OUTRAGEOUS: PART TWO
Vickie Lynn is on her way to becoming Anna Nicole. One photo shoot at a time.
EPISODE TWO: WORKING GIRL
Facing non-stop rejection, Vickie struggles to hold on to her dream of becoming a model and actress in Houston. She has Marshall’s adoration, sure, but she refuses to marry him until she makes a name for herself first. When Playboy comes to town, Vickie sees the test shoot as a last ditch effort to launch her career. She’s willing to give it a shot, if she can just work up the courage to take off her top. Vickie’s not ready for her dreams to die yet.
HOUSTON 1992
Vickie, 24, sits in the driver’s seat of her Toyota Celica and teases her hair.
“I’m gonna be a famous model,” Vickie affirms in front of her visor mirror. “I’m gonna be a world-famous model.”
Vickie taps a photo of Daniel on the dash before she exits the car.
“Wish me luck, pumpkin,” Vickie says.
She strides inside and finds a seat in the drab waiting room.
The casting agent finally calls her name. She rises to meet him and he eyes her up and down.
“So Vickie, would you say you love fashion?” he asks her in his office.
“Yes, sir,” Vickie says. “I’ve always wanted to be a fashion model--”
“Who is your favorite designer right now?” he asks.
Vickie freezes, unsure of what to say.
“Favorite Fall ‘91 collection?” he asks.
Vickie tries to answer but the words don’t come…
“We’ve casted the best fashion gigs in Houston, Dallas, Austin and San Antonio for the last 17 years,” he says. “Fashion forward models are our preference. Not Walmart fashion.”
Back in the Celica, Vickie breathes deep to fight tears. She speeds over to the next agency.
We see her inside a new office. She stands in front of a plain backdrop and poses.
“You have such a beautiful face,” a new casting director says as he snaps photos.
“I just love pictures,” Vickie says. “Portraits. Photography. All of it.”
“Ok, remove the top,” the new casting director says. “You can keep the bra.”
Surprised, Vickie removes her top but brings her hands to her tummy.
“We need to see your stomach,” he tells her. He bats her hands away from her midriff.
But once he does, he stops snapping away.
“Have you ever thought about losing 25, 35, 40 pounds?” he asks her. “50?”
Back in the Celica, Vickie cleans smeared mascara off her face and hurries to the next agency.
She cleans herself up and pats Daniel’s photo for luck again.
“Dear Lord,” Vickie prays. “Please give us a break.”
Inside, a plus-size woman walks around Vickie in circles and inspects her top to bottom.
“You’re too blonde, that’s the problem,” she tells Vickie. “Most fake blondes are vulgar and most natural blondes are ugly. A real Catch-22.”
The woman bores through Vickie with her eyes.
“Chestnut or deep berry,” she tells Vickie. “You’ve got to dye your hair. Those are your colors.”
“So if I color my hair, you’re gonna sign me?” Vickie asks excitedly.
“Dye it and we’ll see,” she tells Vickie.
Vickie sighs.
“And about your weight problem. I don’t think you should weigh more than 125,” she tells Vickie.
“But I weigh 140,” Vickie says. “I mean, 155 to tell the truth.”
The woman sticks her nose up at this number. Shakes her head, “No.”
TITLE CARD: OUTRAGEOUS
At home that night, Vickie complains to Daniel, 5, as she ladles him macaroni & cheese.
“You’re lucky you’re a boy. They let boys eat,” Vickie tells Daniel. He digs into his dinner.
“I’m not good at starving myself, believe me I’ve tried,” Vickie says. “Everyone told me I looked great until my hair started falling out and I cracked my head open fainting.”
Daniel nods his head like he understands. Keep eating.
After dinner, Daniel sleeps with Vickie in the living room.
Vickie stares at the wall -- not just any wall -- her very own Marilyn Monroe wall. Dozens of framed photos and collages of clippings from fan magazines.
“A kiss may be grand, but it won't pay the rental, on your humble flat, or help you at the automat,” Vickie whisper sings.
Quoting Marilyn is her version of doing the rosary -- a repetitious, transcendental meditation.
“Men grow cold, as girls grow old, and we all lose our charms in the end. But square-cut or pear-shaped, these rocks don't lose their shape, diamonds are a girl's best friend” she sings.
“How did you do it?” Vickie asks the wall.
Marilyn stares back at her. Vickie fixates on a particularly glamorous photo of Marilyn.
“I wish you would tell me exactly what to do to make my dreams come true,” Vickie says.
She closes her eyes.
We cut to a booth at Red Lobster. Dressed in her waitress uniform, Vickie sits with Marshall.
“I can’t keep going in there and feeling like the little girl nobody wanted to kiss. It’s torture,” Vickie says. “My whole life everyone tells me I’d be great if I could just lose weight, well I can’t.”
Vickie reaches for a cheddar bay biscuit and butters it.
“First, I’m too fat to be lovable. Then beautiful. Now, I’m too fat to be successful?” Vickie asks. “I’m a size six. I didn’t realize Porky Pig wore a size six.”
Marshall listens to her intently. We feel Vickie’s disappointment.
“You know I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the entire world,” Marshall says. “Head to toe, inside and out.”
Anna pecks his cheek.
“I know you want more time with Daniel, and more resources, which is why I hope you’ll really consider this time. Will you marry me?” Marshall asks. “Please?”
Anna laughs.
“I’d get on one knee if I could. You know I want to marry you and adopt Daniel, hell, I would adopt you if I could,” Marshall says.
“One day Paw-Paw,” Vickie says. “But they’ll call me a gold digger if I don’t make a name for myself first.”
Another waitress approaches their table in a huff.
“Vickie, you’re not here to have dinner,” the waitress says. “Your other tables are waiting for you.”
Marshall kisses Vickie’s hand and watches her get back to work. Dreaming of his bride...
We cut to Vickie center stage during the afternoon shift at Gigi’s strip club.
She shakes her body in a bikini and locks eyes with every age, size and race of male customer.
This sure isn’t Magic City! Vickie moves slowly. No pole tricks here. Languid. It’s all in her eyes.
Guys toss money at her every now and then. Nothing crazy, but the money keeps her smile genuine on stage.
Finally, she changes backstage and scurries out of the club at dusk. A big truck waits for her.
Vickie jumps in and leans across to kiss the driver -- a big, buff bodybuilder with icy blonde hair.
“Hi baby,” Vickie says. “Thanks for coming to get me.”
He strokes her thigh.
“I know how you can thank me,” he teases.
Back at her place, Vickie and him fuck in the pitch-black living room. Their bodies clap. He cums.
We hear him knock into something and stub his toe.
“Ow, shit,” he says.
Vickie stands, dressed in a big t-shirt, and flips the light on.
He stumbles to her bathroom and pees with the door open.
“You must be the only stripper who insists on making love in a t-shirt in the dark,” he calls out.
“Is that what we were doing?” Vickie calls back. “Making love? You love me?”
He comes out, towel around his hips, and kisses her.
“I want you in broad daylight,” he says. “Somewhere where everyone can see us.”
He sits down and she straddles him.
“I get shy,” Vickie says. “Deep down, I’m shy.”
“I don’t think you’re shy,” he says. “I think you get off on playing shy.”
“I am shy,” she says.
“I’ll never forget the way you walked up to me and just grabbed me,” he says. “Breathed into my ear, kissed my neck, sucked on my tongue.”
“I was drunk,” she says. “And I needed some.”
“You’re not shy,” he says. “You’re everything.”
They resume their make out.
We cut to the next morning. Vickie lays next to him as he reads the paper.
“Playboy’s coming to town,” he says. He reads the clip aloud:
“PLAYBOY MAGAZINE IS COMING TO HOUSTON! DROP BY OUR OPEN CASTING THIS WEEKEND FOR YOUR CHANCE TO APPEAR IN THE MAGAZINE. MUST BE OK W/ NUDITY.”
“What do you think?” he asks her.
“Are you nuts?” she asks. “I could never do that.”
“Do what?” he asks.
“Take pictures without clothes on,” Vickie says. “You know how many girls are gonna show up?”
“You dance without clothes on,” he says.
“No, I dance topless,” Vickie says. “It’s different. Believe me. Besides, I already told the photographer ‘No.’”
He leaps out of bed, scantily clad in his tiniest boxers.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he asks her. “The photographer called you? I’m gonna kill him.”
“Her,” Vickie says. “I don’t know if she’s the photographer or not. Some Playboy chick. Mo.”
“That doesn’t sound like a girl’s name,” he says.
Anna shrugs.
“You have to go,” he says. “C’mon.”
He stares at her, pleading with her to agree. She withdraws even more.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself you miss out on your dream,” he tells her. “Every time we go to the Piggly Wiggly you start asking if I think you’re pretty enough to be on the cover of a magazine. I’m always saying yes. Why not go ask the experts?”
“They might say no,” Vickie tells him.
Blackout.
We resume on the day of the casting, Vickie lays on the couch with an icepack on her head.
She stares at her Marilyn wall.
“Is this how Norma Jeane became Marilyn Monroe?” Vickie asks her Marilyn wall. “Is this your answer to my prayer?”
The body builder barrels in, interrupts her moment with Marilyn.
“If you want me to drive you, we’re leaving in 15 minutes. I’m not gonna tell you what to do but, please don’t sit here feelin’ sorry for yourself,'' her boyfriend warns. Ever the motivator…
“What if it’s just a bunch of perverts?” she asks.
“It’s legit,” he says. “I heard about it on the radio too. They’ve got girls driving in from all over Texas.”
“What if they’re mean to me?” she asks.
“I’ll wait in my trunk and come break their necks if I need to,” he assures her.
He flexes his right bicep.
“I meant the girls,” Vickie says.
She stomps over to the closet and slips into jeans. Gathers her hair up in a ponytail.
“K, I’m ready,” Vickie says.
“Aren’t you gonna put a little makeup on?” he asks. “Lipstick? ”
“I hate makeup. It feels like dirt on my face,” Vickie says. “Besides, I'm too tall to wear heels.”
We cut to Vickie at a convention center in downtown Houston. Sneakers it is!
She lingers outside and watches small groups of dolled-up women make their way inside.
Finally, one lady holds the door open for her.
“You coming?” she asks Vickie.
“Oh, uh, sure,” Vickie stammers.
Inside, the magnitude of the production engulfs and overwhelms Vickie -- music pumping through overhead speakers, 1000 women fraternizing, various perfumes combining into quite the scent.
Vickie overhears bits of what other women are saying:
“I drove 32 hours to be here today,” one hopeful tells another.
“Who wouldn’t want a job where you make $25K per day?” another model says.
“This is on my bucket list,” yet another model explains. “That’s a list of stuff that’s important for you to experience before you die.”
Vickie finally finds check-in, fills out her paperwork and shows two IDs to prove she’s of age.
“You’re all set,” an assistant tells her. “Just wait ‘till we call your number, about an hour or so.”
Vickie sits down near other hopefuls but can’t take it. Squirms. Fidgets. She feels like everyone's watching her every move in this Playboy panopticon.
Every chance she can, Vickie steals glances at other women’s bodies. Up and down.
Vickie leaps up and paces around, looking for somewhere to hide. She finds a restroom.
Vickie crinkles her nose. It smells even worse here than out there.
“Sorry I blew this place up,” a busty blonde says. “These castings always make me gotta go.”
“They just make me wanna go home,” Vickie jokes.
“I think there’s more people here than my high school and my college combined,” the lady says.
“Same,” Vickie says. “Well, high school...”
Vickie watches her adjust her tube top and hot pants -- so unabashed.
“Good luck,” she tells Vickie before she heads out.
“Thank you,” Vickie says. “You too!”
Alone in the mirror, Vickie lifts up her top, pulls down her pants a bit and pinches her fat. Hard.
When she realizes she may be leaving marks, she stops and tries to rub them away.
Her body is a perfect coke bottle -- milky white Marilyn curves -- but when we see into the mirror from Vickie’s own perspective, we see her how she sees herself -- gargantuan and grotesque.
The dysmorphia is real.
We cut to Anna in the generic photo studio erected in one corner of the convention hall.
She stands in black lingerie and someone from Playboy hands her a silk robe.
She slips it on and waits her turn. Shakes her foot nervously.
A producer peaks out and brings her deeper inside the studio space.
“I’m Jeff, I’m the executive producer of the casting calls,” he says. “You can say I wear a lot of different hats here. Or in this case, bunny ears.”
Anna tries to giggle but can’t make a sound.
She finds her mark in front of the tan background and lifts up her name card. Shaking in place.
“Ok, now drop the robe,” Jeff instructs her. “And we’ll shoot you in lingerie first.”
Vickie tenses up, loses the robe and poses awkwardly in lingerie. Snap. Snap. Snap.
The all-male photo team exchanges looks with each other. Unimpressed.
“Now onto nude,” Jeff calls out. “Just work it, have fun! Imagine that centerfold.”
Vickie hesitates, but snaps her clothes off and throws them aside.
When she stops looking at him and starts gazing into the camera, her body relaxes.
The photographer snaps four Polaroids -- a couple closeups and a couple full-body shots.
Vickie’s eyes make love to his lens.
“OK, that’s a wrap,” Jeff says. “Thanks so much. We’ll let you know if you make the magazine or one of our specialty issue pictorials.”
“It’s over already?” Vickie asks, waking up from her dream.
Four days later, Vickie and Daniel watch Barney together in their living room.
“I love you, you love me, we’re a happy family,” Vickie and Daniel sing together.
The phone rings.
Anna picks up and the screen splits. We see the tan, middle-aged blonde woman on the line.
“Hi Vickie, this is Mo. Marilyn Grabowski from Playboy again.I’m calling because I saw your Polaroids from Houston,” Grabowski says. “I’m so glad you turned up to the casting.”
“Oh my gosh, ok,” Vickie says. “I didn’t think I’d actually hear from you again.”
“I’ve spoken to Hef and we’ve selected you for the March 1992 cover,” Grabowski says.
“The cover?!” Vickie shrieks. “Of PLAYBOY?!”
“Yes,” Grabowski says. “That is, if you’re available to travel next week. We’ll do the booking, but you’ll need to come to us in Los Angeles for the shoot.”
“Los Angeles?” Vickie asks. Eyes wide, mouth agape. “Are you for real?”
“So are you available for next week?” Grabowski asks.
“Yes ma'am,” Vickie croaks. “Yes ma'am, I’ll be there! Thank you Marilyn. Thank you so much.”
“You can call me Mo,” Grabowski says. “Everyone does.”
“Can I call you Marilyn ma’am?” Vickie asks. “It’s my favorite name.”
“Well, it’s actually my name. Unlike Norma Jean,” Grabowski cracks. “Call me whatever you want as long as you show up to your shoot. Talk soon.”
She hangs up.
Vickie gets off the phone and scoops Daniel into her arms.
“Your mommy’s a model!” Vickie coos. “It’s finally happening!”
Daniel claps and celebrates with her.
“Out of all those gal dang girls, they picked ME!” Vickie tells Daniel.
She puts him on the floor and turns on the radio so they can boogie.
“Mommy’s going to Hollywood!” Vickie says. “This is just like one of those special episodes of a TV show when they go to LA.”
We cut back to the Playboy offices in LA. Grabowski sits at her desk, male colleagues all around.
A photographer cleans his camera lens as he peers down at Vickie’s gorgeous Polaroids.
“I still think she’s too big to be in Playboy. The face is great, the tits are great, but her body needs work,” he tells Marilyn.
“Vickie Lynn is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen without makeup. Even prettier than Sharon Stone, who's now officially the second most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen without makeup.” Grabowski says loudly. “Don’t you dare mention her weight when she’s here next week!”
“I just mean, she could stand to lose a few pounds, for her own health,” he continues.
Grabowski wacks his arm with a rolled up copy of Playboy.
“I’m the photo editor, ok? I’ve selected the centerfold models since 1964. Just let me do my job,” Grabowski cracks.
The next day, Vickie holds Sandi’s hand as they shop at a drugstore.
“You gotta drop me off real early. I want to be at the airport as long as possible, so I can stare at everyone going off on their trips,” Vickie tells Sandi.
Vickie picks out travel-sized toiletries.
“I’ve always wanted to buy these,” Vickie says. “They’re so cute. Papa said to get as many as I want.”
Sandi rolls her eyes at the mention of Vickie’s other lover.
“I’m way too paranoid to fly. It’s scary,” Sandi says.
“I’m not afraid to fly,” Vickie says.
“How do you know? You’ve never even been on a flight,” Sandi says.
“I just know,” Vickie says.
Vickie pokes around to make sure nobody sees them, then gives Sandi a little kiss.
“I hope you come back,” Sandi says.
“Of course I’m comin’ back,” Vickie says. “Even though I hear there’s unlimited room service at the mansion.”
They laugh. Together. But Sandi’s uncertainty creeps up…
“Don’t sleep with him,” Sandi says. “Ok?”
“Who?” Vickie teases.
Sandi doesn’t find her funny. At this moment, at least.
“He’s got a wife and kids that live there,” Vickie says. “Besides, I’m not interested.”
At the airport, Vickie hurries through the jet bridge but hesitates before crossing into the plane.
“That’s kinda scary,” Vickie tells the stewardess.
The stewardess offers her hand and Vickie takes it.
“Welcome aboard,” she tells Vickie.
Upon landing in LA, Vickie finds the driver holding a placard with her name on it: Vickie Smith.
We see the Westside through her eyes as the driver takes the scenic route to Beverly Hills:
The Pacific Ocean, Santa Monica Pier, Rodeo Drive, Beverly Gardens Park with the BH sign.
She snaps photos out the window with a disposable Fujifilm as they drive.
“Do you want me to pull over and take your picture?” the driver asks.
“No, thank you,” Vickie says. “I take my best pictures on these throwaway cameras. I’m gonna show my son LA.”
Outside the Playboy Mansion, Vickie marvels at the grounds.
“This is like a park,” Vickie says. “Every yard in this neighborhood is like a park.”
“It’s a zoo too,” the driver says. “Besides the bunnies.”
Vickie follows him into the house and another staffer escorts her to her room.
Inside her room, Vickie enjoys a quiet bubble bath then orders a burger, fries and milkshake.
She eats in bed. Shakes the crumbs off her comforter. She’s Marie Antoinette at Versaille.
Then walks her plate down to the kitchen.
“Thank you so much,” Vickie tells the chef.
“My pleasure,” he tells her. “There’s more fries if you’d like.”
She nods her head, “Sure.”
“Is that seasoning salt on there?” Vickie asks him.
“Hef loves Lawry’s,” the chef tells her.
“Vickie, you can use the intercom to order,” a staffer tells her. “And if you leave your dishes in the hallway, someone will grab them.”
“That’s alright,” Vickie says. “I’m all alone up there anyway. I’m not used to being alone. Or having free time.”
“Mr. Hefner is excited for your dinner tonight,” the chef says. “Tony Curtis will be here too.”
“Tony Curtis?!” Vickie exclaims. She’s smacked with the idea of star power. You’d think he said Michael Jackson. Or Brad Pitt.
That night, Vickie saunters down the staircase for dinner in her movie-star best.
She sees Hef alone at the big table.
“Hello,” Hef says. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. I’m sorry I was at the studio in Santa Monica when you arrived.”
“No problem,” Vickie says. Basically bowing to him. “Thank you for having me.”
Tony Curtis takes his seat at the table.
“How many bathrooms do you have in here anyway?” Curtis asks. “That one needs a lightbulb.”
“21,” Hef answers.
“Pleased to meet you,” Curtis tells Vickie. “I’m Tony.”
“Yes, Mr. Curtis, I know who you are,” Vickie says. “I’m a big fan.”
“Did Hef pay you to say that?” Curtis jokes.
Vickie shakes her head, “No.”
They feast on lamb chops, baked potatoes, salad and more.
As the staff clears plates, Hef smokes his pipe and Curtis doodles on a napkin.
“I’m sorry, but I have to ask,” Vickie says. “How was working with Marilyn?”
“Lousy,” Curtis says.
He sees Vickie’s stunned.
“I’m just kidding,” he says. “She was great. The first time I kissed her, she still had red hair and a ponytail. I knew her even before Hef did.”
Hef nods.
“She was your first Playmate, right?” Vickie asks Hef.
“Our first issue was her first magazine cover,” Hef tells Vickie. “But we called her our ‘Sweetheart of the Month.’ We didn’t have Playmates yet.”
“Did you like working with her?” Vickie asks.
“Yeah, or was it lousy?” Curtis jokes. “Was she a real bitch?”
Vickie almost chokes on her food.
“We never met,” Hef admits. “I just published the pictures.”
Curtis slides Vickie his napkin drawing. Addressed to her. Signed by him. It’s hard to tell if he’s charming or lecherous. Both at once.
“Thank you very much,” Vickie says. In total awe.
The next day, Vickie has breakfast with Hef, Grabowski and a few other models. All the girls hold forks or spoons, but Vickie is the only one who actually eats.
Grabowski shows Vickie mood boards full of high-society women. Lots of pearls.
“Your cover is part of a larger pictorial called ‘Society Darlings,’” Hef explains. “The story is all about real debutantes coming out as Playboy models.”
“Sort of satirizing the whole debutante ball thing,” Grabowski continues.
“Buttoned up no longer,” Hef jokes.
“One girl’s grandfather is the colonial who bought Nantucket Island. Another is the granddaughter of Hong Kong Harbor’s greatest shipping magnate. We’re gonna put her in a speedboat, steering nude,” Grabowski says.
“Did you happen to catch the ‘Confessions of a Young WASP’ story in New York Magazine?” Hef asks.
“Hmmm,” Vickie says. “I missed that one. I don’t know if we have that magazine in Texas.”
Grabowski chuckles.
“How do you feel about being our queen debutante?” Hef asks Vickie.
“I’m sorry, I’m so excited about everything, but --” Vickie says. “I never meant to lie. I want to be clear. Maybe you confused me with another girl. There were so many. I’m trash from nowhere.”
“Oh --” Grabowski starts.
“My parents work a lot but don’t have money,” Vickie says. “Me too, really.”
“Honey, you’re perfect,” Hef says.
“We just wanted to brief you on the creative,” Grabowski says. “You’re so gorgeous, you don’t need to be a debutante.”
Vickie relaxes.
“Tomorrow is all about you,” Hef says. “It doesn’t matter how much money you have, you look like a million bucks.”
Hef rises from the table and kisses her cheek.
“I’m off to the kid’s school with Kimberly,” Hef says. “Imagine that.”
Hef winks and heads out.
Vickie sips her orange juice and kicks her feet up on the table.
“So y’all think I gotta rich-looking face?” Vickie asks Grabowski. “Y’all think I’m a debutante?”
Vickie feigns the confidence of a movie star. Or a mob boss.
Grabowski nods “yes,” soaking in her charisma, and they crack up. Loud, happy laughter.
In hair and makeup the next day, Vickie keeps opening her eyes during eyeliner application.
“Sorry, I just like to watch,” Vickie says. “Because you do it so good.”
A stylist walks in with an emerald gown with gold lace around the cleavage.
“I’m gonna help you get into this when you’re done,” the stylist says.
“What? That’s what I get to wear?” Vickie asks. “I thought I had to be naked!”
The stylist shakes her head “no.”
“You can’t put naked women on the covers of magazines in America, at least not yet,” she says.
“That’s not even a princess dress, it’s a queen’s dress,” Vickie says.
“A goddess’ dress,” the stylist says.
Vickie falls in love. With a dress. And how it makes her feel.
Later, changed into the dress, Vickie runs her hands along her curves.
“Hands out and I’ll put your gloves on you,” the stylist says.
She shimmies Vickie’s hands into long, golden gloves.
“I could get used to this,” Vickie says.
The stylist drapes pearls over Vickie’s neck then hands her gold opera glasses.
“These look like something a peeping tom would have,” Vickie remarks. She’s not an opera-goer...
On set, Vickie sits on a gold throne. Crosses her ankles. A slit in her gown showcases her legs.
“How do I look?” Vickie asks the photographer. Another guy, not who gave Grabowski lip.
“Great, great, keep moving but slowly,” he barks. “Focus on the camera and forget about us.”
Vickie turns her chin ever so slightly and gazes straight into the camera.
With a snap of a flash, white luminescence washes over Vickie. Not just her eyes, her whole body. Her whole energetic field...bathed in bliss.
The photographer shoots Vickie as she surrenders her eyes, body, heart to his camera.
He calls wrap.
“We’ve got it,” Grabowski asserts.
“Don’t be so sure,” the photographer counters. “It seems like we have to re-do everything we shoot these days.”
Vickie lingers on her throne. Hef shuffles over to her.
“I hope you’re happy, doll face,” Hef tells her.
“That felt so nice, thank you” Vickie tells him. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this good before.”
“You’re one of those,” Hef says. “You come alive in front of the camera.”
“It’s like I’m high,” Vickie says. “But better.”
“We found you for a reason,” Hef says. “This is just the beginning.”
Vickie drops her shoulders and shakes out her hair.
“For once, I feel like I don’t have to worry,” Vickie tells Hef. “Like I can just be me.”
Later, Mo brings a test cover to Hef’s office.
“What do you think?” she asks.
He shakes his head “no” and she tenses. Fuck.
“No notes,” Hef says. He signs the cover to approve it.
Back in Houston, at Red Lobster, Vickie talks Marshall’s ear off about the trip during her waitressing shift.
“You’d like Hef, he’s real nice. He’s like you, full of stories from the 50s and 60s and 70s,” she says. “He didn’t try nothin’ either. His kids live in the mansion with his wife. Lucky boys. I want Daniel to grow up like that. Comfortable. Safe. With lots of animals to play with…”
“Well darlin’, I’d marry you any day, anywhere,” Marshall reminds her. “Just tell me when.”
Vickie’s manager approaches their table. Vickie pops up like she’s working.
“Wouldn’t it be more appropriate if he visited you at your other job?” the manager whispers.
Vickie blows Marshall a pouty kiss as he sucks on a crab leg.
The next week, Vickie meets with a lawyer and files for divorce from Billy.
“I’m done,” Vickie tells her lawyer. “I’ve been done for a long time.”
“We’re gonna serve your ex and see how he responds,” her lawyer says. “From what you’ve told me, he’s lucky you’re citing irreconcilable differences and not something fault based.”
“He’s still Daniel’s father,” Vickie says. “But I’m not that person anymore.”
She smiles. Elated by change. For once.
Vickie gets a manicure and pedicure afterward. Enjoys every second of it.
“Can you paint flowers on my toes?” Vickie asks. “I don’t care if I have to pay extra.”
Vickie smiles like a high roller.
Afterward, Vickie stops by her mother Virgie’s house to collect Daniel.
“He’s still napping,” Virgie tells Vickie as she enters.
Virgie keeps watching Cops and eating chips.
Vickie finds a seat on the couch.
“Why does a cop want to watch Cops?” Vickie asks.
“Why, you don’t ever find yourself in a strip club?” Virgie asks. “Or Red Lobster? Just enjoying?”
Vickie laughs. Virgie doesn’t.
“Thanks for taking care of Daniel. I couldn’t have gone to LA without that,” Vickie says.
Virgie doesn’t bite, so Vickie offers more details about her trip.
“Everything went really well. I love LA and everyone at Playboy was so nice. They weren’t disappointed in me or anything. It all went well. Actually, they loved me!” Vickie tells her mom.
“You shouldn’t come around bragging to your family,” Virgie scolds her, “While some of us have to keep honest jobs. And watch your kid for ya.”
“I’m still workin’ both my jobs,'' Vickie says. “I hope it helps all of us. That’s my plan.”
Virgie ignores her. Or pretends to…
Daniel wanders into the living room, still half-asleep.
“Mommy?” he asks.
“It’s me!” Vickie exclaims. “Who loves you baby?”
Daniel hugs her. She kisses him ten, fifteen, twenty times.
“Mommy loves you!” Vickie sings. “Say it!”
Vickie cradles and tickles him.
“Mommy loves me!” Daniel yells.
“Shhh,” Virgie says. Turns the volume on the TV up.
Vickie and Daniel mime “Shhh” to each other. Silly like siblings.
A month or so later, the big day comes -- Vickie’s Playboy cover is out!
Vickie wears a nice dress to the Stop N Go convenience store. Sandi wears sweatpants.
Inside, Sandi grabs a sixer of Budweiser then asks for a pack of Camels and the latest Playboy.
Anna throws candy into the pile.
“10 copies of the latest Playboy please!” Vickie calls to the clerk.
“For real?” he asks.
Vickie nods “yes.”
He jiggles each magazine into its own paper bag.
Vickie cranes over and spots herself. She shrieks with satisfaction!
"Do you know who I am?" Vickie asks the clerk. “I’m that girl on the cover.”
The cashier flashes his eyes between Vickie and the magazine.
Sandi rolls her eyes like, “Really?” But she’s too proud of Vickie to interject.
He hands Sandi their bags and the girls walk out.
Before they can get into Vickie’s Celica, the cashier runs out after them --
“Can I have your autograph?” he asks.
“Mine?” Vickie teases. “Of course!”
He brings her his copy of the magazine and a sharpie. She signs it big “Vickie SMITH.”
Afterward, in her apartment, Vickie poses with a copy of the magazine.
“Use the Fuji,” Vickie tells Sandi. “Take my picture with it.”
Sandi snaps pictures of Vickie with her first cover.
“I’ve gotta pee,” Sandi says and heads to the bathroom.
Vickie stands in front of her Marilyn photo wall and holds her cover.
“Post-debs in Playboy -- a pictorial to startle the rich and famous,” Vickie reads aloud.
(She’s talking to Marilyn’s spirit, but we don’t see her aside from the framed pictures.)
“Lately, I’ve finally felt beautiful. Like you,” Vickie tells Marilyn. “Like it’s all becoming one.”
The next day, Vickie drops Daniel off at Virgie’s and brings a copy of the magazine.
“Hey,” Vickie calls out.
“Mommy’s in a magazine,” Daniel yells to his grandma.
Virgie snaps her head back.
“I hope you didn’t let him see that,” Virgie tells Vickie.
“Only the cover,” Vickie tells her mom. “Jeez.”
“Go check on the puppies,” Virgie tells Daniel, who scoots outside.
Vickie hands Virgie the magazine. She stares at Vickie’s picture.
“Well, they cleaned you up nice,” Virgie says. “I can hardly recognize you.”
She stops fiddling with her cop accessories and opens it.
The first page she turns to, the brunette centerfold, features an elegant, hairy vagina.
“This is perverted,” Virgie says. “I don’t need to see your pussy in print, Vickie.”
“All the shit you had us put up with and I’m the pervert?” Vickie asks. “I’m not even naked.”
Virgie slaps Vickie across the face and gets up from the couch.
Angry and heartbroken, Vickie refuses to let Virgie see her cry right now.
“You can hit me all you want, if that’s what you still need, but you better never lay a hand on Daniel,” Vickie declares. “Or chain him up to the bed with your handcuffs like you did me?!”
“Or what? You won’t leave him here anymore while you go off tryna be a porn star?” Virgie asks. “You’re lucky when he stays with me instead of one of them stripper friends of yours.”
“You think if I had options he’d be here?,” Vickie asks. “Just know there’s gonna be a day when we leave here and never come back. We’re gonna be happy, and you’ll still be a miserable old mess.”
Backstage at Gigi’s, Vickie swigs from champagne bottles with a couple other dancers.
“Maybe it was one and done,” Vickie says. “I’m getting older everyday.”
“You’re 26,” an older dancer says. “You’re still a baby.”
“25,” Vickie says.
Vickie peaks into her makeup bag and we see pharmaceutical bottles among the cosmetics: Valium, Xanax, Klonopin, Vicodin.
“See,” a third dancer says. “You know about Lady? She stripped till she was 50.”
“I’d rather kill myself,” Vickie says. She washes a Vicodin down with champagne.
That night, Vickie dances for a rowdy group of grown up frat guys.
She dances on one’s lap, drunk enough to get really into it, until --
“You don’t wanna know what I did to your Playboy cover,” he whispers.
This doesn’t turn Vickie on; it throws her off completely. Lap dance over.
“What’d I do darling?” the frat boy yells at her. His boys all catcall as she walks away.
Vickie orders a shot at the bar. Then another. Then another.
“You sure?” the chubby bartender asks. “You good?”
“As good as usual,” Vickie deadpans. Then downs her third shot.
Drunk after work, Vickie gets into the Celica and drives to the gay bar. Finds Sandi inside.
“What’s the matter?” Sandi asks.
“Nothin,” Vickie tells Sandi.
“Can I get four shots?” Vickie asks the bartender. Sandi looks concerned.
“Two in a row, hoe,” Vickie tells Sandi.
“What’s the matter?” Sandi repeats.
Vickie gets choked up.
“Now that I know how good it feels for a dream to come true,” Vickie cries. “I’m just worried it’ll never happen again. Maybe that was it, y’know? Maybe nothing else special will ever happen.”
Vickie collapses into Sandi’s chest and sobs.
While cleaning her eyes in the bathroom, Vickie notices a lipstick lesbian sorting prescription pills.
“What are those?” Vickie asks, drunk and uninhibited. “You’re pretty, you know that?”
“Uppers,” she answers. “I’ll give you one if you give me a kiss.”
Vickie unloads her sexual frustration giving this woman a kiss, then swallows her pill with sink water.
“Nothing goes up my nose,” Vickie says. “I have allergies.”
Vickie returns to Sandi and pounces on her.
They dance all night like lovers. Vickie moves much differently than at the strip club. Lively. Joyous.
Alive in their own bodies, with one another, and among all the other Texan queers and weirdos.
After the last call, Vickie stumbles toward her car and slips into the driver’s seat.
“You can’t drive,” Sandi says.
“You can’t drive,” Vickie says.
“I know,” Sandi says.
Next thing you know, the two of them speed along the highway blasting George Michael’s “FREEDOM.” Vickie commands the wheel. Sandi smokes a cig out the window. Wind pummels their faces.
Life is good. Until the sirens sound.
“I fucking knew it,” Sandi says. “Pull over.”
“Should I gun it?” Vickie teases, too drunk to tense up.
“Pull over Vickie,” Sandi commands.
Vickie listens.
The cops get her out of the driver’s seat. She fails her sobriety test and they handcuff her.
“Do you subscribe to Playboy magazine?” Vickie slurs.
One officer drives Sandi home and the other brings Vickie into the station.
At the station, Vickie poses for her mugshot with a model’s expertise.
She sleeps in her cell, drunk and snoring.
Come morning, Vickie awakes to an officer jostling her cell open. It’s Virgie. Of course.
“What an idiot,” Virgie says. “You could have killed someone. Or killed yourself and left Daniel.”
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Vickie asks.
“Now’s not the time,” Virgie says. “I got them to lower the charge, but it’s still a DUI.”
“Thanks,” Vickie says.
“Don’t go becoming a drug addict,” Virgie says. “You’ve gotta be real weak to be a drug addict.”
“I’m not,” Vickie snaps, following her mother out of the cell.
A couple days later, Vickie relaxes at home with Daniel. She makes snacks; they watch shows.
When the phone rings, Vickie ignores it.
“You should get it,” little Daniel tells her.
She listens to him. Answers it. A smile spreads across her face once she hears who's calling.
“You there babe? It’s Mo,” Marilyn Grabowski says.
“Yes, I’m here,” Vickie says into her phone. “Sorry. How are you?”
“Busy as ever,” Marilyn Grabowski says. “But I wanted to call and ask you something.”
“Am I in trouble?” Vickie asks.
“What? Of course not,” Marilyn Grabowski says. “We want you back.”
“Oh my God,” Vickie squeals.
“Hef wants to give you Playmate of the month,” Marilyn Grabowski says. “We’d shoot a lot more than last time, including a whole video with you as the star, real creative, and of course your centerfold.”
“Wow,” Vickie says. “My own centerfold…”
“Is that a yes?” Marilyn Grabowski asks.
Vickie’s stomach drops. She looks at Daniel eating his snacks. So content. What to do?
“It pays $20K,” Marilyn Grabowski says. “You get a car too. Not sure what kind yet.”
“I’ll do it,” Vickie says. Suddenly assured. “A car?!”
“Excellent, thank you. We’re lucky to have you Vickie, really. It’s gonna be huge,” Marilyn Grabowski says.
“You think so?” Vickie asks.
“I know so,” Marilyn Grabowski says. “So you’ll come next week. Someone will call with the schedule.”
“Thank you, Marilyn,” Vickie says.
She catches herself staring at her Marilyn wall and refocuses attention on the call.
“Thank you, Mo!” Vickie says. “I can’t wait to see y’all.”
A few days later, Vickie meets Marshall for an early breakfast at a humble diner.
Over stacks of pancakes, omelets and glasses of orange juice, Vickie tells him her news.
“I’m so proud of you, honey,” Marshall says. “Twenty thousand dollars is a lot of money.”
“I mean, not really,” Vickie says. “I know I don’t have any money, but it’s still not that much.”
“But it’s living your dream,” Marshall says. “Wouldn’t you do that for free?”
Vickie nods “yes.” A waitress comes by with a pot of coffee.
“You two feelin’ like any coffee?” she asks.
Vickie nods “no.”
“I can’t drink hot liquid,” Vickie says. “It burns my mouth.”
She opens her mouth for emphasis. Sexily, but subtle. Both the waitress and Marshall like it.
“See,” Marshall encourages her. “You always know what you’re doing.”
Back at the Playboy mansion, Vickie prepares to get into a tanning bed at the home gym.
She looks at her curves in the mirror and squeezes her sides together, trying to narrow herself.
Vickie exhales audibly like, “What are you gonna go?” and slaps a Playboy sticker on her hip.
An attendant hands her goggles and she slips into the bed.
Icy blue fluorescence. Confinement. Bondage via tanning bed. Constricted, Vickie relaxes deeply.
At the end of her session, an attendant knocks and wakes her up. She crawls out. Blissed out.
“That thing’s like a coffin,” Vickie says. “A warm, cozy coffin.”
Vickie peels the sticker off her hip and reveals a white Playboy bunny left behind. Un-tanned.
Later, Vickie gets fit for one of her costumes. A baby pink bodice garment.
Ornate design and Marie Antoinette sleeves, with her breasts and vagina completely exposed.
A wardrobe stylist squeezes Vickie into the garment with quiet struggle. Trying to snap it.
“Sorry I didn’t stop eating,” Vickie says. “They didn’t give me much time.”
Finally, Hef comes in to look at her. He nods approvingly at the stylist. She steps aside.
“What are you doing sweetheart?” Hef asks.
“I’m looking at her,” Vickie answers, still gazing into the mirror. Avoiding eye contact.
“Hey now,” Hef says. “That’s what Marilyn told Truman.”
“Capote,” Vickie says. “I know.”
“Y’know Truman wanted Marilyn Monroe for Holly Golightly? Hef asks. “Not Audrey Hepburn.”
“Oh my gosh,” Vickie says. “Why didn’t she?”
“I think she was too sexy,” Hef says. “Or not serious enough. You know. Not a brunette.”
Vickie laughs.
“You look beautiful honey,” Hef tells Vickie. “Just beautiful. I really mean that.”
“Thank you sir,” Vickie says. “Thank you for inviting me back.”
In the Playboy studio the next day, Vickie becomes overwhelmed. Surrounded by collaborators busy with their individual tasks, Vickie detaches from everything around her. Eyes glazed. Panicked.
Grabowski pulls her aside.
“What’s going on?” Grabowski asks. “What do you need?”
Vickie shakes her head “no,” like she needs nothing.
“Cut it out. Tell me what you need,” Grabowski demands.
Vickie whispers something to her.
Grabowski leaves the set and comes back with an album in her hands. As the song begins, Anna animates. “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” by Marilyn Monroe.
We watch her Playmate shoot unfold in a quick montage:
Vickie on all fours in a black mesh onesie, arching her back in a way that screams “doggy style.”
Vickie bends over to remove her only clothes -- black tights, black undies and black heels.
The production team hurls compliments her way.
Hair and makeup touches her up as she stands nude
Vickie sips champagne in between set-ups.
Vickie rolls around naked in bed, atop shimmery sheets the same color as her hair.
Pink nails caress her crotch.
Vickie hums as she slithers around the bed. In her own world.
Vickie eyefucks the camera like she’s seducing God.
At wrap, Hef leads the applause. Everyone on set joins in. Thunderous. Vickie cries.
“Thank y’all for taking care of me,” Vickie says. “I love y’all, for real.”
Hef hugs her.
“You didn’t seem nervous at all this time,” Hef says. “What changed?”
“I prayed to God to let me be like I am alone in front of y’all,” Vickie says. “Without caring.”
“You’re gonna be huge,” Hef tells Vickie. “This is only the beginning, Vickie.”
“I hope so,” Vickie smiles.
Alone in her dressing room, Vickie locks her door. Lays down in front of her mirror. Plays with her nipples and slips her fingers inside her. She opens her eyes so she can watch herself cum.
“You are beautiful,” Vickie tells herself as she orgasms. Her eyes locked on their reflection.
Back in Houston, Sandi picks Vickie up from the airport.
“Don’t you think it’s kind of crazy the woman who made this all happen for me is named Marilyn?” Vickie asks. “I swear nothing in this world happens by accident.”
“Someone’s chipper,” Sandi says.
“Don’t I have enough haters in my life?” Vickie asks. “Can you just be happy for me?”
“You know I’m thrilled for you Vickie,” Sandi says. “But I thought you’d call. At least once.”
“Michael Jordan’s gonna see my pictures,” Vickie says. “He’s the Playboy interview in my issue.”
Sandi rolls down her window and lights a cigarette.
A Playboy writer visits Vickie in Texas. Meets Daniel. Sits in their living room and interviews her.
“Did you dream of being a Playmate? How will Mexia, Texas react to your centerfold?” he asks.
“The people in Mexia won’t believe it when these pictures of me hit the newsstands, because believe it or not, I was considered a goodie two-shoes nerd in high school.”
“Are you excited for the day they all see the centerfold?” the journalist asks.
“Uh, that’s crazy to think about. I’m mostly excited to see it for myself,” Vickie says. “In print.”
“Did you like modeling growing up?” he asks. “Was your mom always takin’ your picture?”
“I dreamt of it, yeah, but uh, no,” Vickie says. “Not many pictures. None I like. My mom was a career cop and pretty rough on me.”
“Are you like that as a mom now?” he asks.
“So I’ve leaned in the other direction, almost never saying no to Daniel and spoiling him a lot. Still, he doesn’t take too much advantage with me.”
Daniel starts eavesdropping once he hears his name. Still playing with Batman action figures.
“Ok, quick questions,” the journalist says. “Who’s your favorite author?”
“Whoever writes all my favorite soaps,” she answers. “I’m a Young and the Restless girl.”
“Turn ons?” he asks.
“Men who wear braces and cowboys! I also get off on scary movies,” she says.
“Ambitions?” he asks.
“I want to be the new Marilyn Monroe and find my own Clark Gable,” she says.
“Thank you Miss May,” he says.
The next day, they drive together out to Mexia, along with a photographer.
“When’s the last time you came back here?” the journalist asks.
“When I snuck away from my ex husband,” Vickie says. “Three, four years ago.”
“Want to talk more about that?” he asks.
“No, sir,” she smiles.
We watch them take photos all over Mexia, many in front of her old high school.
“Hey y’all I’m back,” she jokes between poses. “I may be a dropout but I made it into Playboy.”
Back at home, Vickie wakes up to Daniel bringing her breakfast in bed.
She sits up to receive the tray.
“I made you breakfast mommy,” Daniel says. “To celebrate your magazine.”
“Thank you so much honey bear,” Vickie says. “You are such a nice boy.”
She sniffs the dandelions he arranged into a bouquet.
“Daniel Wayne Smith, did you go outside by yourself?” he asks.
“No, I picked them yesterday and saved ‘em,” he says. “And I only used the microwave.”
“My brilliant little man,” Vickie coos. “You’re my best friend in the whole entire world.”
“I’m your best friend?” Daniel asks his mom.
She nods “yes” and kisses his cheek. They share the food.
Later that morning, an over-the-top floral arrangement arrives from Marshall.
Vickie reads the card aloud: “YOU’RE ALWAYS THE CENTER OF MY UNIVERSE, SUPERSTAR. CONGRATULATIONS. LOVE, PAW-PAW.”
Vickie frames a photo of herself from the Playboy shoot in Mexia. Hangs it on her Marilyn wall.
Vickie drains her glass of champagne.
“We’re doing it,” she says to her Marilyn photos. “Are you proud of me, Mom? I mean, Marilyn.”
We cut to Paul Marciano, a man more well-dressed than he is handsome, on an NYC street.
He buys grabs and a stack of newspapers from a newsstand. Then some magazines.
Marciano sees the new Playboy behind the counter.
“That too,” he says. “With Miss America on the cover.”
In his hotel room, Marciano flips through Playboy.
The page falls open to Vickie and his jaw drops.
He fixates on each page of her spread, but turns back to her only fully clothed photo.
The same one she hung on her Marilyn wall.
He calls someone on his big, ol’ cell phone.
“Marilyn, it’s Paul,” he says into the phone. “Whose this Miss May? I want to cast her. Crazy?”
Meanwhile, Sandi picks Vickie up at Red Lobster and drops her home. Vickie traipses in alone.
She takes her bra off as soon as she gets through the door and checks her answering machine.
Still in her red Red Lobster uniform top, she listens and hears Grabowski’s voice.
Vickie calls her back instead of listening to the message.
“Hey there, I saw you called on my brand new answering machine,” Vickie says into the phone. “Like a real business woman, right?”
“Absolutely. Listen, my friend Paul Marciano wants to call you,” Grabowski says. “You know GUESS jeans?”
“No,” Vickie says.
“Do you know who Claudia Schiffer is?” Grabowski asks.
“Um, no ma'am, I don’t think so,” Vickie says.
“First she did GUESS,” Grabowski says. “Then she did Chanel. Just saying.”
“Oh wow,” Vickie says. “That’s amazing.”
“That was just a few months ago. Her first runway show. Karl Lagerfeld. The whole deal,” Grabowski says.
“I’m gettin’ all nervous now,” Vickie says. “Karl who? What should I say?”
“Just be yourself,” Grabowski says. “But don’t tell him you haven’t heard of Guess. Smile and nod. You know how men are.”
“Thank you so much Marilyn,” Vickie says. “I swear, you’re an angel.”
“You are, honey! Enjoy your talent,” Grabowski says. “Call him right now. He moves fast.”
Vickie hangs up. Starts praying noiselessly.
We cut to Vickie on a first-class flight to San Antonio to meet up with Marciano.
GUESS sends her a limousine that chauffeurs her from the airport to a luxe hotel.
Vickie jumps up and down on the luxe bed in her suite. A beautiful child.
Before she crawls in to sleep, she gets on her knees and prays at the side of the bed.
“Dear God, please make him love me,” Vickie says. “Please watch over me during the shoot tomorrow and help me share anything I have to offer with Mr. Marciano and the camera. Thank you for this opportunity. Please open me up to receive your blessings, Lord. For Daniel too.”
On a ranch the next morning, Vickie meets Marciano and his gang of GUESS creatives.
Everyone kisses her on two cheeks.
Assistants set up the hair and makeup area and a tent for all the wardrobe. Gaffers light the set.
“I’m so happy you could make it on such short notice,” Marciano says. “We had fun shooting the new kids campaign yesterday. Let’s send you home later with lots of clothes for your son.”
“Wow, that’s so sweet, thank you,” Vickie says. “Good thing too, ‘cuz he grows too fast for me to keep up with shopping.”
A hair stylist sets her hair in curlers.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in Hef’s magazine,” Marciano says. “Seriously. You look straight out of Cinecitta. Do you like Fellini?”
Vickie smiles and nods “yes.” Clueless as to what the hell Fellini and Cinecitta mean...
“Remember sweetheart, this is a test shoot,” Marciano says. “I say that to comfort you. Nobody’s gonna see these pictures except for me and my team. Test shoots are weird, ok?”
Dressed in tight, light-washed denim, Vickie looks at home on the set full of haystacks.
A huge beauty light illuminates her face.
“I like how warm it is,” Vickie purrs.
We begin a slow sequence of her working it in front of the GUESS camera. Music blares.
Marciano and the stylist watch.
“Well, she’s not heroin chic,” the stylist says to him. “Glad I didn’t just bring sample size.”
“Look at her, are you fucking kidding me?” Marciano says. “She’s got it. When she turns it on, she turns everyone on.”
The stylist just nods and agrees.
“GUESS isn’t heroin,” Marciano says. “It’s sex.”
Marciano watches the light fall on Vickie just right. A piece of hay near her lips. Eyes smoldering.
“This is a fucking billboard,” Marciano says to himself.
The shoot wraps. Marciano walks Vickie over to a couple of director’s chairs and they sit.
The gorgeous colors of Texas at dusk stripe the sky behind them.
“How did that feel?” Marciano asks.
“Amazing,” Vickie says. “I loved it. I could keep shooting all night.”
“It shows,” Marciano says. “I’m in awe of the connection between you and the camera.”
“I’m just appreciative you gave me the chance to try out,” Vickie says. “Even if this is the end.”
“What? This isn’t the end, not even close,” Marciano says.
Vickie beams.
“Would you like to be the new GUESS girl?” Marciano asks. “Claudia’s contract is up. We need a new global face of the brand. And I know we’re not gonna find a face prettier than yours.”
“Global!” Vickie says. “That sounds exciting. I’d have to get a passport. I, uh--, I --”
“You look even sexier in our clothes than you did in Playboy,” Marciano says. “That’s a compliment.”
“Ok,” Vickie says, stunned. “Alright. Jeez. So it went ok? Ok, let’s do it. Thank you.”
“There’s just one thing,” Marciano says. “I think we should change your name to something more...expensive.”
Vickie nods like, “Sure.” A devilish smile spreads across her face.
We jump to Anna standing under her first GUESS campaign billboard. It’s HUGE. She looks tiny underneath it as we pan out.
OUTRAGEOUS: ANNA NICOLE SMITH
These are brilliant!!!