The Magnolia Palace(7)
“I don’t think we can squeeze you in,” said the tallest one, a girl named Gigi who Veronica recognized from a recent cover of Mademoiselle. “It’s tight already.”
Veronica apologized—such an English habit, one that Americans mistook to mean that one was actually sorry—and kept walking down the hall.
She took the stairs down one floor and tried to locate another bathroom. Several of the rooms were locked, and the open ones led to administrative offices. The last door on the right was ajar, and Veronica stepped inside and let out a soft gasp. She was standing in an old-fashioned, perfectly preserved bedroom, featuring an upholstered bed with a fanciful silk bed crown that rivaled that of a theater proscenium. Above a drop-front secretary desk hung a portrait of a little girl with a strangely guarded expression, as if she didn’t trust whoever was in the room with her. Veronica drew close and studied it. Neither the lacy pinafore nor the sweet curls could make up for the fact that this child came across as old beyond her years, as if the soul of a bedridden old woman lingered behind those eyes. Veronica shivered and tore herself away from it, looking about. Near the window sat a striped chaise longue almost the same size as the bed, the perfect spot for lying about and reading all day. The connecting bathroom had everything she desired, including a large mirror and decent lighting. This was much better than fighting for elbow room with the other models, and she’d be careful to leave it exactly as she found it. It was a museum, after all.
She opened up the suitcase with all her gear and began the lengthy process of unpacking. Models, even for the fanciest magazine shoots like this one, were required to bring along anything that might be called for during a session, including six or seven pairs of shoes, a bra that enhanced one’s natural assets as well as one that compressed them, waist cinches, slips, stockings in both black and nude, scarves, gloves, and jewelry. The girls were in charge of doing their own hair and makeup, which entailed a heavy makeup case as well as rollers, brushes, combs, and bobby pins. The suitcase weighed a ton, and Veronica often had to remind herself to walk straight and not list to one side after carrying it around the streets of London for hours.
She dug out her makeup kit and got to work, layering on the foundation, drawing on liner so that it swooped out from the corner of her eye, applying a bright lip to contrast with her dark hair. This was New York, the most sophisticated city in the world apart from Paris, so she dusted her lids with an electric blue eye shadow as well. After running a brush through her hair, she put on a robe and, with one last look in the mirror, headed down to the main floor.
Because most of the house was quite dark and gloomy, she knew where to go by the light spilling out of one room near the front entrance hall. Inside, she stopped and stared, marveling at the enormous painted panels that covered the walls, depicting lushly romantic scenes of lovers. The Frick Collection was certainly full of surprises. To think a family had once gathered here daily, had lived their everyday lives surrounded by such beauty. Once again, the center of the room contained a vase crowded with magnolia branches, each blossom tapering from deep pink at its base to snow white at the tip.
Steve was now setting up tripods and lights with two other PAs, and she spotted Barnaby in the far corner whispering with the creative director from the magazine. The other girls had surrounded a clothes rack and were being handed outfits for the shoot by the stylist.
One by one, the occupants of the room turned and stared at her.
She waved a friendly hello and then caught sight of herself in a mirror hanging on the far wall.
The other models had gone for a natural approach, a soft lip, thin eyeliner with no shadow, and hair that hung flat and smooth. She, on the other hand, looked like a clown, with a garish smear of lipstick that competed unsuccessfully with her blue eyeshadow in the bright light. If she’d wrestled her way into the bathroom with them in the first place, she might have been able to correct her mistake before she got started.
So far Barnaby hadn’t noticed her, and was still talking with the creative director. Veronica backed up, hoping to have time to escape and redo her face, when he turned and clapped for everyone’s attention.
“Let’s begin, ladies. Do we have everyone assembled?”
He looked at the gaggle of girls in the corner, and then his gaze fell on Veronica.
She braced herself for whatever he’d say next.
“Dear God.” He grimaced, then laughed. “I love the hair.”
She reflexively put a hand up to touch it. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
“But what on earth happened to your face?”
* * *
Veronica had been restocking the shelves of her uncle Donny’s pawnshop when she was “discovered.” It was a couple of days after her terrible haircut, and she’d been thankful that Uncle Donny had let her get out from behind the till for a couple of hours, away from the customers’ stares. He’d offered her the job of salesclerk a year earlier, soon after her father’s sudden death, and on slow days she’d lose herself in the random objects in the display cases and shelves, wondering whose fingers had touched the dusty Imperial typewriter, or what kind of woman had worn the dangly Art Deco earrings. How had they ended up here, and what had it meant to have to give them up?
The clientele of Chelsea Pawnbrokers were a mixed bunch. Most were more likely to hock their grandmothers’ smelly old furs than a Cartier watch, but every so often a toff with a posh accent came in and nervously thrust a gem-encrusted necklace across the counter. Veronica would sit back and watch as Uncle Donny examined it, sighed, then examined it some more, until the customer was just glad to have the sordid transaction done with and departed with less than half the item’s value in wrinkled pound notes.