They always tell you that a woman should be treasured for her personality not beauty. Gazing at a beautiful girl deep into her eyes and thinking that you’ve fallen in love rarely happens. People assume just because this gorgeous girl is undeniably beautiful that her personality is beautiful too.
Well it’s not.
In my field of work I come across hundreds of girls every day: ranging from “cute” to “godly”. Back when I was slightly naive I trusted these people, but I soon learnt that the majority of them only care about making it to the top. I know many average looking girls who hide beautiful personalities under their shy smiles, yet they aren’t noticed until someone special takes the time to get to know them.
In the end it’s all about knowing.
I wonder how it would feel to look at someone and immediately know if she’s a bitch or your future soul mate. I wonder what people think of me when they see me? Well I already know the answer to that question- but they don’t know the real me.
The real me used to have an “ugly duckling” personality. That means I never bothered with what others thought, I never tried to impress anyone and I had dangerously low self-esteem levels. Ever since I got the life changing contract three years ago I evolved into a “beautiful swan”. I am made to care what other thought, I am constantly being preened to perfection and I am always being told that I'm a beautiful person. But truly the only good thing that’s come with modelling is buckets loads of new found self esteem.
I joke. Yes I cracked a funny. Get used to my dry humour because my humour is so dry it is like Voldermort’s scalp.
I seriously do enjoy modelling: its fun, I meet some amazing people (minus the fake ones) and have had some amazing experiences because of it. Yet the thing that I hate the most about modelling is everyone assuming that just because I am the new winner of “Hottest Young witch of the year” that I am the absolute shit.
They come up to me rambling “Oh my Merlin I just love you- your so beautiful, kind and amazingly perfect!”
First of all notice how beautiful comes before kind, and intelligence isn’t even mentioned.
Second of all how do they know I’m kind, amazing and perfect? For all they know I could be a massive bitch (although I do pride myself on not being one). Sometimes I want to slap these teenage girls and boys (yes even boys emit high pitch squeals) and scream " you don’t know me!”
But then i come to my sense and realise that i would be sent to Azkaban for publicly assualting innoccent children...even if there where asking for it. However as much as I moan about uber-obsessed fans there are others I equally hate. The “I’m so clever and holier than thou, because I’m a healer/ministry official/academic imbecile and your just a stuck up bitch who’s slapped some makeup on and is ripping off our innocent generation!”
Woah back up there bitches! First of all I am very intelligent. Erm hello ex-Ravenclaw here! I used to be the definition of Hermione Granger. I’ll admit that now I don’t really have time for hardcore academics, but I still read! I cannot express how much I love reading muggle classics, they are amazing! If I am not being harassed by life then you will find me on the sofa, with my dog Phineas, reading.
Secondly, I am not and never will be stuck up. I am a perfectly grounded young women who is constantly told by her parents that “no matter what they say sweetie your just another average girl with an average face, just like us.”
Don’t worry my parents mean the best. This is there way of injecting reality into my high-octane lifestyle.
Fourth: I am not a bitch… ‘nuff said mate.
Fifth point to defend this utter crap: WHAT INNOCENT GENERATION ARE YOU ON ABOUT? Bloody idiots.
Have you seen our generation properly? Yesterday I came across my little sister practically shagging her boyfriend on my sofa. Yeah she’s twenty, but they were on my favourite cream sofa! Have they no decency?
Not to mention my womanizing brother that goes through girls like disposable tissues…be that as it may, he is still the most godamn adorable thing I have ever seen.
My younger brother and sister are twins with the same milk chocolate hair and sparkling hazel eyes. Both Kieran and Keira are extremely cocky, mischievous, loud and immature. Not to mention the biggest pains in my arse since the menstrual cycle.
My older sister however is the epitome of mature, she is already settled down and pregnant with her soon to be husband. As responsible and sensible as Sophia is she has still messed up the traditional order, and had one child and then got pregnant again before planning on getting hitched.
I'm the only normal one in the family… okay that’s utter shit. My lifestyle is extremely hectic yet I still make time to see Kieran, Keira and Sophia because family matters a lot to me. I am always stressed to the point of suicide anytime someone talks to me because of my control freak agent Cathy Karls. That woman is on a mission: a mission to drive me to my early demise before the age of twenty four.
At the moment Cathy is succeeding.
Not to mention I just won another award, which may seem like a pathetic thing to complain about but it means more work and meeting mini versions of Cathy Karls. Cathy seriously needs to get her manicured claws out of my personal life, yet she constantly meddles in my affairs.
People always used to say I was the awkward child which I was. Now however I have perfected the art of the sexily elegant walk especially for modelling shows. I don’t really resemble Kieran, Keira or Sophia a lot. I have dark black waves that fly everywhere, big green eyes and a tall figure. I resemble my Dad rather than my Mum- which angers her because I’m the one who ended up a supermodel. It's quite ironic really since she's the one who's obsessed with fashion.
Take today for example, I am waiting in Cathy’s office for Cathy to arrive. It is highly unusual and an occasion to worry if Cathy Karl’s is ever late. The only time she goes off schedule is if something deadly serious has happened: like her dying.
Cathy’s office is completely white: white chairs, walls, carpet, desk, Wi-comp, Wi-phone, doors and even a white poodle called Benjamin. Frankly, after a while it starts to hurt my eyes and now they’re watering.
“So, so, so, so sorry for the tardiness. You have no idea how busy I’ve been today Arielle darling!” Cathy apologises as she saunters though the door.
IS SHE FRICKIN’ DYING?
OH MERLIN SHE’S NOT DEAD….
I can tell you now that some hardcore shit is about to go down.
“I just had the best idea ever!” she exclaims seating herself on leather pouffe that you guessed it …was white. “You know darling that I was of course in a meeting with Millicent from QB?”
Well who the hell is Millicent from QB?
“Well who the hell is Millicent from QB?” I ask, genuinely curious. It’s okay for me to be very frank and slightly bitchy around Cathy because she’s a bigger bitch herself.
She peers at me from underneath her spectacles and waggles one French manicured wrinkly finger. Yes, before you ask Cathy is fifty years old and practically my adoptive grandmother. “Come on Arielle darling, keep up. Millicent Trunchball is the publicity manager for the Quidditch Board stars of today.”
Quidditch board!? Why is this Quidditch publicity manager muscling up into my life? I sincerely hope it isn’t to make me the face of some Quidditch product because I am absolutely terrible at Quidditch.
“She insists that you be the face of Quality Quidditch supplies new campaign!”
Roll up, roll up. Fifteen sickles only to meet the one and only supermodel seer: Arielle Grace Merle! She can catwalk, she can pose, she can pout and she eats trout. But most of all she can predict the future! Females can pay a lowly fee of a galleon to have our supermodel seer predict their next period, or when they'll next break out in scarring acne!
Remember that shit? Yeah well it’s come down.
“Now I know you are absolutely dismal at Quidditch but then the lovely Millie had another amazing suggestion. Which lactually led to a very interesting idea.”
Oh good ol’ Millie! Let’s throw a bloody tea party for Mills and her amazing suggestions.
Cathy’s previously dull grey eyes have suddenly lit up. Cathy’s eyes lighting up is nearly as bad as a sign as her being late. It almost seems as if the real reason she was late is about to be revealed. If it’s not signing up to my early death then what is it?
“She wants to do a little publicity stunt-a-bob…” Cathy trails off guilty, whilst twirling her snowy white hair.
RED ALERT, RED ALERT, RED ALERT. MAYDAY. ABORT MISSION SOLDIER. I REPEAT ABORT MISSION. EVACUATE PREMISES IMMEDIATLY
THAT’S THREE SIGNS.
1.) Cathy was late
2.) She’s actually excited about something (she’s usually a bitter old hag)
3.) She’s physically scared to speak. Cathy is NEVER nervous. She is many things: blunt, controlling, obsessive, gossipy, bitchy, rude but never nervous
“C’mon Cathy you know I have a shoot in a few minutes so just spill!” I impatiently say.
“Okay well Millie suggested and I sort of…agreed with her. We want you to fake date a Quidditch player for a while to raise your publicity profile in the eyes of the adoring public?”
I gaped at her. Remember that shit which was meant to go down? Yes, well it turns out it was more than shit they were little fucks. These fucks have now come down and blown up in my gaping face, and sealed my fate of a young death.
“I know how much you hate arrogant Quidditch celebrities’ sweetums.”
“I know that you have a problem in any intimate relationship with the opposite sex.”
Hey! Okay…DAMN RIGHT.
“I know that fake dating a man, who earns his living by throwing a ball through an oversized hoop, is going against all of your morals.”
“But Mills and I have already signed the contract and her chosen Quidditch player had already agreed to the conditions.”
“You’ve actually lost it,” I stated. “I think all this white bullshit is finally getting to your head or maybe Benjamin has bitten you and transferred his rabies-” I stop to glare at the fluffy poodle cowering in the corner “- but there is no way in hell that I will do this.”
Her nervous expression is now replaced with steely determination. Ah there’s the Cathy Karls I know and love!
“I am your agent.” She begins in a cold voice that would’ve made Voldermort cower in fear. “I have been your agent for all three years of your career. I took you from being unknown to the most known and wanted woman at the moment. You turned down that photo shoot yesterday for wand-work and you haven’t been in a bloody proper relationship for exactly two years.”
Dammit I knew she’d bring up the wand-work crap into this. “Wand-work” was a very erm…disturbing magazine that lonely teenage boys read. Do you see the play on words? “Wand-work” as in your ahem other…wand? Truthfully I don’t think Cathy wanted me to do it, but work is work. As a model you cannot afford to say no to a job.
…Unless you’re me. I can afford it and it’s exactly what I did, the outfits where way too raunchy and revealing. I have bloody standards you know!
The relationship part is totally not my fault. My first serious boyfriend and me where doing great until I became insanely famous. It drove him away. When I say drove I mean it in the most literal sense. One day he packed his suitcase, hopped in his Ford Fiesta, and drove off. Ever since then I haven’t had the time or patience for relationships but Cathy doesn’t get that.
“I mean do you know what Witching Hour
wrote about you last week?” Cathy exclaims.
Oh Witching Hour. More like Bitching hour. They print all sorts of crap about celebrities which can emotionally damage you, so I tend to avoid reading it.
“They said you were emotionally instable, have commitment issues and are probably carrying some sort of STD because you never date anybody at all!”
“NO WAY!” I furiously yell.
“YES WAY!” Cathy yells back. “This cannot carry on. People have already started to believe these rumours, and soon enough your career will be in tatters faster than you can say I heart Quidditch players.”
I HEART QUIDDITCH PLAYERS?
“IheartQuidditchplayers, IheartQuidditchplayers, IheartQuiddicthplayers” I quickly mutter- trying to see how fast I can say it.
“That’s the spirit love I knew you would soon!” Cathy grins, showing off blindingly white teeth.
That conniving bitch
“You conniving bitch!”
She gives me a glare that clearly says “Shuddup we both know you would’ve gotten nowhere if I wasn’t a conniving bitch.”
“I have already acquired your Mother’s signature who said, and I quote: “my daughter is going to get to touch a Quidditch player’s abs!” You see Arielle darling, being associated with a top athlete can only bring you more fame, modelling jobs and in turn money. So all we need you to do is abide by the damn contract and date him. Or your career will soon be in shred because of your “commitment issues”.
Not to mention i could legally take you to court.”
If you’re wondering why I am legally obliged to follow this contract when I haven’t signed it I shall explain. Back when I was a young inexperienced girl, first entering the tough world of modelling, I knew nothing about business. I was clueless about what jobs I should take and how to publicise myself. Until Cathy suggested I should sign a contract allowing her to sign me up for various shows and manage my career, until I was wise enough to make my own decisions. I was rather dubious about the whole idea but my Mother thought it was pure genius. She only asked that Cathy wouldn’t be able to sign me up for anything big without her permission. I naively thought this made everything dandy and my mother and Cathy would use their power over my life sensibly.
WORST DECISION I HAVE EVER MADE.
The contract lasts for four bleedin' years.
I soon realised I hate being micro-managed by my OCD agent, but such is my life that I can only sit here and moan.
If you think Cathy’s bad you should meet my mother. The woman is clinically insane so she and Cathy get on very well. I mean what kind of normal mother wants to see her daughter sign away her life in a fake relationship with an arsehole? Screw that, what kind of perverted married woman talks about a boy who could be her son like that?
Patricia Merle does.
In fact you might as well hire a wedding planner as good ol’ Patricia doesn’t do anything halfass- she runs the full mile. That is actually why she owns such as successful clothes business from nil.
“Can I have some time to think about this?” I question, even though we both know I’m going to go sulk about how I cannot change anything. She sighs and rolls her beady eyes.
Rummaging through her white tote she pulls out a thick document and hands it to me. “Here is the contract for you to read over but remember nothing you say or do will change our mind. We’ve already signed on your behalf.”
Rising out of the comfortable chair, I pathetically sigh and walk toward the door. Whilst slowly opening the white maple wood door, I resign myself to the fact that life is out to get me and I might as well just date this Quidditch player instead of causing a fuss. Just as I’m about to close the door I suddenly remember something and turn around. “Cathy, who is the famous Quidditch player I’m being forced to date?”
“James Potter,” she cheerfully replies, whist beaming at me with a full set of shining teeth.
I promptly faint.
Hola Amigos! I have finally plucked up the courage to post something on HPFF :D
I really hope you enjoyed this chapter because life for Arielle is 'bout get tres interessant ;) I know my writing skills aren't very good and have a lot of room for improvement so if you guys could help me by leaving a lovely review with any constructive criticism that would be AH-MAZ-ING. I hope to improve with your help!
Au revoir mes amies :)
Disclaimer: Sadly i am not and never will be Jk. Rowling so anything you recognize is hers and most definitely not mine. I only own silly Arielle, cucko Cathy and the rest of the other crazies. Cryyyyy :'(