Still, as Helen Frick’s private secretary, she would make far more money than a vegetable cook might. She had to keep her eye on her long-term plan of getting out of the city, and this would be a useful platform from which to do it. With the salary, she could afford to buy a couple more dresses to replace the ones she’d left behind at the apartment. She’d make herself presentable and then abscond as soon as she could for Hollywood. Only once she was in the hands of Mr. Broderick and had dazzled him with her abilities would she’d be truly safe. But for now, she’d have to figure out how to fit into this strange household.
A blast of sound made her drop her spoon into her stew, splattering gravy over the lace inset of her dress. The kitchen maid sitting next to her laughed and offered up her napkin. “That’s our dreamy Mr. Graham on the organ. He plays every day for Mr. Frick. After a while you won’t even notice the music anymore.”
What rolled through the room was not music, to Lillian. It was a wall of sound, as heavy as a giant tsunami, emanating from that massive organ in the front hall. How could anyone bear it? The music stopped all conversation, and one by one the employees rose and went back to their duties.
Miss Winnie had told her that Miss Helen would not expect her in her sitting room until the next morning, and to take the day to settle in. Lillian hid in the safety of her bedroom, staring out the window of the room, wondering what her mother would think of her now. She was respectable, a working girl. Would Kitty be disappointed that she was no longer the shining Angelica? Or would she be thrilled that Lillian was putting all of Kitty’s lessons in the method and madness of the upper classes to use, especially if it ultimately led to a shot at a film career?
It was a means to an end.
She skipped the staff supper, her appetite diminished by her nerves, but around midnight her stomach rumbled and she decided to see if she could find a piece of bread and cheese to tide her over until morning. The house was quiet and dark, but in the basement a dim light from the kitchen shone like a beacon. The night watchman sat at the staff table, a newspaper spread out in front of him. He stood and greeted her, saying that he was finishing up his break.
She pulled her wrap tightly around her. She hadn’t expected anyone to be up at this hour. But of course, with the treasures inside the house, a night watchman was required. After he was gone, she picked up the newspaper he’d left behind.
The murder wasn’t mentioned on the first page. Nor the second. Not until page eleven, along with the Broadway play listings, did she spot a headline: Seeking Watkins Witness. The article only contained two paragraphs, but it still sent chills through her. The artist model known as Angelica is being sought by the District Attorney to give information regarding the murder of Mrs. Eileen Watkins by her husband, Mr. Walter Watkins. Angelica lived at the New York home of Mr. and Mrs. Watkins on West Sixty-Fifth Street, according to investigators.
The way they worded it, it sounded as if she lived with them. She was a tenant in the building, for goodness’ sake. Still, page eleven was better than the front page, and the fact that there was no photograph or illustration was even better. The nonsense was dying down, would die down.
As long as she could hide out in the Frick mansion, she’d be safe.
Chapter Five
1966
Upstairs in her makeshift dressing room, Veronica dumped the contents of her purse out on the bureau, grabbed some tissues, and wiped at her face, the eyeliner leaving behind bruise-like smudges. She was out of her element in this grand house, with models and a crew who were experienced and savvy, and hoped she wouldn’t be fired before they gave her a chance to try again and show that she could pose and preen like the others. Prove that she wasn’t a freak, which was exactly what she looked like right now. An overly lacquered freak with a mushroom on her head.
Sabrina had warned her that the fashion industry was a fickle one. One day you were considered a hot commodity; the next, you were worse than nobody. Barnaby had probably forgotten all about how she’d impressed him at her go-see, why she was hired in the first place. But she had to move beyond her fears and worries about what everyone was thinking or saying about her. It was her job to fold herself into whatever the shoot required, and she’d do so. As soon as she fixed her face.
“Are you all right?”
Tangerine peeked her head in the door.
Veronica nodded, moved by the sympathetic look on Tangerine’s face. She had one friend here, at least.
Tangerine led Veronica into the bathroom and stood next to her in front of the mirror. “Don’t let Barnaby push you around. He’s all bark, I promise.”
“I’m embarrassed,” admitted Veronica. “This is my first really big shoot. I mean, it’s Vogue.”
“Good for you, then. It took me three years to make it to this level. Don’t beat yourself up.”
“Thanks.” Veronica picked up a thick makeup brush then paused, nervous that she’d do something wrong again.
Tangerine took it from her. “Let me.”
With a quiet assurance, Tangerine sat Veronica on the edge of the claw-footed bathtub and began putting Veronica’s face back together. Her hair smelled like lavender, and Veronica relaxed, relieved that someone else was in charge. She glanced in the mirror every so often, noting the techniques Tangerine used for future shoots.
“Look down at the floor,” instructed Tangerine, as she drew on a thin line of black eyeliner.
“Your shoes are smashing,” said Veronica. In sharp contrast to her own cheap black pumps, Tangerine wore bright pink heels with a delicate pearl accent on the toe.
“Dior. Nice, right?” She stepped back and studied her work, tapping one toe. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Sure.”
“I stole them after a photo shoot for the House of Dior’s 1965 line.”
“What?”
“Everyone does it. I mean, look at all of the clothes and things they’re tossing around during the shoots. They never keep track, and it’s a way to earn a little pocket money on the side. Either you keep it for yourself, or sell it at a consignment shop. Super easy. We only have a limited shelf life as models, so we might as well make the best of it. Especially with the beastly way they treat us half the time.”
Veronica didn’t think she’d have the nerve to take anything. But after being on the receiving end of Barnaby’s snark, she understood the impulse.
She looked at herself in the mirror. While she still wore eyeliner and false eyelashes, her mouth and cheeks were more subdued. “It’s perfect.”
“The focus is where it should be, on your eyes,” said Tangerine. “God, I love your hair so much. Did Vidal do it?”
Veronica put a hand to her hair. Why admit it was all a mistake? “Yes.”
She was learning.
“You’re so good at this, Tangerine.” Veronica wasn’t ready to relinquish the thin thread of kindness that had come her way just yet. “How did you figure it all out?”
“My older sister. She’s way prettier than I am, but went off and got married instead of working. She taught me the tricks of a perfect cat-eye from an early age. You just needed a sister.”
“I have a sister. A twin.”
“How fabulous. They should do a shoot with the two of you! Now, that would make waves.”
Veronica nodded as Tangerine took a can of hair spray and molded her hair into a shellacked helmet. Polly would never be in a photo shoot. They might be twins, but no one had ever viewed them as a matched set, even when they were both young children. While Veronica had emerged into the world unscathed, Polly had been deprived of oxygen for too long. Although she understood what was said and communicated with a series of gestures and sounds, she didn’t speak. Only Veronica and their parents understood her. To the outside world, she was something to be stared at, a girl with an odd, twitchy walk and a mouth that hung open. Big brown eyes that avoided one’s gaze.