Piece of Work

by Laura Zigman

  Part of her was glad that Peter was getting so involved in Leo’s life and enjoying his new role as full-time father, yet another part of her was struggling. Except for the housework, staying home was the guiltiest pleasure in the world: watching cartoons, eating snacks, taking naps, not having to get dressed and schlep into an office to spend hours away from your child. She knew a lot of women would disagree with her and she knew she wasn’t supposed to think this, but there wasn’t anything on her desk that was half as interesting to Julia as Leo was.

  All she could think about was how she was missing out on this next phase of Leo’s development; how the mothers she’d gotten to know would forget about her and the ones she hadn’t gotten to know would judge her for not spending enough time with her child. But in the end it wasn’t the other mothers she cared about. It was The Scoob she cared about. It was all the little milestones and firsts—and lasts—she was afraid of missing: Life was short; time was precious; children didn’t stay young forever.

  And so, after helping Peter with the dishes, she decided to forgo the two-hour fight with her clothes she knew she would lose. Instead, after stepping in and out of her closet with surgical precision—removing two hangers: one pair of black pants and one simple long black jacket—she climbed into bed with Leo and read him five of his favorite books: If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, If You Take a Mouse to School, If You Take a Mouse to the Movies, If You Give a Moose a Muffin, If You Give a Pig a Pancake. As she drifted off to sleep along with him, she couldn’t help wishing for just one more book in the series:

  If You Take a Has-Been to a Photo Shoot . . .

  11

  When the industrial elevator clanged to a stop, Julia got out and headed down a dark concrete hallway. Predictably, Frank Sinatra—classic has-been comeback music—was booming through the walls, and as she got closer to the photographer’s studio the music practically knocked her over.

  “I’ll make a brand new start of it—

  In old New York.”

  Once inside the tall metal doors marked JAMES PERRY PHOTOGRAPHY, the ultimate in has-been comeback music—Billy Joel’s “New York State of Mind”—was next on the mix tape.

  She shut the door behind her and leaned against it. She’d been to countless celebrity photo shoots during her earlier career, and this didn’t seem any different from any other—there was all the usual technical equipment (draped muslin backdrops, bright lights on stands, white umbrellas tilted at various angles to catch light or deflect it), the obligatory scene-setting “props” (a café chair, a bar stool, a claret-colored velvet divan, an enormous white slipcovered wing-back armchair). As she continued to look around the vast space, the hubbub continued around her—lights were being adjusted, a long table with stainless steel coffee urns and platters of muffins and scones and doughnuts and fruit salad was being set up, and at least fifteen to twenty assistants who worked for both the photographer and for New York magazine were running around, trying to make sure everything would be ready the moment the principals—Mary Ford and James Perry—were ready.

  At first Julia didn’t see Jack, but then she noticed him—kneeling down in front of the gray muslin backdrop and a set of lights and making one of those ridiculously pretentious “shot framing” gestures with his hands. He was wearing a gray wool suit with a black turtleneck sweater underneath—clearly an attempt to look the part of arty-and-cool-publicist (as if such a thing existed)—but the intended effect was unsuccessful. It wasn’t that Jack was completely unappealing, it was just that he was a dork: a dork in a giant black probably fake cashmere turtleneck sweater that practically swallowed him up whole.

  A look of grave concern crossed his face, and then, after turning his body slightly and adjusting his “frame,” a look of relief replaced it. He had, it seemed, after much intense concentration, finally found the perfect shot. Crossing the room, Julia was careful not to get in anyone’s way—so busy and important were all the photographer’s assistants running to and fro, hither and yon!—and made her way over to Jack. He seemed happy to see her, and though she couldn’t say she was exactly happy to see him, she was certainly relieved to see a familiar face.

  “Micromanaging as usual,” Julia said lightly, wishing she could reach down and pull the turtleneck down to uncover some chin.

  “I just want to be sure they shoot her from the waist up,” he said, loud enough for two assistants with light meters and Polaroids hanging from straps around their necks to overhear. “That’s the most flattering angle for her. Otherwise, you get into the leg area and the thigh area and the hips.” He shuddered, made a face, then finally came out of his crouch and put his hands away. “With a woman her age, it could get ugly.”

  He winked at the two assistants—one female and one male who looked at him like he was a perv—and then nudged her toward the table of food. But she wasn’t interested: she never ate while she was on duty.

  She scanned the room once more before turning back to Jack.

  “So where’s Mary?”

  He pointed to the far end of the loft. “Behind that partition. Having hair and makeup. Once she’s finished there, she’ll change into various outfits on loan to New York magazine for this shoot from the Donna Karan showroom.”

  Julia moved slowly toward the partition but stopped when she got to it. Despite all her jadedness and all she had learned over the years about fame and celebrity—that it was an illusion, a myth, a cruel trick played on the American public in order to sell magazines or books or movie tickets or record albums or perfume—Julia couldn’t help feeling excited. Sure, Mary Ford was a has-been. Sure, she’d done cat food ads and car commercials and had virtually no acting career left to speak of. But she was still a legend! And for the first time since she’d taken the job, she allowed herself a moment of unchecked exhilaration as she peeked around the partition.

  Sitting in a black ultramodern Herman Miller swivel Aeron chair with a white sheet draped over her to protect her clothing was Mary Ford, looking every bit the movie star. She was an exceedingly handsome woman, with a strong square jaw, deep green eyes, and an overwhelming allure that belied her seventy-four years, and though she must have had some cosmetic surgery done at some point (who in Hollywood hadn’t?), her face bore none of the telltale signs of radical and repetitive plastic surgery—the too-tight eyes and mouth; cheeks and brows and chin immobilized and unable to convey emotion from too much Botox; lips too full of collagen to look natural. Her yellow-blond shoulder-length hair had clearly already been styled, and a tall man with bright orange braids was putting the finishing touches on her makeup while a moving force field of stylists and beauty specialists buzzed and swirled around her.

  For the first time, Julia heard Mary Ford’s trademark voice—low, rich, with its learned and well-practiced patrician inflections (in almost every interview Mary had given over the decades, she had always spoken openly and proudly about the hours of speech and vocal coaching she had endured during the early days of her career in order to erase the Brooklyn accent she had grown up with)—and even though she had said something completely mundane and unremarkable—“Don’t overdo it with the hair spray, Pippi Longstocking”—the words sent a shiver through Julia and reminded her of the inexplicable phenomenon of spending time with celebrities: how average moments like this one were simultaneously fascinating and incredibly banal.

  Pippi Longstocking stood back and sprayed three short bursts of hair spray into the air just above and to the sides of Mary Ford’s head—then waited for the tiny beads suspended in space to float down and land on Mary’s hair—and she watched him like a hawk through the mist. When it cleared and settled on her hair, she glared at him and rolled her eyes.

  “I said don’t overdo it with the hair spray. I didn’t say spray it into the air like it’s Chanel No. 5.” She snapped her fingers and motioned for the can. “Give it to me,” she said, and then redid it to her own satisfaction.

  “Ray Milland and I were shooting The Bridge to Nowhe
re and I found him tremendously sexy,” Mary Ford said with a little swivel of the chair and her arm holding the can of hair spray straight out in front of her until one of Pippi Longstocking’s assistants dove to retrieve it like a ball boy at Wimbledon. “It was about a year after Dial M for Murder had been released and one day—I was quite young and confident in those days, you know, not like I am now, beaten down by life and trying to scratch and claw my way back to the middle . . .” She paused briefly so the group of stylists could register her self-deprecation and laugh at it as if what she had just said couldn’t be further from the truth, before continuing. “I slipped a note under his dressing room door with my phone number that said Dial M for Mary.”

  Mary caught Julia’s eye in the mirror and winked. Julia, like a rube, turned around to see if there was someone standing behind her for whom the wink was actually intended, but there was no one else there.

  Mary Ford just winked at me.

  I ♥Mary Ford.

  “And did the great Mr. Milland ever call?” Pippi said as he stood behind her, his hands hovering just above the airy confection of her hair in an attempt to assess his work.

  “Yes. He did,” Mary said, the tone of her voice the perfect cocktail of dry wit, annoyance, and actual disappointment, which charmed the group of stylists even more than they were already charmed. “But after our first and last dinner together he asked me why it was that my hair always looked like it could withstand the winds of a Class Four hurricane.” She winked at Julia again but this time Julia restrained herself from turning around. “Since then I’ve told every single stylist who’s ever worked on my hair the same thing.”

  “Don’t overdo it with the hair spray!” Pippi repeated dutifully, and when he did, Julia knew he would never forget that nugget of infinite wisdom as long as he lived.

  The banter between Mary and Pippi and the rest of the crowd of stylists continued while Julia remained on the fringes, until Mary suddenly half-swiveled toward her and said: “Who are you?”

  Julia was so absorbed by the conversation that had now predictably moved on to other celebrity-friendly topics such as Botox and Chinese herbs and natural laxatives that it took her a second or two to realize that Mary Ford was staring at her expectantly.

  Mary repeated her question. “Hello? Who are you?” When she snapped her fingers at her, Julia came out of her trance.

  “I work with Jack DeMarco at John Glom Public Relations,” Julia finally said, with more nervousness than she would have liked and with far less charm than she would have wanted. Hoping to distract Mary Ford from her inexplicable omission—the fact that she’d left out a crucial piece of information, her own name!—she stepped forward and reached out her hand. But Mary Ford’s hand was underneath the protective sheet and several awkward seconds passed until she was finally able to get it out from beneath the layers of cloth. When they finally did shake hands, Julia noticed the impressive stack of yellow-gold rings with brightly colored stones in them and the vintage men’s Cartier watch with a well-worn chocolate brown crocodile strap on her wrist. Mary Ford was one of the few celebrities she’d ever met who actually had good taste in jewelry and she couldn’t help feeling tongue-tied with awe and excitement.

  “For a minute I thought you were Jack’s replacement,” Mary said, rolling her eyes. “But no such luck.”

  Julia laughed nervously.

  “And I was going to say: Mutatis mutandis.”

  But when it became clear that Julia didn’t get the Latin reference, Mary rolled her eyes again. “‘That having been changed which needed to be changed,’ or, if you want the Latin for Dummies translation, ‘Finally they got rid of that idiot.’”

  Julia felt her cheeks go hot with shame.

  “Where did you go to college?” Mary said, noisily sucking something out of her teeth. “Vassar?”

  Stunned, Julia nodded.

  “I could tell. They stopped teaching the classics there years ago. Or at least making the core classics mandatory.” And just as Julia was wondering how Mary could possibly have been so familiar with the academic curriculum and requirements of her alma mater, Mary added: “My daughter went there. Against my wishes. I wanted her to go to a real college like Wellesley. Where no boys would have been around to distract her or convince her that dancing in a local Poughkeepsie strip club might earn her course credits.”

  “Is that where you went?” Julia asked.

  “That’s where I would have gone if my family had had the money to send me to college. But they didn’t. So the only education I got was at the School of Hard Knocks.”

  Mary Ford shifted in her Aeron chair and sucked at her teeth again. “So how did you get stuck working for Jack DeMarco? In case I haven’t made myself clear, I’m not a fan.”

  Julia laughed, and Mary continued without giving her a chance to answer.

  “The man has a bigger ego than I do. If I learned nothing else in Hollywood when I was coming up in the business, it was to always be aware of who the real star in the room was and never to eclipse them. But every time I see him he can’t get out of his own way. I told him early on, I said, ‘Jack, I have news for you. When we walk into a room it’s me they’re looking at. Not you.’” She rolled her eyes yet again. “He still doesn’t get it.”

  Julia could feel herself grinning from ear to ear—Mary Ford couldn’t stand Jack either!—and she was completely surprised and shocked that no one had bothered to mention to her how funny Mary Ford was! And how sharp and perceptive she was! And despite the fact that she’d forgotten to tell Mary her name and that she’d barely done anything besides laugh like a giddy photo-shoot hanger-on, she was suddenly glad that she’d come—and even gladder that she’d taken the job.

  “So are you coming with me on my tour or do I still have to go with him?” Mary said, looking at herself in the mirror and making subtle yet expert adjustments to her hair.

  “I’m not sure,” Julia said slowly, explaining to Mary what Jack had told her—that while he was still planning on doing most of the traveling for the Legend tour, he would probably need Julia to cover a few of those cities.

  “Thank God,” Mary said, then stared at Julia in the mirror. She could feel Mary’s eyes on her—up and down, from her hair (dark brown and shoulder length and brushed back into a neat ponytail), to her minimal but well-applied makeup (foundation and tinted lip gloss with a touch of mascara), to her outfit (a plain black suit)—and she instinctively sucked in her stomach the way she always did when she was around anyone other than Leo. She couldn’t tell what Mary was thinking but it couldn’t have been all bad: after all, the woman just asked Julia to travel with her.

  “I’ll talk to Jack and tell him that I want you to come with me instead,” Mary said, unfazed, as if not getting what she asked for wasn’t an option. “Which he’ll agree to, of course, since he’s afraid of me. Then when he tells you about the change in plans, he’ll pretend it was all his idea.” She winked again and looked across the loft for Jack. “Hey, Jack Be Nimble!” she hollered, summoning him over with her index finger. “I want to talk to you.”

  Jack, who had just bitten into a giant mushroom cap of a muffin, turned and ran past Julia to Mary’s side. Taking her cue, Julia backed away a few steps and watched Mary talk at Jack and Jack nod his head up and down like a bobble-head toy. As the crowd of stylists closed in on Mary again and helped her out of the makeup chair and over to the large walk-in closet that contained a long wardrobe rack, Julia couldn’t help but feel that despite the fact that she hadn’t performed anywhere close to her previous level of ability, she was at least doing better than Jack, who looked like he was getting the shit kicked out of him. That tiny measure of success and even tinier morsel of Schadenfreude propelled Julia to follow the group across the room to the clothes and watch as Mary slid the squeaking hangers down the long metal bar in search of something to wear. Jack stayed behind.

  “Well, this is fabulous,” Mary said, holding out an espresso-colored matte-lea
ther long jacket with a Nehru-style collar. “I might just have to take this home with me.”

  The group surrounding Mary laughed, all except for a small nail-biting young man with a shaved head and an impossible number of tiny gold hoops running along the entire edge of his right ear standing right next to Julia. He elbowed her lightly and she bent down as he whispered in her ear:

  “You don’t think she was serious about taking the jacket home with her, do you?”

  Julia shook her head. Though she’d met Mary Ford only five minutes ago and didn’t know what she was serious about, she couldn’t imagine that she was serious about taking a six-thousand-dollar Donna Karan leather jacket home with her.

  But then again, there was that small matter of the still-missing sheared beaver coat from Bergdorf Goodman. Not to mention Jack’s comment that first day about how Mary’s daughter had given interviews about her mother’s kleptomania.

  “Because these clothes are only on loan to the magazine,” he—Romaine was his name—continued, biting into his almost nonexistent thumbnail with such force that Julia was afraid he might actually draw blood or gnaw off the tip of his finger. “I’m personally responsible for making sure everything’s returned to the showroom directly after the shoot.”

  Julia tried to reassure him but when Mary Ford finally walked past Julia and out toward the lights and the latest musical selection—the insufferable Celine Dion—and James Perry’s tripod, she was wearing the leather jacket, Julia noticed with alarm, as if she owned it. Over the next two hours, though, Mary went through so many different wardrobe changes that Julia figured she’d forget all about the jacket by the time it was time to leave.