Breaking the Rules (Harte Family Saga Book 7)

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Leaning forward, Frankie gave M a hard, penetrating stare. “I need to give you a whole new look. It will be wonderful for you, but we might have to cut your hair.”

  M gasped, her dark eyes widening. She was momentarily speechless. Cut off her hair?

  Frankie murmured in a gentler tone, “I promise you it will change your life. And it will be a truly unique look, very special to you—”

  “A reinvention?” she asked finally, cutting in. “Is that what you’re suggesting?”

  He nodded, continuing to stare at her speculatively. “That’s what I mean. Will you go for it?”

  “Absolutely. I love reinventions, Frankie.”

  “I really don’t want to cut this hair,” Agnes Manton said softly, smoothing one hand down the long black hair which was one of M’s great assets. “Look at it, Frankie, it’s like a . . . a mantle of shining black silk. It would be criminal to cut this off.”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic,” Frankie shot back, a brow lifting. “It is only hair, for God’s sake. It will grow back again, Agnes.”

  “I don’t mind,” M interjected, swiveling her head to look up at the hairdresser. “And Frankie’s right, you know. I can grow it back if I want to.”

  Agnes nodded but remained silent, studying the young woman carefully, liking her.

  Frankie said, “I want to show you something. Just a minute.” He stepped away from the dressing table in the hair and makeup room at the back of the vast studio, headed for the bookcase at the far end. Taking down a picture book, he flicked through it, quickly found the photographs he wanted, and walked back to the two women.

  “Look at these, Agnes, and you’ll better understand what I’m aiming for. Here.” He handed her the book, indicating several pages.

  When Agnes saw the title “audreystyle” and stared at the first few pictures, she knew at once what he wanted. A replica of Audrey Hepburn with one of her short gamine hairdos. Nodding, Agnes said to Frankie, “I can create the look you want without cutting off all of M’s hair.” She flipped through the book, showed him several other photographs, explained, “Here, take a look at this one. Bangs but with the back in a tight chignon. I should try this first, don’t you think? I just don’t want to be hasty, cutting off all this gorgeous hair.”

  Frankie took the book away from her, glanced at the photograph she was talking about, and had to agree that there was truth in what Agnes was saying. With bangs and a twist at the back, Audrey looked more sophisticated and elegant, but she was still Audrey Hepburn.

  M said, “Can I see the book, Frankie, please? So I know what the two of you are talking about.”

  He gave it to her without a word.

  M exclaimed, “Oh, my goodness, Audrey Hepburn! Is that what you want to do, turn me into a new Audrey?”

  Frankie laughed. “You got it, kid. Any objections?”

  “No, not at all. I’d love it, actually.”

  “Okay then, let’s do it.”

  “I don’t want to do any cutting,” Agnes reminded him, a warning look on her face.

  “That’s okay with me,” Frankie answered and then said to M, “You told me you’d brought a black sheath and high heels. Correct?”

  “Yes. Would you like me to go and put them on?”

  “No, not for the moment. Agnes is going to copy this hairstyle here.” He turned to the stylist, said in a firmer voice, “You must cut the front, though, because I want M to have bangs, and copy this upswept look, please. It’s a very elegant Audrey here . . . this photo is from Roman Holiday, I believe.”

  “But—” Agnes began and stopped when she saw the adamant expression on Frankie’s face. She had worked with him for years and knew when to stop arguing with him.

  “Bangs okay with you, M?” he asked, took the book from her, found the picture he wanted, then handed it back to M, pointing at a page.

  “Bangs are very okay with me,” M responded and stared down at the book, then smiled at Agnes. “Let’s do it, shall we?”

  Placing a cotton cape around M’s shoulders, Agnes picked up her most expensive scissors, took a deep breath, and began to create the bangs Frankie insisted on.

  M sat back in the chair, watching Agnes work, saying nothing, secretly loving the idea of becoming an Audrey Hepburn look-alike. That was genuine reinvention and then some. She smiled inwardly, wondering why she hadn’t thought of this herself. God knows, her brothers had often teased her about having such a marked resemblance to the famous actress.

  Frankie announced, “I’ll leave you to it, Agnes, and when Marguerite arrives I’ll send her in immediately.” Resting one hand on M’s shoulder, he added, “Marguerite is another genius, and Agnes and she together will turn you into the woman in these pictures. You’ll be the real thing, par excellence.”

  Seven

  Wow!” a male voice exclaimed in a soft, awed tone from the shadows at the back of the main studio. Finally walking out into the bright light, the man added, “Wow! Wow! Wow!” and stopped just a few feet away from Frankie, who was photographing M seated on a tall stool.

  “Hey, Luke!” Frankie cried as he swung around and saw his friend. “She is a wow, wow, wow, isn’t she?”

  Instead of responding to Frankie, Luke looked at M and addressed her. “You certainly are spectacular, just as you were in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, looking exactly as you do today.” He shook his head, a wide grin spreading across his handsome face. “Of course I know you couldn’t possibly be Audrey, but you certainly could be her twin. So what’s your real name?”

  M started to answer him, but Frankie cut across her. “This is M, Luke. She’s known simply as M, and she’s my new discovery. I’m going to launch her modeling career, yes indeedy, and I have big plans for her. I know what I’m seeing through this lens. And it’s something sensational.”

  “Congratulations, Frankie,” Luke responded and then walked toward M, his hand outstretched.

  As they shook hands, the two of them sized each other up.

  M found herself looking into a pair of light gray eyes set in a puckish face, which appeared to be full of merriment. With his short, curly blond hair and slight build, Luke reminded her of a choirboy. But perhaps a rather devilish one.

  For his part, Luke was captivated by the young woman dressed in the black sheath and wearing tons of pearls and sparkling drop earrings. A few minutes ago he had been talking to Agnes and Marguerite in the hair and makeup room, and both women had told him how Frankie had instructed them to play up M’s striking resemblance to the late movie star. There was no question that they had done a truly magnificent job. This young woman was stunning, but he knew she would be even if she weren’t an Audrey look-alike.

  “I’m happy to meet you, Luke,” M finally said.

  Luke cleared his throat, suddenly realizing he was gaping at her like a dumbstruck schoolboy. “Me, too, er, what I mean is, I’m glad to meet you. You’re English?”

  “Yes, I am, but I’m living here now. I came over about three months ago.” As she spoke, she gently extricated her hand from his tight clasp.

  “If you need someone to show you around Manhattan, need anything at all, I’d be glad to help you. Just let me know.” He took out a business card and handed it to her.

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling at him.

  “Hey, hey, hey, not so fast, Luke, my boy! No poaching my talent. After all, I discovered her. And M’s going to be working for me exclusively.”

  “I was merely volunteering to be a friend.”

  “I know, Luke, I know.” Stepping closer to the younger man, Frankie said in a lower tone, “Thanks for coming in to help with the ad agency shoot. The models are here, changing before they go into hair and makeup. We’ll start shooting in about forty minutes, because I want to finish up with M.”

  Luke nodded. “Are we shooting in this studio? Or one of the others?”

  “The big one at the back. The scenery’s already set up for the first session, and I’m sure Ted is in t
here already, looking at the new backdrops, which came in last week. Why don’t you go introduce yourself and have a few words with him? He’s a nice guy, genuine, and he’s been throwing a lotta work my way lately.”

  “Okay,” Luke responded, gave a wave to M, and hurried off, fully aware that Frankie preferred to shoot without spectators. Unless it was a “civilian” like Ted Langton, or some other friendly agency guy. Even Luke himself was tolerated only when he was actually working as Frankie’s first assistant, otherwise he was forbidden to enter just like the others.

  Once M and Frankie were alone, he explained, “Luke’s one of my protégés, and he’s already on the way to becoming a great photographer. He’s got a small studio of his own and has a couple of regular clients, but I give him as much work as I can. I want to help him get ahead.”

  “That’s nice of you, Frankie,” M said, meaning it. She and her siblings had been brought up to be helpful to others; it was one of the family rules.

  “I’ve always believed that everyone is worth helping, most especially if they have potential,” Frankie now added, put down his camera, and walked over to her, studied her for a moment. “I think you should take off all the pearls, M, and the earrings for the next few shots. I’d like you to look simpler. Your hair is fine, but Marguerite needs to powder you down. I’ll go and get her.”

  Before she could volunteer to go to hair and makeup herself, Frankie had hurried to the far end of the studio.

  In his absence, M walked over to a trestle table, took off the many strings of pearls he had draped around her neck earlier, and the earrings as well. She placed them in one of the boxes which contained costume jewelry; in the others were artificial flowers, small kerchiefs and ribbons, all kinds of accessories. On the spur of the moment she took out a piece of black velvet ribbon, went over to the mirror on the wall behind the table, and tied the ribbon round her neck. Standing back, she eyed herself.

  M was thrilled and excited that Frankie Farantino had seen something so special in her he had spent so much time photographing her. She realized that this might be the break she had been waiting for. Perhaps Lady Luck was with her today; she suddenly thought of her big brother, who always gave such credit to Lady Luck, decided he would have been proud of the way she had worked this afternoon. He had instilled one thing in her: Be professional.

  As M walked back to the center of the studio, Frankie reappeared with Marguerite, carrying her basket filled with the tools of her trade.

  “According to Frankie, you need a touch-up,” the makeup artist said, smiling and peering at her face appraisingly. Marguerite took out a damp sponge, went over M’s face with it, patted her dry with a tissue, dipped a brush in powder, and flicked it over her cheeks. “You’re not as shiny as I expected. Now all we need is a little blush on top of the powder and you’re ready. Your eyes are fine, M, they don’t need anything.” Marguerite finished her work, stepped back, and said, “You’ve weathered the hot lights very well.”

  “Thanks, Marguerite,” M answered and went back to the middle of the floor, sat down on the stool.

  Frankie, who was busy reloading film, looked across at her and exclaimed, “The ribbon looks great, honey, and that’s all you need.”

  He photographed her for another twenty minutes, taking shots of her from different angles, praising her, telling her to hold a certain pose, until he finally had everything he wanted.

  “That’s it, M. At least for today. And you’ve been a great subject. You know what, you’re good at this, honey.”

  “And thank you, Frankie. Actually, I’ve enjoyed it,” she told him. Walking across to him, she now asked, “Did you mean it when you told Luke you were going to launch my modeling career?”

  He was taking the film out of his camera, and he glanced up and nodded. “Yes, I did.”

  “I’m so pleased about that! So, what happens next?” she asked, her excitement reflected on her face.

  “I have to start using you in some of my fashion shoots for the magazines. That’s how we’ll begin.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “Not for a few weeks,” Frankie murmured, putting the camera down on a table. “I have to go to Morocco on Monday, to do a fashion spread for Harper’s Bazaar.”

  M nodded and gave him a quizzical look. “So when should I plan on being here, Frankie?”

  “I’ll have to let you know. You see, I’ll be in Morocco for a while, honey, it’s a big spread.”

  “And there’s no way you could include me in that?” she asked, her eyes riveted on him.

  He shook his head. “No, the models have all been selected. In fact, some are already on their way over there.”

  “I understand.” She gave him a bright smile, although she was disappointed, and went on, “I’d better let the Blane Agency know about our session today, and your intentions, don’t you think?”

  Startled by her unexpected businesslike manner, he stared at her, his eyes narrowing, then said, “But Geo told me you were registered with a number of modeling agencies. Why are you mentioning Blane’s in particular?”

  “Because I signed with them when I first came to New York, and I like the women working there. They seem sincere to me, and they’ve tried to be helpful. I should have proper representation anyway, shouldn’t I?”

  “Okay, you’re right, and I understand. So yes, you can go ahead and tell them.”

  “And what about the photographs you’ve taken today? When can I see them? I’d love to know how I look in them.”

  He grinned at her. “Of course you would. Drop over next week and Caresse will have a set for you.”

  “Thank you.” She moved back to the small table near the stool, retrieved Luke’s business card, then swinging around, she asked, “What do you plan to do with the pictures you took today?”

  “What do you mean, M?” He sounded puzzled.

  “Are you going to place them with a magazine? Or use them in some way? Or was this a . . . a dry run, I suppose you would call it.”

  “That’s right, it was exactly that. I usually do a session with a new girl if I think she has potential. And you know already I feel that about you. Some of them are duds, you know, but certainly not you. I foresee a great future for you as a model, M, and I do plan to help you get to the top. When I come back from Morocco.”

  Frankie walked across the floor, put his arms around her, and gave her a big hug. “Thanks again, honey, and I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

  Eight

  It seemed to M that the next few weeks passed extremely quickly. Always well organized, even when she was a child, she made herself a schedule and kept to it.

  Every other morning she went to the Blane Model Agency to check in with Leni, the receptionist, and afterward visited another two agencies, International and Famous, where she was also registered. Three afternoons a week she worked as a waitress at the All-American Cheese Cake Cafe, and on Thursday she helped out as a sales assistant at Jennifer Allen’s chic boutique in the Meatpacking District.

  She enjoyed being busy, and working helped to deflect some of her worry about Frankie Farantino. She hoped he would keep his word to her.

  According to Caresse, whom she called several times a week, he was still in Morocco, and would be going on to the South of France to finish the shoot. This was a new development in his schedule. Only after that would he be back in New York. But Caresse reassured her that Frankie would keep his word, as did the women she knew at Blane’s. Leni, and Marla Golding, who handled bookings, had been pleased when she conveyed Frankie’s interest in her. He enjoyed a good reputation, and they told her they deemed him trustworthy. Also, the two of them had been impressed by the photographs Frankie had taken of her, as she had herself.

  Only Geo seemed hesitant about the “makeover,” as she called it, pointing out to M that she was beautiful in her own right and did not need to become the replica of a dead movie star.

  “If you don’t know how gorgeous you are, go an
d look in the mirror,” Geo had said that Thursday afternoon when M returned from the shoot at Frankie’s studio. “I love your hairstyle, though, and you should definitely keep the bangs; they really suit you. They’d work with a ponytail, too, you know, as well as the twist.” Then quite suddenly Geo had frowned and peered at her rather intently, shaking her head, and added in a gentle tone, obviously not wanting to give offense, “I think your eye makeup is a bit too heavy, and your eyebrows far too thick, M, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  M had listened attentively to Geo, and everyone else, and weighed their comments. She tended to agree with Geo about the eye makeup and later decided not to bother with it, especially when she was working at the café and the boutique. She would look ridiculous in those venues if she did an over-the-top theatrical eye job on herself.

  M also kept herself busy when she wasn’t working. She went shopping for groceries and her everyday needs, kept her room scrupulously neat, and looked after her clothes and shoes. She e-mailed her parents in Australia and called her sister in London, either on Friday or on Sunday, depending on her new work schedule.

  And of course she waited impatiently for Frankie’s return to New York. She had canceled the interview with Hank George, on the advice of Geo, who pointed out that Frankie would probably be annoyed if M went to see another photographer at this stage. After all, he had made it crystal clear that he wanted to launch her modeling career; he had even agreed that she could inform Blane’s of his serious intentions. In fact, he had behaved impeccably.

  “You’ll just have to be patient until he gets back,” Geo had murmured recently. “Everything’s going to be all right, I just know it is. And when he does return, Blane’s will get you a worthwhile contract with him.”

  M thought of Geo now as she wandered around one of the many art galleries in West Chelsea. She often did this on weekends, looking at paintings by people she had never heard of, always deciding that Geo was a much better artist. In fact, Geo was enormously talented, in M’s opinion, and working extremely hard at the moment, endeavoring to finish a series of paintings of scenes in Connecticut. They were intended for an exhibition of her work, and M was encouraging her to stick to it, cheering her on every day.