by Renée Rosen
I can’t say for sure if people snickered but there was eye rolling, shifting in chairs, disgusted sighs. They were missing the whole point she was trying to make and I worried that what little respect they had for her was disappearing faster than water through an open drain. She was confirming their worst fears about her and what she wanted to do with the magazine.
“Just take a look at the article ideas we came up with.” She passed Femme around the conference room table, and I watched the expression on Liz Smith’s face as her eyes landed on headlines announcing Simple but Sexy Bedroom Tips, 10 Ways to Guarantee a Second Date, and How to Have an Affair with Your Boss. She was appalled.
Helen refused to be deterred. “From now on, every article, every movie review, book review, illustration and cartoon will appeal to our new girl readers. I’m talking about ways to make her life better. Yummier and sexier.”
With that, Burt Carlson collected his things and stood up. “If you’ll all excuse me.”
As he left the room, I sensed others wishing they’d had the guts to do the same.
Helen didn’t ease up. She carried on as if nothing had happened. “So let’s see what we have.”
“We’ve told you what we have,” said Harriet La Barre, and not too kindly. “And George is right, we have holes to fill in the June issue. That should be our priority right now.”
Liz agreed, so did Bobbie, and soon everyone was nodding, talking at once. I stood off to the side, watching the meeting get away from Helen like a cat escaping out the front door. There wasn’t a chance for her to get it back without raising her voice, stomping her foot and breaking free of her carefully curated demure image. So she let the meeting dissolve. Some people left one at a time, others departed in clusters, and all the while Helen was the good hostess, standing near the door, thanking them for coming without ever letting the smile leave her face. If she was dying on the inside, no one knew it. Not even me.
As soon as she got back to her office, Burt Carlson was waiting for her.
“I’m not going to write about oral sex and orgasms,” I heard him tell her. “I’m sorry, Helen, but I can’t do it and I won’t do it. You can have my resignation effective immediately.”
Another one gone. As soon as he left her office, a teary-eyed Helen asked me to get her husband on the telephone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I got home that night and entered my building, eyeing its dingy cobwebs in the corners and Chinese take-out menus on the floor with footprints waffled on top. When I reached the first-floor landing, the hallway light was flickering, on the verge of burning out. As soon as I stepped inside and shut my apartment door, I felt the walls closing in on me. I went across the way and knocked on Trudy’s door, but there was no answer. I was too antsy to stay in so I grabbed my camera and my coat, pulled my gloves from my pockets and headed back out.
A brisk wind gust hit me as I turned the corner and walked down Lexington. Whenever I was out with my camera, I was always acutely aware of how it made me feel. It was a prop and I, a bit of an actress: Ali Weiss, famed photographer. I was making a statement with that camera. Someone could look at me and assume, rightfully or not, that I was creative, artistic, talented. And I liked that. I liked being more than a secretary. The camera was my calling card, a shot of confidence. Girl with a camera—it said I was a someone.
As I crossed 71st Street, I saw a beautifully dressed woman who’d buttoned her fur coat wrong so the hem didn’t line up. Something about that sliver of imperfection and vulnerability made me reach for my camera as I pulled my gloves off with my teeth so I could focus in on her. I’d been struck by that same human frailty a few days before when I snapped a photograph of a man who’d lit the wrong end of his cigarette, capturing his shocked expression when he saw the filter smoking.
I’d always been observant but lately I’d begun to see the world in freeze frames, wanting to capture a single moment that told the whole story—what happened before and after the shutter clicked. Maybe I was drawn to these strangers on the streets because I, too, felt exposed and insecure in this big city. And really, it wasn’t just the awkward misstepped moments that I sought to catch; it was the ordinary ones: a boy enjoying a lollipop while his dog stole a lick for himself, a woman pushing her baby stroller down the street. My eye was drawn to so much and I was running through film faster than I could buy it, certainly faster than I could afford to have it developed.
I kept walking down Lexington Avenue until I came to 63rd Street. I stopped, vaguely aware of the traffic rumbling behind me, the people rushing to and fro, a dog barking down the block. A rush of breath, white and ghostlike, hung in the air before me as I stood on the sidewalk staring at the salmon-colored brick, the arches above the windows and the green awning with gold-scripted lettering that simply said The Barbizon.
As I brought the camera to my eye, every thought and longing for my mother coalesced inside me. I’m here, Mom. I made it to New York. I had to get the picture before my vision blurred.
Just as I snapped the shutter, I heard a deep voice say, “Welcome to the Barbizon.”
I pushed back my tears and looked up at the doorman as he smiled, tipped his hat and held the door for me. I wanted to toy with time, run through the doors and find my mother there. I wanted to smell her perfume when she took me in her arms and rest my chin on the ledge of her collarbone. I wanted one more look, one more chance to hear her voice.
As I crossed the threshold, all I could think was, This was her home. This was where she lived. My heels echoed on the marble floors as I admired the glamorous lobby with its grand staircase and the catwalk that wrapped around the perimeter of the second floor. There was a little seating area with high-back chairs, potted plants and a beautiful Oriental rug. I slipped into one of the chairs and watched the residents coming and going, trying to picture my mother and Elaine flitting through this lobby.
I wished I could have said I felt my mother’s presence. Wished I could have been comforted to be there. After all, it was just like my mother had described it, down to the beautiful girls in white gloves, waiting by the front windows for their beaus to pick them up. But the ache in my heart only grew deeper. I couldn’t take photos in there. I could hardly breathe.
For the second time that evening, I was on the verge of tears when a voice cut through my thoughts. “Can I help you, miss?”
I glanced up at the young woman and shook my head. “I wish you could.” I got up, smoothed the front of my coat and made my way back through the lobby.
As I stepped outside, the cold air hit me full on in the face. The sidewalks were crowded and I found myself in a city surrounded by people but still I felt all alone.
* * *
• • •
I woke up the next morning to a beautiful spring day. Nothing like the night before. Now the chill that had stayed with me through the night was replaced with a mild breeze. There was hardly a cloud in sight. The darkness was gone, the loneliness tucked away, and I was back on my journey.
Even with Trudy’s navigation help, I was still struggling to learn the city and wasn’t all that comfortable with the subway. The graffiti, the cold stares from other passengers, the rat sightings and the frequency with which I missed my stops or boarded the wrong train made me apprehensive. I was more at ease traveling on foot, so I left early and decided to walk it.
Helen had asked me to meet her at her apartment that morning. She needed help bringing a few items into the office. I took 74th Street over and turned left on Park Avenue. Though just a few blocks from my apartment over the butcher shop, it made a world of difference. Now I understood why my mother had wanted to live here. Its glamour suited her. The avenue was wide with a manicured median in the middle filled with trees and bushes, the budding signs of crocuses and tulips already visible. Flower boxes along the window ledges were home to clusters of bright red geraniums and white hydrangeas. I made a
mental note to come back with my camera and photograph the many doormen standing beneath the awnings in their crisp uniforms. I found them just as intriguing as the wealthy residents they were helping in and out of taxicabs and limousines.
Helen lived on 59th and Park, in a high-rise building adjacent to Sherry-Lehmann Wine & Spirits, where the average cost of a bottle ran higher than my weekly paycheck. She greeted me at the door in a psychedelic Pucci dress and pink shoes. Her two Siamese cats were with her. “This pretty little kitty is Samantha,” she said, nuzzling one to her cheek. “And this right here”—she said, depositing Samantha and scooping up the other cat snaking about her ankles—“this handsome thing is Gregory.”
From the foyer I could see a wall of tiny mirrors, hung gallery style, reflecting a spectacular view of the living room—all blues and pinks of various shades, a love seat and sofa, vases of fresh flowers, a few leopard print accents here and there.
“You have a lovely home,” I said, reaching over to scratch Gregory’s ear.
“Oh, I can’t take credit for it. I owe it all to Michael Taylor. He cost us an arm and a leg, but as a decorator, he was worth every penny.” She gently tossed Gregory to the floor, his paws landing with a soft thud on the plush carpet. There were two banker boxes resting on the floor, both packed so full that the lids wouldn’t fit.
“If you take this box, I’ll get the other one.” She handed me a box of knickknacks, bulky but not heavy, overflowing with decoupaged boxes, needlepoint pillows and a stuffed animal shoved in head first. She hefted up the second box on her hip and paused. “Oops.” She set the box back down. “I almost forgot my lunch.” She darted down a hallway and returned moments later with a small brown paper bag, crinkly and limp from use. She tossed it on top of the box. “Shall we go?”
Downstairs the doorman held the gilded door for us. “Taxicab, please,” I said to him, having observed that hailing cabs was their job, not mine.
“Oh, Alice, dear, no. I never take taxicabs. They’re much too expensive.”
I thought she was joking.
“No,” she said emphatically. “I take the bus. Every day.”
So with banker boxes in our arms, we walked to Lexington Avenue and waited at 59th Street for the bus. Bloomingdale’s was right across the street. When the bus arrived, she pinched open her Gucci pocketbook and handed the driver two fare tokens. Helen could have afforded her own driver. It made no sense, but neither did the little brown bag lunch.
We took our seats and Helen asked how I was settling into the city and did I like where I lived. I told her I was very comfortable, staying on the Upper East Side. And yes, I had my own place.
Helen smiled approvingly. Roommates were not sexy. “And how is it that you know Elaine Sloan again?”
“She and my mother were good friends.” I paused, flashing back to my Barbizon visit, wanting Helen to ask about my mother. I would take any opportunity to talk about her and keep her memory alive, make others see how wondrous she was.
Helen turned to me, her hand shielding the sunlight coming through the window. “Oh, before I forget, here’s a word of warning about that fella you have your eye on.”
“What fella?” I mumbled, knowing I’d been found out. Helen had an almost clairvoyant-like ability to read other women’s minds. She knew my—and every other girl’s—deepest darkest secrets.
“Oh, c’mon now, pussycat. I see the way you look at him. At that Erik Masterson. I see him hanging around your desk. Be careful, he’s a Don Juan. I had a Don Juan. For nine years, I had him. Oh, that man was delicious but he treated me horribly.” She winced at some particularly sour memory. “He walked all over me and broke my heart a million times because that’s what Don Juans do. And remember, no matter how hard you try, a Don Juan will never marry you.”
“Believe me,” I said, laughing, “I have no interest in marrying Erik Masterson.”
“Well, thank heavens for that. You’re smarter than I was at your age.”
“How do you know he’s a Don Juan?”
“Oh, please,” said Helen. “He has all the classic makings of a Don Juan. He’s devilishly handsome and he’s successful, which makes him especially lethal. He’s smooth as a sheet of glass. I’ll bet you he’s already slept his way through half the secretarial pools in the entire Hearst Corporation.”
I felt a little queasy when she said that because, since our lunch at La Grenouille, I’d caught myself fantasizing about sleeping with him. But it was all still fantasy because I kept questioning whether I could really have the kind of sex for sex’s sake that Helen prescribed.
“But the thing about a Don Juan,” said Helen, “is that every girl has one, so don’t beat yourself up over it. Don Juans are unavoidable. No matter how smart she is, every girl has that one man that she just can’t say no to even though she knows he’s no good for her.”
I looked out the window, studying the tree branches growing up and around the scaffolding. I observed the card tables, too, piled high with used books and incense. I knew Helen was speaking from experience. I knew she was right but I wanted to believe I was immune to my Don Juan’s charms.
“Honestly,” she said, “the best thing you can do is just go ahead and get it over with. Go out with him, sleep with him, get your heart smashed to bits and get back on with your life.”
* * *
• • •
When we got into work that morning, Dale Donahue was waiting for Helen, his sailor-like complexion ruddier than usual. They went into her office and closed the door.
“I think he’s quitting,” said Bridget, setting her coffee cup down hard on my desk while she toyed with her earring. “This damn clip.” She pulled the earring free and held it in her hand. The back had broken off. “Well, that’s just great.” She hastily unfastened the other earring and threw them both in the wastebasket.
“Easy there,” I said. “They’re just earrings.”
“Yeah, well, they’re my favorite pair and now I can’t afford to replace them.” She looked like she was on the verge of tears.
“Something tells me this isn’t just about your earrings. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” She sighed and slapped her hands to her thighs. “I didn’t get the Redbook job.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me, too, ’cause I’m broke, and I’m sick and tired of being broke.”
I was in the same boat. I had a bottle of Prell shampoo on the bathroom ledge, turned upside down to collect every last drop, and a sliver of Ivory soap that needed to last until payday.
“What’s going on in there?” asked Margot, joining us. She leaned against my desk, sipping her coffee, leaving a half-moon of red lipstick on the rim of her cup. “I heard Dale wanted to see her. Do you think he’s quitting, too?”
“I have no idea.” I glanced at Helen’s appointment book, thinking I might have to interrupt her meeting with Dale for a call she had coming up.
“Well,” said Margot, fingering through her pixie locks, “whatever she said in that meeting yesterday really created a stir.”
“People around here don’t like change,” said Bridget.
“That’s for sure,” I said, shuffling through a stack of pink message slips that had accumulated for Helen overnight.
“C’mon,” said Margot, “just tell me. What do ya think’s really going on in there?”
I hesitated, leery of Margot ever since Bridget told me she was a gossip. Thankfully we heard Helen and Dale talking on the other side of the door, and just as the knob began to turn, Margot and Bridget sprinted back to their desks. After Dale Donahue left, Helen handed me his letter of resignation.
“Please file this along with the other ones, will you, dear?” She had a damp tissue clutched in one hand, a fresh one in the other, which she used to dab her eyes and blow her nose. “I don’t unde
rstand it. Everyone’s deserting me. Tell me, am I really that dreadful to work for?” She smiled, casting her rod in my sea of compliments.
“Of course not.” I took the bait with pleasure. “If you ask me, the people who quit weren’t up for the challenge. You have a vision for this magazine, and those stuffy old men weren’t right for the new Cosmopolitan anyway.”
Her smile ripened and that did something for me, knowing I could encourage her like that. In the weeks and months ahead, we’d wind up doing this very thing, this little dance, whereby I’d confirm all that she believed or wanted to believe true about herself. Sometimes I’d respond in earnest, sometimes a little less so, stopping just short of an outright lie. She seemed to buy what I was saying either way. Bolstering Helen’s ego when she was down would forevermore be part of my job description.
“Well, good riddance to him, right?” She jutted out her hip and toyed with her armful of bangles.
I reminded Helen of her upcoming call and went to get her a fresh cup of coffee. When I returned, George Walsh was in her office, along with Richard Berlin, Dick Deems and Erik Masterson. Helen was sitting in her doll’s chair, looking deceptively vulnerable and fragile while Berlin and Deems sat in the two larger chairs opposite her desk. Erik and George remained standing. None of them opted for her frilly, floral sofa.
I couldn’t tell if Erik was looking at me or not because I kept my eyes on the coffee cup, determined to conduct myself professionally and keep my personal life separate from whatever was going on in the workplace. And regardless of what happened outside the office, I knew I would never betray Helen’s confidences and would never tell Erik a thing she wouldn’t want him knowing.