The world judges you by the size of your bank account; but God judges you by the size of your heart.
So the lady keeps emphasizing throughout the house interview with the TV crew I was with. I catch Micholl rolling his eyes slightly as he adjusted the lady's hair from behind her. He sees me looking at him and tries to hide a cheeky grin with his hand.
I rest my arm on a gold, Versace-clothed antique chair and shift my weight from one leg to another, careful not to knock over the porcelain flowers sticking out of a gold-trimmed, hand-painted vase right next to me.
I don't know about the size of this lady's heart, but her bank account has to be about the size of China for her to afford all these extravagance in her house.
Louis Vuitton bedsheets and curtains for her daughter who's studying in Holland (thus the luscious sheets remain unused), Burberry clothes and nursery room for her 10-month-old son (who's a wide-eyed darling in his adorable Burberry-checkered pants), at least 6 humongous oil paintings of her in glamorous poses scattered throughout the living room, an unsmiling bodyguard and personal assistant clad in impeccable Burberry suits, a make-up artist and female companion constantly at her beck and call.
There is no doubt she has enough money to feed a small nation, but the way she was displaying it while feigning humility is... crass, to put it politely.
And even though we were there to do a TV interview with her on how she became the CEO of a successful beauty product company, I was more intrigued by how she changed her shoes thrice in a span of 20 minutes (YSL, LV and YSL again).
Until she asked her assistant to bring out an armload of portfolio files and painstakingly went through every news clipping/magazine feature that has a mention of her name or a sliver of her heavily made-up face on them. I swallowed a groan and stepped outside for a breather instead. I sat down at the front steps facing this ridiculously long limousine and stretched my arms, sighing audibly. It's been a very long two days of filming and travelling, and even with the best efforts we were still way behind schedule.
Are you tired, Cindy? Micholl came up from behind me and gave my shoulder a squeeze.
A little, I managed a weak smile. But it's not a problem. It's
hard labor work.
He tilted his head toward me sympathetically. I couldn't get past how immaculate his foundation is all the time, and how his eyelashes are always perfectly curled. I resisted the urge to ask which mascara brand he uses.
The director yelled for Micholl from inside. He gave me one of his trademark big grins and bounced off to the shooting area, flashing me a glimpse of his lacy hot pink undies from the top of his low-waist skinny black jeans. I let out a chuckle despite myself.
And away from the chaotic filming action, I'm left alone with my own thoughts, wondering for the millionth time if this job is what I really wanted in the first place.
But that's juz extreme fatigue talking. I know I'll be fine after this assignment is over and I don't need to get home at an ungodly hour anymore.
Until the next assignment comes at the end of this month and bowls me over with regret for ever joining this company.
