
Sorry, Lucky, I should have thought. Could you grab her something, Jared? A cushion or something?
The assistant grabbed a small towel from the makeup chair and folded it, placing it on the ground before her. It provided only the tiniest amount of padding between her shins and the concrete floor, but she knelt anyway.
That looks great, Lucky. He snapped a few shots. He was saying her name too much, she thought, probably to compensate for having gotten it wrong earlier. She sensed he wanted her to feel comfortable, so she tried her best to give off the impression that she was.
Now, Lucky, can you open your mouth?
His voice didn’t change; he delivered this instruction with the same cheerful directness that he’d asked Jared to swap the cameras. She hesitated again, then parted her lips ever so slightly.
That’s perfect. A little wider.
He stepped toward her and very gently slipped his thumb into her mouth. Above her, she heard the camera click. His thumb tasted like cigarettes, but there was an earthiness, too, like vegetable root, mixed with an unpleasant metallic tang. Without pulling her head away, she darted her eyes to the assistant, Jared, but his face remained impassive, bored even. She blinked, then opened them again to glance at the photographer’s crotch, which was now eye level with her. She had never seen a penis before, but, somehow, she knew to check if he had an erection. Upon seeing that he didn’t, she felt a dizzying surge of relief. This must be part of the job then.
Eyes up here, he murmured.
Only then did his voice drop and take on a husky quality, as if sharing a secret with her. He clicked away, pushing his thumb very slowly in and out of her mouth. She kept her jaw stiff and her mouth wide, tucking her tongue beneath her teeth, so as little of her as possible would touch his skin. In the years afterward she would dream of chomping down on that thumb, locking her jaw like a pit bull and biting through the skin until she hit bone, until he screamed for release. Instead, she lifted her eyes. He looked down at her and smiled.
You’re a natural, Lucky.Now can you close your lips and suck?
—
Lucky snapped awake with a jolt of panic. For a sickening moment, she had no sense of where she was. A bus? But where? She patted down her body. Wallet, phone, keys, cigarettes, it was all still there. She looked out of the window. Still light. She saw with relief that the bus was passing a tube station not far from the address she’d been given. Lucky exhaled. She’d let her guard down again, but she was safe. On the seat across from her, an older woman in a loose lilac blouse was smiling at her.
“You was having a little kip,” said the woman. “Don’t worry, I had my eye on you. Would have woken you up before I got off.”
“Thank you,” croaked Lucky.
She looked at the woman, whose softly creased eyes were watching her with benign interest. Lucky was embarrassed to find tears pricking her own. Her sunglasses had slipped into her lap during sleep; she pushed them back onto her face and swung herself to standing. It must be almost her stop and she needed to keep moving.
“Stay safe, dear,” called the woman as Lucky disappeared down the stairs.
—
Lucky did have some memory of the club from Friday, but it was vague. The townhouse at the address given to her was a narrow, unassuming building on a quiet street. Wide black-and-white-tiled stairs led to its front door. Lucky checked for a name or business written beneath the brass doorbell, found none, then pressed it anyway. It emitted a shrill, high ring like a seagull’s squawk. She waited. Nothing. She stepped back and tried to peer through the windows, but the heavy red curtains were all pulled shut. Lucky stood on the steps for several minutes, hoping someone would come.
