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Her Winning Ways Page 4


  “I just want to drop on my bed,” Liz said, from the depths of the car’s leather seat, “have room service bring me a hamburger and some fries, turn on the TV and just chill for the rest of the evening.”

  “Mmmm, I don’t know if I can even make it that far. I’m so tired I may fall asleep before we get there.”

  And sure enough, Annie was practically staggering with fatigue by the time they got through the lobby, up the elevator, and through the door. She kicked off her shoes, peeled off her little jacket, and fell plop on her bed. She didn’t notice the blinking light on her phone, but when Liz came in to ask about her room service order, she saw that a message was waiting.

  “Should I answer it?” she asked.

  “Oh, sure. But who’d be calling me?”

  Liz picked up the phone. She punched a button, listened for a moment, then broke into a big smile.

  “Oh, thanks so much.” She was writing something on the notepad. “This is her sister. I’ll tell her right away.”

  “Mmmm?”

  Annie was too tired to speak

  “That was someone at the police precinct. They found your bag. You can pick it up at Troop B Headquarters. I wrote down the address.”

  “Oh, thank God! That’s a huge load off my mind.” Her eyes remained closed. Her head remained on the pillow. “I’ll have to let Mitzi know.” And she was out.

  A little later, when the food arrived and Liz poked her awake, they both stayed up long enough to eat, but were too tired for TV. They brushed their teeth, they said good night, they each closed their windows against the unfamiliar nighttime racket from the streets below, and then they both slept soundly until morning.

  So they never got to see the rerun of the earlier news story about the demonstration, and the bit about the rescue of the “bystander,” as she was rescued by Sergeant Bart Hardin.

  But others’ eyes were fixed intently on that report.

  In the shabby walk-up apartment on the far West Side, three men stood glumly in front of a black-and-white television screen, each one pulling morosely on his mustache.

  “Is crazy,” Leon said. “Is saying more about some foolish horse than about our demonstration. I don’t understand.”

  “They don’t even say about Buljornia or how our leader is in jail. Only is ‘a demonstration,’ they say.” Leon sagged his fat body into the nearest chair. “All this long way to America we come, and they don’t even notice us.” He and Hugo turned to Boksmer, who had taken his seat at the head of the table and was passing his hand contemplatively over his shining bald head as though it were a crystal ball, full of portentous messages.

  “What we do, Boksmer?”

  Hugo slapped his hand against Leon’s shoulder.

  “Barry!” he reminded him angrily. “And you call me idiot!”

  The tall man looked wearily at his two compatriots.

  “What we do? I tell you what we do. We think of something to make them pay attention to us, these people—” he waved his hand at the TV screen, “—these imbeciles here in New York, and all those idiot diplomats—” here he waved toward the window, “—those irresponsible fools at the United Nations. We must think of something they will have to notice. Now, quiet, all of you.” He included his little wife, who instantly stopped clearing the teacups. With a spoon and saucer in her hand, she sat down timidly in a stiff wooden chair in the kitchen, making herself as small as possible. “Be quiet, and think!” her husband ordered.

  For many long minutes, the room was silent. A fly explored the cord that hung from the ceiling light. The curtain at the window moved lightly in the soft spring breeze. Dust settled on the furniture. Hugo made his face look as intelligent as he could. He pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. Leon tried to think, but he forgot what he was supposed to be thinking about. With the soup and dumplings simmering in the kitchen, he could think only of dinner.

  Boksmer stared at the TV screen, now blank.

  “This horse,” he said. “The way these people love this horse, this gives me idea. Be quiet, all of you.” No one had said anything. “Be quiet. I am thinking of something—”

  And Bart Hardin, getting Lindy settled in his stall, poured an extra measure of the troop’s specially mixed feed into the horse’s bin.

  “Like buttercups,” he murmured, stroking the velvet-soft hair along Lindy’s cheek. “Hair the color of buttercups, growing wild on the mountain. And light as a feather when I held her. Like a bunch of wildflowers off the mountainside. Like a soft, western breeze blowing across the valley—”

  And in the shabby tenement walk-up, plans were being made. By people who had watched the evening news on the TV and had noticed a man and a horse . . .

  Chapter Six

  A Whole New Person?

  Early Monday Morning

  They stepped off the elevator into a cream and chrome silence perched high above the heart of the city. Lady Fair’s vast, silent, windowless, and stunningly chic reception area was guarded by the room’s only occupant, a dark-haired young woman who looked up at them from behind a glass-topped desk. She wore an air of total competence, composure, and congenial calm.

  Mitzi barely paused as she led Annie past the desk with a cheery wave and a brief nod to the sleek young woman sitting there. “Morning, Gina. Are they ready for us?”

  “Go on in. They’ll be along soon.” Gina gave Annie a fast up-and-down glance that processed every detail of her appearance, from Frye boots to rodeo buckle and Wrangler jeans, to the blond hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She noted the pink paisley shirt with the mother-of-pearl snaps, the fringed, deer-hide jacket, and the absence of any jewelry. As they disappeared down the hall, she called her assessment after them.

  “Love your outfit.”

  Annie wondered if this was a universal greeting among these fashion people. But there wasn’t time to give the thought much attention. As the door from the serene reception area closed behind them, the scene changed suddenly into a glassy beehive of bustle and nerves. Bright light flooded the room through enormous windows that looked out in all directions; under a crystal blue sky, gargoyle-topped skyscrapers commanded from the north and south, and to the west there was a postcard-worthy view of a broad, vividly bright river. White sailboats, like a child’s toys, decorated the river, and opposite, along the Jersey shore, the skyline of Hoboken hovered like a gray shadow. A helicopter patrolled the riverfront and far above, tiny dots led the contrails of planes across the sky, marking voyages to the four corners of the compass. Fifty floors below, at the sidewalk level, a blurry mass of snarled traffic and quick-moving office workers, eager shoppers and dawdling, gawking tourists snaked along the city’s streets. But up here in Lady Fair’s aerie, where walls of glass sealed off any sound from the world outside, nobody was looking at the view. Here, the air buzzed with activity and concentration, deadlines and competition and a passion for the magazine that were far more compelling. At the most, Annie received a quick look, maybe a half smile, as she walked past serious, intense young women in chic outfits—little skirts, dark tights, ballet flats—girls taping photos to display boards, girls carrying trays of coffee, or trays of earrings, girls carrying plastic-wrapped garments on hangers. Workspaces were lined with seductive racks and shelves filled with fashion items—samples everywhere, on desks, on file cabinets, on windowsills, spilling out of drawers, and jammed up against computers, samples of shoes and bags and lipsticks and hats, sunglasses, belts, gloves. She walked past hundreds of photos taped to the walls, past people on phones, people poring over articles to be edited and proofed, people not even glancing up at them as they passed, too focused on their work to recognize an interruption. Everywhere there was a vibrant sense of energy, of devotion, and of the most careful attention to the minutest detail.

  Annie was fascinated. This fashion industry was not only profoundly self-focused but, because its secrets needed to be guarded, also too well protected to be penetrated. And yet here she was, not only being a
llowed into the beating heart of the fashion industry, but also being the beneficiary of its attention. What angel had landed on her shoulder and dropped her into the midst of this busy scene, this place of brilliant light and high-level talent and energy, rich with surprise and opportunity and an unforeseeable outcome? And wasn’t that the very definition of adventure? At the very least, whatever might come, wouldn’t she have something to file away safely in memory, to be treasured for the rest of her life—

  Her fantasies were spinning out all sorts of variations on the theme of future adventures as they arrived at their destination. Mitzi led her into a large conference room that had an interior wall to their right and to the left an enormous wall of tinted glass, curved to suggest the prow of an ocean liner cruising high above the city. A long table filled the center of the room. Several steel-and-leather chairs were placed along the interior wall and at the table there were twelve more, but only one of these was occupied. A young man with spiky blond hair and a dark gray business suit stood up to greet them. A folder of papers lay open on the table in front of him.

  “They’ll all be here in a minute.” His smile was big, broad, and eager. “I’m Matt. From legal. And you must be our winner, Annie Cornell. We’re glad to meet you, Annie, and to congratulate you.” He came around the table to shake hands. “Your contest entry just grabbed us right off the bat. An easy winner. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Danish? Fruit?” He pointed to a sideboard that was loaded with goodies. “Muffins, bagels, cheese? There’s decaf and regular.” He pointed to a couple of coffee urns. “And tea, if you like.”

  “Not for me, thanks.” Annie was too excited to eat. She took the seat that Matt held for her.

  Mitzi broke in. “I’ve got to go. They need me everywhere. I’ll catch up with you guys later. You’ll be in good hands from here on.” And like a leaf in a high wind, she was gone, leaving the door open behind her for two women who were just arriving—two women who were almost clonelike in their similarity, both tall, model-thin and impeccably groomed, except that one was brilliantly blond and the other startlingly black-haired. They were engrossed in some papers they were reviewing, but when they glanced up and saw Annie, they looked over at Matt, who made the introduction.

  “Hey there, Dinah. Like you to meet our winner. Annie Cornell—”

  The blond one stacked the papers they’d been examining and slipped them into the denim tote bag that hung from her shoulder. The black-haired one interrupted him with a wave of her hand and a big, welcoming smile. “I’m Dinah Featherington,” she said. “I’m one of the features editors here. And I’ll be doing a piece on you for the next edition, so we’ll spend some time together later today. So glad to have you here, Annie.” On her way to the treats table, she looked back at Annie. “I just love your outfit. Great look!” She put a bagel on a plate, poured some coffee, and took a seat near the far end of the table next to her blond companion who had already scooped some cut-up melon onto a plate and taken a seat.

  “I’m Eugenia Shaw,” the blond one said. “I’m Dinah’s assistant. We’ll be working together on this.”

  The room was filling up, introductions were being made, names were being tossed at Annie, and she gave up any hope of remembering who was who. Editors of all kinds. Assistant editors. Associate editors. She caught a couple of titles as new arrivals poured out cups of coffee, selected bagels or muffins or bits of fruit or cheese, took seats around the table – “beauty and health director”—“associate fashion editor”—“sales and marketing director.” A photographer. Makeup people. The Paris editor (arrived last night with the Galliard’s contingent—Annie remembered meeting her at the reception, Sylvie something). She couldn’t possibly keep it all in her head. All the seats but one were filled. The chair at the far end of the table was apparently being saved.

  And just then, a tall, trim woman blew into the room. She had a mass of dark hair, wore a stunning fuchsia Chanel suit, and moved with the air of a sailing ship slipping elegantly through a high wind. She went directly to the empty chair, stood there a moment to survey the suddenly silent scene, and then focused directly on Annie. Her smile could not have been warmer.

  “And you are Annie Cornell,” she announced. “All the way from Wyoming. And the winner of our contest. On behalf of everyone here at Lady Fair and at Galliard’s, I want to congratulate you and to tell you it’s wonderful to welcome you to New York.”

  Annie opened her mouth to say a thank you, but she never had the chance.

  “I’m Marge Webster, editor-in-chief here, and we are just so delighted with what we have in store for you, with the program and activities we’ve planned. It’s going to be a terrific week, and the people here are going to tell you all about it. I’ve got to go now, busy, busy, busy, but I’m leaving you in very good hands.”

  She’d never sat down and now she was blowing right out again. As she passed Annie, she leaned over and said, “I love your outfit, dear.”

  The door closed behind her; there was a brief silence following her departure and then, as though at a silent signal, they all seemed to come to life, to inhale again. Papers were rustled, coffee cups were raised to lips, and suddenly everyone was talking at once—until a woman who’d been sitting off to one side left her seat and took the empty chair at the head of the table. She set her Starbucks latte on the table in front of her. All heads turned to her and again everyone stopped talking.

  “Annie, I’m Greta Pena and I want to add my welcome to Marge’s, and tell you how excited all of us here at Lady Fair are about your participation in this marvelous event. We just know that your part in our sponsorship of Galliard’s opening here in New York is going to be a huge success, but that also means we all will have a very busy week ahead of us.” Greta’s big smile beamed on Annie. “So we need to get started right away. We have a full schedule for you, but we also want to be sure you have free time, too, to spend all on your own to enjoy this wonderful city.”

  A young man sitting just behind her handed her a folder of papers.

  “Here’s a copy of the itinerary we’ve planned for you.” She handed one copy to Annie and sent the others around the table. “It lays out the program for the whole week. But first off, today’s program is at the top of the list. Today you’ll meet some of the people who’ll be working with you and see some of our home here at Lady Fair. You’ve already met Mitzi—her number’s on the program—and she and Jerry here”—she indicated the young man behind her—“will be your guides and trouble-shooters. If you need anything, contact one of them.” Jerry nodded, waved a hand in a kind of salute, and gave Annie a big smile. “Then the fun begins. At ten thirty, there’ll be a full workup by our makeup people. They have wizards there in that department; you can’t imagine what wonders they create. Although,” she paused, tilted her head a bit, and did a quick appraisal of Annie’s face, “with skin like yours and your coloring, you’ll hardly need their magic. But never mind—it’ll be so much fun anyway!

  “After that, lunch in our cafeteria, and then at one thirty, Damien and Louis from the Vanetta Salon are coming in to do a color and styling. Our color people will assist them and they are absolutely first rate. Honestly, Annie, you’re going to take a whole new you back to Laramie.”

  Oh, Lord, Annie thought, will this be a spectacular treat? Or am I in for a ghastly disaster?

  But she reined in her anxiety, told herself to enjoy whatever was coming over the horizon, and reminded herself to say thank you to the whole team. She did a quick organization of her thoughts and then let a little speech spill out.

  “I just want to let everyone know how excited I am to be here and to get to be a part of this amazing adventure. Back in Laramie, I knew I was the luckiest girl in town, getting to win this contest. Now I know I really am the luckiest girl in all of New York, too. In fact, I feel like the luckiest girl in all America. So I thank you all, I thank Lady Fair, I thank Galliard’s, I thank the contest people, and I just hope I can make everyone here�
�and everyone back home, my folks, my friends, everyone—proud of me.”

  There were smiles all around the table. Annie didn’t know it, but she’d just passed a test. Her ability to think on her feet and talk in complete sentences was going to be valuable. After all, no promotion event wants to be stuck with a dummy. And Annie Cornell was, clearly, no dummy.

  “So that’s it, my duckies. Time to move on.” And at this signal from Greta, the room went into motion: chairs were pushed back, coffee cups were drained of their last dregs, watches and smart phones were consulted, and everyone was gone as though in a puff of smoke. Annie noticed that none of the food on the plates had been touched. Not a single bite had been eaten by anyone. Only one person remained: a tall, dark-eyed woman who held out a hand to Annie. “I’m Annelie Magano,” she said. “I’m Lady Fair’s beauty editor and I’ll be in charge of your makeover starting right now—that’s on the next floor down, so we’ll just take the stairs—and I’ll be working with Sandi-K. and Richard, who really are a couple of wonder workers. Later on, the Vanetta team will be here to do beautiful things with your hair.” She paused on her way to the door in order to give Annie’s hair an appraising look. “I’ve been watching how the light works through your natural highlights. I don’t think our colorist is going to want to do much with it. Your hair is already one of your great features. Such a rich variety of tones. I just love it!”

  Annie was feeling some trepidation.

  “Will I still look like me when you’re done?”

  “Don’t worry.” Annelie was familiar with the fear of drastic change. “Your friends will still recognize you when you leave here. Our experts know what they’re doing.”