The four of them had lived quite happily in a row house in the London district of Notting Hill. When Veronica’s father decided to step away from the pawnshop he’d founded with his brother and become a driver of a black cab instead, nine-year-old Veronica had been his study partner for the Knowledge, the training course required to earn a license. Famous for its difficulty, passing the Knowledge involved memorizing 320 routes through London, including places of interest along the way. A cabbie had to know the shortest route between any two points, as well as side streets, cross junctions, and traffic signals passed. Veronica loved poring over the map of London together, a sprawl of roads bisected by the snakelike River Thames. She would shout out the pickup spot and destination, gleefully point out his mistakes, and after he’d finally passed the last of the twelve exams that comprised the Knowledge, the family had gone out to dinner in a fancy restaurant with cloth napkins to celebrate. He’d made a toast to Veronica, praising her innate ability to remember the names of the smallest London alleyways, adding that he couldn’t have done it without her by his side.
Seven years later, Veronica had come out of the front door on her way to school to find her father’s taxicab idling in the driveway. He’d worked the night shift, and at first she thought he’d fallen asleep. She knocked on the window, and when he didn’t respond, she yanked open the door with a hearty hello. He remained still and silent, his lifeless hands clasped in his lap, as if lost in prayer.
The rest of the morning was a blur of images: an ambulance slicing down their street; the sickly lack of color in her mum’s face; Polly standing behind her, one fist pressed to her mouth. A heart attack, the doctor said.
Without him, Veronica’s mum lost both her husband and his steady income. She took a job working for a solicitor on Portobello Road and made it clear to Veronica that her dream of studying history at university was no longer an option, even if Trish didn’t say so out loud. Veronica passed her O levels and left school, putting in long hours at her uncle Donny’s shop. Unfortunately, Veronica’s and Trish’s measly wages combined were not enough to pay for someone to watch over Polly while they were both working and still cover the household expenses. While Polly had achieved some degree of independence, she was prone to seizures and simply couldn’t be left unattended.
Polly’s things were packed up, and the three of them drove to Kent House, a Victorian mansion that had been converted into a group home. It had been a dull, wet day, and the series of gables that spiked out from the slate rooftop lent the place an ominous air. Veronica was barely able to hide her panic that this was where her sister would be living from now on. “She’ll make all kinds of friends here,” Trish said, patting her on the arm.
They unpacked Polly’s trunk, arranging family photos along the windowsill, and kissed her goodbye. Polly stood in the doorway of her new room, one hand clutching the doorframe, and offered up a brave smile when Veronica turned around one last time to wave. Her heart had ripped apart in that instant. She’d heard the phrase before, but now understood it viscerally: her chest ached as if the membranes and chambers of that delicate organ had been cleaved open. While the loss of her father had been sudden and wretched, it was ultimately a matter of coming to terms with something that couldn’t be undone. The loss of Polly was worse, in some ways. If Veronica had a decent job, they could bring her home, yet she was utterly unqualified for anything that paid well. She even considered getting a taxicab license and following in her father’s footsteps, but dropped the idea after learning that only men were allowed to sit for the exams.
Veronica visited Kent House once a week, and watched helplessly as her sister declined. When they worked on a puzzle together in the recreation room, Polly’s mischievous glee at finding the piece they’d both been searching for was replaced with an unsteady shrug. Meanwhile, at home, Trish burbled over dinner about the idiosyncrasies of her new boss, of how demanding he was known to be and how pleased he was with her work ethic. Once, Veronica made a snide comment about how Trish had simply replaced one caretaking job with another, but this one for a stranger, and Trish erupted. “Your hourly wage at the pawnshop is nothing to brag about. It won’t do any good having Polly home if we’re all hungry, now will it?”
The hurt behind Trish’s eyes had revealed the true cost of sending her daughter away. A decision that she’d tried to paint as rosily as possible in order to execute it. Right then, Veronica had vowed to do everything she could to get Polly out, and at her next visit, she promised her sister that she’d find a way to bring her home. Then Sabrina had “discovered” Veronica at the pawnshop, and now here she was in New York City with the chance at hand, as long as she didn’t make a mess of it.
Back downstairs at the Frick Collection, the stylist approved Veronica’s revarnished face with a nod and put her in a crepe Yves Saint Laurent jumpsuit with flared trousers. Barnaby had the girls mimic some of the poses in the wall panels before deciding the room wouldn’t work at all, so they all tromped over to the library, where a book titled The Lives of the Queens of Scotland, bound in handsome maroon leather, was handed to Veronica. She was tempted to leaf through it, but instead took up a position next to the fireplace and tucked it under one arm, as directed. This seemed to please Barnaby, although Veronica caught the Frick archivist hovering in the doorway to the hallway looking concerned, only disappearing after she placed the book back into the bookshelf and everyone broke for lunch.
Down in the basement, the models were directed to a large room with several tables. A long buffet along one wall was set with sandwiches, fruit, and sodas. Starving, Veronica headed right to the food, but as she was reaching for one of the sandwiches, Tangerine grabbed her arm.
“In America, the photographer goes first.”
“Barnaby gets to eat first?” Veronica asked.
Tangerine nodded. “Not sure why, that’s just the way it is.”
Indeed, everyone waited at the tables—a hierarchy in itself, with the stylist and editorial director at one, models at another, and crew at what was left, the rest having to stand or go sit on the stairs—until Barnaby finally waltzed in, plopped a sandwich on a plate, and joined the editorial director’s table. Only then did the rest descend.
Back at the table, Tangerine nibbled at some grapes.
“Is that all you’re having?” asked Veronica.
She shrugged. “I have to lose a few pounds. My agent says I look like a truck.”
“That’s crazy. You’re skinny as can be.”
“You’re so sweet.”
Even though she was starving, Veronica left half of her sandwich on her plate, not wanting to appear greedy.
After lunch, they returned to the room with the panels and changed into silk Givenchy evening gowns. Veronica’s was jet black, and it picked up the radiance in her hair, making her skin look even paler than normal, but in an arty way that she hoped would please Barnaby. She made a note to wear more black when she went out on go-sees.
They gathered in the big living room in the center of the house, which had French doors that led out to what in summer must be a large lawn, but today was covered in snowdrifts that were getting larger by the hour.
“All right,” said Barnaby, rubbing his hands together. “Everyone outside.”
“What?” asked Tangerine.
“I want you girls leaping in snow. I’ll shoot from the doorway.”
The models all wore their own high-heeled shoes, which would be ruined by the snow. Veronica had paid twenty-four pounds for hers. What a waste. Not to mention their expensive clothes. “What about the outfits?” she asked.