10The sound of hairdryers, stomping heels, and the rolling thunder of makeup trolleys was the LeClaire Mansion’s morning soundtrack. It was 8:00 a.m. on the day of the exclusive Visage show.
Sequins and glitter slid under Cecil’s bedroom door, making it look like the floor of a gay nightclub.
Cecil threw on his jeans and T-shirt and rushed into the room called the models’ quarters.
If there were a Homo sapien exhibit at a zoo in a third world country, it would be a nicer place to live than LeClaire Model Management’s models’ quarters.
Cheap metal bunkbeds were stacked four to a tower. Skin-colored makeup stains covered the walls in handprint shapes. And dried nail polish coated the floor like a splatter painting.
It smelled like a high school locker room—body odor and cherry lip gloss
