by Renée Rosen
“But you have to be practical. You—”
“George.” She cut him off, her voice even and measured. “Let me tell you something about being practical. It’ll get you nowhere. I grew up poor as a church mouse. I wore secondhand clothes. I changed my own flat tires and my oil, too. I doctored up my broken heels with Elmer’s Glue. I never left a restaurant without a doggie bag. You wouldn’t believe how far I can stretch a dollar. There’s not a budget I haven’t been able to make work and that includes this one.”
* * *
• • •
It was getting late. The cleaning service had already come through and everyone else was gone.
“You should go home,” I said to Helen, sticking my head in her office. Her desk lamp gave off a cone of golden light all around her. A pencil snapped in two was lying on her blotter. “Don’t forget, you have an eight o’clock breakfast meeting tomorrow morning. Shall I telephone Mr. Brown and let him know you’re on your way?” He’d called twice already, asking when she was leaving.
She shook her head and took a final puff off her cigarette, grinding it out in the marble ashtray on her desk. “I can’t go home yet. I have to figure out how I’m going to put out this magazine without any money.” She looked up and sighed. “I’ve gone through two more piles of manuscripts and there’s nothing here that’s even remotely publishable.”
“Are you sure?”
“Here.” She handed me a stack. “See for yourself.”
While I began reading an article about Yosemite, Helen got up from her desk and went over to her sofa with a fresh pile of papers. “Richard and Dick want me to include a piece by Isaac Bashevis Singer in June, but that’ll be the last of him. He’s not right for my girls. They’re also insisting I include the Rex Reed movie reviews he did before he was fired.”
She cast aside the pages and stood up, her arms raised above her head, fingers laced together as she leaned to the left and then the right before bending forward, her palms flattened on the floor. She was quite flexible. Especially for a woman in her forties. She was still lamenting the work of Singer while she kicked off her Palizzio heels and began running in place. “Any new developments with your Don Juan?”
“I’m sorry, what?” I was surprised that she’d asked.
“Well? Anything?” She was panting, running, pumping her arms.
“Not really.” I was beginning to think I’d been presumptuous while at lunch with him, thinking something had begun between us. Sometimes Erik went out of his way to stop by my desk and chat; other times he breezed past me without a word, without a glance. “He runs a little hot and cold.”
“That’s because he’s a Don Juan. You’ll have to play hard to get if you want that one.”
“Well, I don’t exactly want him.”
“Oh, c’mon now. Don’t kid a kidder.”
“How come you’re trying to help me get him when you said I should steer clear of him?”
“Because, pussycat, if you’re like any red-blooded female, you can’t stop thinking about him, and the sooner you get him and get him out of your system, the better it’ll be for me.”
“Well, he seems like he could be more trouble than he’s worth.”
“Oh, I can guarantee you he is.” Helen continued running in place, her knees reaching higher and higher.
“And I’m sure he has a million girls.”
“I’m sure you’re right about that, too.”
“I don’t think I’m his type anyway.” I noticed that he always made a point of stopping by Bridget’s desk. “He probably prefers blondes.”
“Now that’s where you’re wrong. Did you not learn anything from my book? Type has nothing to do with it. Even a mouseburger can get any fellow she wants. At least for a little while.” Helen stopped running and was now on the floor, lying on her back, doing fluttery scissor kicks, toes pointed, graceful as a ballerina. “I landed David, didn’t I? And I was the biggest mouseburger of all. I can tell you this much—no man fell in love with me at first sight. I wasn’t the pretty girl with dozens of fellas lined up asking me to dance. But even back in high school, I hooked the most popular boy in my class. And you want to know how I did it? I turned on my Plain Girl Power. My sex appeal would sneak up on them once they got to talking with me. I could make just about any man want me.”
She rolled onto her hip, lifting her top leg up and down, up and down. “The thing to remember about men is that they’re a puzzle. All a girl has to do is figure them out. Find out what lights a fire under that Erik Masterson and play hard to get and he’s yours.” She continued with her leg lifts while she talked. “Men are really very easy to win over. I know because I got David to marry me. Oh, it took me two years and a lot of tears but he was worth it. I was living in Los Angeles when I met him. The first time I saw him was at a friend’s party. I asked the hostess to introduce me and she said no.”
“That wasn’t very nice.”
“Oh, she did me a huge favor. I’ll forever be in her debt for that. You see, David had just gotten divorced and he was a big-time Hollywood producer with Twentieth Century. He was dating a lot of starlets who wanted parts in his movies. He needed some time to get all that out of his system. So I waited and waited. And then I waited some more.” She finished her last set of leg lifts and returned to her position on the sofa, wrapping her arms about her knees.
“In the meantime, I was dating several men, but they were just placeholders. Then, two years later I saw David at another party. I knew he didn’t want a woman who wanted him for his money or his position. I decided that I would show him right from the get-go that I was independent and self-sufficient. Which I was. I was working for an advertising agency at the time. I was one of the only women copywriters and I was good. Gosh darn good at it. I let David know that I had my own money and my own apartment. In fact, on our first date I refused to let him pick me up. I insisted on driving because I was going to have him walk me to my car after dinner and I wanted him to see that I drove a Mercedes. Believe me, that registered with him. None of his starlets could have afforded a car like that on their own. I choreographed the entire evening, and by the time he saw that car, he was hooked.”
I was engrossed, and just when I thought she was going to tell me more, she reached for a manuscript, read a line or two and said, “Now see? Something like this just won’t do.”
I glanced at the cover page. It was an article by Tom Wolfe.
“It’s wordy and complicated for the sake of being complicated,” she said. “I wish these writers would quit trying so hard to sound like they’re intellectuals. They’re so pretentious. I want every article in this magazine to be baby simple.”
She read a few more lines and set the manuscript aside. “Berlin thinks he’s got me over a barrel by cutting my budget but he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. If I have to, I’ll write my own damn articles. And I have a camera—I’ll take my own damn photographs, too.” She reached for a cigarette, and while she lit it, the wheels were already turning inside my head.
CHAPTER NINE
A light spring rain, more like a mist, hung in the air when I left work that night. The days were gradually growing longer—not that I would have noticed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d left work when it was still light out. My only evidence of the change of season was that it was getting warmer and I hadn’t bothered to button my raincoat when I got off the subway.
I crossed 72nd Street, and as I walked up Second Avenue, my mind was racing, thinking of the best way to approach Helen about my photography. I had just gotten a new roll of film developed the day before—mostly random shots I’d taken on the subway or while I was walking about the streets, but they were the best photos I’d ever taken.
Funny how the city had changed the way I approached a photograph. I used to agonize over every shot: the angle, focus and exposure, waiting for everyth
ing to be perfect before I’d click the shutter. But New York was too fast for that. So much to see, and if you didn’t catch it the instant it was happening, you’d miss it. I was becoming more and more fascinated with candid shots. To me, those captured the unexpected magic of the city, and it dawned on me that just as my mother had documented my life growing up, I was documenting New York.
When I got home, I set my pocketbook down and shrugged off my coat, slumping it over the back of the sofa. I’d been in the process of redoing my portfolio anyway, wincing when I thought about my earlier photos, embarrassed that I’d ever shown them to Elaine Sloan or anyone else. I gathered all my photographs and spread them out across the floor, eliminating dozens of them right away. I scrutinized the others and the order in which to put them. It was going on two in the morning when I mounted the last picture on the heavy black construction paper I’d splurged on a few days before.
The next morning, I brought my portfolio to work, carefully placing it in my bottom desk drawer along with my lunch and pocketbook. I had planned to show it to Helen right away, but when she arrived from her breakfast meeting and called me into her office, I grew too timid to mention it.
After I’d brought in her coffee and newspapers and we went through her schedule, there was a silence; the perfect opportunity, but I couldn’t find the words to broach the subject. The day pressed on, the portfolio pulling for my attention like a child tugging on his mother’s sleeve. When it was half past seven and the rest of the office had emptied out, it was just the two of us and I knew it was now or never. Holding my portfolio gingerly in my hands, I knocked on her door. “Do you have a minute?”
“Come in.” She smiled, her eyes hooded. In the light of her desk lamp I could detect the dark circles lurking beneath her pancake makeup. She had her red pencil going, editing a manuscript.
I couldn’t get started. I stood in front of her desk, glancing down at the case in my hands before I dared to look up.
“Oh dear.” She set the pencil down, her brown eyes large with concern. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no.” I offered a weak smile. “It’s just that, remember yesterday, you were talking about having to take your own photos for the magazine?”
“Oh, that.” She smiled, relieved. I think she thought I was going to quit.
“Well, I wanted to let you know that I can help with that. I can take the pictures for you.”
“Alice”—she cocked her head to the side—“I was kidding about taking my own photos. I just have to find a batch of writers and photographers who’ll be willing to work for nothing.”
“But I’m serious. I take pictures all the time. I’m good, too. And you wouldn’t even have to pay me. Not a penny.” I knew I was talking too fast.
“That’s very sweet of you to offer.” She laughed as she picked up her pencil, her eyes returning to the manuscript.
“Well, at least let me show you some of my photographs,” I said, holding out my portfolio. “These are my pictures.” I set my case on her desk. “I took them.”
She humored me, opening the case and looking at each photograph before she closed the cover. “Oh, pussycat, I can see you’re very passionate about this, but I can’t have you running around taking pictures. You’re much more valuable to me as my secretary.” She reached for the stack of papers and went back to reading her manuscripts.
Subject closed. The possibility of shooting for Cosmopolitan had been extinguished as quickly as it had been sparked. I took back my portfolio, feeling foolish, my face burning. She was only being polite, going through the motions of looking at my photos. Obviously, they weren’t as good as I thought. Maybe I was kidding myself, thinking I could do this at all. Maybe photography would be nothing more than a hobby for me, like it was for my mother. All I knew was that I wasn’t going to humiliate myself again by showing those photos to anyone else.
Clutching the portfolio to my chest, I asked if she needed anything.
“I’m fine. I just need to read through the last of these manuscripts.”
I always felt guilty leaving before Helen, even that night after she’d crushed my hopes of shooting for the magazine. I was embarrassed, though, and couldn’t wait to get out of there. I said a quick good night before I grabbed my pocketbook and tossed my portfolio into the wastebasket under my desk.
* * *
• • •
As I got in the elevator that night, I knew I’d done the right thing by dumping my portfolio. But I wasn’t about to give up. I just had to make my work that much better, and if ever it made sense to enroll in a photography class, it was now.
The elevator doors opened, and as I stepped into the lobby, Erik Masterson was coming through the revolving door. “Oh good, you’re still here,” he said. “I was just coming to get you for a drink and a bite to eat.”
I was ridiculously happy to see him. After the day I’d had, dinner and drinks with Erik sounded like a welcome distraction, only I didn’t like him assuming I’d be free. “Sorry,” I said. “I can’t tonight. I’m already running late as it is.”
“For what?”
I wasn’t a good liar and couldn’t come up with anything on the spot, so I simply said, “I’ll take a rain check.”
“Oh, c’mon, break your plans.” The lobby was empty at that hour and our voices echoed off the marble walls and ceiling.
“And what if I don’t want to?” I smiled, remembering Helen’s advice on playing hard to get.
“Alice.” He put on a mock frown and brushed a strand of hair away from my cheek. “You’re making this very difficult.”
My face was still warm from his touch. “Maybe you shouldn’t have waited till the last minute to ask me out.” I raised my chin and looked him right in the eyes, and immediately knew that was a mistake because now he locked me in with his gaze. My heart sped up. I couldn’t turn away.
That’s when he stepped in, grabbed me by the shoulders, pulled me close and planted a long deep kiss on my mouth. His lips were soft, practiced. He knew exactly what he was doing to me, and I found myself kissing him back as he pulled me in closer still. It had been so long—I’d forgotten how fun kissing was, and here I was in the hands of a master, a true champion kisser.
“Sorry,” he said, though clearly he wasn’t sorry at all. “But I’m impatient and I’ve been wanting to do that since I first saw you.” I was stunned and stumbled as he slipped his arm about my waist and coaxed me out the door.
Erik took me to a crowded restaurant a few blocks away. It didn’t have the glitz or glamour of La Grenouille or the Russian Tea Room but it was very New York just the same, thick with smoke and expensive perfume.
We were halfway through our first round of drinks before a seat at the bar opened up. Erik stood next to me, keeping one eye on the room while we chatted and nibbled on shrimp cocktails and Swedish meatballs.
“You were burning the midnight oil tonight,” he said. “What were you working on so late?”
“Uh-uh. I’m not falling for that.”
“For what?”
“You know what. I’m not telling you what Helen’s up to.”
“I swear that’s not what I was trying to do.”
“Sure you weren’t.” I reached for my martini and took a sip.
“Just tell me one thing—is it true that Helen left the office yesterday for a nooner?”
“My God.” I set my glass down hard, gin sloshing back and forth. “How did you find out about that? Does George Walsh go running to Hearst with every little thing? What a jerk.”
“Oh, c’mon, just tell me, is it true? Did you really say that to him?”
I groaned and nodded sheepishly as he burst out laughing.
It was getting late and I’d had two martinis on a small helping of shrimp and meatballs. Erik was about to order another round.
“Not for me,” I s
aid, pushing my glass aside, looking for my jacket.
“You’re not leaving yet, are you? You can’t.” He turned as a prism of light ricocheted off the mirror behind the bar, encircling his handsome face. His sheer beauty was unnerving and that kiss in the lobby was still stirring inside me. All I could think about was kissing him again.
“You just can’t leave me for a third time,” he said.
“Then maybe you should come with me.”
He paid the bill and twenty minutes later had me pressed up against the doorway of the butcher shop below my apartment.
“Let me come up,” he said, speaking into my lips.
I wanted to say yes but thankfully what came out was, “Not tonight.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a school night,” I teased.
He was coming on strong, and though I wanted him, too, I was scared. What if I wasn’t modern enough to sleep with a man I didn’t love? And besides, I didn’t want to be that easy. If I was going to give in, I was going to at least make him work for it. We kissed for another fifteen minutes. I was getting weaker, about to surrender, when he backed off and said good night.
My lips were still tingling, my body pulsing. I watched as he made his way down the sidewalk, his hand casually raised to hail a cab.
I keyed into my apartment, feeling so woozy, I ended up crawling into bed with my slip still on. As I drifted off, I thought about Erik and his kisses. All my good sense was disconnected from my brain. Maybe, just maybe, I could pull this off and sleep with him for the thrill of it. No expectations. No messy entanglements.
I was on top of the world until I thought about my photography and realized I was on the bottom looking up, with so far a climb before anyone in this town would take my work seriously.
CHAPTER TEN
I made it to work the next morning by a quarter till eight. Suffering from a hangover, my head throbbed, my stomach was sour and even my bones felt parched. I dropped my pocketbook in the bottom drawer, and as I set off down the hall for coffee, I noticed Helen had already arrived. Not surprising. No matter how early I got in, Helen was always already there. That morning she wasn’t in her office, but I saw the coffee cup on her desk, kissed fresh with her lipstick, and half a dozen cigarette butts crushed out in her ashtray. She was always the last to leave at night, too. She worked longer and harder than anyone I knew. I wondered when, or if, she ever slept.