Excerpt of Meltdown by Tara Thompson

The plane from Paris to New York was crowded, even in first class. As usual, there were delays at Kennedy Airport and the pilot announced they would be circling overhead until they were given permission to land. Unfortunately for the annoyed passengers, the drink cart had already been stowed away. Though the actual flight had been calm with only a slight touch of turbulence and the refreshing absence of screaming babies, the passengers were getting antsy, Nyssa included.

Known only by her first name, Nyssa was considered a ‘top model' well before the phrase was used as the title of a popular television show. At only five nine, she wasn't considered tall but her legs were long for her height, her breasts full for her frame and her hips just wide enough to give Nyssa an hourglass figure, rare among her peers. She had rolled in the sand for Sports Illustrated, worn wings for Victoria's Secret, and strutted the catwalk on nearly every continent. But what the camera truly loved was her face– Nyssa could take beauty shots like no other. Her skin was luminous, her forehead smooth and wide with green eyes that tilted up at their corners. Her nose was small and straight and led to a full mouth. And almost hidden by her thick fringe of eyelashes was the tiny, tear–shaped beauty mark that had become her trademark.

Without cosmetics, Nyssa looked like a fresh–faced teenager. Only after a makeup artist accented her cat–eyes and lush lips did she look like the supermodel that had graced the covers of French, British, Italian and American Vogue, and so many other magazines.

It was Fashion Week in New York, the riotous semi–annual ritual that descended upon Manhattan's Bryant Park each fall and spring. This season she had booked seven shows, more than most but fewer than she'd committed to in the past. Six were names she would be crazy to turn down and one was a racy, fun fashion upstart whose designs were original, an adjective she rarely used after being in the business for nearly a decade.

Nyssa had met the new designers in Paris a couple of years ago. From what she'd seen of their work, they were amazingly talented. But luck was every bit as important as talent, perhaps even more so. She herself had been extremely lucky, plucked out of complete obscurity in Greece by a fashion photographer who had put his neck on the line by asking her to take a few test shots. Modeling had given her money, fame and confidence. Now that she had achieved success, she often tried to give those still struggling a helping hand, especially when they were so deserving.

They couldn't afford to pay her typical rate, but she didn't care. Nyssa's bank accounts were substantial and she was offered more work than she could ever possibly accept, each job better paying than the next. She owned an apartment in Manhattan and one in Paris. She had an agent, a business manager and an accountant– all of whom were paid to accommodate her needs. At twenty–eight years old, she was beholden to no one. It was more than she had ever dreamed of, and yet still not enough.

As the plane circled around and around waiting for clearance from air control to land, it occurred to her that she was in a similar holding pattern, flying high above the clouds though only temporarily postponing her eventual descent. An experienced pilot might have many hundreds, even thousands of takeoffs and landings over the course of his career, honing his skill level to make them as smooth as possible. Nyssa's career had taken off like a shot and she'd been flying high ever since. In the world of fashion modeling, few had ever managed to navigate their way down as successfully as they had their ascent, and their time above the clouds was usually fleeting. Not that Nyssa was ready to land anytime soon.

Early on, a more experienced model had taken Nyssa under her wing and had thankfully introduced her to a reputable business manager. After analyzing the state of her still relatively meager earnings, he taught her to invest her money rather than spend it carelessly or let it sit idle in a non–interest bearing account. He had also convinced her to buy both of her apartments and was presently encouraging her to look for a house in Los Angeles. These and other investments had done so well, he'd promised that if she worked for another five years she could retire and still be able to maintain her present lifestyle. "What lifestyle?" she asked, laughing. Her life was her work and she had no intention of retiring anytime soon.

With a restrained sigh Nyssa pushed her melancholy thoughts aside and flipped through her schedule for tomorrow. Up at dawn for a quick workout, two shows, then the inevitable after–parties where the rich and beautiful mingled, each hoping part of the other would rub off amid the self–laudatory haze of alcohol and drugs that so often infused these functions. Rock stars, porn stars, movie stars, supermodels, and the creative geniuses and money men that made their world possible all crammed into the latest, hippest venue. Paris or Milan, New York or London– it was all the same.

When Nyssa first got into the business, she loved it– the madness, the frenzy, the clothes, the attention, the money. God, how she had embraced her life back then. She'd been seventeen when she landed her first Vogue cover. A dozen had since followed, not to mention the number of pages she'd garnered inside. In the early days she had scanned every magazine for her image, practically jumping up and down when she found herself staring back. But the excitement of seeing her own face on a newsstand had long since faded.