by Renée Rosen
“That’s not a dog,” I said, teasing him. “It’s supposed to be a wolf.”
“Now this is a wolf,” he said, demonstrating.
“Not fair.” I laughed, pulling his hand down. “You have longer fingers than me.”
We kissed some more after that and he held me and it felt like heaven. He had a way of making me believe I belonged there in his Park Avenue bed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Once again Helen broke her own expense account rule. She had me set up a luncheon meeting at Patsy’s on West 56th with Jack and Sally Hanson, the husband and wife team who’d founded the Jax clothing line. Everyone from Ann Margret to Gina Lollobrigida wore their sexy, curve-hugging slacks, and Helen wanted to feature the couple and their clothes in the July issue.
With Helen out for lunch, I had decided to slip out for a bite myself. I was touching up my lipstick at my desk when Bridget came up from behind, appearing in my compact mirror.
“Who are you getting all dolled up for? Special lunch plans?”
Actually, I was meeting Trudy, but before I could explain, my phone rang.
“Saved by the bell,” said Bridget with a laugh.
“Mrs. Brown’s office.” I closed my compact and tucked it back inside my pocketbook.
“I hope it’s okay to call you while you’re at work.”
“Who is this?”
“How quickly we forget. It’s Christopher. Christopher Mack.”
“Oh.” There was no hiding the surprise in my voice. I looked at Bridget and made a yapping gesture with my hand. She got the message and went back to her desk.
“So there’s a gallery opening down in the Village on Friday night,” he said. “I thought you might like to go. It’s no big deal. Some of my photography’s gonna be on exhibit there so I’m inviting people I know. You can bring anyone you like. I think Elaine’s going to be there.”
I immediately thought of bringing Trudy and not Erik. I didn’t want to introduce Erik to Elaine, and until that moment I hadn’t realized how sheepish I felt about seeing him. That notion traveled to my gut and settled there, something hard to digest.
Christopher gave me the address, and as soon as I hung up with him, Helen called. She was on a pay phone inside the restaurant. I could hear dishes clanking in the background, bits and pieces of conversation. She had forgotten her Jax folder on her desk and would I be a little lamb and bring it over?
After canceling plans with Trudy, I gathered Helen’s folder, stuffed thick with notes, tear sheets and the same dummy she’d shown at the 21 Club luncheon. When I arrived at the restaurant, the maître d’ led me to her table. Along the way, I noticed David Brown dining there with another man, and that was no accident. I’d never made a luncheon reservation anywhere for her without first making sure David was dining there, too. Same time, same place. Always on call to bail her out if needed.
But things appeared to be going smoothly as I approached Helen’s table. She was smiling, laughing, an untouched martini she’d never drink and a salad she’d maybe pick at, waiting patiently for her. Jack and Sally Hanson, with their California tans, were eating their entrées while Helen did the talking, stopping only when she saw me with the maître d’.
“Oh good, you’re here.”
I smiled at the Hansons as I handed Helen her folder and quietly began backing away.
“Oh, wait a minute, dear. Have a seat.” She gestured to the empty chair beside her and, after consulting the file, proceeded as if I wasn’t there.
“Basically,” she said, “we want to reinforce the Jax brand as the leading line of sexy clothing for career-minded girls.” She paused and picked a lettuce leaf from her salad bowl, her fingers delicately raised while she shredded that leaf into itty-bitty bites, which she daintily nibbled. Her fork and knife were at her place setting, untouched. “How do you like that?” she asked, selecting another lettuce leaf.
“I like it very much,” said Jack, dabbing his napkin to his mouth.
“Why do I feel like there’s a catch here?” asked Sally.
“There’s no catch.” Helen smiled and shredded another lettuce leaf. “I’m talking about a beautiful fashion spread—eight full pages—including a magazine article. We’ll do a full profile on the two of you—Hollywood’s most exciting couple—the jet set, only we’ll call you the ‘Jax Set.’”
“The Jax Set.” Jack smiled. “Now I know why you were such a brilliant copywriter. I think it’s very clever, Helen, but eight pages? Why are you willing to give us so much precious real estate?”
“Because look at what you’ve done.” She went for another lettuce leaf. “The two of you have completely changed the way women dress. What a stroke of genius to take that side zipper and move it to the back of the slacks. Now that really shows off a woman’s figure. With this campaign, every one of my girls will be running out to buy Jax slacks.”
“You said campaign,” Sally noted, sipping her martini. “So is this an advertisement we’re talking about?”
“Ah,” said Helen, “that’s the brilliant part. It won’t look like one. It’s an advertisement disguised as a fashion feature. And the best part is, it’ll cost you a fraction of the price of running even one full-page ad. All I’m asking is for you to cover the photography. Of course, you’ll provide the clothes, but I’ll handle all the rest.”
I sat back, watching the Hansons. She had them. Helen finished eating her salad with her fingers and walked away from that meeting with Jack and Sally Hanson agreeing to foot the bill for her first fashion spread.
* * *
• • •
“So this is an art gallery opening,” said Trudy.
“Not quite what I was expecting, either,” I said as we stepped inside.
It was a raw space that looked like it had been all but abandoned before this pack of artists descended upon it. Small and cramped, it smelled of cigarettes, incense and stale beer. People stood in clusters, smoking, drinking from paper cups. I’d never seen so many goatees before, and compared to the beatniks with their sunglasses, striped T-shirts and berets, Trudy and I looked out of place, which tickled me. I couldn’t help but smile, recalling how I had telegraphed Ohio when I first moved to New York and now, here in the Village, in my new blue shift and Rhonda’s sling-back shoes, I looked pure Uptown.
I scanned the crowd but didn’t see Elaine Sloan. She would have stood out in this room, too. The same was true for Daphne, whom I hadn’t seen, either. But I did spot Christopher—or at least a glimpse of him. He stood off to the side, looking very mod, like he belonged in London with his black sports jacket, straight-legged black trousers, handsome leather boots and thick brown hair perfectly tousled. He was shaking hands with one of the beatniks while two women looked on, probably hoping to catch his eye.
“That’s him.” I gestured with my chin. “That’s Christopher.”
“Wow,” said Trudy. “You didn’t tell me he was so—”
“He has a girlfriend.”
She gave me a downturned smile. “Drats. Why are the good ones always taken?”
“That’s just the way it goes,” I said.
Trudy and I were drifting about, observing the hodgepodge of paintings, sculptures and photography. I didn’t care much for any of the artwork; some of the canvases had pieces of broken chairs or light fixtures sticking out of them. Others looked like they weren’t finished, or had been a mistake. We were both laughing at one piece when Christopher came up to us.
“You’re here.” He took a step toward me, arms open. “I’m glad you made it,” he said, hugging me.
I introduced him to Trudy, and after they’d said hello, I turned back and looked at one of the paintings. It had something shiny protruding from the canvas. “What’s that supposed to be?” I asked.
“I think it’s a hubcap,” said Christopher with some authority.
“I haven’t the foggiest idea,” admitted Christopher. “I suppose we’d have to ask the artist.”
“I’d like to ask somebody where the ladies’ room is,” said Trudy.
Christopher gestured toward the rear of the gallery. “All the way to the back and down the stairs.”
After Trudy left, he pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from his pocket, offering me one. While he lit my cigarette, I pointed to a sculpture: a bunch of pieces of rusted-out scrap metal soldered together. “And what about that?” I asked. “What’s that supposed to be?”
Christopher followed my gaze and made a face. “Oh, please. Sculpture is something you bump into when you’re backing up to look at a painting.”
I laughed. “That’s very clever.”
“I can’t take credit for it.” He smiled. “It’s not my line. I stole it from Ad Reinhardt.”
“Well, at least you’re an honest thief.”
We moved on. He followed close behind me as we came to the next painting: a bunch of stripes in varying shades of green.
“I’m sorry but I don’t get contemporary art. Or pop art. Or whatever you call it.”
“You might want to keep that to yourself in this crowd,” he said with a slight grin.
We paused to look at another painting, white with flecks of wood sticking out of the canvas.
“So?” he asked. “What do you think of this one?”
“Not much.” I laughed. “I could do that. How is this even considered art?”
“Ouch. Now that one hurt.” He pointed to the signature.
I looked down. Christopher Mack. “You did this? It’s yours?”
“Guilty.”
“Oops. Sorry.” I was embarrassed and laughed, because what else could I do? Fortunately, he was laughing, too. “I don’t really know anything about art,” I said.
“Well, that’s obvious.” He was still laughing.
“I didn’t know you were a painter.”
“According to your standards, I’m not. Honestly,” he said, “I just fool around with it. The gallery threw me a bone, said I could show a piece if I let them exhibit my photography.”
“Speaking of which, where are your photos?” I stepped away, hoping to put some distance between me and my faux pas.
He walked me over to another section of the gallery. “Let’s see if I can redeem myself.” He held out his hand, displaying a series of black-and-whites.
I looked at them, astonished, my mouth gaping open.
“What can I say? You inspired me.” He smiled, offering a modest shrug.
They were the photos we’d taken that day in the Village: a woman whose dog was tugging on his leash, a group of boys roller skating down Waverly Place. Two old men sitting on a park bench, playing chess. There were some others, too, some I hadn’t seen before. I was surprised though that Daphne wasn’t in any of them.
“Where’s your girlfriend?” I asked, meaning both Why isn’t she in your photos? and Why isn’t she here tonight, for your opening?
“Something came up,” he said, like it was no big deal. “Oh, and Elaine sends her regards. She had another Jackie Susann crisis at work.”
“I feel like I’m hogging the guest of honor,” I said, turning to another photograph. “Don’t you have people you need to mingle with?”
“I suppose. It doesn’t really matter, though—mostly they’re just all into being part of the scene down here.”
“It’s very different from uptown.”
“Just wait till the poetry starts,” said Christopher. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
I smiled. “Seriously, I should really let you get back to your guests.”
He nodded. “Tell your friend it was nice meeting her. Oh, and let me know when you want to go shooting again.”
We said our good-byes without making definite plans. Trudy reappeared moments later, just as the lights grew dim and more people crowded in toward the center of the room. The place was packed, people standing shoulder to shoulder. Some sat on crates and others on the ground, arms circled about their knees, leaning back against the brick walls. A young man stood on a makeshift bandstand. He had shaggy light brown hair and an equally shaggy beard. He smoked his cigarette down to his knuckles while reciting a poem about the soullessness of modern life, the fleeting nature of our existence and its impermanence. He snapped his fingers between each stanza, as if advancing the poem.
When he’d finished, I was entranced. There was a pulse in the air, a different kind of energy. I liked it and suddenly regretted having worn my new dress and Rhonda’s fancy shoes. I would have liked to have stayed for more poetry, but it was getting late and Trudy was antsy, looking at her watch and smoking back-to-back cigarettes.
We left the gallery and made our way toward the subway. It was a beautiful clear night, just enough of a breeze to stir the mild spring air. Cars lined the streets, bumper to bumper, and Villagers filled the sidewalks, jackets flapping open, the smell of marijuana trailing behind them.
“I think he likes you,” said Trudy while we were waiting on the platform for the subway.
“No. Who? Christopher? No.” I shook my head. “We’re just friends. I told you, he’s got a girlfriend.”
“A girlfriend who wasn’t there tonight.”
“It’s not like that. He loves Daphne. You should see them together. He’s crazy about her.”
Our train pulled up and we got on board, took our seats. I was still thinking about the poetry.
“Okay, fine,” said Trudy. “I won’t say another word about Christopher Mack. But I think you’re kidding yourself.”
“Enough, Trudy. Christopher’s helping me with my photography—that’s it. That’s all I want it to be.”
“Wow.” She looked at me, mystified, her eyes big and round. “You really don’t want to fall in love, do you?”
“Like I told you before, not if I can I help it.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Jax photo shoot was set and Helen had asked me to join her along with Harriet, Tony and George. We were shooting at J. Frederick Smith’s studio on West 87th Street. It was an enormous white room with the morning light streaming through the windows, streaking across the wooden floor. Smith’s illustrations and photographs lined the walls as you walked in. His work possessed an overtly sexy pin-up style that reminded me of the images I’d seen in those Playboys. Several pieces of Smith’s work had wound up on the covers of Esquire. His wasn’t the sort of photography you’d ever see in a McCall’s or Ladies’ Home Journal. Not even in Mademoiselle.
Hearst would not have approved of Helen’s choice of photographers if they knew, and I made sure I’d kept that information away from Erik. Though he’d been impressed that Helen had managed to get the Hansons to pick up the tab for the shoot. How he knew that, I wasn’t sure, because I didn’t tell him. Each time he asked who was shooting the Jax spread, I outright lied and said I didn’t know.
It seemed as though there were hours of preparation before a single shot was taken. Sitting off to the side, behind Helen and the Hansons, I was fascinated by the process.
There were racks of clothes next to steamers on long poles, puffing away. Stylists were on hand to make quick alterations, stitch up hemlines, let out darts and clip back excess fabric with clothespins. A hair stylist had set up a table in the corner, full of rollers, brushes, combs, wigs on Styrofoam heads and gadgets for curling, straightening and smoothing. The makeup artist was next to her with cases of rouge, lipsticks, eye shadows, false lashes and pancake foundation.
Smith had his own entourage of assistants to load cameras, set lights and tripods, move sweeps and props about. They’d take a Polaroid or two and make adjustments before checking the lig
ht meter again. They’d repeat that same process until they got it perfect.
Then there were the models, stunning even with their hair in rollers the size of soup cans and no makeup yet on their flawless features. I watched those beautiful creatures, thinking of my mother and what Elaine had said about her father cutting her career short. I was still thinking about that when, much to everyone’s surprise, Erik showed up along with Dick Deems and Frank Dupuy.
“What are they doing here?” Helen whispered to me, her lips barely moving.
“I have no idea.” I didn’t even realize they knew the shoot was that day.
Helen breezed past me with a forced smile. “Dick, Frank, Erik—welcome. Have you met Jack and Sally Hanson?” Helen put on a perfect performance as if she’d intended to have them there all along.
Erik and I said hello but that was it. I wondered if Helen knew I was sleeping with him. She had to have known. She had a sixth sense when it came to those things.
I was standing next to her when she instructed Harriet and Tony on how to handle the Hearst executives. “Just reassure them that everything’s going fine,” she said. “And whatever you do, don’t let them wander about. I don’t want them trying to direct this shoot.”
As soon as Harriet and Tony went to talk to the men, Helen called Smith over. He had two different cameras hanging about his neck, beads of sweat visible on his forehead.
“Will you be a dear and do me a special favor?” I heard Helen say to him. “Just take some nice clean shots of one of the girls—just to satisfy Deems and his lemmings. I don’t even care if you have film in the camera. I’ll make them—poof—go away as soon as I can and then we can get back to work.”
“Got it.” He nodded and called out, hands cupped about his mouth, “Where’s Renata? Somebody get Renata.”
Renata was a tall blond German beauty whose last name I couldn’t pronounce. She came out from behind the changing curtain in a pair of hip-hugging white Jax slacks and a red and white gingham top with a high collar that reached all the way to her chin.