by Marilyn Kaye
A buzzer by the front door indicated three residences, with ‘Davison, third floor’ listed over the top button. When she pressed it, there was a noise that indicated the door had unlocked itself. Pushing it open, she climbed up two flights of carpeted stairs and rang the bell on the only door there.
It was opened by a stranger, a slightly harried-looking woman in a white apron. Sherry was confused.
‘Is this where Caroline Davison lives?’ she asked.
The woman nodded shortly and promptly disappeared into some other room. And Sherry entered one of the most unusual living rooms she’d ever seen. Walls were covered with framed art that looked like real paintings, not reproductions. Instead of the wall-to-wall shag carpeting that covered the floors of practically every living room she’d ever seen, there was an oriental-looking rug. Bookcases lined one wall, and shelves on another held objects that bore no resemblance to the painted plates and china figurines her mother collected. She wandered over there, and studied the brightly coloured bowls, the small statue that vaguely resembled a human being …
‘Hi, Sherry, thanks for coming.’ Caroline came into the room. ‘You look very nice. Did that come from the samples closet?’
Sherry nodded. ‘And I remembered to sign it out.’ Something occurred to her. ‘I’ll bet this dress won’t be featured in the magazine though. Right?’
Caroline looked at her with interest. ‘And why would that be?’
‘Because our average reader is between the ages of fourteen and seventeen,’ Sherry said. ‘And girls that age don’t wear black.’
Caroline nodded with approval. ‘Very good! You’re catching on, Sherry.’
‘My mother thinks a girl shouldn’t wear black until she’s twenty-one. Of course, that’s a Southern perspective.’
Caroline laughed. ‘True. Up here you’re more likely to be allowed to wear black at eighteen. You know, that would make an interesting article, the difference between the South and the North when it comes to fashion attitudes. What do you think?’
This was her opportunity to bring up what had happened earlier, and Sherry knew she had to take advantage of it.
‘I’d love to write about that,’ she said carefully. ‘But I don’t think that’s a possibility.’
‘What do you mean?’
She told Caroline about Mr Simpson’s response to the beauty pageant proposal. ‘I guess I should be pleased that he liked the idea. But he isn’t going to let me write it.’
She’d hoped Caroline would see the injustice in it, and maybe get angry. But the editor didn’t even look surprised.
‘Well …’ she said, and then turned to look at the buffet table. ‘I wonder if that vase of flowers would look better on an end table,’ she murmured. ‘Let’s see.’
Sherry followed her to the table. ‘Caroline … your position is higher than Mr Simpson’s, isn’t it?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ Caroline said, lifting the vase. ‘Managing editor is over features editor on the masthead.’
‘Then, you could tell him to let me write the article.’ Sherry blurted out. Even as the words left her mouth, she was shocked by how aggressive she sounded. She stepped back. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ Caroline said mildly. ‘It pleases me to know you want to write it.’
It dawned on her how much she really did. ‘You’ll speak to him?’
Caroline gave her a slight, sad smile, and shook her head. ‘In this business, Sherry, you have to choose your battles carefully.’
Sherry looked at her in bewilderment. She had no idea what the editor meant, and she wasn’t going to get any explanation now. The woman in the white apron re-entered the living room.
‘Shall we put everything out on the table now, Miss Davison?’
Caroline looked at her watch. ‘Yes, that’s a good idea.’
Another woman in a white apron appeared carrying a tray of tiny sandwiches. Caroline beckoned to Sherry, and she followed the editor into the small kitchen, where elaborately decorated trays of canapés, bowls of nuts and olives and plates of tiny pastries covered every surface.
Sherry surveyed the scene in sheer amazement. ‘How did you get all this done?’ A party like this would have kept her mother in the kitchen for a week.
Caroline laughed. ‘I didn’t. It’s all from the caterers.’
Then two men arrived with boxes. Moments later, a sideboard had been set up with various kinds of glasses and bottles labelled vodka, gin and other assorted spirits. Bartenders, Caroline told her, and once again Sherry thought of parties at home, where her father spent the entire evening mixing drinks for the guests.
The doorbell rang. Caroline was with the caterers, placing small white plates on the table, and she turned to Sherry.
‘Could you get that?’
Sherry opened the door to a well-dressed woman and a man in a dark suit. ‘Good evening, do come in,’ she said. ‘May I take your hat?’ she asked the man.
Caroline joined them. ‘Very good, Sherry!’ she exclaimed with a broad smile. ‘Joan, Richard …’ the three exchanged air kisses, and she turned to Sherry. ‘This is Sherry Forrester, one of our talented Gloss interns.’ She went on to introduce the couple to Sherry — Joan turned out to be a buyer for Bonwit Teller, one of the most chic New York stores for women, while the man was the director of an advertising agency. Sherry was only able to say a quick ‘pleased to meet you’ before the doorbell rang again.
Within minutes she’d opened the door at least a dozen times, and suddenly the room was filled with elegantly dressed men and women, cocktails in hand. She recognized a few of the beauty and fashion editors from Gloss — but as for the others, even though Caroline made every effort to introduce them, the names, faces and titles soon became a blur. She saw two incredibly beautiful and very thin women whom she recognized from their photos modelling the latest styles in Gloss and other magazines. Even Miss Margo Meredith, the executive editor of Gloss, was there.
The beauty editor was standing by Sherry as Ms Meredith passed. ‘Isn’t she something?’ Doreen murmured. ‘Do you have any idea how hard it is for a woman to get to a position like that?’
‘She’s so beautiful,’ Sherry said. ‘Didn’t she ever want to marry and have a family?’
‘She tried,’ Doreen told her. ‘The marriage part, at least. She’s had three husbands. None of them could deal with having a wife who was so successful.’
Sherry could imagine how hard it would be for a man. And she had to wonder if Ms Meredith’s career had really made up for the lack of a husband.
All the people at the party seemed to know each other, and Sherry didn’t even try to join any of their conversations. She was perfectly happy being an observer of a totally new scene, a party where people weren’t in couples, where they didn’t automatically divide themselves by gender. At the adult parties she’d witnessed back home, women huddled together discussing recipes and children while the men talked about sports. It never changed.
As she moved through the room, Sherry picked up fragments of conversation.
‘… so I’m working on this deal which could boost circulation through the roof …’
‘… have you seen the new Dior collection? I think it could have some major influence on ready-to-wear …’
‘… I’m taking the morning flight to LA for the photo shoot …’
She was kept busy, helping the caterers replenish the trays, taking empty glasses back to the kitchen. But every now and then Caroline would motion to her, and introduce her to someone. She even made sure Sherry met the guest of honour, the editor from Paris.
Her name was Anne-Cecile, and she looked just like Sherry imagined a French fashion editor would look — incredibly chic and polished, immaculate make-up, not a hair out of place. Sherry had done pretty well in her French courses back at school, and she couldn’t resist an opportunity to try out the language.
‘Bonjour, madame. Comment allez-vous?’
Unfortu
nately those courses hadn’t prepared her for the torrent of French that the woman uttered in response.
Caroline burst out laughing. ‘Serves you right for showing off, Sherry!’
Sherry flushed. Showing off — one of the worst sins a well-brought-up Southern girl could commit. But it didn’t seem to matter here. Caroline’s laugh was friendly, the French editor smiled warmly. One more rule of social behaviour she could forget — at least while she was in New York.
The editor spoke English fluently, with a charming accent. ‘And what do you do, Sherry?’
‘I’m an intern at Gloss.’
‘And a very talented writer,’ Caroline added.
‘Yes? You are writing articles already?’
Sherry could feel Caroline’s eyes on her. ‘I’d like to, some day.’
Caroline spoke up. ‘Sherry proposed an article to our features editor today. And he liked it. Unfortunately he’s assigning someone else to write it.’
‘Probably because I’m just an intern,’ Sherry said. ‘Not really on the staff.’
Anne-Cecile looked thoughtful. ‘That editor — he is a man?’
‘Yes,’ Caroline said.
‘And he has assigned the story to … ?’
Caroline smiled thinly. ‘A man.’
Anne-Cecile offered Sherry a sad smile. ‘Welcome to our world, my dear.’
‘I assume it’s the same in France,’ Caroline said.
‘It’s a man’s world,’ the French woman said. ‘I must say though, you appear to be more progressive here in the United States.’ She glanced in the direction of Ms Meredith. ‘It’s quite impressive that a woman holds the position of executive editor.’
Caroline sighed. ‘But you can’t imagine the rumours that went around when she was appointed. Some people actually thought she was having an affair with Mr Hartnell himself. They couldn’t accept the idea that a woman could make it to the top on her own merits.’
The two women exchanged knowing looks. Sherry had an urge to change the subject.
‘Um, do you live in Paris?’ she asked Anne-Cecile. When the woman nodded in the affirmative, she added, I’ve heard it’s the most beautiful city in the world.’
‘And the most romantic,’ Caroline added.
Sherry had heard that too. ‘My boyfriend and I, we talked about having a honeymoon in Paris.’
‘Then perhaps I shall see you there soon,’ Anne-Cecile said.
Sherry shook her head. ‘Actually, he’s my ex-boyfriend now.’
The French editor shrugged. ‘Well, if you stay in this business, you will certainly come to Paris some day. It is the centre of the fashion industry, you know.’ She was distracted by the sight of someone she knew, and wandered off with a gracious wave.
Sherry turned to Caroline. ‘What did she mean, about it being a man’s world?’
Caroline sighed. ‘Well, it’s not easy for a woman to make her way in this industry. We have to struggle.’
‘Is it worth it?’ Sherry asked. And once again she was startled by her own impulsive question. What was happening to her?
But Caroline didn’t appear shocked. ‘It depends on how much you want it,’ she said lightly. And she moved away to bid goodbye to some guests who were leaving.
Later, Caroline saw Sherry into a taxi. ‘Thanks for all your help, Sherry.’
‘Thank you,’ Sherry said automatically. ‘It’s been a … a very interesting evening.’
Caroline smiled. ‘You’re getting hit with a lot of new ideas, aren’t you?’
Sherry nodded. ‘You folks talk about a lot of things I’ve never thought about before.’
‘Well, don’t stay awake thinking about them tonight. Go home, get a good night’s sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.’
But it wasn’t easy, not thinking. True, she’d honestly thought that Mr Simpson’s refusal to consider her as a writer had to do with the fact that she was a lowly intern, not because she was female. But she wasn’t as naive as Caroline thought she was. Of course it was a man’s world — everyone knew that. And even though she’d never before known women who tried to make it in that world, she could imagine what a struggle it was for them.
Could she struggle like that? Would she even want to? How much easier it was just to leave that to the men, and put your energies into making a nice home and raising children. But bits and pieces of the evening kept flashing across her mind. People talking about their work, their business travels, plans for the future … there was an excitement about it all. She could practically see the exclamation points that followed some comments.
It was a lot to take in, and she was too, too … something to do it now. What was she feeling? Not tired. If she had drunk any of those cocktails, she’d say she was a little tipsy, but she hadn’t even taken a sip. As the taxi pulled up in front of the residence, she hoped she would find a bridge game going on in someone’s room. Something to take her mind off the evening.
She went directly to her own room first, to change into some dungarees and put the black dress on a hanger. Donna wasn’t there — probably in the TV lounge, she thought. She noticed that there was a typed sheet of paper lying on the desk, and she couldn’t resist taking a peek to see what Donna had finally composed.
She frowned as she read the brief statement. The content wasn’t bad. Donna had written about her interest in style, in putting clothes and accessories together to create a complete look.
What shocked Sherry was the carelessness, the typos. Words were misspelled, punctuation was practically non-existent, sentences were in fragments, and half the time she had to read a sentence over and over before it made sense.
She wasn’t just shocked, she was bewildered. If this was how Donna wrote, how on earth did she get into the Gloss programme? Surely her application for the internship hadn’t been this sloppy, this badly written.
She could just imagine Caroline’s reaction to this, and she shuddered. Maybe Donna was just a terrible typist. Up till now Sherry had been feeling sorry for her roommate’s assignment at Gloss, being stuck filing. Now she thought maybe it was for the best.
But this … this could send her home. For a moment she considered going down to the lounge to find her and tell her this wouldn’t be acceptable to the managing editor. Only if Donna really couldn’t type, what good would that do?
She sat down at the desk and put a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter. She concentrated on making some sense of Donna’s blurb and retyped it neatly. Then she placed it on top of Donna’s original version.
At least this had taken her mind off the events of the evening. And now she could go off in search of a bridge game, to keep her buzzing thoughts at bay.
9 August, 1962
Donna didn’t understand how Ron could live like this. Her own trailer home was shabby, but at least she managed to keep it reasonably clean and neat. Of course it wasn’t just his fault that the apartment was a mess. With two other guys living there — one of whom slept on the couch — plus an assortment of women who came and went, none of whom showed any interest in housekeeping, what could she expect?
She made some futile attempts to restore a little order to the living room. She picked up the empty beer cans and pizza cartons and brought them into the kitchen. But the garbage bin was already overflowing, so all she could do was lay the additional trash on the floor next to it.
At least she and Ron had the place to themselves for the moment. As soon as he got out of the shower, they needed to talk.
Back in the living room, she settled herself on the grubby couch and tried not to think about what might have caused some of the nasty stains on it. She heard the shower water stop, and a couple of minutes later Ron returned.
He went directly into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. ‘Want a beer?’ he called.
Almost three months together, and he still couldn’t remember that she hated beer. ‘No, thanks.’
‘Where’s the damned church key?’ he barked.
She spotted it among the junk strewn over the coffee table. ‘In here.’
He returned, opened his beer and flopped into a chair. She waited until he’d taken a big gulp. She’d had a whole speech prepared to lead up to her news, but at the last minute she just blurted it out.
‘I’m pregnant.’
She watched him carefully, trying to read his expression. It told her nothing.
‘You sure? Maybe you’re just, you know, late.’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve been to a doctor. He says I’m six weeks along.’
He took another swig of his beer, and then set it down on the coffee table. ‘Shit.’
She flinched. It wasn’t as if she expected him to be happy, but the word was like a slap in the face.
He said it again. ‘Shit. I was careful.’
He sounded almost defensive, like it was all her fault. She didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Those things can break.’
He gave in. ‘Yeah.’
They sat in silence for a minute. ‘You tell anyone? Your mother?’
She shook her head.
‘Your father?’
‘Ron, I haven’t seen or talked to my father since he took the kids away.’
‘Well, at least no one’s going to be coming after me with a shotgun,’ he muttered.
‘No.’
‘He’s still sending you money, right?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Yes. But it’s not enough for a baby too.’ She hesitated. ‘Maybe if I told him …’
Ron shook his head and picked up his beer. He drank silently.
And then the room wasn’t so quiet any more. Ron’s two roommates, one accompanied by a girl she’d never seen before, charged in. They were all laughing in a way that told Donna they’d spent some time in a bar before coming home.
‘Too damned quiet in here,’ one of the guys barked, and turned on a radio. The room filled with the sound of the Supremes wailing ‘Baby Love’. Donna stood up.
‘I have to go,’ she said.
