Breaking the Rules

Sitting back in the chair, Geo said, ‘Cheers.’

M repeated the toast and took a sip of the vodka, made a face. ‘That’s strong. Wow!’ Placing the glass on the coffee table, she stared at Geo for a long moment, and finally said, apologetically, ‘I hope I didn’t hurt you … obviously I didn’t know it was you I was bashing so hard with the umbrella.’

Geo grinned. ‘I deserved it, though. I behaved like an imbecile tonight.’ She shook her head, looking bemused. ‘Men! Honestly, they sure can drive us crazy, can’t they?’

M was silent. Her fear and anger had now subsided, but only slightly. There was still a hint of resentment lingering. That Geo believed her to be capable of duplicity was annoying. Slowly, she said in a quiet voice, ‘Well, I suppose they can get a rise out of us … although I haven’t had that experience, because I haven’t had many boyfriends. And those I have had I haven’t had to steal from another woman.’

Geo caught the hint of sarcasm, and realized at once that M continued to be somewhat miffed, and she answered swiftly, ‘Please, M, let’s get over this … I told you I was sorry, and I am. Tonight has taught me a lesson. I mustn’t jump to conclusions, and I’ll have to question Alice more diligently, should she ever call to tell me there are strange goings-on at my house.’ Geo took a sip of vodka, and asked, ‘How is Dax? I haven’t seen him for ten days.’

‘He’s got a terrible cold, and sitting on the steps here didn’t do him any good. Otherwise, he’s just the same, trying to get an acting job, or a fashion shoot. Neither of us have been lucky about finding work.’ M peered at Geo, and murmured, ‘He was waiting for you, actually. He certainly hadn’t come over here to see me.’

Geo nodded. ‘He’s left several messages on my cell phone, but I haven’t called him back yet. Unfortunately, I’ve had to make these sudden trips to New Jersey to help my sister. She lives with our Aunt Gerry, who isn’t well at the moment.’

‘I’m sorry, is it something serious?’

‘She has a heart condition, and we have to keep an eye on her. She’s in her eighties, and has nobody else; no other family but us.’

M gave Geo a sympathetic look. ‘I hope she’s going to be all right.’

‘So do I. My sister Joanne is very loving and caring, and she’s lived with our aunt for a few years now. She moved in after she was widowed. She used to be a booking agent for fashion photography, but after she lost her husband it was too much. And having something to do now, someone to care for, has really helped her to cope with her grief.’

‘I know what you mean. My sister is a widow,’ M volunteered, and could have bitten her tongue off. Why had she suddenly confided something to Geo? She didn’t want anyone to know one thing about her. Anonymity, that was her goal. Her past was blotted out. Only the future mattered.

Geo looked at M alertly, and said, ‘You never mentioned that. What did he die of?’

‘A heart attack,’ M answered laconically.

‘So did Joanne’s husband. Dick was fifty-nine when he passed. How old was your brother-in-law?’

‘Young, in his thirties,’ M muttered. Changing the subject, she went on quickly, ‘Dax isn’t seeing another woman, I’m sure of it. He’s very focused on his career. He’s got the acting bug, you must know that.’

‘Yes, I do, of course. And I have a feeling he’s hankering to leave New York, go out to the West Coast. What do you think?’

‘It’s possible – he has mentioned it, I must admit. But why don’t you tackle him about it? That’s what I would do, anyway. You and he should talk it out, have it out, clear the air between you.’

‘I think I’ll do that tomorrow. I’ll call him, go over and see him, look after him if he’s still sick. He’s awfully neglectful of his health, that I do know. Now, what about you, M? Is there anything I can do to help? I do know a few fashion photographers, and I could call them up, introduce you, and maybe they’ll see you.’

M sat up straighter in the chair and nodded. ‘That would be wonderful if you’d do that, Geo! How sweet of you to offer. Personal recommendations are the best.’

‘Consider it done,’ Geo responded. ‘I’ll get in touch with two of them on Monday. I know Hank George and Frank Farantino are in town, and let’s see how they respond. It’s certainly worth giving it a try. In my opinion, you’d be very photographable.’

FOUR (#ulink_39616128-d643-5d12-84b4-1f4472fd1893)

She could not fall asleep; she lay there in the dark, as still as a mouse, listening to the house, listening to its many voices.

She had grown up in old houses, and she knew them intimately. To her, they were living things … they breathed and sighed, and groaned or moaned, especially in winter. And they frequently rattled their ancient bones, and sometimes shifted on their poor old feet. Her grandfather had once told her that the foundation of a house was like a pair of feet, and she had never forgotten this. She smiled to herself now, remembering him. Popsi, she had called him, remembering how he had confided that it was merely the wood used in the structure of the house that was expanding and contracting, and that she mustn’t be afraid of the noises. ‘A house is a safe harbour,’ he had said that day. ‘The one true haven.’

M was well aware it was not the creaking house that was keeping her awake, but her many anxieties. Earlier that evening, she had been scared out of her wits when she had heard those noises downstairs, and had instantly understood there was an intruder on the prowl. How thoughtless Geo had been – and yes, stupid – to come into the house with such stealth. And all because of a man. Dax.

M turned over onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, suddenly thinking of the house where she had grown up and had lived, until very recently, with her parents. She and her siblings had been assiduously schooled to always put the alarm system on, and especially at night, and with such constant and nagging persistence it was forever engraved on her mind.

She had broached the subject of the alarm system here in the old brownstone before coming up to bed tonight. Only when she had finally volunteered to split the cost of having it checked out and properly fixed, if this was necessary, had Geo reluctantly agreed.

This decision had brought a degree of relief to M, and she was determined to make sure it was carried out. Certainly she had no intention of leaving this job to Geo, who, once she was lost in her painting, was lost to the world, with all practical matters obliterated from her mind.

M was a pragmatist by nature, and she believed she had inherited her wonderful practical mind-set from her mother, who had always had her feet firmly planted on terra firma. Her mum was diligent, disciplined, a stickler for work, and shrewd to boot. She loved her mother and father; they were extra special. She knew no one else who had fabulous parents like hers, and she missed them tremendously. But even if she had been in London at the moment, it would have been the same state of affairs. They had gone to Australia for six months, mostly to see her grandmother, her mother’s mother, and M knew she would have been alone in London, except for her favourite sister, which wasn’t a bad thing, after all; but all of her other siblings were abroad, living the life, or so she supposed. And working, of course. That was a certainty.

The Protestant work ethic had been drilled into them, force-fed into them by a couple of crazy zealots, their parents, who believed they were all going to be struck dead if they didn’t work their bums off.

She and her siblings knew that if they didn’t work they wouldn’t get breakfast, lunch, supper, or whatever. ‘You’re positively Dickensian in your attitudes!’ M would yell at her parents, and they would simply laugh and give her the famous V for Victory sign, a la Winston Churchill. And then, relenting, they would cuddle her, spoil her, and congratulate her, telling her she truly was a chip off the old block and was really earning her stripes. And then they would take her somewhere special or buy her a unique gift.

And now here she was, in Manhattan, doing sweet nothing, and getting bored. Dax would go to the Coast, M was convinced of that, and she must endeavour to get a job of some kind. She was not used to lolling around – that was the way she thought of it. Tomorrow she would make an effort to get a part-time job as a waitress. Or a shop assistant. No, waitress. Easier in so many ways. They were looking for somebody at the All-American Cheese Cake Café, not far from West Twenty-Second Street, and it would be something to do and it would give her extra money. Yes, she would go there tomorrow. Talk to the manager. He liked her. Always gave her a big smile.

M turned restlessly in her bed, suddenly focusing on her plans to become a model. Well, she would, she knew she would. After all, she had come here to reinvent herself, to become someone else.

She was seeking obscurity and anonymity, and now she laughed out loud. How truly ridiculous she was. Seeking to go unnoticed, yet she would put herself on a runway. Or in front of a camera to be featured in a magazine fashion spread. A contradiction? Surely.

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. Anyway, reinvention was exactly that – taking on a new persona. And how simple it was to accomplish. A new name, first off, that was essential, but one close enough to the old to be easy to respond to it instantly, without hesitation. A new set of personal 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 previous earlier life. This is what she had done; she had even been able to obliterate the bad things, and most especially the one true Bad Thing. She never thought about that; it was currently buried deep, very deep indeed. She would never speak about it, she had never done that, never told anyone anything. It was her big secret. Private, extremely personal, and therefore verboten. Nobody would ever know. Gone. It was gone. It had never happened … push it away. A deep sigh escaped, and then M turned on her side, closing her eyes.

Sudden and unexpected things happening without rhyme or reason still tended to alarm her. And yet she had always been intrepid, even as a child. Nothing had ever fazed her, then or later, 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 very hard to reinvent oneself here.

No one bothered about where you’d been to school, what your parents did, whether or not you had a pedigree, 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 that 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, and what she was going to do, M suddenly thought of her rules: Be brave, be true to yourself, and realized she had broken one of her most important rules, 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, with a number of siblings, meant she had been brought up in a crowd, always surrounded. And she had been teased, applauded, sometimes taunted and 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 keep her busy, fill up her spare time, and the money would be useful. When she had arrived in New York she had brought enough money to last her for a year, providing 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 up in the suitcase under her bed was an envelope of traveller’s cheques that her sister had forced on her before leaving London. She hadn’t wanted to accept them, but knew only too well not to argue with her darling Birdie, who termed the envelope of cheques ‘your safety net’ – and that’s how she thought of them. They were meant to be used only in extreme emergency.

Starting tomorrow, she would find a job, a part-time job, so she could continue to haunt the modelling agencies, and hopefully Geo would keep her promise and contact the two photographers she said she knew. 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 (#ulink_fa55e529-84c8-5cf7-be6f-30d7ec373ddf)

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 along to his studio today.

In one sense 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 now, Geo had tried her hardest to make amends. Keeping her promise, Geo had spoken to Hank George and Frank Farantino about her, and several days ago both photographers had at last been back in touch with Geo, and appointments had finally been made.

The first was with Farantino, at his studio in the Meatpacking District, which was an easy walk for M from Geo’s brownstone, and especially on this beautiful September day. The sky was a soft pale blue, puffed up 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, to become well acquainted with some of her favourite areas. 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 extra special 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 of them. Almost all of those buildings had 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.