I am determined to take care of myself. I am determined to make this new house my own.
The tub isn’t deep enough for fully submerging myself, but my body fits, cocooned in warm water, if I lie in just the right position: on my back, with knees bent to one side. My skin is slick and hot. I look up to where light creeps through a strip of window at the very top of the shower. This isn’t the tile of my choosing, I think. But that’s okay for now.
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IN 2014 MY manager at the time, Evan, informed me that the billionaire financier behind Wolf of Wall Street was offering to pay me $25,000 to go to the Super Bowl with him. To be paid $25,000 to show up to an event that people saved money to afford was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. I’d only just started to see numbers like that get thrown around, and only for jobs that required actual time and effort on my part: days of twelve-hour shoots with few breaks. I hadn’t done more than a few paid appearances, and those all had talking points and a product to sell. This was different. He explained that this person, Jho Low, “just liked to have famous men and women around” and there would be other celebrities going, too. “Everybody who is anybody is doing these kinds of deals with him,” he assured me. “He’s just one of those insanely rich guys from Asia.” Jho Low’s fortune came from family money, Evan said. Easy money was a new concept, and it felt almost badass to be taking money from someone who had so much of it in return for so little.
When I searched online there wasn’t much to find except a few pictures of him looking sweaty in nightclubs with Paris Hilton and some vague information about his production company.
“I’m sure Leo will be there, and a bunch of other people you’ll know, or, er, recognize. You know their movie is up for five Academy Awards next month?” I could tell Evan was excited about the idea of going to the Super Bowl with this crew.
“I don’t have to, like, do anything specific, right?” I asked. Was being at the Super Bowl my only task or was there some other more covert expectation? Evan told me he’d insisted to Jho Low’s contact （another question: Whose job was it to call up celebrities’ managers to get them to go to events with your boss for a fee?） that he accompany me, “Just to make sure you feel comfortable. You mind if I bring a date, too?” That was fine. I knew Evan was coming along as a chaperone or a buffer; but what he was protecting me from exactly, I wasn’t sure. The money, which he would commission at ten percent, would be wired ahead of time. “I’ll make sure it hits before Friday,” Evan promised.
I couldn’t remember what team the Seattle Seahawks were playing, only that my dad had said on the phone the day before that it should be a “good game.” I’d never cared about football, but my father did. When I told him I was going, he yelped, “Ah, Emily! I’m so jealous!”
It was February, and as a recent transplant from the West Coast, I didn’t have a proper coat to wear outside at a football game in the winter. My modeling agent managed to call in a favor and get hold of a white Moncler jacket for me. It was lent just for the weekend, to be returned early on Monday morning. “Don’t get anything on it or they’ll make you pay for it. They’re a fortune,” she warned.
Evan had suggested I hire a professional hair and makeup team for the game, but I decided not to spend the money. Instead, I tried to replicate what they did for red-carpet events: I put on more makeup than I usually wore and secured a janky hair extension to the back of my head. There would be no photographers, so I was grooming myself for just one person: the mysterious Jho Low.
We’d been instructed to meet at the Plaza, where we were directed immediately onto a bus. Evan had been right about the other guests: there were two famous models whom I’d never met before, one known for her recent appearance on the cover of Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit edition and the other for her stint as a Victoria’s Secret angel. There were a few male actors, accompanied by their posses. The rest of the group was composed of people who seemed to work for Jho Low. He boarded the bus last, wearing a hooded puffer. Although I had seen his picture online, I was surprised by how young he looked in person, younger than 31. As his short, pudgy frame moved down the aisle, Evan jumped up to introduce me. Was it part of the job to act excited? I mustered some enthusiasm.
“Thanks so much for having me,” I offered, smiling up at him.
“Yeah, yeah, sure, sure.” He nodded and grinned distractedly before taking a seat in the back.