But how? She had become a joke. To the world. To herself. Friends pitied her. Comedians made her a punch line for their late monologues. Last month,Saturday Night Live’sVictoria Jackson played Harlow Hayes while wearing a ridiculous wig and some sort of fat suit.
But when the love of her life crushed her without so much as an “I’m sorry,” Harlow Hayes gave up and gave in.
Maybe living in the third person wasn’t so bad. And the dark “cave” in which she dwelt most of the time was comforting. Hersmall, narrow bedroom—which was probably once a Gilded Age butler’s pantry—allowed no expectations and thus no failures. No letdowns. No feckless laughter from late-night audiences.
But it’s all sticks and stones, right?
Harlow flicked an empty box of Cheez-Its to the floor, ignoring the few crumbs that scattered over the small rug. She’d clean it up later. On her twin bed, she tried to sleep while Jinx—make no mistake, this was her apartment—blasted the six o’clock news.
Chuck Scarborough’s smooth news voice reminded America that presidential candidate Gary Hart withdrew from the race due to his affair with Donna Somebody, and then recapped the aftermath of a Belgium ferry capsizing, killing 193 passengers and crew.
She shivered with the cold of the news as well as her room. The old window in the exterior wall allowed in the heat and the cold. But Harlow didn’t care as long as she had a place to escape, a place to sleep, and let’s be honest, a place to eat.
When she moved in six months ago—her last landlord, also a friend and fellow model, had kicked her out to move her boyfriend in—Harlow had asked Jinx for a space heater.
“No, you’ll asphyxiateyourself or wake up in a fiery blaze.”She’d bent down to pick up the Hayes Cookie wrapper on the floor.“And burn us all down.”
Not true, but just in case, Harlow didn’t press the issue. Burrowing under the blanket she’d purchased in Egypt two years ago, she considered howthatHarlow Hayes knew who she was, where she was going, and what she wanted.
Two years ago, her life of photo shoots, haute couture fashion shows, and one small part in a romantic comedy made sense, because every road led to Xander Cole, the gorgeous Gilded Age heir, financier, and almost billionaire. She’d been named the Most Beautiful Woman in the World and one of the first models to earn the moniker “super.”
Muffled voices seeped through the thin apartment wall.
Mom?
Harlow pressed her ear to the wall. A door clicked. Muted footsteps struck the hardwood, then landed on the carpet. Glasses clinked.
“Thank you ... darn plane was late ... rain ... Atlanta ... should’ve hired a car ... cab driver...”
What was Mom doing here? Did Jinx call her? Well, no surprise there. Those two were tight. Jinx, a former model turned Icon Agency scout turned executive for CCW Cosmetics, founded by the illustrious Charlotte Coral Winthrop.
But Jinx had discovered Harlow twelve years ago when she was barely seventeen—much to Mom’s delight. Then Icon took a slow approach to Harlow’s career—much to Mom’s consternation—until a photographer friend asked her to pose for a poster. Kaboom!
“I think we do, Jinx. Get her going. Moving forward. Kick in ... keister.”
Mom. Such a southerner. No one saidkeisterin Manhattan in 1987.
“I can prescribe something.”
A third voice? Harlow slipped on her fuzzy slippers and, gathering the gaps in her too-tight pajama top, she schlepped from her dark hovel into the bright living room lights.
“Well, look who’s up.” Mom held Harlow by the shoulders and kissed her cheek. “Still wearing those same wool pajamas, I see.” Her gaze swept Harlow up and down. “A bit tight but still rather darling.”
“What are you doing here, Mom?” Harlow retrieved a glass and filled it with milk, which would be spectacular with a large squeeze of Hershey’s chocolate syrup. But considering her current audience, she’d refrain. “You brought the shrink along?”
“We’re here to help, Harlow.” Dr. Tagg had a smooth and not quite but almost condescending tone.
“Help me do what?” Harlow worked her way through the crowd for the sofa. Jinx’s apartment was a one bedroom, one bath, witha square living room and minuscule kitchen, along with Harlow’s “closet.” Two was a crowd. Four was a throng.
“Figure out your life, darling,” Mom said.
“Well, if you don’t mind . . .” Harlow sat on the sofa and reached for the VCR remote. “I fell asleep duringAll My Childrentoday. Thank goodness I have it recorded. Angie and Jesse are in a real battle for their marriage.”
“And you are in a battle for your life, Harlow Anne. We want to talk to you.” If Mom added, “young lady,” Harlow would be out. Literally. Through the door in her too-tight pajamas.
“Can’t you berate me in the morning?” she said.
Mom grabbed the remote to shut off the TV, but a picture of Xander popped on the screen as Mary Hart openedEntertainment Tonight.
