Steve was now setting up tripods and lights with two other PAs, and she spotted Barnaby in the far corner whispering with the creative director from the magazine. The other girls had surrounded a clothes rack and were being handed outfits for the shoot by the stylist.
One by one, the occupants of the room turned and stared at her.
She waved a friendly hello and then caught sight of herself in a mirror hanging on the far wall.
The other models had gone for a natural approach, a soft lip, thin eyeliner with no shadow, and hair that hung flat and smooth. She, on the other hand, looked like a clown, with a garish smear of lipstick that competed unsuccessfully with her blue eyeshadow in the bright light. If she’d wrestled her way into the bathroom with them in the first place, she might have been able to correct her mistake before she got started.
So far Barnaby hadn’t noticed her, and was still talking with the creative director. Veronica backed up, hoping to have time to escape and redo her face, when he turned and clapped for everyone’s attention.
“Let’s begin, ladies. Do we have everyone assembled?”
He looked at the gaggle of girls in the corner, and then his gaze fell on Veronica.
She braced herself for whatever he’d say next.
“Dear God.” He grimaced, then laughed. “I love the hair.”
She reflexively put a hand up to touch it. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
“But what on earth happened to your face?”
Veronica had been restocking the shelves of her uncle Donny’s pawnshop when she was “discovered.” It was a couple of days after her terrible haircut, and she’d been thankful that Uncle Donny had let her get out from behind the till for a couple of hours, away from the customers’ stares. He’d offered her the job of salesclerk a year earlier, soon after her father’s sudden death, and on slow days she’d lose herself in the random objects in the display cases and shelves, wondering whose fingers had touched the dusty Imperial typewriter, or what kind of woman had worn the dangly Art Deco earrings. How had they ended up here, and what had it meant to have to give them up?
The clientele of Chelsea Pawnbrokers were a mixed bunch. Most were more likely to hock their grandmothers’ smelly old furs than a Cartier watch, but every so often a toff with a posh accent came in and nervously thrust a gem-encrusted necklace across the counter. Veronica would sit back and watch as Uncle Donny examined it, sighed, then examined it some more, until the customer was just glad to have the sordid transaction done with and departed with less than half the item’s value in wrinkled pound notes.
The day Veronica met Sabrina, she’d looked up to see a pleasant-faced, forty-something woman inquiring whether the ukulele in the shop window worked. Uncle Donny was over by the register, having a hushed conversation with a scrawny young man over a gold coin, so Veronica had answered honestly.
“It doesn’t. I wouldn’t bother.”
“I appreciate that,” the woman responded. “It’s a birthday gift for my nephew, probably best to go to a proper music shop.” She paused. “My goodness.”
Veronica touched her hair automatically, waiting for a snide comment or, even worse, one of concern.
But the woman smiled even wider. “That is one smashing haircut. Who did it? Vidal?”
“Um, no. My mum.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“Have you ever modeled before?”
Veronica laughed, but then, realizing the woman was serious, took her card and promised to show up at her modeling agency on her next day off. There, she was inspected by the cadre of agents and sent out for photos to fill her “book.” They insisted she quit her job at Uncle Donny’s in order to be free for go-sees, which Sabrina explained were like auditions for models. Her mother was suspicious at first, but after she leafed through the portfolio, with shots of Veronica sporting long fake eyelashes and bright miniskirts, she squealed with delight.
“You’re going to be on all the covers, I’m sure of it! That’s my girl.”
Veronica had dutifully shown up early to every go-see that she was given, and booked several jobs. They were mainly on the lower rung of modeling work, like catalogue shoots and print ads, and while she was making more than she had at the pawnshop, the cost of all of the paraphernalia she was required to buy ate into each paycheck, making Veronica wonder if it was worth it. Then, last week, Sabrina had called and told her that Veronica had a go-see for a big shoot, over in the States, where Vogue was looking for a British model to feature on the editorial pages. Veronica had shown up early, hoping to get in quickly so she’d have enough time afterward to visit Polly, but was told they were running behind. The other girls were gloriously, effortlessly beautiful, and all she could think of as she sat on the hard metal bench in the hallway was Polly waiting patiently for her in the shabby foyer of Kent House, staring down at the chipped linoleum floor, before being told to go back to her room.
By the second hour, Veronica was fuming at the fashion industry’s notorious lack of consideration of models’ time. When her name was finally called, she stomped into the room, tossed her portfolio on the table, then stepped back, arms crossed, scowling.
“So who do we have here?” asked one of the men seated behind the table.
“Veronica Weber.”
“Great, great.” He handed her book to the two others beside him. “Can we see you walk?”
She’d been told by Sabrina to imagine floating whenever she had to show off her walk: Imagine a book on your head, keep it steady.
Instead, Veronica imagined the disappointment in Polly’s eyes. Her feet landed hard on the wood floor, and she kept her arms crossed.
“Wow.” The man sat back in his chair. “That was something. I don’t think we’ve met before, I’m Barnaby, Barnaby Stone.” He introduced the two others at the table, but Veronica didn’t catch their names. She was stunned they hadn’t tossed her out yet.
“Hey,” was all she said in return.
The three looked at each other without speaking, as if checking in on some psychic level to see if they all agreed that she was a joke, an absolute disaster. Veronica walked up to the table and grabbed her portfolio, then picked up her bag from where she’d dropped it on the floor.
“Wait.”
Barnaby tapped his finger on the table. “Are you free next week?”
After all that scowling and stomping, they were interested in her?
“I dunno.” She didn’t smile, didn’t register anything other than disdain. “You’ll have to check with my people.”
Later that day, Sabrina called with the news. Veronica’s flight to the States left that Sunday. She’d spend Monday in New York, Tuesday and Wednesday in Newport, and then head home Thursday. There was a chance, Sabrina said, that the New York arm of the agency might bring her back to the city after the Newport shoot and send her around to see more photographers and editors, so she should pack accordingly.
And just like that, she was on her way to a Vogue photo shoot with the hottest photographer of the decade.
And just like that, she’d blown it by lacquering on too much makeup. They’d hired her to project a cool aloofness, but she was jet-lagged and overwhelmed and simply couldn’t think straight.
As she stood there, mortified, in the doorway of this beautiful room, she sensed someone behind her.
“Excuse me, you can’t sit in those chairs.”
A young man in jeans and a white button-down shirt made his way around her and pointed at a chair against the far wall that was currently occupied by Gigi, who sported a plucked magnolia blossom above one ear. She sat with a leg slung over the arm of the chair, and slid it off with a thump before rising to her feet, rolling her eyes as she did so.