by Renée Rosen
After Berlin and his boys dropped the budget bomb on her a couple days before, Helen had decided she needed to find her own crop of writers and photographers. While I’d been off smooching with Erik, Helen had been devising a plan. I found a stack of newspaper and magazine clippings on my desk with a handwritten note paper-clipped to the top: Dear A—Be a love and see if you can track down any of these writers and tell them I’d like to meet with them.
I sorted through the clips, looking at the bylines circled in Helen’s blue pencil. I didn’t recognize any of the names but that was the whole point. These were unknown writers she could get on the cheap.
Later that day she produced a second pile of photographs and illustrations with a similar note attached, asking me to track those people down as well. And this time, it stung. Those calls to photographers were harder to make. It felt like they were taking something away from me, getting a chance at my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Each time I dialed another number, I had to remind myself it wasn’t their fault. Or even Helen’s. Like it or not, I wasn’t a photographer. Not yet anyway. I was a secretary.
By eight o’clock the following Monday morning, the lobby was full of freelancers. They paraded in, some with newspaper and magazine clippings jutting out of manila folders, others with handsome black cases that zipped all the way around, filled with their photographs and illustrations. It made me see just how shoddy my little cardboard case had been. No wonder Helen hadn’t given me a chance. A leather portfolio—that was something else I’d have to save up for.
Bridget stepped off the elevator and navigated her way through the lobby doors. “What’s going on?”
“Helen’s interviewing freelancers.”
“I see.” She surveyed the room, her neck turning like a swan’s until she stopped and reached for my arm. “Who’s he?”
“Who’s who?” I said, my eyes scanning the list of names on my clipboard.
She nudged me and gestured with her chin toward a man I hadn’t seen come in.
“I don’t know who he is.”
His back was turned toward me. All I could see was that he was tall with dark tousled hair, long enough to reach the collar of his shirt—a white button-down dress shirt that he wore with a pair of denim jeans and boots instead of a suit and tie. He was standing off to the side, holding a large black portfolio, a Nikon camera slung over his shoulder, hanging by its strap.
As if sensing he was being watched, the man turned and I saw that I actually did know him. The sculpted nose and angular jaw, the dark eyes. It was Christopher Mack. His name hadn’t been on my list of photographers to call. He smiled and cocked his head to the side. A subtle gesture but Bridget picked up on it.
“You do so know him.” She shimmied off her jacket, exposing a formfitting sheath dress. “Who is he? Don’t you think he looks like George?”
“George Walsh? Are you crazy?”
“No.” She laughed. “George Harrison. The Beatle.”
“Oh. It’s the hair,” I said, looking down at my clipboard.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Introduce me.”
So I walked Bridget over and made the introduction. “Christopher, hi. I don’t know if you remember me but—”
“Alice. Sure. I was hoping I’d see you here.” He shook my hand and tossed his head back to clear the hair from his eyes, though it immediately fell back into place.
Bridget cleared her throat as if I’d forgotten about her. “Oh, and this is Bridget.”
She smiled, reached out her hand, shaking his and holding the grip a beat too long.
“Elaine talked to David Brown yesterday,” he explained. Bridget still had hold of his hand. “He told Elaine that Helen was calling in books.”
“I see you’re a photographer,” said Bridget, now giving a playful tug on his camera strap.
He smiled at her before turning back to me. “I hope it’s okay that I just showed up here like this. Elaine thought it would be a good idea to drop off my portfolio for Helen.”
“Well,” I said, consulting my clipboard. “Her schedule’s pretty packed but I can try and squeeze you in.”
“I’ll tell you what, I have to be uptown in half an hour anyway. If it’s okay with you, I can just leave my case here and tell her she can look through it whenever she has a chance.”
“It might be best if you—”
“Allow me.” Bridget took hold of his portfolio, making a point of brushing up against him. “I’ll take it, Ali.” She took a few steps, stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “Nice meeting you, Christopher.”
He gave her a nod as if immune to her brazen flirting. I imagined he was used to it. “In case Helen wants to contact me,” he said, “my phone number’s inside my book, in the back.” He rapped his knuckles on my clipboard. “Good seeing you again, Alice.” He turned and walked out the door as more applicants came in.
I went back to work, checking people in. My job was to confirm arrival times and take down names and telephone numbers before escorting the photographers and illustrators to the conference room, where they’d first meet with Tony La Sala. Helen had entrusted him to screen portfolios and weed out any undesirable candidates, of which there were many. Helen hadn’t asked anyone to review the writers. I don’t think she trusted that anyone understood what she was looking for. So far, she was ticking prospects off at breakneck speed. Writers were leaving her office as fast as I could sign them in.
Eventually I made my way over to a young freelance reporter with the New York Post named Nora Ephron. She had dark hair, and lots of it, so thick it looked as wide as it was high.
“Wow,” she said to me, flashing a big toothy smile, “now I know why I got a seat on the subway this morning. All of Manhattan’s in here. What are you giving away?”
A petite blonde leaned in and said, “There hasn’t been a cattle call like this since the Winter Garden was casting for Funny Girl.” The tiny blonde was Judith Krantz, and she had a folder of clips from Ladies’ Home Journal and McCall’s.
A couple hours later, after the commotion in the lobby had settled down and the undesirable applicants had been dismissed, Helen was behind closed doors with Nora, Judith and a third writer, Lyn Tornabene.
I was back at my desk when Bridget came over, holding Christopher’s portfolio in her arms. “I think he’s got a girlfriend.” She frowned, leaning the case against the side of my desk.
“And what makes you think that?” I asked, hefting it up, unzipping the case and laying it flat across my desk.
“There’s a lot of pictures in the back—all of the same girl.”
“Hmmm.”
“Too bad,” she said, “’cause he sure is sexy.”
After Bridget returned to her desk, I looked through Christopher’s portfolio. Each oversize sleeve had a clear plastic cover, protecting the photographs and catching the glare of the overhead lights. The first few pages were devoted to product shots and print ads. Mostly of high-end luxury items: a Hermès scarf, a Gucci belt, two-tone City Club shoes and a pair of Chanel sunglasses. There were some headshots of authors, too, though no one I recognized.
The photos were clean and nicely composed, but it was the photos toward the back that really showcased his talent. There was page after page of a beautiful, sultry woman, bare from the chest up, her hands strategically covering her breasts, the light shimmering off her shoulders. Christopher had devoted at least half of his portfolio to this one model.
I could see why Bridget assumed it was his girlfriend. I went back to studying his photographs, carefully turning the sleeves. All the photos were black-and-whites, stunning and artfully shot. He had captured the light in such a way that it felt as though it was moving across the model’s face and shoulders. Christopher Mack’s photographs had depth. They were animated. I wanted to know his secrets, his tricks. I would have given anything to tak
e those kinds of photographs.
I was sure Helen would be as impressed as I was. Tony La Sala certainly was. She might have been, too, had she not spent the past four days in back-to-back interviews. By the time she finally got to Christopher’s portfolio, she was glazed over. She closed his case and slid it across the desk to me.
“Well?” I asked as I zipped it up.
“Don’t you think we’re set for now?” she asked. “I sure do. But he’s got something. Let’s keep him on file. Just in case something comes up.”
That Friday afternoon I met Christopher in the lobby when he came by to pick up his portfolio. He was wearing a pair of dark trousers and a cable-knit sweater, his hair windblown, his cheeks tinged pink from being outside.
“I’m sorry,” I said, handing him his case. “If something comes up, she said she’ll call you.”
“That’s okay. I’m booked solid for the next three weeks anyway.” He smiled and I noticed that one of his eyeteeth was slightly protruding. It was the only less than perfect feature I could find on him.
“So Elaine tells me you’re a photographer,” he said.
“Aspiring photographer,” I said, correcting him. I don’t know why, but even though I wanted nothing more than to talk to him about photography, I felt shy discussing my own work with him.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, “Elaine asked me to take you under my wing, show you the ropes.”
“She did?”
“How would you like to come along on one of my shoots this weekend?”
“Are you serious? Yes,” I said a little too overzealously.
“It’s just some headshots.” I could tell he didn’t want me getting too excited. “It’s nothing fancy, but you’re welcome to come. If you want.”
“Yes,” I said again, exercising a bit more control. “I would love to.”
“Well, all right then.” He nodded. “So, tomorrow morning. We’ll start around ten o’clock. It’s a location shoot. We’ll be in Central Park at Bow Bridge.”
* * *
• • •
Five minutes after Christopher left, Nora, Judith and Lyn arrived for an editorial meeting with some members of Helen’s staff. I was asked to sit in and take notes. Despite having an empty conference room down the hall, Helen wanted to host the meeting in her office.
When they all arrived, she stood in her doorway, threw her arms open and said, “Welcome, everyone. Step into my parlor.” And indeed, it felt more like a parlor than an executive’s office. It seemed as though every day she was bringing in some new decorative trinket. In the month that she’d been there, Helen had the place cluttered with a menagerie of stuffed animals, scented candles and more leopard print accessories. She sat in her tiny chair, kicked off her Roger Vivier pumps with their pilgrim copper buckles and tucked her stocking feet beneath her. She was clutching an embroidered pillow that said: I’m not arguing, I’m just explaining why I’m correct. Bill Guy, George Walsh and her new hire, Walter Meade, were the only men in the meeting. It was Walter’s first day and there wasn’t a female in the room who wasn’t drawn to his thick wavy dark hair, his dimples and perfect smile. All I could think was, Oh, how disappointed they’ll be when they find out he’s a homosexual. And about that, Walter wasn’t shy or apologetic. He was who he was.
After Helen had introduced everyone to her new finds—Walter, Nora, Judith and Lyn—she got down to business and began throwing out story ideas at such rapid fire that even my shorthand skills were having a hard time keeping up.
“I’m thinking we need some real grabbers for the cover,” she said. “Something like, When It’s Okay to Sleep with Your Friend’s Ex.”
I looked around the room, cringing. One thing about Helen—when she was on, she was spot on, and when she was off, she’d miss by a mile.
“When is sleeping with your friend’s ex ever okay?” asked Nora.
“Oh,” said Helen with a winking smile, “I’m sure we can come up with some extenuating circumstances. Or how about, Ten Ways to Guarantee a Second Date.” And before anyone asked her to qualify that, she said, “Or make it, Ten Ways to Make Him Crave You. You get the idea.”
“Honestly,” said George, tipping his cigarette into the ashtray, “I’m questioning why you have all these writers here. The editorial staff comes up with the article ideas and then you assign them. Not the other way around.”
“But it’s much more fun this way,” Helen said as she sipped her coffee, dismissing him like a pestering gnat. “Now then, tell me what you’re all thinking! I’m dying to hear everyone’s ideas.”
George glowered, his cheeks turning dark.
“I for one,” said Nora, “would love to take a playful jab at the Park Avenue set. You know, the ladies who lunch in their hundred-dollar Chanel suits. I think the rest of us schlubs are fascinated by them.”
Oh, Helen liked that idea. “Alice, are you getting all this down?”
I assured her I was, scribbling every last detail of Nora’s plan to satirize the Mrs. Vanderbilts and Mrs. Rockefellers and the rest of Manhattan royalty.
George sat off to the side, shifting in his chair, crossing and uncrossing his arms and then his legs. He smoked two cigarettes right in a row, and after Helen threw out a couple more ideas about When You Should Fake an Orgasm and How to Be His Sex Kitten, he couldn’t contain himself any longer. “Might I suggest something more topical?”
“Why, George, what could possibly be more topical to my girls than learning how to make a man swoon? Don’t tell me your wife wouldn’t just love to cast her spell on you.”
Walter Meade burst out laughing, followed by Nora, Judith and Lyn. With the addition of her new recruits, Helen finally had some people on her side and I sensed a softening of the old guard. Liz Smith and Bobbie Ashley even joined in laughing with the others.
“All right then,” said George, trying to talk over them, “how about something more dignified?”
“You mean stuffy.” Helen smiled, her teeth clenched, her lips barely moving. “Don’t be such a drag, George.”
Bill Guy, who hadn’t said two words the entire meeting, finally spoke up. “I don’t suppose you’ve given any thought to the books section yet, have you, Helen?” Now that George was the managing editor, Bill had taken over George’s old role as the book editor. “I was hoping to do a feature on a new biography coming out on Prince Aly Khan.”
“Ooh.” Helen’s eyes lit up. “Now that’s nifty!”
“I like it,” said Walter.
“Me, too,” said Helen. “Prince Aly Khan has slept with half of Hollywood. And that was before, during and after his marriage to Rita Hayworth. Oh, I love it. Yes, that’s perfect, Bill. Just perfect. See everyone—that’s exactly what I’m talking about. We’ll call it The World’s Greatest Lover.”
“Ah, no, Helen.” Bill shook his head so vehemently, his cheeks quivered. “That wasn’t at all what I was suggesting.”
“Oh, I know, but isn’t it a real grabber? Remember, Bill, it’s all in the tease.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Saturday morning Trudy and I went for breakfast at the Lexington Candy Shop. Lately, that had become part of our weekend routine before she went off to work at Bergdorf’s and I went to the laundromat, the grocery store and ran my other errands. But that day I was heading off to a photo shoot with Christopher Mack. Over bottomless coffees and two egg plate specials, Trudy drew a map of Central Park on her napkin with arrows and directions to Bow Bridge.
After we parted ways, I followed her instructions, entering the park at 74th Street. It was sunny but windy out, the tree branches rustling, the hint of buds straining to open. I stuffed my hands in my pockets to keep warm and walked west of the Bethesda Fountain until I saw Bow Bridge coming into view. The closer I got, the more magnificent it became: an ornate design of cast iron stretching sixty feet across the lake. Alr
eady I was thinking about coming back in the summertime when all the surrounding trees and flowers were in bloom.
At the far end of the bridge, I spotted Christopher in a pair of faded jeans and a navy blue pea coat, sunglasses shading his dark eyes. He had a woman with him, carrying a paper cup of coffee. As I got closer, he saw me and waved me over. Now I could see that the woman was the same model from his portfolio.
“You made it,” said Christopher. “Alice, this is Daphne.”
“Hey.” She smiled and waved, took a sip of coffee and handed the cup to Christopher.
They were sharing a cup of coffee. In less than thirty seconds of meeting her, even before he said, “Thanks, babe,” I knew Bridget was right. Daphne was the girlfriend. They were definitely an item. And what an item they made: both of them tall, fit and sexy. Real head turners.
Naturally I found Christopher attractive, but honestly, I was relieved that he was taken. It meant I could put him in the same category as married men and homosexuals—off-limits. Otherwise, I’d never be able to concentrate and I wanted to focus my full attention on the photography and learn everything I could from him.
“I’m glad you decided to come,” Christopher said as he crouched down and unlatched a suitcase packed with three different camera lenses, resting in a bed of gray foam cutouts.
“I wouldn’t have missed it.”
He looked up, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, but his lips curved upward ever so slightly. “Daphne just signed with Eileen Ford,” he said as he set up the tripod and mounted his camera on top. “They need some casual outdoor shots of her.”