by Renée Rosen
But instead the judge came closer. “Vivian.” He sounded bewildered. His eyes were cloudy with cataracts.
“This is Alice,” said Ruth, speaking loudly again, as if he were also hard of hearing. “This is Vivian’s daughter.”
“Oh, Vivian.” He shook his head as his hands reached out to me, his grip surprisingly strong for someone who looked so frail. “My God,” he said, pulling me in now and hugging me. “My God. My God,” he said, his voice cracking.
My first instinct was to back away. I was so overwhelmed, I couldn’t breathe. My arms were out to my sides, flailing. I didn’t know what to do with them. “I’m not Viv—”
“Let me look at you. Oh, Vivian. Oh, my God. What took you so long? Where have you been?” He cupped my face and I looked at Ruth, pleading with my eyes, asking what to do. It seemed cruel to let him think I was his daughter but his wife wasn’t stopping him. He still had hold of my face. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again. I really didn’t know. The whole thing got so out of hand. I don’t know how it got so . . .” His voice trailed off, and just when I thought I’d lost him, he came back with, “Do you understand what I’m trying to say here? Do you?”
I nodded, realizing that this was a stubborn, proud man’s way of apologizing and I was helping to mend a deep tear between a father and his daughter. He was crying now and so was I. By the time I’d composed myself, the judge had slipped back into a fog and I was a random stranger who’d turned up on their doorstep.
Ruth sent him back to his study and he called out in a gruff voice, “Tell whoever it is that we’re not interested.”
Two cups of coffee later, it was time to say good-bye to Ruth. When I asked for directions to the train station, she said, “Nonsense. You can’t take the train at this hour. We’ll call you a cab.”
“That’s just it,” I said, stammering. “I, ah, I didn’t bring enough—”
“Oh, Ali, why didn’t you say something?” She went to a canister in her kitchen and took out two $20 bills, pressing them into my hand and hushing me when I tried to refuse. I was reminded of my father saying, I think you dropped this.
When the cab pulled up, the headlights shining through the big bay window where we were watching for him, she said, “I hope this isn’t good-bye.”
“I hope not, too.”
She surprised me then, when she reached out and hugged me.
At first I was afraid to hug her back, afraid I might never let go.
Still holding me in her embrace, her floral perfume circling around me, she whispered in my ear, “Forgive us, won’t you?”
I nodded, a fresh lump forming in my throat.
The taxi driver honked and I said one last good-bye.
When my cab reached the New York State Thruway, the driver paid the toll and looked at me through the rearview mirror. “Miss? I can’t tell if you’re laughing or crying back there. Are you okay?”
I smiled as I ran my hand across my blurring eyes. “I’m okay,” I said. “I’m actually just fine.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I was back at Cosmo the next day, astonished by the amount of work that had accumulated in the week I’d been gone, everything from fan mail and arranging another advertising luncheon at 21 to picking up Helen’s Piaget watch from the jeweler and taking her pumps to the shoe repair.
A new girl named Thelma from a temporary service was at Bridget’s desk outside Bill Guy’s office. This was the third temp they’d sent since Bridget was fired. Thelma was heavyset, with rumpled brown hair like corrugated cardboard. She was friendly but not terribly resourceful, asking me where the mailroom and copy machine were, how to operate the coffeemaker and what time she should take lunch.
If I’d approached my job that way, I wouldn’t have lasted a day as Helen’s secretary. In fact, when Helen saw me that morning, the first thing she did was rush over, wrap her slender arms around me and say, “Alice Weiss, am I ever glad to see you.” Those were the exact words she’d said the day I interviewed to be her secretary and I admit it was nice to be needed.
Later that day I was in Helen’s office, going through some correspondence, when Richard Berlin, Dick Deems and Frank Dupuy showed up unexpectedly. I checked her schedule, thinking I’d missed it earlier when we’d reviewed her itinerary for the day. But Helen didn’t seem thrown by the interruption.
“Boys,” she said, smiling, waving them in from her spot on the sofa. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“We need to talk about August before it goes to press,” said Berlin.
“Oh, dear, what have I done this time?” She laughed. “If this is about the cover price, I’m insisting we raise it. I don’t think 50¢ an issue is too much, and with our budget, 35¢ an—”
“It’s not just the cover price,” said Berlin. “We have some other real concerns—”
“Oh, Richard, you always have concerns. I think I’ve proven to you that I know what I’m doing.”
“Well,” said Berlin, “that might be up for debate.”
“Excuse me?” She sat up straighter, her bare feet reaching for the floor. “What are you talking about? You know the sales numbers.”
“Yes, but what if July was a lucky break?” said Deems.
“That’s what we’re hearing from people,” said Dupuy. “That it was just a lucky break.”
“Naturally, people were curious when July came out,” Deems went on to explain. “They bought the magazine because they wanted to see what you were up to.”
“But now,” said Dupuy, “the big question is, Will shocking us again in August work a second time?”
“Wait a minute.” Helen was on her feet, clutching a throw pillow so tightly I could see the seams straining. “Ad revenue is up. Sales are up. What more do you fellas want?”
“We’ve received very mixed reactions from advertisers. So—”
“So what?”
“So we’ve decided to change the August cover back to Sean Connery.”
“What? But we already agreed—you can’t put a man on the cover. You just can’t. Especially not now,” Helen screeched, her fingers turning white.
“It’s already been finalized,” said Berlin. “We’re not putting another woman on the cover like the one you had for July.”
“But that’s the plan. We’re already working on the covers for the next three months. You have to put a girl on the cover. You just have to.”
“I’m sorry, but July was too risqué for our readers.”
“They’re not your readers anymore. They’re my girls,” she said with a burst of fury, ripping the pillow apart, sending a spurt of feathers into the air. “They’re my girls,” she repeated, flinging the ruptured pillow aside, “and I know what they want to read.”
“If I were you,” said Berlin, “I’d calm down and get back to work.”
After the men walked out of her office, Helen slammed the door, stirring up the mound of feathers on the floor. “I can’t believe this,” she said, swatting a quill from her face. “I simply can’t believe this is happening. I’m back to square one.” She sat back down on the sofa and cradled her head in her hands. “Now I have to prove myself all over again.”
Helen had barely recovered from that before I had to pack her up and get her to a public relations meeting across town. While she was out, I was typing up a memo to Richard Berlin when the receptionist buzzed me, putting a call through from Francesco Scavullo. I assumed he was calling to discuss the October cover shoot with Helen, which was now hanging in limbo.
“Hello, Mr. Scavullo,” I said, continuing to type. “I’m afraid she’s out of the office, but I expect her back in about forty-five minutes. Shall I have her call you?”
“Ah, actually, no,” he said, adopting a mischievous tone, which was nothing unusual for him. Francesco Scavullo always sounded like he was
up to something. “I was calling to talk to you. Do you think you could drop by my studio later today?”
I figured he had some layouts for October that he wanted me to bring back to Helen. I’d been wanting to see his studio anyway. Plus, I was thinking I could ask him for recommendations on photography classes.
“I’m here all day,” he said. “You can come by anytime. You have the address, right?”
It was half past three when I went to Scavullo’s studio. He lived and worked in an impressive four-story carriage house on the corner of East 58th Street and Third Avenue with a variegated brick exterior and a tympanum over the keystone doorway. He answered the door and it was the first time I’d seen him without a hat. His dark mane was combed straight back, shiny from hair tonic.
“I’ll give you a tour later,” he said, leading me into his studio, which occupied the entire first level. It was floor-to-ceiling white with a circular five-panel bow window that let in a wide band of sunlight. Tripods, light stands and white umbrellas were still stationed about the room, probably left there from that day’s shoot. He offered me a cup of espresso and gestured toward a couple directors’ chairs positioned by a bolt of muslin fabric leaning against the wall.
“So you’re probably wondering why I wanted to see you, huh?”
“Let me guess. The October cover?”
“Not even close. I’m looking for an assistant, Alice. I think you’d be perfect for the job.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. I was asking around about you, and Christopher Mack says you have a good eye. He said you helped him out on a shoot at the Armory.”
My first thought was Helen. “But I’m—I already have a job.”
“I know. But I also know you want to be a photographer. And I’ve seen how you take care of Helen.”
I twisted my hands in my lap. I didn’t know what to say.
“But I have to tell you,” he went on, “it’s a terrible, thankless position that I’m offering you. And I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m moody as hell.” He laughed.
I was still thinking of Helen but curious enough to ask for details. “So, ah, what all would you have your assistant do?”
“Everything,” His hands flapped forward as he rolled his dark eyes. “Everything shy of washing my shorts,” he said, laughing again. “You’d hate most of it. You’d be sweeping floors, getting lunch, answering the phone. And the door.” He cocked his head to the side as if trying to get a bead on me. “Oh, and espresso. You need to make sure I always have espresso on hand.”
I tried not to show how unappealing that all sounded. I had no intention of leaving Helen anyway—especially not for that kind of work.
“I’d also have you coordinate the wardrobe deliveries, schedule the makeup artists and hairdressers. You’d be running my errands, running to the photo lab.” He paused again, trying to get me to look him in the eye. “And of course,” he said, changing up his tone, “there’s a few other things like sitting in on pre-pro meetings with clients, setting lights, taking meter readings, and naturally, you’d be my backup shooter.”
Francesco Scavullo’s backup shooter? Me!
“Oh, and I’d pay you, too,” he said with a charming chuckle. “How does $85 a week sound?”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Now his offer seemed too good to be true. The money, a chance to do some actual shooting . . .
He smiled, knowing he’d piqued my interest. “Alice, this is a way to get started on your own career. I was an assistant to Horst P. Horst for years, you know. He was my mentor.”
Though it sounded like my dream job, I already knew I couldn’t possibly leave Helen. Especially not after what had just happened earlier with Berlin and his men. Not when she was heartsick over the August cover and the controversial articles she would surely have to cut. I couldn’t imagine what would happen if I left and they replaced me with someone like Thelma. As much as I wanted to work for Francesco Scavullo, I knew I couldn’t desert Helen.
I should have said thanks but no thanks but what came out instead was, “Can I take some time to think about it?”
* * *
• • •
Thinking about working for Francesco Scavullo was all I did for the rest of the week, and yet I’d already made my decision. The timing was wrong. If only he’d come to me six months or a year from now, when Helen and Cosmo would be on solid ground, then maybe, just maybe, I’d consider it.
Looking back, I’m not sure why I saw myself as indispensable. It was quite arrogant of me, thinking Helen couldn’t function without me. But that was my mind-set. Plus, she’d given me my start. I felt I owed it to her to stay.
It was the first Friday evening after I was back in town and I was having dinner with Elaine. She had invited me over to see how I was holding up after my father’s funeral, which, given everything else going on, felt like it had happened ages ago.
Over cocktails in her living room, I told Elaine about my conversation with Faye and about meeting Ruth and the judge. I still couldn’t quite bring myself to call them my grandparents.
“I hope you understand why I never said anything.” Elaine opened a silver box on the coffee table, took out a cigarette and lit it. I hadn’t responded to that, but it didn’t stop her from elaborating. “I felt so horrible when I told you about your mother’s pregnancy. I hope you understand why I didn’t say anything more about her parents. I knew Viv did whatever she could to shield you from all that. I just didn’t feel it was my place to tell you and I’d already said more than I should have.”
I told her I understood, though I wasn’t entirely sure I did. When I thought back on some of our conversations, it would have been so simple, so natural, for her to have told me the truth. But—and partly because I was so fond of Elaine and partly because I was tired of rehashing it all—I didn’t make a fuss.
We thankfully moved on to other subjects and Elaine made up a fresh batch of martinis and set out a platter of cheese, rich duck pâté and slices of crusty French bread. She was telling me about her July Fourth holiday and how she’d been stranded on a friend’s sailboat. “Coming about,” she said with a laugh, “I couldn’t wait to get back on dry land.”
One thing I’d come to notice about Elaine was that a second martini always made her chatty. Now she was encouraging me to see The Glass Menagerie. “It’s still at the Brooks Atkinson Theatre and it’s just wonderful.”
We talked some more and at one point she asked how work was going. I hesitated, hemmed and hawed before I finished my drink and just came out and told her about Scavullo’s offer.
“Well, that’s fantastic, Ali. That’s just wonderful. Good for you. When are you going to start?”
“Start? Oh, no, I can’t accept the job. I can’t leave Helen. Not now. Did I tell you that she’s back to square one with Hearst?”
“Well, I’m not surprised about that.”
“But they’re acting like the July issue never happened. She sold a quarter of a million copies more than their June issue. You’d think Hearst would trust her now. But they’re treating her like a novice again. Challenging her on every article, every photograph, even the upcoming covers.”
The covers. That made me think about Scavullo’s offer again.
“Well,” said Elaine, “that’s what we women have to do. But don’t you worry about Helen. She’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.”
I was sitting with that when her house phone rang. “Yes,” she said. “Send him up.”
My second martini was hitting me when the doorbell chimed. “To be continued.” She sprang up off the sofa and headed to the foyer, saying in a coquettish voice, “Now I wonder who that could be?”
She came back smiling, her arm looped through Christopher’s. I sat up, sober, my heart suddenly racing. He looked suntanned, his hair slightly rumpled, his eyes giving
him away, for he seemed just as surprised to see me. And yet I knew it was no accident. I felt like I’d stepped into a chapter of Great Expectations, only the roles were reversed—I was Pip, Christopher was Estella, and Elaine was Miss Havisham, lumping us together for her own amusement, just to watch the sparks. In an instant I was filled with full-on longing and angst. I could admit it now—I wanted this man. But how? How could we move from being friends to something more? And was that what he wanted, or was it all on me?
Elaine strategically disappeared into the kitchen. “Be right back,” she said. “Just checking on dinner.” But she was gone for a long time, leaving Christopher and me alone.
“I’m sorry about your father,” he said. “I tried calling but you’d already left town. I didn’t even know you were back yet. You doing okay?”
“Depends on when you ask me. Right now, at this very moment, yeah, I’m doing okay.”
He reached over and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear, and I could have dropped into his arms and sobbed. Instead I took another sip of my martini, feeling vulnerable. And terrified. There was no turning back for me now. Even if I didn’t act on these feelings for him, they were still there. They would always be there.
There was a long, awkward silence.
“Elaine?” I called out. “Do you need help in there?”
“No. No, I’m fine,” she said back. “You two visit. I’ll be right out.”
But she didn’t come right out. And to fill the lingering silence, I told him about the job offer.
“Frank Scavullo’s assistant, wow. Good for you. That’s a great opportunity. When do you start?”
He sounded just like Elaine. “No, no, I’m not taking it.”
“What? Are you crazy? Why not?”
I didn’t know how to begin to explain my attachment to Helen, and thankfully I didn’t have to, because Elaine came back out with a butcher’s apron tied about her waist. She brushed her hair off her forehead with the back of her wrist and took a long sip of her martini. “Dinner is served.”