by Renée Rosen
I glanced over at Daphne, waiting on the bridge in a trench coat, collar turned up, hands stuffed in her pockets, her long brown hair blowing in the breeze. “She’s very beautiful.”
He smiled full on, proud, as if the compliment incorporated him, the man lucky enough to have her on his arm.
I stood off to the side while he posed Daphne, his fingertips brushing a strand of hair off her face. Such a small movement but I felt it from six feet away. He came back over to the tripod, and after taking a reading off the light meter, he attached a long lens and began shooting with just the ambient light, calling out instructions to Daphne like, “Cheat it to the right . . . little smile, that’s it . . . Look right up here . . .” He raised one hand while clicking with the other.
After a few more shots, he stopped and went back over to her, adjusting her collar, letting his fingers trail down her neck. When he’d finished shooting that roll, he pulled a reflector from the suitcase and asked for my help. “I could use an extra set of hands here, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure, just tell me what to do.”
He handed me a reflector, saying, “I want to diffuse the light. Just hold this, like this . . .” He demonstrated, guiding my hand into position. “This’ll give us softer shadows.”
I held the reflector as still as I could while he snapped a dozen or so shots.
“Alice,” he called to me. “Come take a look.”
“Really?”
He took the reflector from me and stepped aside, leaving a space for me at the tripod. I looked through the viewfinder while he adjusted the lens. “See that?” he said. “Now keep watching and see what happens when I do this.” He moved the reflector and all the shadows softened, changing the feel of the image.
“That’s amazing,” I said, still watching through the viewfinder.
The winds were picking up and I thought it might spoil the rest of the shoot, but Christopher loved it, wanting to capture the wildness of Daphne’s hair streaking across her face even as it pulled threads of lipstick against her pale skin. He took the camera off the tripod and leaned against the railing while he snapped a series of shots. A gust of wind carried a bite with it, and I buttoned my coat and stomped my feet to keep warm. Daphne must have been freezing standing on the bridge, but she kept turning this way and that, tilting her head and pouting her full lips while Christopher worked the camera.
At one point he twisted out of his pea coat. “Hold this for me, will you?” He was in a T-shirt, and as he hoisted himself up on the bridge, the bottom of his shirt hiked up, exposing a band of pale skin just under his navel. He was performing quite a balancing act to get the angle he wanted. One slip and he’d fall, but that didn’t seem to faze him. He was determined to get the shot. He finished off that roll of film, hopped down, and we were done.
Daphne came over and looped her arms around his waist, leaned in and kissed him on the lips. “Thanks, babe.”
I wondered how long they’d been together and if she still felt a flutter when he touched her, or was it all too familiar by now. I could remember that initial spark radiating through me the first time Michael let his fingers brush against mine and when, at last, he kissed me—really kissed me. It was all so new and exciting, but over time the spark faded, replaced by something richer and deeper. Or so I thought. I didn’t need the spark to feel in love, but Michael did. Among other things, I had made the mistake of becoming too familiar.
Daphne and I made small talk while Christopher packed up his gear, collapsing down the reflector and tucking it back inside the case along with the lenses. He hoisted up the suitcase, slipped the tripod under his arm and still managed to reach over and hold Daphne’s hand. As we were leaving the park, they invited me to join them for coffee. I started to beg off, already feeling like a third wheel, but Christopher insisted.
We went to a quaint place on West 72nd and Central Park West that felt like we’d stepped into a European café with French windows along the front and a glass case of pastries, cannoli, rugalach and other baked goods. It was warm and cozy inside; the scents of fresh coffee brewing and homemade bread mingled in the air. Classical music played softly in the background.
We took a corner table, the two of them sitting on one side, me on the other. He put his arm around her, rubbing her shoulder to warm her up. She was digging around in her handbag for something.
“Order me an espresso, will you?” she said, getting up, a dime in her hand. “I have to make a quick phone call.”
We ordered our coffees and talked about the mechanics of the day’s shoot. His arm was still resting on the back of her chair, still feeling for her like an amputee longing for their lost limb.
“What got you interested in photography?” he asked.
“My mother. She wasn’t a professional or anything, but she loved taking pictures. Or really it was more like she loved having pictures. Loved having her memories frozen in time.”
“I can’t remember the last time I took any personal pictures. Just for myself,” he said, smiling before his eyes shifted toward the back of the café, where Daphne was leaning against the wall, receiver to her ear, nodding while resting her fingers in the holes on the dial wheel.
“How about you?” I asked. “How’d you get started in photography?”
“I don’t really think it was any one person or any one thing. It was probably out of boredom and loneliness more than anything,” he said. “I wasn’t very sociable as a kid. Pretty awkward so I kept to myself a lot. Never really felt comfortable around other people. I liked watching them more than dealing with them.” He laughed. “I remember my dad had this camera. Just an old Yashica. I found it in the back of a closet one day. I taught myself how to use it, and once I got the hang of it, you’d think I’d found my new best friend. Seemed like it filled up all the emptiness. I didn’t feel so alone anymore. That probably sounds weird, doesn’t it?”
“No. Actually, not at all.”
“Really?” He gazed over at me with a curious expression.
I was reluctant to talk about my mother’s death directly, so instead, I circled around it. “When I was growing up, something happened that made me aware of how temporary and fleeting everything is. It was my mother’s camera and taking pictures that gave me a way to capture moments. To preserve people and things so they wouldn’t slip away and be forgotten.” I was going to say more but Daphne came back.
“I hate to do this,” she said. “Gary wants me to come look at a script. I have to go see him now.” She turned to me. “Nice meeting you.”
“I’ll see you at home then?” he said.
At home. They lived together.
“Daphne wants to be an actress,” he explained after she’d left.
“Oh really.”
“Gary’s her agent. Not a great one. He’s young, just starting out, but he’s trying to get her some auditions.” He nodded and reached for a cigarette. “I think she’s gonna get a lot of work from the Ford Agency. She’s got a good look, you know? Fresh. Different.” He lit his cigarette and set it in the ashtray, a ribbon of smoke rippling between us. “Daphne’s just so”—he raised his hand, as if grasping for the right word—“so natural in front of the camera.”
“How long have you two been together?”
“Two years. Off and on, three. But, no, really two years now. We met right after she came to town. From Montreal. I’m a sucker for a girl who speaks French.” He smiled and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that he was a man in love. It was in the way he spoke about her, the way he’d been looking at her while she was on the phone. He’d never hurt her, never leave her. He was devoted. And I was fascinated. There was something about them. Like they were the perfect couple. It renewed my faith that relationships like theirs really did exist.
Christopher and I got back to talking about photography and I told him how inspiring it was being in New
York. “I hardly know what to photograph first.”
“That’s the thing,” he said, “there’s almost too much here. It’s all fodder. What’s great is, the two of us could be looking at the same thing and we’d end up taking two completely different photographs because your eye would go to one thing, and mine would go to something else. As photographers, we’re not creating something out of thin air like a writer or a musician or a painter. Our art is derived from what already exists. We’re actually stealing from what’s already there and turning it into our own expression. So really, all you have to do is figure out what you want to say and zero in on it. Frame it and crop it with the lens . . .”
We talked for another half hour or so about things like composition and negative space and ways to manipulate the image. I’d never had this kind of conversation with anyone before. It was the language of photography and I couldn’t get enough.
“What would you say your style is?” he asked.
“Me? Mine?” It was the first time anyone had ever asked that. The first time I’d ever been regarded as a photographer. It felt validating and strange. “Oh, I don’t know. Lately, I guess I’ve been shooting quirky things like street vendors and strangers on the subway. Piles of garbage.”
“Sounds like you’re starting to develop your eye. You’ll have to let me see your work sometime.”
I shook my head. “It’s not good enough to show anyone.”
“You have to get over that. You know, criticism can be a good thing.”
“I’m just not quite ready for that yet.”
“Okay, all right. I’ll let you off the hook. For now.”
We talked awhile longer, and after we’d finished our coffees and left the café, I thanked Christopher for letting me tag along.
“Bring your camera next time,” he said.
“Next time?”
“Yeah, it’ll be fun. Give me a call. We’ll just knock around, take some pictures. I can show you a few things.”
We said good-bye, and after he’d disappeared around the corner, I was dancing on a cloud. In Christopher Mack, I’d found a mentor. I wanted to run home, grab my camera and go out shooting, but I was out of film and broke until payday.
So there I was, standing all alone on the sidewalk, all this energy with no place to go. I had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of the day. It was only then that I thought about Erik. I’d hardly seen my Don Juan that week and he hadn’t called. I didn’t know if he’d ask me out again, but after spending the day with this perfect couple, my mind was flooded, remembering the intensity of Erik’s kisses.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Helen had just come back from a breakfast meeting and asked me to join her at the wall. The wall was where the flatplan resided, tacked up in the back of the art department. And by now, we both knew exactly what the flatplan was: the editorial lineup, driven by the advertising, so we could see what was already in place. There it was, a page-by-page, spread-by-spread layout of the July issue with notations for F.O.B., or Front of Book, and B.O.B., or Back of Book. In between there was a series of pages, some left blank, others already set for a Pyrex Ad, a Mr. Clean Ad, a Gerber Coupon Ad, two pages for Book Reviews, a page and a half for Movie Reviews.
The flatplan changed by the day. Helen would reserve three pages for a feature on How to Make Your Bedroom Sexier and someone from Hearst would come by and strike it out. That morning I noticed some new articles had been added. Three pages were set aside for You Too Can Be a Witch, one page for Lipstick Telling Tales and four double spreads devoted to Aly Khan, The World’s Greatest Lover.
I walked with Helen as she reviewed each page. She crossed out the question mark that someone had put next to the Aly Khan headline. The cover was blank with a big TK—To Come—scribbled in. Inside front cover: Bell System Ad. Full Page.
Helen leaned forward to pencil in an upcoming article she’d pulled in as a favor from her friend Doris Lilly: How to Marry a Millionaire. She had also asked another friend to write a piece about Picasso’s lover and had begged Jacqueline Susann to contribute something.
“I can’t imagine Jackie won’t come through for me,” said Helen. They were both Bernard Geis authors, and Susann’s book, which Elaine Sloan was working on, about starlets hooked on amphetamines and barbiturates hadn’t come out yet. “It would be wonderful advance publicity for her.”
Helen made a few more notations about articles and columns she wanted included. We stood back looking at it all. Page by page, July was beginning to fill in like a pruned houseplant.
We had just returned from the art department when Ira Lansing came racing down the hall and tore into Helen’s office before I could announce him. I was on his heels apologizing to Helen.
“We have a serious problem, Helen.”
“Please,” she said, looking up from her perch on the sofa, “come in, Ira. You, too, Alice. Come in and close the door. No need to disturb everyone else out there.”
I did as she said, leaning against the closed door while Ira started in on his tirade. “I hope you’re proud of yourself. You’ve just put the entire magazine in jeopardy.”
Helen had a manuscript in her lap, her pen in position to make an edit. “Now take a deep breath, Ira, and tell me what seems to be the problem.” She sounded like she was speaking to a child with a skinned knee.
“I’ll tell you what the problem is. Pampers and Mr. Clean are pulling their ads from the July issue. Procter & Gamble got wind of the article lineup for July and they’re out.”
A stunned look washed over her as she set aside whatever she was editing. “How on earth did they hear about the lineup?”
I was asking myself the same thing.
“Someone out there”—he pointed toward her door—“is talking. I just got off the phone with P&G and they’re not happy. Neither am I.”
“Who would do a thing like that?” she asked, sitting up straight now, tugging her bracelets free from her cuff.
“How the hell should I know, but I’ll tell you one thing, you better learn how to control your staff. Stop them from flapping their gums. P&G is a wholesome company. They don’t want all this sex and gossip mixed up with their products. You just better hope no one out there’s talking to Swanson’s. They’re scheduled for a full-page ad.”
“Oh, Ira, relax.” She was on her feet now, padding across the room for her cigarettes. “Those aren’t the only advertisers on the planet.”
“In case you didn’t know,” he said, “it’s advertising that keeps a magazine afloat. You’re losing money for this publication before you’ve even put out a single issue.”
“Those advertisers were all wrong for the new Cosmo anyway,” she said clicking her table lighter and blowing a plume of smoke toward the windows. “We need to be as particular about our advertisers as we are about our articles. My girls don’t care about diapers and mopping the kitchen floor. And they aren’t going to plop down on the sofa and eat a frozen TV dinner.” She took another puff. “Really, Ira . . .” She shook her head. “Pampers? Mr. Clean? Swanson’s? Not sexy.”
“I don’t give a damn about sexy. This magazine needs advertisers and we were light to begin with. Thanks to your brilliant ideas, you’ve just lost about a third of that revenue.”
“We’ll get it back.”
“And how do you suppose we do that?” You could see the panic in his eyes. “I had relationships with those people. They’re very disappointed. I don’t think there’s any way to make them change their minds.”
“Oh, Ira, let them go. It’s all right. There’s far bigger and better advertisers to be had.”
“I see. Just like that, huh?” He huffed, hands on his hips. “It took me years to build up the confidence of those advertisers. There’s a reason why editors don’t get involved in any of this. The clock is ticking and this magazine can’t afford to have another adver
tiser pull out for July.”
Helen waltzed over and picked an imaginary piece of lint off his lapel. “If you can’t find the right advertisers for this magazine, then I will.”
“You’re so sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
“Actually, no, I’m not.” She smiled brightly as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “I’m not at all. And you and your colleagues remind me every day that I’ve never done this before. But I’m not going to just roll over and give up. If you can’t bring in some new advertisers, then I’ll do it myself.”
“Lots of luck, Helen. It’s not so easy. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna call American Home Products and make sure they’re not pulling the Preparation H ad.”
“Hemorrhoids?” Helen shook her head. “I have no interest in advertising hemorrhoid cream in Cosmo. The only thing Preparation H is good for is reducing bags under the eyes.”
I was still standing in front of the door when Ira headed toward me. I stepped aside just as he tugged the door open and marched out of Helen’s office.
I had fully expected Helen to dissolve into a puddle of tears, but instead, she puffed on her cigarette, the wheels turning inside her head as she said, “Get Walter Meade. And my Rolodex. Oh, and do me a favor, make a reservation for a private dining room this Thursday. Twelve noon at Jack and Charlie’s 21.”
* * *
• • •
Despite her moratorium on expensive lunches, Helen hosted an elaborate spread for some of Madison Avenue’s finest at the famed 21 Club. Helen and Walter had gone back through their advertising contacts and invited the decision makers from Max Factor, Palmolive, Chanel, Maybelline, Clairol as well as the key advertising executives from agencies like BBDO, DDB, McCann-Erickson, along with David Ogilvy from Ogilvy & Mather. This was the first of what would become Helen’s legendary weekly advertising luncheons at 21.
I accompanied her that day as I did to most meetings, always on hand to take notes, offer support, do whatever she needed. Helen and I were greeted by the lawn jockeys looking on from their rod-iron gate as we entered the restaurant. I saw that David Brown was already in position, deliberately dining that day in the bar room. He was with another gentleman, the two of them at a corner table with a red and white checked tablecloth, a menagerie of toys suspended overhead, dangling from the ceiling: model airplanes, soccer balls, football helmets, tennis rackets, trains and dolls. If anything went sideways, I was to get David so he could come in and save Helen’s meeting.