Web site,” he said, pulling up a chair for me next to his computer.
“So what’s going on?” I asked with a nod to the beautiful people. “Is Joy casting models for the brochure?”
“Not exactly.”
He glanced at Joy’s door, as if to make sure she wasn’t listening.
“Remember the date book you saw yesterday? With pictures of Joy’s clients? Well, hardly any of the people in that book are actual clients. Most of them are models or actors. Every once in a while Joy holds a phony casting session, pretending she’s going to shoot a TV commercial. All the models and actors leave their headshots, and then Joy puts them into her date book.”
“No way!”
“That’s how she reels in the new clients,” he nodded.
“What about all her movers and shakers? And her celebrity clients?”
Cassie, who had been listening in, now turned around, guffawing. “Are you kidding? The closest we ever got to a celebrity was when Reese Witherspoon’s maid came looking for Ellman’s Upholsterers next door.”
“My job is to scan the headshots and put them on the Web site,” Travis explained. “And Joy wants you to write phony bios to go along with the pictures.”
“Phony bios? She never told me about that yesterday.”
“There’s lots of things Joy never tells you,” Travis said with a bitter laugh. “Like how she expects you to pick up her dry cleaning on weekends.”
“Or get her Thai food at one in the morning,” Cassie chimed in.
I bristled in annoyance.
If Joy thought I was going to compromise my integrity by writing phony bios to lure in unsuspecting clients, she had another think coming. We Austens have our principles. I’d simply tell her it was no dice.
But then I remembered the stack of unpaid bills multiplying like rabbits on my dining room table.
Oh, well. What harm could it do to write a few teensy bios? After all, surely Joy had some legitimate clients, people whose lives she actually improved.
“So where are Joy’s actual clients?” I asked.
“Here they are,” Travis said, clicking open another file.
Suddenly his computer screen was filled with real human beings, people with thinning hair and thick waists, with noses and breasts that had never seen a surgeon’s knife. All of them smiling into the camera with a look of hopeful desperation in their eyes.
Travis was scrolling from one photo to the next when he stopped at a photo of a truly lovely woman. A fragile wisp of a thing with startling blue eyes and a nimbus of silken blond hair framing a perfectly chiseled Grace Kelly face.
“Who’s she?” I asked, assuming she was a model mistakenly stuck in the Real People file.
“She used to be a client,” Travis said.
“What a beauty.”
“She sure was,” Cassie echoed, swiveling around in her chair and staring down at Travis’s computer screen.
“She dropped out of the club years ago,” Travis said. “But Joy keeps her photo on the site to lure in the new clients.”
We continued scrolling through real clients, uncovering some genuinely attractive daters here and there, but they were few and far between.
Meanwhile, the model/actors continued to stream in and out of Joy’s office, leaving their head shots with Cassie.
“Ta ta!” Joy would trill in her phony British accent as each hopeful left. “I’ll let your agent know as soon as I make up my mind.”
“As if that’s ever going to happen,” Travis muttered.
“I don’t suppose Joy’s really British?” I asked after one particularly hammy “Ta ta!”
Travis and Cassie had a hearty chuckle over that one.
“Are you kidding?” Cassie smirked. “Her real name is Joy Woznowski. And she was born in the Bronx. Which I know for a fact because I’ve snooped at her passport.”
Having exposed Joy for the utter phony she was, Cassie swiveled back to her desk, while Travis and I returned to the Web site. Travis was pointing out which bios Joy wanted me to write when suddenly what seemed like a minor
“So what’s going on?” I asked with a nod to the beautiful people. “Is Joy casting models for the brochure?”
“Not exactly.”
He glanced at Joy’s door, as if to make sure she wasn’t listening.
“Remember the date book you saw yesterday? With pictures of Joy’s clients? Well, hardly any of the people in that book are actual clients. Most of them are models or actors. Every once in a while Joy holds a phony casting session, pretending she’s going to shoot a TV commercial. All the models and actors leave their headshots, and then Joy puts them into her date book.”
“No way!”
“That’s how she reels in the new clients,” he nodded.
“What about all her movers and shakers? And her celebrity clients?”
Cassie, who had been listening in, now turned around, guffawing. “Are you kidding? The closest we ever got to a celebrity was when Reese Witherspoon’s maid came looking for Ellman’s Upholsterers next door.”
“My job is to scan the headshots and put them on the Web site,” Travis explained. “And Joy wants you to write phony bios to go along with the pictures.”
“Phony bios? She never told me about that yesterday.”
“There’s lots of things Joy never tells you,” Travis said with a bitter laugh. “Like how she expects you to pick up her dry cleaning on weekends.”
“Or get her Thai food at one in the morning,” Cassie chimed in.
I bristled in annoyance.
If Joy thought I was going to compromise my integrity by writing phony bios to lure in unsuspecting clients, she had another think coming. We Austens have our principles. I’d simply tell her it was no dice.
But then I remembered the stack of unpaid bills multiplying like rabbits on my dining room table.
Oh, well. What harm could it do to write a few teensy bios? After all, surely Joy had some legitimate clients, people whose lives she actually improved.
“So where are Joy’s actual clients?” I asked.
“Here they are,” Travis said, clicking open another file.
Suddenly his computer screen was filled with real human beings, people with thinning hair and thick waists, with noses and breasts that had never seen a surgeon’s knife. All of them smiling into the camera with a look of hopeful desperation in their eyes.
Travis was scrolling from one photo to the next when he stopped at a photo of a truly lovely woman. A fragile wisp of a thing with startling blue eyes and a nimbus of silken blond hair framing a perfectly chiseled Grace Kelly face.
“Who’s she?” I asked, assuming she was a model mistakenly stuck in the Real People file.
“She used to be a client,” Travis said.
“What a beauty.”
“She sure was,” Cassie echoed, swiveling around in her chair and staring down at Travis’s computer screen.
“She dropped out of the club years ago,” Travis said. “But Joy keeps her photo on the site to lure in the new clients.”
We continued scrolling through real clients, uncovering some genuinely attractive daters here and there, but they were few and far between.
Meanwhile, the model/actors continued to stream in and out of Joy’s office, leaving their head shots with Cassie.
“Ta ta!” Joy would trill in her phony British accent as each hopeful left. “I’ll let your agent know as soon as I make up my mind.”
“As if that’s ever going to happen,” Travis muttered.
“I don’t suppose Joy’s really British?” I asked after one particularly hammy “Ta ta!”
Travis and Cassie had a hearty chuckle over that one.
“Are you kidding?” Cassie smirked. “Her real name is Joy Woznowski. And she was born in the Bronx. Which I know for a fact because I’ve snooped at her passport.”
Having exposed Joy for the utter phony she was, Cassie swiveled back to her desk, while Travis and I returned to the Web site. Travis was pointing out which bios Joy wanted me to write when suddenly what seemed like a minor
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