by Marilyn Kaye
As for the conversation, all the others could talk about was the hospital, and their patients, and the surgeries they’d watched. It was all blood and bones and guts — not her idea of sophisticated New York chit-chat.
She’d been so bored she invented a headache and asked to go home. Then she had to suffer his questions — where precisely was the headache? Was it a dull pain or a stabbing pain? Did she get these headaches frequently? It got to the point where she actually developed a real pain in her head.
‘Pamela?’
She looked up to see Darlene, assistant beauty editor, at her desk and holding a brown envelope.
‘Could you take these contact sheets upstairs to David Barnes on the thirty-first? And tell him we’ve ticked off the photos we want to see.’
David Barnes … she remembered him. The photographer who looked like Rock Hudson. She hadn’t seen him since their welcome dinner, and she brightened at the opportunity.
Someone on the thirty-first floor told her that David Barnes was in the darkroom, and to wait in the reception area. She passed the time looking at the large photos of Gloss cover girls that were framed and hanging on a wall. There were blondes, brunettes and redheads, and they were all dressed differently, but to Pamela they all looked pretty much the same. Boring.
She saw the red light over the darkroom door go off, and a second later David Barnes came out.
‘Mr Barnes,’ she called.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Pamela, an intern at Gloss.’
‘Oh yes, I remember meeting you. And you can call me David.’
Encouraged, she produced one of her flirtiest smiles. ‘David. That’s one of my favourite names. It’s so … masculine.’
He seemed a little taken aback. ‘If you say so. Now what can I do for you, Pamela?’
Take me to dinner at Sardi’s and dancing at El Morocco, she wanted to say. ‘I’ve got some contact sheets for you, from the beauty editor.’
He took the brown envelope and glanced inside. ‘Good, thanks. Oh, by the way, tell Doreen that I just had a call. Her makeover model just cancelled — she’ll have to get someone else for the session.’
‘OK,’ said Pamela.
He started to move on down the hall.
‘David?’
He stopped and turned. ‘Yes?’
‘I don’t know this department at all. Could you show me around?’
His smile was polite, but he shook his head. ‘I’m very busy right now, Pamela. Another time.’
‘Or maybe we could have lunch?’ she said quickly. ‘You could tell me all about what goes on in that darkroom.’ She cocked her head to one side and gave him a seductive smile.
Now he actually looked uncomfortable. ‘Excuse me, Pamela, I have to get back to work.’
She stared after him. Never in her life had she failed to get at least a small reaction from a man after turning on the charm. She hurried into the restroom to see if she’d suddenly developed a zit or something. She looked fine, but that didn’t make her feel any better.
Back downstairs, she ambled over to Doreen’s office. ‘I gave David the contact sheet,’ she announced.
‘Thank you,’ Doreen and Darlene trilled in unison.
‘Oh, and he said to tell you that your makeover person cancelled.’
This information elicited a chorus of shrieks.
‘No, no, that’s impossible!’ one of them cried out. ‘We have to get the shoot done today!’
‘We’ll never find anyone at such short notice!’ the other wailed.
Pamela left them to their hysterics and went back to her own desk. There, she stared at the article she was supposed to be proofreading, not even seeing it, and wallowed in her despair. So this was going to be her summer. Days of searching for typographical errors in boring articles. Dinners in the Cavendish Residence with Allison and Sherry. Followed by evenings in front of the TV with the other residents who had nothing else to do.
‘Pamela!’
Doreen was calling her back to the office.
‘We’ve just had a fabulous idea!’ Doreen announced.
‘Absolutely fabulous!’ Darlene echoed.
‘How would you like to be our makeover model?’ Doreen asked.
‘Me?’ Pamela was nonplussed. She’d seen examples of Gloss’s monthly makeovers in the magazine, with the ‘before’ and ‘after’ photos. They usually took some drab, childish-looking girl with a pale, clean face, limp hair and dowdy clothes. Then they put her in a modern dress, cut her hair, threw some make-up on her and in the ‘after’ photos, she looked … well, less dull.
‘I can’t believe we didn’t think of this before,’ Doreen crowed. ‘After all, this is for the readers’ issue. It makes perfect sense to use one of our teen interns as the model.’
Pamela didn’t think this was the time to confess she’d never been a big reader of Gloss. Anyway, she was more concerned about what they might do to her.
‘Wouldn’t Donna be perfect for a makeover?’
‘Who?’ Darlene asked.
Pamela wasn’t surprised that they didn’t recognize the name. Donna had pretty much remained in the background at Gloss.
‘Come on, Pamela, it would be fun!’ Doreen declared gaily. ‘And if you don’t like your new look, you can always change back.’
‘It’s just for the one issue,’ Darlene added. ‘And you get to keep the cosmetics and the clothes we use.’
That could be useful, Pamela thought. She had a pretty good idea she wouldn’t be crazy about the make-up or the clothes, but maybe she could sell them to someone at Cavendish and use the money for something else. And besides, this had to be more interesting than proofreading.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’m game.’
The two editors clapped their hands in glee. Moments later, they were all exiting the elevator on the thirty-first floor. A woman escorted them into a large room where huge lights had been set up.
‘This is where David will take the “before” photos,’ Doreen explained.
So she would have another crack at him. And if he was taking pictures of her, he couldn’t look away.
She wondered if she should try to look a little drab, to emphasize the difference in the before and after photos. ‘Maybe I should go wash my face,’ she suggested.
The two editors exchanged looks. ‘No, you’re fine just how you are,’ Darlene said.
David came into the room armed with cameras in both hands. ‘Hello, girls,’ he said, avoiding eye contact with Pamela. ‘Let’s get going.’
While Doreen stood back and gave commands, Darlene gently pushed Pamela into different positions while David snapped pictures. It was all pretty simple — she faced forward, she stood in profile, she sat on a stool. Each time Pamela tried to strike a model-like pose, but Darlene made her stay as stiff as a robot.
‘Don’t smile,’ Doreen ordered. ‘You’re not supposed to look too happy in the before shots.’
‘That should be enough,’ David said after shooting another dozen photos.
‘Great,’ Doreen replied. ‘Has Mr Anthony arrived?’
When David nodded in the affirmative, the editors led Pamela down the hall to a room that looked like a miniature beauty parlour, with a couple of sinks, free-standing hairdryers, a table covered with brushes, combs, rollers and bottles. Mr Anthony turned out to be a thin, serious man who examined Pamela’s hair in horror.
‘My dear, what have you been doing to yourself?’ he exclaimed.
Pamela told him she’d been doing her own hair since she was thirteen. ‘I couldn’t get it light enough with regular hair colour,’ she explained. ‘So I’ve been using this cream that’s made for women who have moustaches.’
The hairdresser moaned. ‘Do you have any idea the damage it’s done to your hair?’ He pulled the editors aside and they had a whispered conversation.
Then he returned.
‘You must put your faith in me,’ he instructed Pamela. ‘Do you understand? D
o not worry — I am a genius.’
She looked at him in alarm. But she knew her hair hadn’t been looking its best lately. The platinum colour had yellowed from the sun. Muddy dark roots were visible and she had a lot of split ends. So she said nothing as he pushed the chair back. Now her head was in the sink and she was staring at the ceiling. She could hear him, shaking bottles and pouring and mixing, and then she felt him applying some creamy stuff to her hair. It felt pretty good, like a massage, so she closed her eyes and relaxed.
And the chair was so comfortable … she found herself drifting in and out of a light sleep as he worked on her. Dimly she was aware of warm water, then more stuff being massaged into her hair.
‘This has to sit for a while,’ she heard him say. She was jerked awake when he pulled the chair into an upright position and went to work with a scissors.
‘Don’t cut too much!’ she said anxiously.
‘Trust me,’ was all he said.
‘Can I see the colour?’ she asked.
‘Later, later,’ he murmured.
Then he rolled her hair up, stuck her under a noisy dryer, and left the room.
Doreen and Darlene returned, this time accompanied by a pretty young woman wheeling a cart. Doreen spoke loudly, so Pamela could hear her from under the dryer.
‘This is Melanie. She’ll be doing your face.’ Melanie immediately began slathering her face, including her lips, with cold cream.
Doreen and Darlene hovered anxiously as Melanie worked. The cold cream was wiped off, and other stuff went on. Brushes were swept across her face, she was stroked with cotton balls and pads, pencils and wands. Liquids, creams and powders were applied as Melanie issued orders to Pamela.
‘Look up! Look down! Close your eyes. Open your eyes. Purse your lips. Smile. Stop smiling.’ And all the time, Doreen and Darlene made ‘ooh’ sounds, and used words like ‘beautiful’ and ‘wonderful’, and Pamela began to have visions of emerging from all this looking like Kim Novak.
Finally it was over. Melanie stepped back, and Darlene moved closer to gaze at Pamela with an awed expression, as if she was overwhelmed by the beauty she was seeing. Doreen produced a large hand-held mirror.
‘Take a look at yourself.’
Pamela smiled as she accepted the mirror. But as she looked at her reflection she could see the smile disappear.
She was no longer a Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield or Kim Novak blonde. No longer was her hair puffed around her face like a big platinum cloud.
She was now what people called ‘dirty blonde’. Her darker hair was cut in a small bubble with wispy bangs. And her make-up — what could possibly have taken so much time? Her face looked positively naked; she could barely see any make-up at all. OK, maybe a little beige around the eyes, and her lips were vaguely pink.
She should have known this was what they would do to her. She looked like a Gloss girl. Boring.
‘Of course, you’re not finished,’ Doreen said quickly. Pamela’s lack of enthusiasm must have been evident. ‘We have to get you dressed up. And wait till you see what you’re wearing. Straight from the samples closet!’
Darlene accompanied her into a dressing room, where her bright yellow sundress and high-heeled sandals were taken away. Then she was zipped into a straight-but-not-clingy navy-blue sleeveless sheath with a little white collar. To this was added white flats, white gloves and a little white bow clipped to her hair just above her ear. Pamela wanted to die.
‘Look at her, she’s in shock,’ Doreen exclaimed in delight.
Pamela was led to yet another room for the ‘after’ photos. Here the walls were covered with life-size background photos — of a classroom, a park, a window with frilly curtains. A real desk stood in front of the classroom photo, a bench by the park photo, a vanity table by the ‘window’. David Barnes was already there, and this time he actually looked at her, but when he spoke, it was only to the editors.
‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘You’ve done a great job.’
Pamela forced a smile and made one last attempt at wooing him.
‘You like my new look, David?’ she asked sweetly.
He held a camera in front of his face. ‘Mm.’ That was all she got from him, and he began shooting.
At one point David left the room to get another camera, and she spoke to the editors.
‘I don’t think he likes me very much.’
The women exchanged looks, and Doreen spoke. ‘Did you try to flirt with him, Pamela?’
‘Well, sure,’ Pamela replied. ‘Wouldn’t any girl? He’s very good-looking. I’m not in trouble, am I?’
Doreen hesitated. ‘Of course not. But the thing is, Pamela … he’s just not interested in women. Not that way.’
Pamela looked at her in bewilderment. Then the meaning of Doreen’s words dawned on her. ‘You mean, he’s a … a …
Doreen interrupted her. ‘We don’t really talk about it, Pamela.’
‘What a waste,’ Pamela murmured. At least this explained why her attempts at seduction had failed.
When Pamela returned to the editorial floor, it was quiet. The other interns had left, and only Caroline remained in her office. The woman looked up as Pamela passed by.
‘Don’t you look lovely!’ she exclaimed.
These people had no taste whatsoever, Pamela thought dismally. But she managed a ‘thank you’ before taking her handbag from her desk drawer and walking out.
She had no desire to return to the Cavendish, where the other interns would first be shocked by her appearance, and then would overwhelm her with compliments — they would love the fact that she looked like them now.
Instead she walked across the street and went into Charlie’s.
The tavern was busy, and her eyes swept the room, searching in vain for a place to sit. Then she spotted someone she’d seen here before.
Alex Parker sat alone in a booth, staring at what looked like a martini on the table in front of him. She’d only met the Gloss advertising manager once, when she’d been introduced along with all the other interns. He probably wouldn’t even recognize her now.
But suddenly he looked up, and their eyes met. She caught the hint of a smile on his face, so she made her way towards him. But when she paused at his table, she saw no recognition in his eyes.
‘I’m Pamela. I’m one of the interns at Gloss.’
He nodded. ‘I thought you looked familiar.’ There was a brief hesitation, and then he asked, ‘Would you like to join me?’
‘OK.’ She took the seat across from him.
‘What would you like to drink?’ Alex asked as a waiter approached. ‘A Coke?’
She laughed lightly, as if he’d just made a joke. ‘A martini. Extra dry, with a twist.’
His eyebrows went up, but he repeated her order to the waiter. ‘And another for me, please. Two olives.’
The waiter left, and Alex spoke in an undertone. ‘You are twenty-one, I presume.’
She batted her eyelashes. ‘I’ve got an ID that says I am.’
He laughed. ‘Well, I guess that’s good enough. No one can accuse me of corrupting a minor.’ He downed the rest of his martini, and as if on cue, the waiter reappeared with a replacement and her drink too.
‘Just put it on my tab,’ Alex murmured to the man.
‘Of course, Mr Parker,’ the waiter said, and left with the empty glass.
‘Thank you, Mr Parker,’ Pamela said.
‘Alex,’ he corrected her.
‘Alex,’ she repeated, and smiled.
They clinked their glasses silently, and they both took a sip.
‘The waiter knows your name,’ Pamela remarked. ‘You must come here often.’
‘Almost every day for the past few weeks,’ he said. ‘Ever since the wife and kids left for the summer. I hate going back to the empty apartment.’
‘Where did they go?’
‘Long Island. We rent a little cottage for the summer. It’s better for the kids, to be out of the city. Fresh
air, the sea …’
She supposed she should ask about his children — ages, names, that sort of thing — but she didn’t. ‘You must miss them.’
‘I go out there most weekends.’
He hadn’t really answered her. Did he not miss his family?
‘It gets lonely during the week though,’ he added.
She nodded. ‘You have to fend for yourself. Do you go out for your meals?’
‘Sometimes. But I hate to eat alone in restaurants. Mostly I throw a TV dinner in the oven. I have to say, I’m getting pretty tired of Salisbury steak and fried fish filets. Do you cook for yourself?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m living at the Cavendish Residence for Women, and there’s a dining hall.’
‘How’s the food there?’
‘It’s OK. Meat loaf and chicken pot pie.’ She sighed. ‘I haven’t had a really good meal in a long time.’
‘Neither have I,’ he said. There was a moment of silence, and then he said, ‘Would you like to have one tonight? We could go to a restaurant. My treat of course.’
She drew in her breath. ‘Yes. I’d like that.’
‘Any place in particular?’ he asked.
‘Sardi’s?’ she asked hopefully.
He smiled. ‘Why not?’
‘Rats,’ Sam muttered.
Allison looked around in alarm. ‘Where?’
‘All around us,’ he said sadly. ‘Look at them, Allison. It’s a rat race. And they’re all just doing what they think they’re supposed to do.’
She almost felt bad about dragging him uptown. But the evening before he’d broken a couple of strings on his guitar, and Allison had learned from Mr Connelly at Gloss that the best instrument-repair shop was on Lexington and 62nd. She’d given up her lunch hour to meet Sam there. The strings had been replaced on the spot, and now she was walking him to the subway station. Fervently she wished she could return to the Village with him.
‘It’s all about money,’ Sam went on. ‘Everyone’s trying to make a deal, or they’re looking to buy some worthless crap they don’t even need. The almighty buck, that’s all they care about. Like the guy in the repair shop. I can’t believe what he charged you for two lousy strings.’
