“That’s because I had the best plastic surgeon money could buy,” Julia said.

“What was wrong with your old nose?” Dorie asked. “I mean, it couldn’t have been all that bad. You’ve been modeling since you were nineteen.”

“Too ethnic,” Julia said. “I had the Capelli schnoz. And I gotta tell you, the first time my daddy saw me after the surgery, and figured out what I’d done, he was brokenhearted. It really hurt his feelings. But I told him it’s just business. When you’re in this business, your body and your face are your equipment. And you gotta take care of your equipment.”

Dorie sat back down on the bed and leaned against a stack of pillows. “Julia, you keep talking about how you’re too old and your career is over. But I don’t get it. You’re more beautiful than ever. Your skin is great, your body is to die for. Who wouldn’t hire you?”

Julia flashed Dorie a grateful smile. “You’re sweet, Eudora. But you don’t understand my world. I’m thirty-five. The girl on the cover of Elle this month is seventeen. She wears a size zero. If that. And don’t talk to me about Heidi Klum, because she is not the norm. Anyway, I was never Heidi Klum. I was Julia Capelli, who had a couple of lucky breaks and knocked around Europe and did some editorial and runway work. And now, well, that’s all winding down. I look good to you guys because you love me, and you don’t know any better. But it’s okay. Don’t worry about me. I’ll get it figured out. I always do, right?”

Ellis had been concentrating on lacing up the black satin ribbons crisscrossing the corset top. She sucked in her breath and tied the ribbon in a double knot.

“There is so much more to you than just your looks, Julia,” Ellis said. “You’re smart. Really smart. And don’t give me that crap about never going to college. I’m not talking about degrees. You know real stuff. You’ve traveled everywhere, you know art and books and music. You’ve met people! Look at me, I’ve got a degree in finance, but I spent nearly fifteen years locked up in a bank vault—and what did it get me? Fifteen years of hanging out with pencil pushers and bean counters. And now I don’t even have a job.”

“And what about me?” Dorie put in. “I’m ten credit hours away from having a master’s degree in secondary education. I spend my days trying to pound sentence structure into teenage girls who could give a crap. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job, and I love the girls, but a sanitation worker in Savannah makes more money than I do.”

“But you have careers,” Julia said. “And you both have a piece of paper that says you’re smart. And I don’t. I’ll tell you the truth: If it weren’t for the money, which is very, very nice, I wouldn’t care if I never got another modeling job. I even told Booker that the other night. I am so over all of that. But modeling is all I know.”

“No, it’s not,” Ellis said. “You know a lot about lots of stuff.” She picked up the black chiffon skirt and slipped it over her head, then turned with her back to Julia so that she’d zip it up. “What about this?” she said, turning and shaking her hips so that the flounce softly flared. “This skirt is amazing. I’d totally buy something like this, wouldn’t you, Dorie?”

“If they made it in a maternity size,” Dorie said. “What about it, Julia, have you ever thought about designing clothes instead of modeling them?”

Julia shrugged and waved her hand dismissively. “This is just something I like to mess with. Anyway, you don’t know how the industry works. You don’t just buy a bunch of sewing machines and call yourself a fashion designer.”

“But you do know how it works,” Ellis pointed out. “You’ve been around the business since you were a kid. Come on, Julia. Tell the truth, if you could do anything at all with your life, what would it be?”

“You mean when I grow up?” Julia snorted.

“Yes,” Dorie said quietly. “Next week. Next year. What would you be?”

“Hold that thought,” Ellis said, peering into the mirror on the back of Julia’s closet door. She held her arms out. “I can’t wear this, y’all. I’m sorry. But I feel naked in this rig.”

“Here,” Julia said, thrusting a filmy black jacket in her direction. “Put this on. And quit being such a baby.”

Ellis slid her arms into the jacket. It was a nearly sheer, cobwebby fabric, with tight-fitting sleeves that flared gently at the wrists. At least it covered her shoulders. She did a little pirouette. “You think?”

“Absolutely,” Dorie said, applauding. “Perfection. You look amazing.” She turned to Julia. “And you, my friend, are a genius. So how are we going to put all that talent to work?”

Julia took a deep breath. “Well … actually, the job I want isn’t in front of a camera. It’s behind it.”

“You want to be a photographer?” Ellis asked. “I’ve never even seen you with a camera.”

“Not a photographer, a stylist,” Julia said. “A photo stylist.”

“Really?” Dorie asked, starting to apply makeup to Ellis. “What all does that entail?”

“The stylist is the one who’s responsible for the look of a shoot,” Julia said. “She shops for all the props and accessories, fluffs everything and makes it pretty—whether it’s a modeling shoot, or a food or interiors piece. I’ve always loved to mess around with that kind of stuff.”

Ellis lifted her face to allow Dorie to brush mascara onto her lashes. “So do it, already.”

“I’d love to,” Julia said. “But it’s nearly impossible to break into. It’s really competitive. And unfortunately, with print magazines going out of business right and left, the job market sucks right now.”

“Could Booker help you get a job as a photo stylist?” Dorie asked. She was lightly fluffing powder over Ellis’s cheeks.

“Probably.”

Julia leaned in to assess Dorie’s handiwork. She picked up a flat black compact and a long-handled brush and handed it to her. “Excellent. Now put some of this blusher across her cheekbones and contour it just along the edge of her jawline.”

Dorie nodded and went to work. “Have you told Booker you want to be a photo stylist?”

“Noooo,” Julia said, picking up a comb and going to work on Ellis’s hair. “It’s just something I’ve been thinking about. I’d probably have to get a job as a stylist’s assistant first.”

“What does a stylist’s assistant do?” Ellis asked.

“Grunt work,” Julia said. “You make the cappuccino runs, help load and unload the props and equipment, catalog and return the props to the stores where you bought or borrowed them. Nothing glamorous about it. And the pay is shit.”

“And you told me Booker wants you to move back to the States and marry him,” Ellis added. “So tell me something, Julia Capelli. What’s your problem?”

“I don’t know,” Julia admitted. “I wish I did.”

Julia gathered Ellis’s thick straight hair in one hand and picked up a pair of scissors in the other. “Good Lord, Ellis,” she complained. “You’ve been wearing your hair—parted straight down the middle, down to your shoulders—like this since sixth grade. Talk about a rut.”

Ellis looked up in alarm. “You are not going to make me change my hair. I can’t. I just can’t.”

Dorie and Julia exchanged a look.

“Ellie-Belly,” Dorie said plaintively. “Don’t you trust us?”

“No,” Ellis said firmly, taking the scissors away from Julia. “I’ll wear the corset-thingy. I’ll wear the skirt. I’ll even wear this damned pink push-up bra that is poking me in the ribs. But I am not letting her cut my hair. Not. Happening.”

“All right,” Julia said, her expression clearly saying it was not all right. “I’ll do what I can. But at least let me try something new. Okay?”

“No cutting,” Ellis said between her clenched teeth.

“Wimp,” Julia muttered.

“Bitch,” Ellis answered back. But she was grinning. And as Julia gathered her hair at the nape of her neck, twisted, and then expertly pinned it up, she blinked. Between the hair and the makeup, she looked like someone completely different. Like herself, but prettier.