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The Girl Who Cried Wolf

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You know, you get what you deserve, sometimes.

I know that makes me sound like a bitch, but seriously she had it coming to her, and so did the designer for booking her unreliable ass.

That Primadonna never wants to work. I never see her at fittings, but she is always miraculously there for the show. When I first met the girl who cried wolf, I asked another model how come she’s never turned up for fittings.

She rolled her eyes and chuckled. “Ugh, her? She has food poisoning every time.”

“Really, and they fall for that?” I asked.

“No one wants a model to barf in their clothes.”

So when I saw her at an event some nights ago, the night before the fitting of our last event, I asked her about it.

“So, are you heading home soon?” It was 2am and our fitting was at 8.

“Nah, I’m having too much fun. Was going to head over to the party on 6th, Wanna come?”

“Seriously? How are you going to show up at the fitting in the morning?”

She smiled slyly and replied, “Honey, I don’t do fittings.”

The next morning, as promised, she wasn’t there. When I asked one of the assistants where she was, they said she had food poisoning. I was amazed.

So you can image my surprise when I showed up for this fitting and she was there. Had she not partied the night before this time? Nope, it definitely looked like she had. She was sitting in the back, hood over her head, eyes glossed over, but still model-ready.

When it was her turn, she lifted her head up and let out a slight groan. As she stood up for the fitting, she mumbled quietly to the entire room.

“Guys, I don’t feel too good. I think I need to go home.”

The model next to me rolled her eyes, but none of us said a word. We knew the score but were surprised she would go to such lengths.

The fitter stopped and looked at the designer, who sighed in irritation, then replied

“Well, you’re here now. Why don’t we go ahead and get you fitted and then you can be on your merry way.”

She nodded quietly and stood up for their measurements. As the fitter circled around her and the designer stood nearby, her face suddenly turned pale.

“Oh my god, I think she actually is sick!” one girl whispered.

Before I could look away, it happened. Brownish puke spewed all over the designer. As she tried to regain herself, her head turned and she got the fitter as well.

Everyone saw it, and although none of us laughed, we all drank to her misfortune afterwards.

We all stood there, in quiet shock. Was this really, fucking happening? Later that night, we took bets on whether or not we’d be seeing her in the show.

We didn’t.

 

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