Free Claire Voyant by Saralee Rosenberg Page B

CERTAINLY LEARNING A VALUABLE LESSON. N EVER TRUST A DAY that started out like any other, ’cause faster than you could say “I’m screwed,” your plane of existence could be thrust into a graveyard spiral that left you disoriented and desperate for a view of the horizon line.
    This little epiphany occurred, not on my doomed flight, but while sipping lemonade on a sun-drenched deck overlooking the majestic Biscayne Bay. For given the inane discussion I was having with the great Raphael de Miro, who to my amazement was only slightly older than me, I felt like I was flying through a dark haze without an instrument panel to save me from the crash and burn.
    After he thanked me for being so good to his family’s beloved champion, Abe, and made polite chitchat about my work experiences in L.A., our conversation began to tailspin, and nothing I said could make it fly right.
    Boy Wonder knew I had come all this way to land a body double job, yet he was pressing me on my culinary skills. Was I familiar with Thai cooking? Could I tell the difference between cumin and cilantro? Did I prefer hand chopping to food processors?
    â€œTo be perfectly honest, Mr. De Niro, recipes are like science fiction to me. I get to the end and think, well now that’s never going to happen.”
    â€œde Miro.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œYou called me Mr. De Niro. Like Bobby. It’s de Miro.”
    â€œOops. Sorry. Typical me. One-track mind. Always thinking about the business.”
    â€œSo you’re saying you don’t enjoy cooking.” His wiry fingers tap-danced on the table.
    â€œI’m saying my idea of the perfect house is six bathrooms, no kitchen.”
    â€œCan you at least operate a microwave?” he sniffed.
    â€œOf course. But my real strength is vending machines.”
    Jeez. Not even a smile. What made him Lord of the Lens? I was expecting a guy ready to be brought to pasture, not someone in his early thirties. A man who towered over his subjects, not came up to their waists. No wonder he was hiding in Miami.
    â€œDo you know anything about photography?” He spooned out a lemon pit from his glass.
    â€œI know that I miss Fotomat. Oh, and the disposables just came out in digital.”
    Raphael’s left eye twitched. “Are you familiar with various procedures such as—”
    â€œAll of them…liposuction, chemical peels, quadruple thigh passes…”
    Now he stared at me as if I’d just arrived from planet Zoloft. “I meant are you familiar with basic accounting procedures, word processing programs—”
    â€œNo. But I can IM six people at one time without screwing up a single conversation.”
    â€œYou’re not even remotely qualified for an office management position?”
    â€œThat’s what I’m saying.”
    â€œI’ll offer you twenty-five thousand to start.”
    â€œNo way. I could spend more than that on shoes.”
    â€œMay I remind you that you have no qualifications?”
    â€œMay I remind you that I came here to do some test shots…and to get rid of this wedgie?”
    Finally a smile. “I admire your chutzpah, Claire. And you obviously know the business. I’m thinking Pablo could teach you the rest.”
    â€œAnd I’m thinking, when did I lose control of this go-see? All I wanted to do was make a few bucks modeling, and instead I’m sitting here defending myself because I didn’t train with Emeril.”
    â€œI won’t lie. You’re a beautiful girl. Stunning, actually. Just not body double material.”
    â€œLet me guess. I’m too old.”
    â€œNo. Too thin.”
    â€œWell, now, there’s something you don’t hear at a modeling agency every day. Too thin?”
    â€œYour arms have no definition, you have this little nothing tuchas, I can’t tell about your thighs yet, but your shoulders are bony—”
    â€œThat’s my