Dan agreed. “Yes, and I’m not saying that Webster’s given up on nineteen-year-old models. But I think he understands the need for a publication like ours. From what he said, he often deals with celebrities who are totally insecure about the issue of age. They want him to make them look twenty-one. He wants to make them look damned good at whatever age they are. He claims that some of the most beautiful women he’s photographed in the last few years have been in their mid-forties.”
“Wonderful man,” Anne said, beaming brightly.
Marni sent an amused smile in her direction. Anne was in her mid-forties and extremely attractive.
Dan continued. “I think there’s more, though, at least as to why Webster is willing to work with us. When a man reaches the age of forty, he tends to take stock of his life and think about where he’s going. Brian Webster has been phenomenally successful in the past ten years, but he’s done it the hard way. He didn’t have a mentor, so to speak, or a sponsor. He didn’t have an ‘in’ at any one magazine or another. He’s built his reputation purely on merit, by showing his stuff and relying on its quality to draw in work. And it has. He calls his own shots, and even aside from his fashion work gets more than enough commissions for portraits of celebrities to keep him busy. But he may just be ready to consolidate his interests. Theoretically, throughClass,his name could become as much a household word as Scavullo or Avedon. If we’re successful, andhe’ssuccessful, he could work less and do better financially than before. Besides, his first book of photographs is due out next summer. The work for it is done and that particular pressure’s off. I think we lucked out and hit him at exactly the right time.”
“And he’s agreed to stick with us for a while?” Marni asked, then glanced from one face to another. “It was the general consensus that we have a consistent look from one issue to the next.”
“We’re preparing a contract,” Steve put in. “Twelve issues, with options to expand on that. He says he’ll sign.”
Marni pressed her lips together and nodded. Her argument wasn’t really with the choice of Webster as a photographer; it was with the choice of that first cover face. “Okay. So Webster’s our man.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked around the group again. “And since I have faith in you all and trust that you’re a little more objective on the matter of this cover than I am, it looks like I’ll be your guinea pig. What’s the schedule?” She gave a crooked grin. “Do I have time for plastic surgery first? I could take off five pounds while I’m recuperating.”
“Don’t you dare!” Anne chided. “On either score.” She sat back. “Once Webster’s signed the contract, we’ll set up an appointment. It should be within the next two weeks.”
Marni took in a loud breath and studied the ceiling. “Take your time. Please.”
It was actually closer to three weeks before the photographer’s contract had been signed and delivered and Marni was due to be photographed. She wasn’t looking forward to it. That same tiny voice in the back of her mind kept screaming in protest, but the wheels were in motion. And she did trust that Edgar, Anne and company knew what they were doing.
That didn’t keep her from breaking two fingernails within days of the session, or feeling that her almost shoulder-length hair had been cut a fraction of an inch too short, or watching in dire frustration while a tiny pimple worked its way to the surface of her “flawless” skin at one temple.
Mercifully, she didn’t have to worry about what to wear. Marjorie Semple, the fashion director forClass,was taking care of that. All Marni had to do was to show up bright and early on the prescribed morning and put herself into the hands of the hairstylist, the makeup artist, the dresser, numerous other assistants and, of course, Brian Webster. Unfortunately, Edgar, Steve, Anne, Dan, Cynthia, Marjorie and a handful of others from the magazine were also planning to attend the session.
“Do youallhave to be there?” Marni asked nervously when she spoke with Anne the day before the scheduled shoot.
“Most of us do. At least the first time. Webster knows what kind of feeling we want in this picture, but I think our presence will be a reminder to him of the investment we have in this.”
“He’s a professional. He knows what he’s being paid for. I thought you had faith in him.”
“I do,” Anne responded with confidence. “Maybe what I’m trying to say is that it’s good PR for us to be there.”
“It may be good PR, but it’s not doing anything for my peace of mind. It’ll be bad enough with all of Webster’s people there. With all ofyouthere, I’ll feel like I’m a public spectacle. My God,” she muttered under her breath, “I don’t know how I let myself be talked into this.”
“You let yourself be talked into it because you know it’s going to be a smashing success. The session itself will be a piece of cake after all the agonizing you’ve done about it. You’ve been photographed before, Marni. I’ve seen those shots. They were marvelous.”
“A standard black-and-white publicity photo is one thing. This is different.”
“It’s easier. All you have to do isbethere. Everything else will be taken care of.”
They’d been through this all before, and Marni had too many other things that needed her attention to rehash old arguments. “Okay, Anne. But please. Keep theClassstaff presence at a minimum. Edgar was going to take me to the studio, but I think I’ll tell him to stay here. Steve can take me—Classis his special project. The last thing I need is a corporative audience.”
As it happened, Steve couldn’t take her, since he was flying in from meetings in Atlanta and would have to join the session when it was already underway. So Edgar swung by in the company limousine and picked her up at her Fifth Avenue co-op that Tuesday morning. She was wearing a silk blouse of a pale lavender that coordinated with the deeper lavender shade of her pencil-slim wool skirt and its matching long, oversized jacket. Over the lot she wore a chic wool topcoat that reached mid-calf and was suitably protective against the cold February air.
In a moment’s impulsiveness, she’d considered showing up at the session in jeans, a sweatshirt and sneakers, with her hair unwashed and her face perfectly naked. After all, she’d never been “made over” before. But she hadn’t been able to do it. For one thing, she had every intention of going to the office directly from the shoot, hence her choice of clothes. For another, she believed she had an image to uphold. Wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, as she so often did at home alone on weekends, she looked young and vulnerable. But she was thirty-one and the president of her family’s corporation. Confidence had to radiate from her, as well as sophistication and maturity. True, Webster’s hairstylist would probably rewash her hair and then do his own thing with it. The makeup artist would remove even those faint traces of makeup she’d applied that morning. But at least she’d walk into the studio and meet those artists for the first time looking like the successful, over-thirty businesswoman she was supposed to be.
The crosstown traffic was heavy, and the drive to the studio took longer than she’d expected. Edgar, God bless him, had his briefcase open and was reviewing spread sheets aloud. Not that it was necessary. She’d already been over the figures in question, and even if she hadn’t, she was a staunch believer in the delegation of authority, as Edgar well knew. But she sensed he was trying to get her mind off the upcoming session, and though his ploy did little to salve her unease, she was grateful for the effort.
The limousine pulled to the curb outside a large, seemingly abandoned warehouse by the river on the west side of Manhattan. Dubious, Marni studied the building through the darkened window of the car.
“This is it,” Edgar said. He tucked his papers inside his briefcase, then snapped it shut. “It doesn’t look like much, but Brian Webster’s been producing great things inside it for years.” He climbed from the limousine, then put out a hand to help her.
Moments later they were walking past piles of packing crates toward a large freight elevator, which carried them up. Marni didn’t waste time wondering what was on the second, third and fourth floors. She was too busy trying to imagine the scene on the fifth, which, according to the button Edgar had pressed, was where they were headed.
The door slid open. A brightly lit reception area spread before them, its white walls decorated with a modest, if well-chosen, sampling of the photographer’s work. The receptionist, an exquisite young woman with raven-black hair, amber eyes and a surprisingly shy smile, immediately came forward from behind her desk and extended her hand.
“Ms. Lange? I’m Angie. I hope you found us all right.”
Marni shook her hand, but simply nodded, slightly awed by the young woman’s raw beauty. Because of it, she was that little bit more unsettled than she might have been if Webster’s receptionist had been middle-aged and frumpy. Not only was Angie tall, but she wore a black wool minidress with a high-collared, long-sleeved fuchsia blouse layered underneath, fuchsia tights and a matching belt double-looped around her slender waist. She was a model, or a would-be model, Marni realized, and it seemed far more fitting that she should be there than Marni herself.
