Charlotte kissed JoJo straight on the mouth. “You’re a genius. That’s just it. We’ll find a way to bring business into the store, the cash register will sing its lungs out, and I’ll be off the hook.”
“What are the store’s biggest problems?”
“My goodness, where do I start? It looks like it hasn’t had a proper bath in a decade. A bright, new competitor just opened down the block and customers have been, according to my father, leaving him by the droves to luxuriate in its wide aisles, capable lighting, uniformed and competent sales help, and competitive prices.” Charlotte suddenly sprang to attention and looked JoJo in the eye. “Wait a minute,” she said, grabbing JoJo’s arm. “I just thought of something.” Charlotte tilted her head mischievously.
“What?”
“Winning Miss Subways could be the answer. Think of all the stories we hear about Miss Subways and the boatloads of attention the winners get. The proposals they receive. The gifts suitors send. It happens to each and every Miss Subways. If I win and they mention my father’s store on the poster, which is free advertising throughout the entire subway system, then people will come to see me—well, not me per say, but Miss Subways—which will bring more business to my father’s store and hence, more money. My father can take that money, ring up Donald, and everything will be back to the way it was. That’s what I call a fine way to solve a Brooklyn problem.”
“Huh, Charlotte, that’s not a terrible idea,” JoJo said, nodding.
“It’s a long shot.”
“But it’s a shot.”
“There’s one small problem.”
JoJo looked at her questioningly.
“I have to actually win Miss Subways.”
“So win.” JoJo put her hands on Charlotte’s shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Promise me that from this moment on, you’ll believe that you can win Miss Subways.”
Charlotte’s shoulders slumped. “I wish I could borrow a teaspoon of your confidence, JoJo.”
“You’ve got loads of confidence in there, Charlotte. You just have to find it under those layers of self-doubt you’re wearing like a fur coat.”
“Easier said than done.” Her mother had always taught her to keep her expectations in check. That way she’d never be disappointed. Yes, Mother dear, Charlotte thought, but that way you can never dream.
“But it’s showtime, so take off that coat. It’s not doing you any good.”
“You’re absolutely right. And I’m going to try.”
“Atta girl.”
“Do you really think this could work?” Charlotte asked, biting her lip.
“Sorry. I didn’t hear that. Say that again?”
Charlotte laughed nervously. “I said, I really think this will work. I’m going to go back there Friday and knock the trouser socks off Mr. John Robert Powers. I’ll kick those other girls in the knees if I have to.” Charlotte took a deep breath and looked up at Miss Subways Thelma Porter smiling down on her. “I just have to win.”
* * *
Charlotte knocked hesitantly on Professor Oldham’s door. He was the chair of the economics department, and though Charlotte had never had him as a professor, she had heard him speak on numerous occasions.
“Come on in,” a warm voice said from within.
“Professor Oldham, hello, sir,” Charlotte said, still standing in the threshold, holding the door. “I’m Charlotte Friedman. I’m a senior, sir, an econ major.”
“Of course, Charlotte, please come in. Have a seat.” He set his pen down next to the notebook he was writing in and smiled at her. There was a large window behind him, and the light streamed in, a sunbeam landing on the seat of the wooden chair he motioned to.
“Thank you,” she said, still standing.
“What can I do for you?”
“I hope I’m not being too presumptuous, but I’ve heard you say that you welcome students to come in and discuss anything with you. Sir, I’ve come to discuss my future.”
Professor Oldham leaned back in his seat, put his hands behind his head, and adopted a serious expression. “I’d be happy to discuss your future with you, Charlotte. But only under one condition.”
“Yes?” Charlotte asked, a hint of worry in her voice.
“You must first sit down,” he said, a smile returning to his face.
Charlotte laughed, sat down, and told him about her interest in advertising and the predicament she was in, trying to find a placement before the end of the term. “I am doing everything I possibly can, and I thought you might have some advice.”
“Why advertising?”
No one had ever asked Charlotte that. She had always just told people that’s what she wanted to do and they accepted it. She sat for a moment and collected her thoughts. “Well, that’s a very good question. And I have a few answers. I’ve always been intrigued by advertisements I see, whether on the subway, in a magazine, wherever. And each time I see one, I try to imagine what went into the making of it. From the first idea that the account man must have had to the actualization of that idea into a full-blown ad. I’m fascinated by the creative process that goes into coming up with a strategy to help a company’s business. Plus, it all seems so exciting and glamorous. It’s an environment I want to work in.” As she was speaking, Charlotte’s voice took on a gauzy quality. She was lost in the dream of it all.
“You do realize, though, that you’ll be doing none of that, right?”
“Excuse me?” Suddenly Charlotte was brought back down to earth.
“The typing pool, which I assume you know is where you’ll work, won’t give you much access to strategic conversations and advertisement actualization.”
Charlotte was surprised by the condescension creeping into Professor Oldham’s voice. “Yes, I’m aware of that,” she said confidently, trying to remain respectful.
“The chances of you getting anywhere near an ad are slim. You’re more likely to get bitten by an alligator.”
Charlotte paused, then said, “I understand, but I still feel it would be exciting to be part of the machine that produces the ads even if, at the beginning, I’m not the one actually producing them myself.”
“At the beginning, the middle, and the end, I’m sorry to say. Why don’t you work for a women’s magazine? There’s more opportunity there. You could get some writing experience, and then there’d be more of a chance you could work for any agency as a junior copywriter doing ads for beauty and fashion and other things that would interest you.”
“With all due respect, Professor, I’m not interested in copywriting as a career, nor am I interested solely in beauty and fashion. My plan is to start in the typing pool, as girls do, and earn my way up by working hard.”
Professor Oldham laughed. “I’m sorry, Charlotte. I don’t mean to discourage you. But you girls need to be realistic. The closest you’ll get to an account executive is to marry one.”
Charlotte stood up, thanked the professor for his time, and resolved that she’d add him to the list of people—presently just her father—she looked forward to proving wrong.
* * *
“Charlotte, get down here right now!”
Charlotte was in her bedroom, doing homework, when she heard her father yell. She sprang up, opened her door, and ran down the stairs.
“What is it?” she asked, alarmed.
“What is this?” Mr. Friedman was holding a piece of paper in his hands. They were shaking, so Charlotte couldn’t focus on what the paper was.
“I don’t know. I can’t see it.” Charlotte was standing on the stairs, debating whether she should approach to see what the paper was or if she should keep her distance from her enraged father.
“Dear Miss Friedman,” he began, cruelly imitating a woman’s voice. “We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected as a finalist for Miss Subways. Please report to the John Robert Powers Modeling Agency at 247 Park Avenue, New York City on Monday, March 7, at 1:00 P.M. sharp for your interview. We are unable to re
schedule this appointment.”
“Where did you get that?” Charlotte asked, her tone bitter.
“It doesn’t matter. Were you going to keep this from me?”
Charlotte decided to tell the truth, hoping her father would see the value in her plan. “I was, because I didn’t think you’d allow me to do it. But—”
“But nothing, Charlotte. You will not do Miss Subways.”
“Why? What’s wrong with Miss Subways?” Charlotte asked, switching her weight from foot to foot on the stairs.
“It’s not something nice girls do,” Mr. Friedman said, his face turning red.
“That’s not true at all. I met these girls. And they’re all nice. And—”
“The answer is no, and my decision is final.”
“Father, please! Just hear me out!” Charlotte said, raising her voice.
Mr. Friedman looked stunned and started to walk away.
“If I win, it could help the store.”
He stopped walking but didn’t turn around.
Charlotte spoke quickly, afraid to lose his attention. “If I win, which is a long shot but not an impossibility, then the name of the store would be on my poster, which millions of people would see.” Charlotte continued to describe the potential of that attention and the possibility for increased business for the store. She kept her voice calm, professional, and hoped her father would see this less as a plea from his daughter and more as a business conversation.
Mr. Friedman stood silent, his back still turned against Charlotte.
“You will not pursue this any further. I’m going to call this Fontaine woman tomorrow and let her know you’re withdrawing.”
“You can’t do that!” Charlotte shouted. “I’ll do it anyway.”
Mr. Friedman turned around, a snarl forming on his face. “Do you think they’re going to let you after they receive my phone call?”
Charlotte hated to admit it, but he was right. It seemed unthinkable, but she knew a phone call from a girl’s father had that power.
“Please don’t do this. It might be my only chance.”
Mr. Friedman walked toward her on the stairs. Charlotte thought for a moment he had changed his mind, that he was approaching her to apologize, give her a hug, and wish her good luck. But he brushed by her without making eye contact, went to his bedroom, and slammed the door.
* * *
Later that night, when Charlotte was certain her parents were asleep, she took the telephone into the closet and called JoJo.
“It was awful, but I have a plan,” Charlotte whispered determinedly.
“Charlotte, you sound possessed. I think I like this side of you.”
“I need you to do me a favor.”
CHAPTER 10
OLIVIA
TUESDAY, MARCH 6, 2018
Olivia stood in Mrs. Glasser’s hallway, shaking her head and laughing quietly at the familiar-looking black-and-white rectangular poster in a gold filigree frame. She took her phone out of her purse and texted Priya.
Olivia
I found our Miss Subways July 1949. She’s my next-door neighbor.
When she returned to the table, Olivia couldn’t resist her urge to stare more closely at Mrs. Glasser. She had typical short white grandmother hair, but it was fashionably styled as if the blue-fingernail-polished girls down at the dry bar had tended to it themselves. And her eyes. Her eyes glowed as brightly as the jewels Olivia always admired in the Crown of the Andes, one of her favorite objects to see at the Met. Mrs. Glasser’s skin looked paper-thin but still had a rosiness about the cheeks. Olivia could most definitely see the youth and beauty in Mrs. Glasser’s face.
Olivia didn’t know if she should blurt out her discovery, which would confirm she had been snooping, or let it simmer for a while. She felt the questions piling up like firewood in her brain. And the splinters were starting to hurt.
“Last time we spoke, Olivia,” Mrs. Glasser said, passing her the platter of salmon, “you were in advertising. Are you still, dear?”
Olivia couldn’t contain herself. “Yes, um, I am. I’m sorry, Mrs. Glasser, but I couldn’t help noticing the Miss Subways poster on the wall in your hallway.”
“Yeah, my grandma was quite a beauty in her day. Still is, but you know what I mean,” Ben said, taking the salmon platter from Olivia.
“That’s incredible,” Olivia said.
“That was a lifetime ago,” Mrs. Glasser said, smiling and looking like her thoughts were somewhere else for a moment. “How do you know about Miss Subways? It’s certainly way before your time.”
“My agency is pitching the MTA account, so I’ve been doing research into historical subway advertising campaigns. I discovered the Miss Subways campaign online last night. And ever since, I’ve been captivated by it. In fact, when you next check your answering machine, you’ll find a message that my associate Priya left for you. We’re hoping to talk to some Miss Subways.”
“It certainly was quite popular in its day. Just thinking about it now brings back such powerful memories,” Mrs. Glasser said, a small smile appearing on her lips.
“Would you mind telling me about it?” Olivia asked.
“I’d be happy to, dear, but not right now. I don’t feel up to it. But tomorrow morning. You’ll come on my walk with me.”
“I’d love to,” Olivia said, surprised by the invitation. Or rather, demand. “Thanks.”
Olivia looked at Ben, who had a huge smile on his face. He looked at Olivia, then at his grandmother, and then again at Olivia, catching her eye. Olivia smiled back.
The three of them talked about politics, movies, that week’s episodes of Ellen, and Ben’s latest travels, which had been to the Galapagos.
When they had all finished eating (the best home-cooked meal Olivia had eaten in a very long time because it was the only home-cooked meal Olivia had eaten in a very long time), Mrs. Glasser stood up to clear the plates. Olivia and Ben rose to help, but she shooed them away. “You two kids, relax. I’m going to wash the dishes, and then I’ll bring out dessert.”
Olivia and Ben both protested, but Mrs. Glasser was insistent, so the children did what they were told.
“Have you been to the Galapagos, Olivia?” Ben asked as they both fidgeted with their napkins.
“No, but I’d love to go someday.”
“You like to travel?”
“In theory, yes, but I’ve never been out of the country. I’ve traveled a bit in the US for work, but I’ve never traveled for me.”
“Where would you go if you could go anywhere?”
“Easy. Paris.”
“Ah … the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Notre Dame.”
“No, that’s not why actually.”
Ben tilted his head with a questioning look.
“It’s Paris because, and this is going to sound so stupid to you because you clearly travel quite a bit, but, okay, I can’t believe I’m going to admit this to you right now,” Olivia said, and hesitated. She looked at Ben searchingly, deciding whether she should continue.
“Go on,” he said kindly. “I promise I won’t think it sounds stupid, and if I do think it sounds stupid, I promise not to tell you.”
Olivia laughed. “Okay,” she said, and took a deep breath. “I’ve always been so envious of people who just casually say, ‘Oh, when I was in Paris’ or ‘Can you believe the light in Paris?’ or any other random thing I’ve been hearing friends and strangers say for years. And I know this must sound so shallow, but I’ve always wanted to just toss out something like that.”
“So you’re saying you’d like to use Paris in vain?”
“Absolutely, that’s what I’m saying.” Olivia laughed. “Stupid, huh?”
“I’m in a bind here because I told you I wouldn’t tell you if I thought it was stupid, so you might not believe me even though I’m going to tell you the truth. Not stupid at all.”
“Well, I am the queen of the staycation, so if you ever want any tips on which free walking tou
rs in New York City stop at the best restaurants, I’m your gal.”
“Okay, good to know.”
“I figure I’ll travel one day, so I try to save, but somehow my account never seems to be full enough for a trip. Especially one to Paris. But listen to me. I’m going on and on with my problems. Sorry,” Olivia said, looking at Ben.
“No problem. It doesn’t bother me a bit. I like hearing about you,” Ben said sweetly.
“Sounds like you travel a lot.”
“I do. Mostly for work, but I’m not complaining. I love what I do.”
“What do you do?” Olivia asked, taking a sip of her water.
“Have you heard of UseYourWings.com?” Ben asked.
“Of course! My trip portfolio is bursting. You know where you can pin all the trips you want to take and the sights you want to visit at each place?”
“You use it?”
“All the time. It instantly calms me down. I must have, like, thirty-five trips in the process of being planned. And the articles are amazing too. Do you write for them?”
“I do.”
“No way!” Olivia said, and banged her hand on the table.
“What happened?” Mrs. Glasser called from the kitchen and appeared in the doorway, holding cupcakes.
“Nothing, Grandma,” Ben said.
“Sorry, Mrs. Glasser,” Olivia said sheepishly. “I just got a little excited when I heard what Ben does for a living, so I banged the table.”
“Oh, he has that effect on all the girls,” Mrs. Glasser said, approaching the table now.
“Right. That’s exactly right,” Ben said, looking at Olivia. “That’s why I eat dinner with my grandmother every night.”
“Oh, Benjamin. You could have any girl you want. You just don’t make an effort.”
“I’m busy, Grandma. And I travel all the time. It’s hard,” Ben said, a blush coming to his cheeks.
“Do you have a special boyfriend, Olivia?” Mrs. Glasser asked Olivia as she put a cupcake on a plate for her.
“Grandma!” Ben said, giving Mrs. Glasser a look.
“Oh, please, Ben,” Mrs. Glasser said. “It’s a fair question.”
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