On the other hand, perhaps not. She was a different person now, no longer the young woman she had been when she first arrived in New York in June. Anyway, reinvention was exactly that, taking on a new persona. And how simple it was to accomplish. A new name, first off, but one close enough to the old to be easy to respond to without hesitation. A new set of facts about one’s life, also as close to reality as possible, so as not to get into a muddle.
And then reinvent . . . adding new facts to the best parts of the earlier life. This was what she had done; she had even been able to obliterate the bad things, most especially the one true Bad Thing that had happened in March. She never thought about that; it was buried deep, very deep indeed. She would never speak about it, never had. It was her big secret. Private, extremely personal, and therefore verboten. Nobody would know. Gone. It was gone. It had never happened . . . push it away. A deep sigh escaped her, and then M turned on her side, closing her eyes.
Sudden and unexpected happenings still alarmed her. Yet she had always been intrepid, even as a child. Nothing had ever fazed her when she was growing up. Her brothers said she had total courage and fortitude, and neither of them was prone to pay her compliments needlessly. She had lost her courage for a while, but it had come back in Manhattan. To her surprise, she felt extraordinarily safe in this great metropolis, was at ease in this glittering city. Furthermore, it was not hard to reinvent oneself here.
No one bothered about where you’d been to school, what your parents did, whether or not you had an aristocratic background, or came from wealth. It was truly a classless society; that’s what she liked about it. In fact, this was a society of achievement. Brains, brilliance, talent and tenacity, drive, ambition, and success. Those were the things which made the biggest impression in Manhattan, and made it the place to be as far as she was concerned. She had been content here.
As she lay contemplating the future, M suddenly thought of her rules—Be brave, be true to yourself—and realized she had broken rule three in her book: Keep busy. Quite unexpectedly, she understood how much time she had wasted with Dax: going to coffee shops, taking in movies, listening to him pontificate about his life, watching TV shows with him, keeping him company. Because he was lonely. And so was she, if she was truthful.
Being a member of a big family meant she had been brought up in a crowd. And she had been teased, applauded, sometimes shouted at, but always very much loved, and rarely alone.
I’m going to go out and get a job, she promised herself now. It would fill up her spare time, and the money would be useful. She had brought enough money to New York to last her for a year, provided she was careful. She had opened a bank account and used the money very sparingly, for rent, food, and transportation, although mostly she walked everywhere. Locked in the suitcase under her bed was an envelope of traveler’s checks, which her sister had forced on her before she left London. She hadn’t wanted to accept them but knew only too well not to argue with Birdie, who termed the envelope “your safety net,” and that’s how she thought of it. They were meant to be used only in extreme emergency.
Starting tomorrow, she would find a part-time job so she could continue to haunt the modeling agencies, and she hoped Geo would keep her promise and contact those two photographers. They were old friends Geo had known through her sister.
Fingers crossed, M thought, and very shortly she fell asleep. It was an exhausted sleep, and dreamless.
Five
M was filled with excitement and anticipation, and there was a spring in her step as she walked down West Twenty-second Street. She was on her way to see Frank Farantino, the photographer, who had told Geo to send her to his studio today.
On the one hand, she had lost a friend with the departure of Dax to Los Angeles; on the other hand, she had gained a friend in Georgiana Carlson.
After that debacle in the middle of the night a few weeks ago, Geo had tried her hardest to make amends. She had spoken to Hank George and Frank Farantino about M, and several days ago both photographers had been back in touch with Geo, and appointments had been made.
The first was with Farantino, at his studio in the Meatpacking District, an easy walk from Geo’s brownstone, especially on this beautiful September day. The sky was a soft pale blue, puffed with wispy white clouds, and it was sunny and balmy, but not too hot because of the light breeze blowing off the Hudson River to the west.
Ever since she had come to live in Manhattan, M had done a lot of walking, wanting to get to know the city. In particular, she loved West Chelsea, where she lived, was captivated by its art galleries and cafés, and those lovely tree-filled streets in the West Twenties.
But to M there was something extraspecial about the Meatpacking District. Now considered the most fashionable part of New York, it had recently been named a historic district. Over a hundred years ago it had been full of slaughterhouses and meatpacking warehouses, some two hundred and fifty. Almost all of those buildings were gone, and in their place were some of the most elegant stores, belonging to top fashion designers, as well as nightclubs, bars, cafés, restaurants, and spas. It had become a chic place for the young, the hip, and the upwardly mobile, and it was littered with celebrities day and night.
M smiled to herself at that thought. Some of her family were quite well known, and certainly she didn’t need to meet strangers who were famous. Dax loved to party with them, and although she liked to hang out with him in the MePa, as it was called, she had managed to slip away when he set his sights on movie stars and the like, becoming oblivious to her.
Dax had gone to the West Coast to seek his fame and fortune, and she wished him well. Deep down she felt a gloomy, gnawing feeling; she knew enough about Hollywood to understand it was a world of pain and heartbreak, disappointment and disillusionment.
He had come to say good-bye, her friend Dax, with his blond handsomeness, quirky personality, and flashing smile. And his rather childlike innocence. He had also had dinner with Geo before flying away, and later Geo had confided that their romantic relationship was indeed over but they remained friends, and Geo seemed relieved about this.
M was well aware that Dax had gone alone to the West Coast; his entire being was now concentrated on his career. He, too, had confided in her . . . about his love life. Giving her a big hug, he had whispered, against her hair, “I took your advice to heart, M. The only thing I am going to think about is becoming a movie star. Nothing else matters.”
She thought about this as she continued to walk toward the Meatpacking District for her appointment at noon. Movie star. If that was what Dax wanted to be, and wanted it enough, he might well get it. Certainly he had the looks, and a unique kind of charisma, a presence. But could he act? Well, that didn’t really matter, did it? Some movie stars were great actors, others couldn’t act their way out of a paper bag. Dax had willpower, and that would help him. But was he ruthless? She pondered that. And was he tough enough to withstand the battering, the rejections, and perhaps most important of all, the competition? She wasn’t sure; she could only hope that he was, for his sake.
Someone she knew very well had once done a stint in Hollywood and had explained that one needed the stamina of a bull, the skin of a rhinoceros, the brain of Machiavelli, and the looks of a Greek god to make it in Dreamland, as he had called it. Perhaps her brother was right. . . . And so she would say a prayer for Dax. He would need lots of prayers. And luck.
Frank Farantino’s studio was on the second floor of what had once been a meatpacking warehouse. The huge black wooden door, decorated with brass nailheads, had FARANTINO painted on it in bright red, and there was a bright red arrow painted above the doorbell. RING IT had been written out in brass nailheads, and she did as she was instructed.
A split second later the door was pulled open by a petite, very pretty woman with startlingly blue eyes and bright red hair cut in a short, spiky style. She was dressed entirely in red: T-shirt, tights, and cowboy boots.
“Hi!” she exclaimed, crani
ng her neck, staring up at M. “You’re the appointment, right? The friend of Geo?”
“Yes, I am.”
Opening the door wider, the girl said, “Come on in then, don’t stand there. What’s your name again? I’ve forgotten it.”
M laughed. “It’s very simple. . . . I’m called M, as in a capital M.”
“I see. What’s it stand for? The M, I mean.”
“Marie.”
“So why don’t you call yourself Marie?”
“I prefer to be called M.”
“I guess a lot of girls are calling themselves by an initial these days. So it must be the ‘in’ thing. My brother saw it on YouTube or somewhere. Maybe it was on Facebook. Or MySpace.”
“Actually, it’s not something new. The Duchess of Devonshire, who lived long ago, was called G. That was G for Georgiana, by the way.”
“Who?” The girl stared at her, a look of puzzlement flashing across her delicately boned face.
“Never mind, it’s not important. And may I know your name?”
“Caresse.”
“It’s pretty, very unusual. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that name before.”
“I hope not, because I invented it. I didn’t like my own name, so I came up with my . . . invention.”
“What was your real name before you changed it?”
“Helen. Ugh. So dull.” She made a face.
“Helen,” M repeated softly. “The face that launched a thousand ships. A very famous name, in fact.”
“What do you mean?” The redheaded pixie gave her a hard stare.
“Helen of Troy. . . . She was so beautiful her husband and her lover fought a terrible and ultimately tragic battle over her. . . . It was known as the battle of a thousand ships.”
“When was that?”
“Twelve hundred years before the birth of Jesus.”
Caresse gaped at her, slowly shaking her head. “How do you know that?”
“I learned it at school.” Clearing her throat, M went on quickly, “Anyway, here I am to see Mr. Farantino.” She glanced at her watch. “And I’m on time. It’s exactly noon.”
“I’ll go and get him,” Caresse announced and hurried away.
M watched her go, frowning. Caresse had seemed very young at first glance, but now she thought this pretty, pixielike creature was nearer to thirty than to twenty. She seemed so nice, though, and M had taken an instant liking to her.
Six
Frank Farantino was one of the best known and most successful photographers in New York. In the world, in point of fact. And in the entrance foyer of his large studio, he stopped dead in his tracks when the tall young woman wearing a white cotton shirt and black trousers turned around to face him.
He held his breath for a split second as he took in her dark, exotic beauty, her unique looks. Thank you, Geo, thank you very much, he thought. He knew at once that his old friend had sent him a winner, and he was extremely pleased, thrilled if he was honest with himself, that this extraordinary girl was standing here.
A wide smile enlivened his saturnine face, and then he strode across the floor, his hand outstretched as he drew to a standstill in front of the young woman.
“Frankie Farantino,” he said, shaking her hand.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Farantino,” M answered politely, as was her way, smiling back. “Thank you for seeing me today.”
“My pleasure, and drop the Mr. Farantino, would you, please? The whole world calls me Frankie. And your name is . . . M?” He threw her a questioning look. “I am correct about that?”
“Yes, you are. And before you ask me, my full name is Marie Marsden. My nickname at school was M and M, and I decided it might be better to drop one M when I started my modeling career.” She grinned.
He grinned back at her. “English, eh? Geo didn’t tell me that. So, how long have you been in New York?”
“I came here in June, and I’ve been looking for work ever since. I’m afraid I haven’t been too successful, but then I haven’t been here all that long.”
“How did you meet Georgiana Carlson?”
“Through a young man I know . . . he’s called Dax. He’s a model and an actor.”
“Oh, sure, I know Dax. I’ve used him from time to time. Geo’s boyfriend.”
“That’s right. And he’s gone off to the West Coast to try his luck.”
“He’s smart. So let’s go into the main studio, give it a whirl. How much modeling have you done?”
“A little. In London.”
“Did you bring any pictures?”
“Yes. They’re in my tote.” As she spoke she picked this up and hurried after him into the studio. “As for actual modeling, I haven’t done much of that . . . been on the catwalk, I mean,” she admitted, looking suddenly rueful.
“Let’s see the pictures.” Frankie Farantino stared at her intently, immediately understanding that she was a novice looking for that first break, but this did not trouble him at all. He preferred young women who had not been trained and often tainted by other photographers. One of the things he most enjoyed as a photographer was molding a girl, actually creating her, giving her a special look of his own invention. Taking the batch of photographs M handed to him, he flicked through them swiftly, then glanced at her and half smiled. “They’re not bad, and at least I can see you photograph well. But these just don’t do you justice.” He handed them to her.
“I suppose not,” she murmured and swiftly put them back in the tote, deciding not to show them to anyone again, especially a photographer.
“Okay, so let’s get started,” Frankie said. “Go and stand on that raised platform, and turn slowly, so that I can view you from every angle.”
She did as he instructed, slowly turning, and turning again when he told her to keep moving. “Slowly, very slowly,” he intoned.
Watching her intently, Frankie saw a lot of remarkable things simultaneously: She moved gracefully, like a dancer, and although she was rather tall, her height was balanced by a good figure and a kind of inbred elegance. Her face fascinated him . . . she reminded him of someone he could not quite place. That vague image flickered at the back of his mind, and just as he thought he was about to grasp it, it floated maddeningly away.
“Come on down,” he said at last and stretched out his hand to help her off the platform. “You brought a skirt, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did, and a dress. A simple black sheath. High heels and a pair of flats.”
“Good. There’s a dressing room over there.” He indicated a door set in one of the soaring walls. “Please change into . . . well, anything you want.”
M nodded and hurried into the dressing room. She selected her flared, red cotton skirt, which went well with the pristine white shirt, added a wide black leather belt, slipped her feet into her favorite black ballerina slippers. Glancing at herself in the mirror, she decided to pull her hair back into a ponytail, added hoop earrings, and used a brighter red lipstick to define her mouth.
Frankie was loading his camera and looked up when M walked back out into the studio. Instantly he knew who she resembled. A young Audrey Hepburn. He felt excitement surge through him; he could hardly wait to capture her image on film. Only then would he know what he really had.
“You look great, M!” he exclaimed. “I’d like you to stand over there, in front of that white picket fence with the backdrop of a green field.”
Frankie followed her, put his camera on a side table, and explained, “Move around a little, honey. Move your arms, strike a few poses you’re familiar with. Like this.” He gave her a quick demonstration, picked up his camera, and stepped away from her. “It’s okay, practice for a few seconds. Don’t look so worried. Smile, M, give me a few dazzling smiles.”
She did as he suggested and proved so adept he started to shoot immediately, constantly throwing out encouraging words. “That’s great! Right on! Now turn left, move your body more. Hey, honey, you’re a natural. Wow! That’s grea
t! Hold that pose. You’re fabulous!”
He went on photographing her for half an hour, exclaiming encouragement and praise, pausing only to grab a different camera or reload film. Finally he stopped, sat down on a tall stool, and beckoned to her. “Stand here, M, in front of me.”
“Was I all right?” she asked quietly. “Did I move the way you wanted?”
“Absolutely. You’re great. But I need to ask you something. . . . Have you ever had bangs?”
“Do you mean a fringe?” She ran her index finger across her forehead. “That’s what we call it in England . . . a fringe. And no, I haven’t.”
“What about short hair? Or have you always worn it long?”
“Mostly. It was short when I was much younger, when I was a little girl actually. Why? Don’t you like my hair?”
“It’s magnificent. Beautiful. So long and glossy, and yes, even dramatic. There’s a lot you can do with long hair.” Frankie pursed her lips, held his head to one side, and then, suddenly turning away from her, he shouted, “Caresse! Come on in here, would you please!”
A moment later the redheaded pixie was running into the studio. “Yes, Frankie, here I am. What do you need?”
“Where’s Agnes? Is she here?”
“She said she’d arrive by two. With Luke Hendricks, remember? He’s doing that shoot for the ad agency with you.”
Frankie looked at the big round clock on the opposite wall. It was almost one. Turning to Caresse, he said in an urgent voice, “Find Agnes. Try her cell. Ask her if she can come in as soon as possible, and locate Marguerite Briguet, please. Tell her I want her to do a very special makeup job. Okay?”
“Right away, Frankie!” Caresse scooted off.
Leaning forward, Frankie gave M a hard, penetrating stare. “I need to give you a whole new look. It will be wonderful for you, but we might have to cut your hair.”