Gloss

by Marilyn Kaye

  Marilyn Kaye is a bestselling American author. Her Replica series, about a genetically altered clone (Random House USA, Hodder UK), ran to over twenty titles and was an international success. She lived in New York for many years and currently lives in Paris.

  First published 2013 by Macmillan Children’s Books

  a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

  20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-4472-2397-9

  Copyright © Marilyn Kaye 2013

  The right of Marilyn Kaye to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and Civil Claims for damages.

  For Ben, Baglio and Richard Wilson.

  and in memory of Bob

  Sherry Ann Forrester knew the rules. Among the many social guidelines that had been drummed into her since childhood was this fixed decree: a lady maintained an air of composure, whatever the circumstances. And by the age of eighteen Sherry considered herself an expert at putting on the right face for every situation, no matter what she might be feeling.

  Last year, when her name had been called as a finalist in the Miss Teen Georgia pageant, she’d been able to look simply pleased and humble rather than thrilled to bits. When she only placed second runner-up in the final round, all anyone could see was her happiness for the new queen, despite the fact that she disliked the girl intensely and believed the well-endowed baton-twirler had only won through family connections and some shameless flirtation with a judge.

  Soon after that, at the funeral of her beloved grandfather, she’d presented the perfect picture of the dignified mourner, sorrowful and grieving, but still able to greet guests in the church with a sad smile, even as she fought back the urge to throw herself on the coffin and sob hysterically.

  And less than a month ago, when she was declared Senior Prom Queen in the high-school gymnasium, she was able to appear completely and utterly surprised. She widened her eyes, her mouth dropped open slightly and she put a hand over her heart, as if she was overwhelmed emotionally. No fake tears though. It was just enough and not too much. No one could have guessed that her best friend, one of the vote counters, had alerted her well in advance of her imminent coronation.

  And today, as she and the seven other interns were taken on a tour of the Gloss magazine offices, she assumed a calm air of avid interest without gaping or gawking. But there came a point when her carefully honed restraint was seriously challenged.

  ‘And this …’ Miss Caroline Davison, the managing editor, paused at a door. Flourishing an invisible magic wand with one hand, she turned the knob with the other.

  ‘This is the famous Gloss samples closet.’

  Sherry joined the others in a collective gasp which became something close to a shriek of pure and utter amazement. First of all, it wasn’t a closet, it was a room three times the size of the largest office the interns had seen. And its contents were beyond belief.

  Miss Davison had to raise her voice to be heard over all the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’.

  ‘It’s where we keep all the items sent to us by designers and clothing companies in the hope that we’ll feature them in the magazine. What you see before you is a good representative sample of the apparel industry.’

  That was an understatement, Sherry thought. She’d call it fashion paradise. Dresses, skirts, gowns, blouses, trousers and coats hung from the rods. On the shelves lay shoes and handbags, mounds of sweaters and a large glass case containing jewellery. She tried to catch the eye of her roommate, but Donna was looking down, as if she was unworthy to feast her eyes upon such gorgeousness.

  The girls spread out, and it was interesting to see who was attracted to what. Vicky, the tanned California girl with sun-streaked hair, made a beeline in the direction of a rack of bathing suits. Sweet-faced Ellen from Texas, whose dark hair was adorned with tiny matching bows over each spit curl, was clearly thrilled by a tray of brightly coloured hair ornaments, ribbons and barrettes. Sherry turned her attention to the pale blue two-piece ensemble that had adorned the cover of the March issue. She remembered considering a trip to Atlanta, to see if Rich’s Department Store carried the outfit, but decided that three-quarter sleeves wouldn’t be very wearable in a hot Georgia summer. Of course, that was before she knew for sure that she’d be spending the summer in New York City.

  The girl with the perfectly sculpted bouffant on Sherry’s right, Linda, murmured, ‘Do you think they’ll let us wear any of this stuff?’

  And Diane, the girl on her left, whispered, ‘Dibs on the blue suit.’

  But any hopes they might have were quickly dashed when one platinum-haired intern stepped forward and picked up a low-heeled pump. Examining the sole, she squealed in delight

  ‘Five and a half! That’s my size.’

  Linda spoke into Sherry’s ear. ‘Can you believe that hair?’

  Sherry smiled. The girl had clearly gone overboard with peroxide and Sherry was reminded of her little sister’s Bubble Cut Barbie. This girl even had Barbie’s trademark sweep of black liner over her eyes and the doll’s bright pink lips.

  ‘Five and a half is the standard sample shoe size,’ the editor informed her. ‘But, girls, let me warn you — this isn’t a lending library. These items aren’t for borrowing.’

  Pamela — that was the name on the platinum blonde’s tag — sighed dramatically. ‘Never?’

  Miss Davison lips twitched slightly. ‘Rarely, which is almost the same thing. We’ve been known to bend the rules on occasion, but only for some extraordinary event and with special permission. Or when you’re doing something exceptional on behalf of Gloss. And of course the item would have to be returned in pristine condition.’

  ‘An extraordinary event,’ Pamela repeated. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Talk about pushy,’ Linda murmured. ‘And that skirt she’s wearing!’

  Sherry smiled without commenting. The skirt was awfully tight. And the low-cut blouse wasn’t exactly office attire either.

  Sherry had chosen her own first-day-at-Gloss outfit with care and some trepidation. Was her madras skirt outdated? Everyone back home still wore skirts like this, but she hadn’t seen any madras lately in the pages of Gloss. She’d topped it with a navy-blue sleeveless shell, and accessorized with navy tassel loafers and a matching pocketbook. She was relieved to see bare legs in loafers on a couple of other girls, and while no one else wore madras, at least three of them had on print skirts with blouses or shells that picked up one of the colours in the print.

  The editor brushed Pamela’s question aside. ‘I don’t think we need to get into that now. We have more important things to go over today. Other questions?’

  A petite redhead with a close-cropped pixie cut raised her hand. Sherry thought she too was dressed strangely, in black capri pants and a black-and-white striped T-shirt. She’d never seen anything like that in Gloss.

  ‘How do you choose which items will go in the magazine?’

  That was exactly what Sherry had been wondering. Why hadn’t she spoken up? Of course, she knew why — it was because well-brought-up Southern girls didn’t call attention to themselves.

  Miss Davison nodded at the redhead with approval. ‘That’s a good question, Allison, and one of the main topics we’ll be covering
during your apprenticeship. We don’t have time to go into this in any detail now, but I’ll give you an example.’ She turned to Sherry. ‘Do you see that black oblong quilted handbag with the chain handle on the shelf?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  The response that revealed the region of her upbringing slipped out automatically, and she heard a muffled giggle from one of the other girls. Miss Davison smiled too, but kindly.

  ‘You can call me Caroline,’ she said.

  ‘All of us or just Sherry?’ Pamela asked.

  Sherry couldn’t help being amused by the girl’s impudence. And the editor actually smiled.

  ‘All of you, of course. Sherry, pass the bag to me.’

  ‘Yes —’ This time she caught herself before the ‘ma’am’ could slip out. ‘Yes, Miss Davison — I mean, Caroline.’

  She took up the bag and brought it to the editor. The woman held it aloft for all to see. ‘This is a bag that was designed by the great Coco Chanel. Although it’s quite lovely, we decided not to feature it in Gloss, since we didn’t see it as appealing to our readership. As you all know, Gloss is aimed at the American teenager, and this bag is well beyond the means of our readers.’

  ‘How much is it worth?’ Pamela wanted to know, but the editor was distracted by the appearance of a new figure at the doorway.

  ‘Hi.’

  All the interns turned to the young man, and Sherry wasn’t surprised to see some eyes light up. He was very good-looking, with blond hair, and he was as tanned as Vicky-from-California. A lazy grin revealed deep dimples. For Sherry, he brought to mind the dreamy surfer guys in all those beach movies — more California than New York.

  ‘The new girls, right?’ He addressed Caroline Davison, but his eyes rested on the younger females.

  The editor’s lips tightened for a second. ‘The new interns. Everyone, this is Ricky Hartnell. He’s …’ she paused, as if she was trying to come up with some way to explain him. ‘He’s an office assistant.’

  ‘Editorial assistant,’ the boy corrected her. ‘At least, I think that’s my title.’

  ‘We’re very busy right now, Ricky,’ Caroline said briskly. ‘I’m sure you’ll have an opportunity to meet everyone individually later.’

  ‘Looking forward to it,’ he said with a wink at the girls. ‘See you around, ladies.’

  ‘Cute,’ Diane whispered in Sherry’s ear.

  Sherry nodded, but mentally she added, ‘And he knows it.’ Mama was always warning her about making snap judgements, but in this particular case she felt reasonably sure her assessment was accurate.

  Miss Davison waved them out of the samples closet. ‘This finishes the tour. Since you only arrived yesterday, I’m not planning to keep you here for a full working day. But keep in mind that we’ll be working on a very special issue of Gloss, the annual readers’ issue. You will be representing two million subscribers who depend on Gloss for advice on everything from fashion and beauty to planning for the future. It’s a huge responsibility and I hope you’re ready for it.’

  There was a general bobbing of heads. A balding man with glasses passed by, and Caroline called out to him.

  ‘George, could I have a minute?’

  The man frowned. ‘I’m in the middle of something, Caroline.’

  ‘I’ll be quick. Girls, this is George Simpson, our features editor. George, these are the young women who will be working as summer apprentices.’

  His disinterested eyes swept over them. ‘Who can type?’ He nodded at the show of hands. ‘Good. And I assume you’re all familiar with the alphabet, which means you can file.’

  ‘Mail!’

  This announcement came from a tall, dark-haired boy with deep-set eyes. He wore an oversized grey jacket with ‘Hartnell Publications’ embroidered over a pocket, and he was gripping the handles of a cart filled with envelopes and boxes.

  ‘Leave mine on my desk,’ Mr Simpson told him.

  The boy stared at him. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know your name. I’m new here.’

  ‘That’s no excuse,’ the man barked. ‘If you’re going to deliver the mail, you need to know to whom you’re delivering it.’

  The boy flinched as if he’d been physically attacked. Caroline seemed to take pity on him. ‘This is George Simpson, the features editor,’ she told him. ‘And I’m Caroline Davison, managing editor. All the editors’ names are on their office doors, and everyone in the central room has a nameplate on his or her desk. And you are… ?’

  Sherry could see his Adam’s apple bob before he said, ‘Michael Dillon.’

  ‘How do you do, Michael. These young women are interns here at Gloss.’

  The boy didn’t meet their eyes, but he muttered, ‘Pleased to meet you,’ before continuing to roll his cart down the corridor.

  ‘Well, now that we’re all great chums, I’ve got work to do,’ Mr Simpson said, and walked away.

  Sherry didn’t miss the withering glance Caroline gave him before turning back to the interns. ‘And so do you all. Here’s your first assignment: I want a five hundred-word review of the film you saw this morning by noon tomorrow. Keep in mind that one review will be selected to appear in the readers’ issue. You can stay here to work at your desk of course, or back at your residence hall if you prefer. You might want to spend the afternoon settling in, or exploring the city, and write your piece tonight. It’s up to you.’

  The girls dispersed and headed to the desks they’d been assigned earlier in what was called the bullpen, the large open space filled with rows of desks, where the secretaries and junior staff worked. Linda walked alongside Sherry.

  ‘Diane and I are going to Times Square. Want to come with?’

  It was one of the famous landmarks on Sherry’s must-see list, and she nodded. ‘Sure. Just let me get my stuff together.’

  ‘We’ll meet you outside, in front of the building,’ Linda said.

  Sherry fumbled through the papers on her desk, and in the process she knocked over the pencil holder. As she bent down to retrieve the contents, the good-looking editorial assistant, or whatever his title was, appeared by her side.

  ‘Need some help?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she murmured. Of course, a Southern gentleman would have ignored what she said and bent down to pick up the items. Surfer guy did not. But as she rose, she murmured, ‘Thank you anyway.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Sherry Ann Forrester.’

  She stiffened as she realized he was staring at her chest, until she remembered that her name tag was there.

  ‘First time in New York, Sherry Ann?’

  ‘Yes, this is my first visit,’ she told him. ‘And it’s just Sherry,’ she added. Which wasn’t quite true. All her life, she’d been called Sherry Ann. But it was so Southern, to have a double first name, that she’d decided to drop the Ann for the summer.

  Unfortunately the name tag had been prepared before her arrival. Not to mention the fact that there wasn’t much she could do about her accent.

  ‘Where are you from?’ he asked.

  ‘Georgia. North of Atlanta.’

  ‘So you’re a Southern belle,’ he said with a grin.

  Mentally she bemoaned the fact that a Gone with the Wind revival had taken place in movie theatres all across the country just the year before. Every girl who crossed the Mason-Dixon line was now subject to comparison with Scarlett O’Hara. Even the taxi driver who’d brought her from LaGuardia Airport the day before had reacted with a comment when he heard her speak. At the time, she’d thought it was cute. Maybe it was Ricky’s cocky smile that made his remark annoying.

  ‘No, just an ordinary girl from the South,’ she said lightly.

  ‘You don’t have a plantation? With cotton fields, and slaves, and a mammy to pick up after you?’ At a desk not far from hers, a dark-skinned secretary looked up sharply.

  Sherry tried to keep her tone light. ‘This is 1963, Ricky, not 1863. We don’t live like that any more.’

  ‘
You still talk like it,’ he pointed out. ‘And it’s cute. You’re cute.’

  She couldn’t tell if he was flirting or just teasing, and she fought back the automatic instinct to thank him for the compliment.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she murmured, and stuffed the papers in her handbag.

  The other interns had all taken off by then, but as she passed through the swinging doors into the hallway she spotted the blonde bombshell waiting by the bank of elevators. She knew how Pamela would be labelled back home. In a picture dictionary, she would be the illustration for a ‘skag’, the word of the moment for a girl with a less-than-sterling reputation. The bleached hair, the revealing top (which Sherry strongly suspected covered a pair of falsies), the way she jiggled when she walked, which indicated the absence of a girdle.

  But she wasn’t back home, and she was going to have to get accustomed to being around the kinds of folks she’d never known before. Assertive career women like Caroline Davison, cocky boys like Ricky … new people, new experiences, that was what this summer was all about.

  Turning, Pamela blocked the elevator door that was about to close with her arm.

  ‘Hey, hurry up, I’m holding this for you.’

  Sherry hurried forward. ‘Thanks,’ she said, stepping inside.

  Pamela hit the lobby button. ‘So how about that samples closet? Swift, huh?’

  ‘Very impressive,’ Sherry agreed.

  ‘I’ve got my eye on that purple gown with the rhinestones,’ Pamela declared.

  ‘But where would you wear something like that?’ Sherry wondered. ‘It’s not like we’ll be going to any senior proms while we’re here.’

  ‘Are you kidding? We’re in New York, the most glamorous city in the world! There are millions of places to wear a gown. El Morocco, the 21 Club, Sardi’s …’

  Sherry looked at her with interest. ‘How do you know about these places?’

  ‘I’ve read about them, mostly in movie magazines. New York is full of nightclubs, cocktail lounges, fancy restaurants. I’ve made a list.’