“What do you mean, they want me?” She suddenly felt a thrill of excitement race through her.
“I mean they want you to come to New York. They want to represent you. They already know of half a dozen potential jobs they would send you out for, just for a start.”
“But that's crazy!”
“No, it isn't, dammit. You are. Serena, you are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, and you're out there hiding in some damn department store. If you want to be a model, for chrissake, then come to New York and really be one! Will you come?”
“I don't know … I have to think … the apartment … Vanessa …” But she was laughing and smiling, and her head felt all in a whirl.
“School hasn't started yet, this is only August. We'll get Vanessa into a school here.”
“But I don't know if I can afford it.” She felt equal parts of excitement and terror. “I'll call you back. I have to think.” She sat staring in amazement at the bay outside her windows. Modeling in New York … “the big time,” she grinned to herself … why not? But then suddenly once again she grew frightened. She couldn't. It was crazy. But then again so was sitting in San Francisco, leading no life at all, going to work every day. But what if the Fullertons harassed her? Or was Teddy right? Maybe she should take a chance on going, no matter what. She was still mulling it over the next morning when he called again.
“All right. You've had all night. When are you coming?”
“Teddy, stop pushing!” But she was laughing as she looked at the phone. Still, deep inside she knew that she was resisting.
“If I don't push you, you'll never get off your ass to do it.”
He was right and they both knew it. “Why are you doing this to me?” The fear in her voice was easy to hear now.
He paused for a moment and then answered. “I'm doing it for two reasons. Because I want you here, and also because I think you could have a terrific career.”
“I don't know, Teddy. I have to think about it.”
“Serena, what in the hell is the problem?” And then as he waited he instinctively knew before she told him. It wasn't just San Francisco, it was Brad. “It's Brad, isn't it? You feel close to him there.”
That was exactly it. He had just delved to the heart of the problem. “Yes.” It was a single anguished word. “It's as though when I leave here I'll finally leave him.” Tears sprang to her eyes as she said the words, and at his end Teddy signed.
“Serena, he's already gone. You have to think of yourself.”
“I am.”
“No, you're not. You're hanging on to the city where you lived with him. I understand it. But it's a lousy reason to give up a career. What do you think he'd say?”
“To go.” She didn't hesitate for a second. “But that's not so easy to do.”
“I'm sure it isn't.” His heart went out to her again. “But maybe you have to force yourself to do it.”
“I'll think about it.” It was all he could get out of her that day, and late that night she lay in bed, thinking over every possible aspect of the decision. On the one hand she was dying to go, on the other it tore at her heart to leave San Francisco. She was safe there and she had lived there with him, but how long could she hold on to a ghost? She was well on her way to doing it for a lifetime and she knew it. There had been no men in her life for three years, and her entire existence centered around Vanessa. In New York she'd have a chance for a whole new life now. As she lay awake at 5 A.M., thinking it all out, she felt gripped by a surge of excitement, and suddenly she turned over in bed, reached for the phone, and called Teddy. It was 8 A.M. in New York, and he was standing in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee.
“Well?” He smiled when he heard her voice.
She closed her eyes tight in the darkness of her room, held her breath for an instant, and then let it out with a whoosh. “I'm coming.”
35
The apartment that Teddy found her in New York was tiny. She had given him the limit of what she could afford, and he had come as close to it as possible without finding something absolutely god-awful. He had found her a tiny one-bedroom walk-up on East Sixty-third Street between Lexington and Third. The neighborhood was halfway decent, the Third Avenue elevated train still trundled by at frequent intervals, but Lexington Avenue was fairly pleasant, and Park Avenue, only a block west, was lovely. The apartment itself faced south and was bright and sunny, the bedroom was very small, but the living room was pleasant.
When Serena saw the apartment, she was enchanted. The furniture was simple and unpretentious, freshly painted white wicker chairs, a bright hooked rug, bright prints on the walls, and a handsome quilt on Vanessa's bed, which she later discovered was a present from Teddy. It looked like a cozy guest apartment in someone's house, instead of an entire apartment. The kitchen was barely bigger than a closet, but it was furnished with just enough pots and pans to put a meal together for herself arid Vanessa, and as she closed the last cupboard and looked around, she looked at Teddy with a delighted smile and clapped her hands like a child. Vanessa was already busy with the dollhouse from Uncle Teddy.
“Teddy, it's wonderful! I like it even better than our apartment in San Francisco.”
He smiled at her apologetically. “I wouldn't exactly compare the view.” He peered out at the other narrow buildings crowded onto Sixty-third Street, and could well imagine it all with snow and slush and soot in a few months. He turned around to face her then, with a gentle look in his eyes. “Serena, I'm glad you're here.” He knew that for her it had been an act of enormous trust. What if she didn't find work here? What if he had been wrong? There was no certain knowing.
“I'm-glad too. Frightened out of my wits,” she said, smiling, “but happy.” The very tempo of the town had filled her with excitement on the way in from the airport.
He spent the rest of the evening explaining to her how to get around the city, what was where, where not to go, and what were the safest areas. And the more she listened, the more she liked it. She had to go to the agency for her first interview the next day, and she was so excited, she could barely stand it.
When Serena appeared at the Kerr Agency the next morning, she was startled at what she found there, gone were the easygoing, relaxed people she had run into modeling in San Francisco. Here everything was business, it was quick-fire, high pressure, rushed, and hurried, and there was no fooling around. No casual air surrounded this business, it was an office filled with well-dressed, well-made-up women sitting at desks, speaking on phones with stacks of composites piled up before them, file cards referring to jobs pinned up on boards in front of them, and telephones ringing every time one turned around. Serena was ushered to one of the desks in a businesslike way, and she found herself being looked over by an attractive dark-haired woman. The woman at the desk was wearing a crisp beige wool suit, a matching silk shirt, her hair was impeccably combed in a shoulder-length pageboy, and hanging over the silk blouse was a thick rope of pearls.
“I saw your photographs a few weeks ago,” she told Serena. “You're going to need new ones, probably a whole book, and a composite.” Serena nodded dumbly, feeling terribly stupid and almost too inarticulate to speak. “Have you got anyone who can do that?” With wide eyes she shook her head. She had worn a pale blue sweater, a gray skirt, a simple navy-blue cashmere blazer she had bought at the store in San Francisco, and her long graceful legs seemed endless as she crossed them and the woman noticed the black Dior pumps. Her hair was carefully knotted, and in each ear she had worn a simple pearl. She looked more like she was going to tea with a friend in San Francisco than going to a modeling interview in New York. But she was so nervous about what to wear that she had decided to dress simply. Whatever she had on they probably wouldn't like anyway, so what the hell. She had gone to the interview almost rigid with fear, and now she sat staring at this woman, wondering what she was thinking of her. Probably they would never use her, Teddy had been crazy. Whatever made her think that she could model in New York? But the woma
n in the beige suit was nodding, and wrote down a name on a card that she handed across the desk. “Make an appointment with this photographer, put the photographs of your past jobs in order, get your hair cut, have your nails done a deep red, and come back to see me in a week.” Serena sat there staring at her, wondering if there was really any point, and as though the woman could see what she was thinking, she smiled at her. “It'll be all right, you know. Everyone's nervous at first. It's not the same here as it was in San Francisco. You're from out there?” She suddenly looked kindly and interested, and Serena tried desperately not to seem so ill at ease.
“I've been living there for seven years.”
“That is a long time.” And then she cocked her head, as though hearing an accent. “Where were you from before that?”
“Oh,” Serena sighed, feeling uncomfortable, “that's a long story. My husband and I moved there from Paris. We were in Rome before that. I'm Italian.” The woman's eyebrows raised.
“Was he Italian too?”
“No, American.” She almost said facetiously that she was a war bride, but there was no reason to be nasty to this woman. She seemed genuinely interested in Serena.
“Is that why you speak such good English?”
Serena shook her head slowly. In two minutes this woman had got more out of her than anyone had in years. In the years she was married to Brad, she was so wrapped up in him and Vanessa and Teddy that she had made no close friends on the base, and afterward, when she was modeling, there was no room in her life for anyone but her child. And now suddenly this woman had extracted much of her life story. There was nothing left to tell her except the nightmare of losing her parents to Mussolini and how her husband had died. But she still had the woman's question to answer. “I was here during the war. My family sent me over.”
The woman seemed to be calculating something as she looked down at Serena's file card again. “What was your name again?”
“Serena Fullerton.”
The other woman smiled. “It sounds too English. Couldn't we make it more exotic? What was it before you got married?”
Serena looked at her hesitantly. “Serena di San Tibaldo.” She said it with the full lilt of the Italian.
“That's lovely.…” She grew pensive. “But it's so long…” She looked up at Serena hopefully. “Did you have a title?” It was an odd question to ask, but she was in the business of selling people, beautiful faces with exotic names. Tallulah. Zina. Zorra. Phaedra. This was not a business for Nancy or Mary or Jane. She looked at Serena expectantly, as Serena seemed to hold back.
“I … no … I …” And then she suddenly thought what the hell, what difference did it make? Who cared anymore? There was no one to be shocked or raise an eyebrow or object. Her whole family was dead, and if a title mattered so much, why not give them hers? If it meant that much more money for her and Vanessa, so what? “Yes.” The woman's eyes narrowed, wondering if Serena was telling the truth. “Principessa.”
“Princess?” The woman in beige looked genuinely shocked.
“Yes. You can check it out. I'll give you my birthdate and all that if you want.”
“My, my.” She looked very pleased. “That ought to look very pretty on your composite … Princess Serena …” She squinted, again looking at the paper on which she wrote it, and then Serena again. “Sit up straight for a minute.” Serena did. Then she pointed to the far comer, past some other desks. “Walk over there and come back.” Gracefully, her head held high, Serena did so, and as she returned, her green eyes flashed. “Nice, very nice. I've just thought of something. I'll be right back.” She disappeared into an inner office, and it was a full five minutes before she came back. When she came back, she brought someone with her.
“This is Dorothea Kerr,” she announced simply. “The head of the agency.” It was unnecessary to explain that. Serena stood up quickly and extended her hand.
“How do you do?” But the tall spare woman with gray hair pulled sharply back and sharp spectacular cheekbones wedged in at an extraordinary angle beneath huge gray eyes said nothing to Serena. She merely looked her over, like a horse she was buying, or a very expensive car.
“Is your hair natural?”
“Yes.”
She then turned to the woman in beige. “I'd like to see her without all those clothes on, and then I think we ought to send her to Andy. Don't mess around with any of the others.” The woman in beige nodded and made a rapid note. “I want to have something on her in the next two days. Can you do that?”
“Of course.” It would mean everyone working overtime, including Serena, but if Dorothea Kerr wanted “something on her” in two days, they would move heaven and earth to see that it was done. “I'll call him right away.”
“Fine.” Dorothea nodded at Serena then and walked away quickly. The door to her office closed almost instantly, and Serena's head began to spin. A minute later, as she listened to the conversation, she realized that Andy was Andrew Morgan, the most important fashion photographer on the East Coast. An appointment was made for later that morning, and before that she had to go to the hairdresser for a trim.
“Do you know how to find it?” The anonymous woman in beige looked sympathetic and then patted Serena's hand. “You know, she really liked you. She wouldn't have wanted shots on you in two days if she didn't have something big in mind for you.” But Serena still found it all very baffling and a little hard to believe. “Are you excited?”
Serena looked at her and felt her hand tremble as she took the note with the hairdresser's address. “I think so. So much has happened in the last five minutes that I'm not sure what I feel.”
“Well, enjoy it. Not everyone gets their first shots done by Andy Morgan.” Andy Morgan? Andy? For an insane moment Serena wanted to laugh. It was almost impossible not to be overwhelmed by what was starting to happen. It couldn't be. It wasn't real. It was crazy. But she glanced at the clock and knew that she had to get moving. “Do I have to wear anything special for the photographs?” “No, Dorothea said she'd have everything sent over. She particularly liked the idea of your being a princess. I think she's going to have him play that up in the shots.” For an instant Serena felt acutely nervous, perhaps she shouldn't have told them. But it was too late to stop them now. The woman in beige explained once again all the places where she was expected, wished her luck, and then went back to the stack of composites and file cards on her desk.
She arrived at Andrew Morgan's studio at exactly eleven thirty, as she had been told. And she didn't leave it again until almost nine o'clock that night. He shot black and white and color, he did head shots, candid, high fashion, evening dresses, tennis clothes, bathing suits, ermine, chinchilla, sable, Balanciagas, Diors, Givenchys, and jewels. He did her hair up and down and her makeup subtle and heavy and wild and crazy. She had had more clothes and furs and jewels and different outfits on in nine hours with Andrew Morgan than she had worn in all of the years she had worked in San Francisco. He was a tiny elf of a man, with a wonderful smile that lit up his black eyes, horn-rimmed glasses, and a shag of silvery gray hair that fell constantly in his eyes, he wore a black turtleneck sweater and black slacks and soft kid jazz dance shoes, and he seemed to leap through the air as he took the pictures. He reminded her constantly of a dancer, and she was so totally enamored of him, that she did all that he told her to do. More than that, he seemed to cast a kind of spell as he worked. She worked tirelessly with him for hours, and it wasn't until she walked in her front door that she realized how exhausted she was. Vanessa was already asleep. She had wanted to wait up to see her mommy, but Teddy had explained that they were taking beautiful pictures of her mother, and he had told her how beautiful her mother was, and how this was something very important for her. By the time Vanessa fell asleep, he had won her over again, and he read her two stories and sang her three lullabies, and halfway through the third one she fell asleep.
Exactly two days later Dorothea Kerr called her herself and requested her
to come into the office that afternoon.
When Serena arrived, her knees were almost trembling, her hands were damp, and she was feeling excessively grateful that Teddy had had another of his rare free afternoons. She had already found an agency for baby-sitters, but even they couldn't work miracles at short notice. But when she saw the photographs taken by Andy Morgan, she knew that he could. Each one was like a work of art, something to hang in a museum, and as she looked at herself she felt that she barely knew whom she was looking at. Even she had to admit that he had captured something extravagant and striking and regal, and she couldn't believe that she could look so beautiful, certainly not in real life. She looked up from the photographs and met the eyes of Dorothea Kerr, hard and gray on her own, and Dorothea leaned back in her chair and gnawed on a pair of glasses as she stared at Serena some more.
“Well, we have what we need here, Serena. What about you? Just how interested in all this are you? Very, a little? Enough to work your tail off? Do you just want a job or do you want a career? Because I want to know now before we waste our time on someone who doesn't give a damn about the job.”
“I care very much about the job.” She sounded sincere and she was, but for Dorothea it wasn't enough.
“Why? Are you in love with this business? Or with yourself?”
“No.” Serena faced her squarely. “I have a little girl.”
“And that's the only reason?”
“It's part of it. This is the only way I know to make a living, and it's a good living. I like the work.” She looked at Dorothea with a sparkle in her eyes. “To tell you the truth, I'm anxious to try my luck in New York.” Her excitement was beginning to show and the older woman smiled.
“You're divorced?”
“I'm a widow, with a small pension from the army. That's it.”
Dorothea looked intrigued. “Korea?” Serena nodded. “What about your family, don't they help?”
“They're all dead.”
Remembrance Page 31