Crimson (22 page)

“Dyed hair is unladylike.” Miranda was defiant.

“Gran’s fifty-eight years old, hasn’t got a single grey hair, and is as blonde as Marilyn Monroe. Gran goes to John French.” Clare pushed open the door.

“So this is where everyone is. What are you talking about?” “Love.” Annabel stretched happily.

“Love that makes you as if you’re high in the clouds, with masses of energy no need for sleep.” Remembering, Buzz nodded.

“No wonder women long for it. Gives ‘em. something exciting to think about while they’re doing the dull things that women do which is where your gran comes in.”

“Gran” Annabel exclaimed through a mouthful of buttered toast.

“How?” I When a woman reads about some xciting man in a novel, she forgets she ain’t got a man, or she ain’t got the right sort of man. She falls a little bit in love with the hero, and although he don’t exist, her feelings about him exist, all right. She really feels a bit excited.”

“That’s the whole point of escapist literature,” Clare said tartly.

“You can pretend you’re really living it.” Buzz nodded again.

“Some women get hooked, like a drug, on romance and they’d rather have it out of a book than not at all … the sort of woman that feels hopeful before a party, wonders if her Prince Charming will appear, is disappointed when he don’t, and goes home feeling a failure.”

“I don’t want to marry Prince Charming,” Clare said firmly.

“Just an honest … trustworthy … supportive … sensitive … man.”

“That doesn’t sound very exciting.” Annabel licked her buttery fingers.

“I want one that’s strong … fascinating … dynamic and a bit mysterious.”

“I want a man of action,” Miranda said.

” A romantic looking leader of men, like Rupert of the Rhine.”

“Titled? Rich? Powerful?” Buzz queried.

“Good-looking, tall, blue-eyed?” “Blue eyes aren’t absolutely necessary, “Annabel conceded.

Buzz said sourly, “And this almost perfect man that you all want if he exists what exactly are you each offering him? Similar perfection?”

‘oh Buzz, we were having a nice sexy talk and you’ve turned it into a lecture again.” Annabel yawned.

“I’m trying to knock a bit of sense into your head before exciting Mr. Heartbreaker Harry wakes up.” Buzz reached for the tray.

“There ain’t no perfect men, and exciting men make women miserable.” Again she thought of Billy.

MONDAY, 21 APRIL 1958

In spite of the air freshener, the windowless greenroom of the New York TV news station still smelled of dead cigarettes and stale coffee.

A girl dressed casually with an oversized man’s shirt over her skirt opened the door and beckoned to Elinor, who stood up feeling terrified but looking calm and self possessed She wore a Christian Dior apricot silk dress and duster coat, suitable for any formal day or evening occasion that didn’t call for an ankle-length dress. Her blonde hair was in a chignon. Careful dieting had kept her weight what it had been when she was seventeen; neat cosmetic surgery around her eyelids and chin had left only a few faint lines at the sides of her mouth to indicate her age.

“Good luck,” whispered the publisher’s press agent.

“Knock ‘em dead,” encouraged Annabel, who wore heavy make-up and a silver, sleeveless sheath from Bazaar.

In the studio, the charismatic fairhaired young interviewer introduced Elinor as this year’s winner of the International Romance Writers Award and then, predictably, asked the secret of her success.

Elinor beamed.

“The secret of writing good romantic fiction is to feel romantic, look romantic, and be romantic.” “Some people describe your books as trash. What do you feel about th at?”

The publisher’s press agent had warned Elinor that Scott Svenson would listen to her every word, remember her 18o ovary word and not hesitate to use it against her; he never Vve anyone an easy ride, but he was the station’s best interviewer. Elinor continued to beam.

“Millions of my readers wouldn’t agree. Today’s classics were sometimes described in the past as trash Charles Dickens’s books were serialized in popular magazines, and Thomas Hardy’s work was called pulp fiction. Even Shakespeare a very commercial writer was accused by his contemporaries of writing potboilers.”

“And what is your formula for a potboiler?” “The ingredients of a good novel are as basic and simple as the ingredients of a souft” Elinor said with a smile.

“Good characterization, a believable, well-constructed plot, detailed research, and dialogue that’s easy to read. I keep to the point, write short paragraphs, ration my adjectives, and try never to use superfluous words.”

“Your sex scenes have been described as “limp”. Would you agree?”

“My books contain love scenes, but never a sex scene. I see no need to follow my heroines to the marriage bed: we all know what happens there.”

“You have been accused of lack of realism in this respect.”

“Realism is the last thing my readers want: they get enough of that at home. My books provide a holiday from reality… She was a tough old bird, Scott thought. How could he shake that smile? He tried again.

“Although you live in a world of romance, you have never remarried. Why is there no man in your life?” Elinor still smiled.

“There will be a man in my life when I choose to have a man in my life,” she said, “just as the heroine of my new novel, Heartbreak in Jamaica…” After all, the point of being on this show was to publicize her book.

Annabel and her grandmother came out of the greenroom just as the interviewer was coming through the stage door.

Scott stopped.

“Hi.” He threw them the careless, boyish gtnile that made thousands of women stop their husband from switching channels.

“I’d like to say how great you were, Miss Dove,” Scott said respectfully.

“Is this your daughter?” Maybe he was piling it on too thick? “I wondered if … The Plaza’s just around the corner, if you’d care for a drink?”

“Thank you, but we are tired after our trip.” Elinor swept out. She had felt under slight but unyielding pressure during the entire interview.

Annabel lingered, unwilling to be dragged to bed on her first night in New York.

“Why don’t you come to our suite for a drink?” she suggested. They were, in fact, staying at the Plaza.

By the time they reached her hotel suite, Elinor had heard that she possessed a natural screen presence, although Scott would like to suggest one or two little professional tricks. He added, “As a matter of fact, I could tell you were from the Midwest. It wasn’t only your accent, it was your forthright, no-nonsense attitude.” Elinor gave a genuine smile.

“I could tell straight away that you were. I knew I couldn’t pull the wool over your eyes., By the time the champagne bottle was empty, Elinor had thoroughly interviewed Scott, to his amusement.

Scott came from Cleveland, Ohio, where he’d started to write for his high-school paper in his senior year, then studied communications at college. He worked as a junior assistant on a local Cleveland paper no, unfortunately, not the Plain Dealer and eventually slid into the foreign editor’s office as a freelance researcher. At that point, a locally owned and operated TV station wanted a cheap, fast, non complaining researcher-writer, and as the job paid twice as much as the newspaper, Scott took it. Gradually he was allowed to cover minor stories.

tt did not mention that his boyish good looks and smile had earned him the malicious nickname of tty Boy’. He had been lucky that he first appeared on the box when stations were out to woo the youth audience and all newscasters over the age of thirty-five were secretly having their eye bags removed. With just enough training and experience, Scott had turned up at the right time, but not quite in the right place. A year later, he applied for the job of news reporter on a local TV station in New York City. Once hired, he surprised the director of news by his hard nosed carefully researched stories and hard-hitting interviews: recently he had been allowed to appear as a relief newscaster and interviewer.

By midnight, Elinor was asleep in her bed, but Scott and Annabel having promised not to return too late were drinking more champagne at ‘21’.

An hour later, they creaked around Central Park in one of the romantic horse-drawn black cabs that wait dolefully outside the Plaza. Scott gently kissed Annabel’s nose and tried to think’ of ways to keep her in New York.

Then the obvious idea hit him.

“Why don’t you try model fine he murmured in her ear.

“I can fix you an interview with the best agent in town.”

“All the girls I know want to be air hostesses or models,” Annabel said.

“But I’m not sure Gran would let me.”

“Then don’t ask her.” On the following morning, Annabel sat opposite a well groomed blonde, aged forty plus, in a beige gabardine suit. The wall behind her desk was covered by citations. Scott had briefed her on Bates Model Agency run by a husband-and-wife team, Moses and Jenny Bates. Ten years before, they had borrowed a thousand dollars to set

up their company; within three years, they had a stable of thirty-nine models and total billings of three hundred thousand dollars. Mrs. Bates chose and supervised the models; her husband was responsible for their bookings. They discovered that marketing the most beautiful women in the world was not very difficult, but finding them was a problem.

Each year, the Bateses saw and rejected about five thousand applicants; they held talent contests all over America and also overseas for blonde models were the most popular, and the best were to be found in Germany and Scandinavia. The cosmetics industry was especially willing to -pay very high fees for an exquisite new face; while complaining about the Bateses” high charges, cosmetics companies continued to pay them because there was no cheaper way to find girls of the high standard of beauty, charm, grooming, and professional behaviour punctuality, patience, and amiability so carefully set by the Bateses.

“Don’t pluck her eyebrows yet, just tidy them up we’ll see how they photograph,” ordered Mrs. Bates. She tapped her pencil against her teeth and scrutinized Annabel’s face once more.

“Go and wash your face in the dressing room. I need to see you without make-up.” When Annabel returned, Mrs. Bates squinted at her, then nodded briefly.

“We’ll fix a few test shots. Janey here win arrange them for this afternoon.” When she saw Annabel’s test shots, Mrs. Bates smiled and called her for a second interview.

Jenny Bates leaned forward across her white desk.

“Don’t think a model’s job is easy or glamorous. Less than one per cent of beginner models are immediately successful, and When they are, it’s rarely because of their beauty but because for some odd reason they catch the eye of an advertising agency as being “different” and “right for now”.” As with newscasters, a girl who was the toast of the for one period would automatically not look for the next. -“And if she’s to stand out from the rest,” Mrs. Bates added, “a girl needs some extra, unique quality that the other models don’t possess.” The model’s face also needed enough-sensual appeal to attract a man, but not so much -that it would make a woman feel threatened. Have you heard of Suzy Parker?” Mrs. Bates asked.

Annabel nodded. Who had not? Redheaded Suzy Parker “and her brunette sister, Dorian Leigh, had been the top models of the fifties: they both possessed classic beauty, an exquisite sophistication, and dazzling ‘glamour” the cosmetics industry’s euphemism for sex appeal. Now they were past their professional peak; in a blaze of publicity, Dorian ‘had opened a model agency in Paris and Suzy had signed a film contract. The top seats were vacant.

Jenny Bates, looking over the flowers on her desk, wondered whether Annabel might fill that vacancy. She had beauty, feminine charm, and that unmistakable, uncopyable old-money look; her sleepy aquamarine eyes were most unusual, as was the large mouth that should have looked too big for her tiny face but didn’t. While kitten faces were currently fashionable Leslie Caron, Audrey Hepburn, Brigitte Bardot, Annabel’s face was more like that of a wild mountain cat.

“Stand ‘up once more, and walk to the door, please,” ordered Mrs. Bates. She watched Annabel closely. This girl was not glamorous, groomed, or sophisticated; she didn’t even shave her legs. She must be tidied up immediately, but without losing that just-tumbled-out-of-bed took.

And then she might prove right for Avanti. Avand was looking for a face to work exclusively for them; they were also willing to pay the face to do nothing when they didn’t need her, rather than be used by a

rival. Avanti had asked for a classic Scandinavian blonde because all cosmetics companies believed that a blonde could sell anything to anyone. Annabel was not such a blonde, but golden highlights would probably do the trick.

Avanti had pulled itself into a position where it almost rivalled Revlon: they hoped that their next ambitious promotion would rival Revlon’s “Fire and Ice” campaign of 1952, regarded by the trade as unbeatable. Featuring Dorian Leigh in a tight-fitting sheath of silver sequins and a flowing crimson cape, it had combined elegance, class, and sensuality; it suggested that beneath the ordinary woman lay another woman a smouldering temptress.

Avanti’s shorthand specification for the girl they were seeking to rival the Fire and Ice girl was ‘a class act and a tiger in the sack’. The creative director had specified: ‘young but not too young, a graceful and sophisticated international woman’, lively but not noisy, glamorous but approachable, sporty but not sweaty, and equally at home in town and country.

And the final requisite would be no problem, for Annabel clearly came from a respectable background: the morality clause included in her contract would stipulate that, should she be or have been involved in a scandal, which might adversely affect the Avanti promotion, the contract would immediately be terminated.

Annabel had better spend tomorrow at the hairdresser, Mrs. Bates decided, first for highlights, then to try different hairstyles. For her interviews, Annabel would need more sophisticated clothes than this butter-coloured shirt waister After the hairdresser, she’d better take her to Bergdorf.