After calling the priest, she looked at the cellphone she had bought in Brussels, and turned it on so Bernard could reach her more easily, if he needed to, or the priest about the service. She went to make herself a cup of tea then, and chose her mother’s favorite brand in the cupboard. As soon as she sat down at the kitchen table, the phone came to life and started ringing. She answered it, assuming it was Bernard, and was stunned when the voice at the other end was her agent. She hadn’t spoken to her since the day before she left for Brussels, when she had her last assignment. Bernard had notified them that she had been in the Brussels attack, but didn’t tell her the extent of Véronique’s injuries. He only said that she wouldn’t be working for several months. He hadn’t realized then that she would never work again. That had only become apparent when the last bandages came off her face, after the most recent surgeries. But he hadn’t notified them, and neither had she. Véronique didn’t want anything appearing in the press about it, and the hospital gave out no information. Véronique didn’t want anything to make her sound tragic or pathetic. There had been no further press interest in her after the minor British tabloid ran the story about her, and somehow no other press service had picked it up. They had mercifully left her alone, and she had quietly faded from view over the summer. But it was September now and the fashion world would be busy. She knew that the waters would close over her soon enough. New faces would appear, new girls who would be the new top models. Her time had come and gone, and ended in Brussels. But her agent didn’t know that yet.
“Is that really you?” Stephanie, her agent, said to her. “I was going to text you, but I decided to leave a voicemail. Your phone has been off for months,” she said tartly.
“I was in the hospital for a while,” she said, which Stephanie already knew, but didn’t think it was serious.
“I know. Where are you now?” She sounded like she was talking to a schoolgirl playing hooky. Many of the models she dealt with were very young, even in their teens.
“I got back yesterday. I’m staying at my mother’s.” Véronique felt like a child as she said it.
“I left you alone for the summer,” she said, sounding stressed and busy. “Thank God you’re back, everybody wants you. We need you desperately. Fashion Week starts in ten days. Hell Week. I have nine designers who want you to walk in their shows, with fittings for all of them, of course. You can start next week,” she said, sounding relieved. “We didn’t tell anyone you were at the thing in Brussels. Your attorney asked us not to when he called. Sensible. You didn’t need an army of paparazzi at the hospital. We kept it very quiet. And now you’ll be back. They don’t need to know where you were. I assume you’re fine now and ready to work.” Not if they saw her face, Véronique thought. Stephanie didn’t give her a minute to get a word in edgewise.
“I’m not walking this time,” she said quietly. Or ever again.
“What? Why not? You have to. They all want you.”
“I can’t. And actually, Stephanie, I’m retiring.” It took all of her courage to say it. It felt like jumping off a cliff.
“Did you lose your legs, or marry a billionaire? No other excuse is valid. We canceled the trip to Japan, and all your April and May bookings. And no one works in the summer. But you have to come back now. You can’t retire. I won’t allow it.”
Véronique didn’t want to tell her what had happened to her face. “I’m not up to it. I had my last surgery three weeks ago. And I still need more. I just can’t do it. It’s the right time for me to bow out.” She tried to sound calm and sure about it.
“Bastards. You can’t let them destroy a career like yours, just because you were in an attack. You’re traumatized. But you’re at the top of your game. Just do Fashion Week for me, and we’ll come up with some excuse for a while after that. I can tell them you’re pregnant. That will give you four or five months to finish your surgeries, and recover. Nothing too dreadful, I hope.” She was home, so Stephanie assumed she was healthy enough to work for a week. And she sounded fine on the phone. Véronique didn’t attempt to explain to her what had happened. Stephanie wasn’t that kind of person. Ice ran in her veins, and hers was the best modeling agency in Paris. She was all about the fashion business, and nothing else. She could make or break a career if she wanted to. She wasn’t known for her compassion or kindness. She had girls working on the day of their parents’ funerals, told them to dry their tears and put their big girl shoes on.