"Just asking'. Can't do more than that, pretty chick like you."
She hurried away, only to be accosted a few yards later by a
darkskinned man in a filthy white suit who sidled up behind her.
"Wanna be a model?" he said, speaking out of the corner of his
mouth.
She kept walking.
"Wanna be a model an' make a lotta bucks?" he said, keeping pace with
her.
She ignored him.
"Wanna fuck me?"
She stopped, turned to look at him and said in a very loud voice,
"Leave me alone or 111 call a cop. Got it, pervert?"
He slunk off.
Outside the bus station she found a cab and gave the driver the address
of the Barbizon Hotel for Women.
"How many times you get hit on in there?" the driver asked, shoving
his foot on the gas and zooming away from the curb, missing another cab
by mere inches.
"Enough," she replied, gazing out the window at the dirty sidewalks,
scurrying crowds and snarled traffic.
It was like a dream. Here she was, finally in New York, and she was
free, she had nobody to answer to except herselœ She'd booked a room at
the Barbizon before leaving Philadelphia.
She'd also been buying the New York papers and circling job
opportunities, setting up several appointments by phone.
After she'd unpacked and settled in, she took a walk over to Fifth
Avenue. Oh, yes, it was just like Breakfast at Tiffany's. The same
wide street, the same expensive stores. She found herself outside
Tiffany's staring into the windows like a tourist. She stifled a
giggle-all she needed now was a cat and she was all set!
The next day she awoke early. It was autumn and the weather was
brisk.
She dressed carefully in a simple dark blue dress, low-heeled shoes and
her mother's pearls. On top she belted a navy trench coat.
She'd pulled her thick chestnut hair back, securing it with a barrette,
and wore very little makeup. The plainer the better, she thought. But
there was no disguising the fact that at twenty-one Lauren was a
natural beauty with her perfect oval face, unusual tortoiseshell-color
eyes and dazzling smile.
Before doing anything else she opened a bank account and deposited her
four-thousand-dollar savings. Then she set off on the first of three
interviews.
The first one was with a law firm housed in a tall chrome and glass
building on Park Avenue. There she was interrogated by an attractive
black woman, who asked her a series of probing questions and made her
fill out a personality analysis form. After that she had to sit in a
room and produce a sample of her typing.
"Excellent!" she exclaimed. "Where can we The woman timed her.
reach you?"
Her next interview was with a firm of accountants on Lexington
Avenue.
The building was not so nice, although it was near Bloomingdale's and
she'd certainly heard plenty about Bloomingdale's. The man who
interviewed her was a junior partner. He was friendly and didn't seem
on the make. He read through her references twice and asked if she
could start the following week. She told him she'd have to let him
know.
Her third interview was with a modeling agency on Madison Avenue called
Samm's. They'd advertised for a booker. Lauren had no idea what a
booker did-but working at a modeling agency might be fun, and she could
certainly do with a little fun in her life.
A harassed girl in a purple jumpsuit told her that she'd made a mistake
and better come back the next day because there was nobody to see
her.
"I can't come back tomorrow," she said. "My appointment was for
oday.
I have two other jobs under consideration and I have to make a
The girl looked at her like she was nuts. "So don't come back," she
said. "Take one of the other jobs."
"I'd like to make a choice," Lauren said. "Why can't somebody see me
today?"
"They're all over at the big photo shoot for Flash Cosmetics. Is that
a good enough reason for you?"
She went downstairs, found a phone booth and looked up Flash
Cosmetics.
Then she called their office. "Can you tell me where the ad photo
session is taking place?" she asked. "This is Lauren from Samm's."
"Sure, just a moment," said the voice on the other end of the phone.
Two minutes later she had the information-a photographer's studio on
East 64th Street.
She walked to the studio. It only took her fifteen minutes and when
she arrived she informed the receptionist that she had something to
deliver from Samm's. The girl told her to go to the studio in back.
She made her way down a narrow corridor which led into a large,
brightly lit studio jammed with people.
The first person she noticed was a short, flamboyant man hovering
behind a camera, while several other people stood around watching.
In front of the camera languished the most startling-looking girl
Lauren had ever seen. She was an exceptionally tall blonde with masses
of curly hair, huge blue eyes and pouty lips, encased in a low-cut,
slinky, silver sequined gown. Lauren recognized her as Nature, the
current darling of the fashion magazines.
"Get yer finger out, Antonio," Nature screamed. She had a voice like a
fishwife and a cockney accent that could sharpen knives. "I'm freezing
me balls off."
"Close your legs, darling, maybe that will help," murmured a thin
fortyish redhead standing to one side.
Lauren hovered on the periphery.
Nature struck a pose.
Antonio started shooting. "Bellisima, darling, bellisima! You are the
most fantastic woman in the world!"
The more he flattered her the more Nature loved it. She postured and
preened, making intimate contact with the camera, her glossy lips
quivering with emotion, her big blue eyes mesmerizing.
Antonio shot several rolls of film before calling for a break.
Everybody clapped. Nature threw her head back and laughed, sounding
like a demented parrot. "Me bleedin' feet are killin' me," she roared,
collapsing into a chair while a makeup artist and hairdresser rushed
forward to attend to her every need.
"Excuse me." Lauren tapped one of the camera assistants on the arm.
"Can you tell me who the executives from Samm's are?"
"Over there." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the redheaded
woman.
Tentatively Lauren approached her. The woman was in the process of
lighting up a long thin cigarillo.
"Uh . . . excuse me," she said. "My name's Lauren Roberts. I had an
apointment today with someone at Samm's, but the girl told me everyone
was here."
The woman dragged on her cigarette and stared at her. "Too short, too
heavy, too eager.
Lauren frowned. At five feet seven she'd never been called shortand as
for heavy . . . no way. This woman was definitely peculiar. "I beg
your pardon?" she said hotly.
"You'll never make it. daflin. You don't have the attitiic1e" never
make what?"
"A model. Isn't that what you want to be? Isn't that what they all
want to be? Although, I must say, it's tres original, following me to
the studio."
She stood her ground. "I didn't follow you anywhere. And nobody's
ever called me heavy before."
"For a real person you're not the least bit heavy. For a would-be
model you're grossly overweight."
"We had an appointment," Lauren said. "Someone was supposed to
interview me about the booker's job. I went to your office and the
girl said there was nobody to see me.
"So you decided to come here?"
She couldn't stop herself from staring at the woman's blood-red
inch-long nails-talons, her mother would've called them. "Yes."
"In that case you get high marks for using your head. Can you type?"
"I sent in my" "Can you type?" the woman repeated impatiently.
Don't get aggravated, Roberts. Stay cool. "Yes, I can type."
"Can you answer phones?"
She couldn't keep the sarcasm out of her voice. "It sounds like a
really challenging job."
The woman was unfazed. "Oh, don't worry, dear, it's challenging all
right. I'll try you out. Be at the office at nine o'clock
tomorrow."
"If I decide to take the job, I can start Monday."
The woman looked at her like she wasn't quite sure she'd heard
correctly. "If you decide to take the job? My God, little Miss
Independent, aren't we?"
"I have two other job offers I'm looking into."
"And what would you do if I said this offer was only open now, this
very moment, and if you turn it down don't bother coming back?"
There was a brief silence, broken by Nature screaming, "Get yer
bleedin' arses in gear-I'm ready ter shoot."
Lauren took a moment to consider the possibilities. She could accept
the job with the law firm, but she already knew what that would be
like-boring, boring, boring. Or she could say yes to the accounting
firm-another laugh a minute. Her third alternative was to take the job
with this bossy, redheaded woman. It could prove to be interesting.
"Well?" the woman said abruptly. "Are you joining us or not?"
"What's the salary?"
"Not enough," the woman replied brusquely.
"I need to make a decent salary. I have to get an apartment and afford
to eat."
"You can share an apartment and starve. Builds character. Let me know
when you make up your mind. You have exactly five minutes to think
about it. After that, my dear girl, this job opportunity is over."
eece Webster had her exactly where he wanted her-pinned beneath him,
waiting for the big moment, almost begging. He knew he gave her good
loving, the best she'd ever had, so he could afford to keep her
hanging.
He paused in mid-thrust. "What's your name, little lady?" he
demanded.
"Cyndra," she gasped.
He prolonged the moment. "Cyndra what?"
"Don't torture me, Reece."
"Cyndra what?"
"Cyndra Webster."
He laughed, and let her feel him move inside her. "Who owns you now?
She moaned, almost there. "You do."
"An' who's gonna love you till you drop?"
"You are.
Now he heated up the action. "And who am I?"
"You're. . . my. . . husband."
"Damn right, baby. Damn right!" He let rip and she came on cue.
What a stud! Nobody did it like he did.
Cyndra shuddered and rolled away from him, curling her beautiful body
into a tight ball. Some guys might be offended by her immediate
withdrawal, but not Reece Webster-he was a man, a real man, and he
could take it. In fact, it was a relief-women who wanted to cuddle and
talk after sex gave him that Let's get outta here feeling.
The good news was he'd finally had the smarts to shed his first wife, a
going-nowhere blonde, and two days later he'd turned around and married
his little darkie songbird. Now this was a girl destined to go places,
and he, Reece Webster, was going right along with her.
Cyndra Angelo was an investment. He'd married her to protect
himself.
Reece Webster was five feet ten inches tall, with sandy hair, a thin
blond mustache, slit eyes and a penchant for wearing flashy cowboy
clothes, even though he'd been born in Brooklyn. At thirty-eight he
was sixteen years older than Cyndra, but as far as he was concerned
this was a good thing. It meant she didn't know as much as he did.
He could mold her any way he wanted, and that's exactly what he was
doing.
They'd met in New York at a club where her boyfriend was working as a
bouncer. Joey hadn't stood a chance once Reece Webster moved in.
After introducing himself as a personal manager he'd asked her what she
did.
"I'm plannin' to be a professional singer," she'd said, very full of
herself.
"Then you just met the man who's gonna make you a star," he'd replied,
equally confident.
Corniest line in the world, but it worked every time.
At first his interest had been purely sexual. A quick lay and on to
the next. But she wasn't interested in accompanying him to his
apartment. She had no desire for a quickie-not even when he'd told her
he produced records and had something to do with the rise of John
Travolta's career. Both lies, of course-but who was listening?
Usually he didn't like them so young-but there was something special
about Cyndra, so he'd continued the pursuit, reeling her in
carefully.
He'd hired a studio for a couple of hours and paid for her to cut a
demo. She'd had no idea what she was doing-but there was a voice there
somewhere, and he'd decided that if he could bring it out they'd be
rolling in dollar bills.
"I'm going' back to Hollywood," he'd told her casually one day.
"Yeah . . . Hollywood's the place a girl like you could really
score.
"Well . . ." She'd hesitated. "One of these days Joey and I-"
"Forget about Joey. He's a loser. Hang out with him an' you'll end up
like him. On the other hand-come with me an' I'll do something' bout
that singin' career of yours.
And so it came to pass that she finally dumped Joey, and drove with
Reece cross country in his shocking pink 1969 Cadillac, consummating
their relationship in a Holiday Inn somewhere near Albuquerque.
Once they'd settled in L.A. Reece had arranged singing lessons for
her.
He wasn't disappointed, she was a natural.
Now, two years later, all his hard work and well-invested money was
hopefully beginning to pay dividends. He'd managed to interest a
couple of record companies in her-and they were both considering
meeting with her and maybe cutting a demo.
In the meantime he'd married her. Reece knew a life-time meal ticket
when it stared him in the face.
Curled up in a ball, knees hugging her chest, Cyndra couldn't figure
out why she didn't feel any different. She was married, for God's
sake. Married! And yet she still felt the same.
Well, she'd only been married one day, she reasoned. Maybe she'd feel
different tomorrow.
She thought about Aretha Mae and wondered what she'd have to say about
this. For the first time since leaving Bosewell, she almost considered
going home. Just for a visit, of course-a very short visit.
She'd ride up in Reece's big old Cadillac and Harlan would come running
to greet them. God, he must be a big boy now-sixteen.
Aretha Mae would cook up some of her special fried chicken and greasy
fries. What a treat!
The only problem was she'd never told Reece about her poor
beginnings.
He thought she came from a nice middle-class family. As far as he
knew, her mother was a housewife and her father made his living as a
car salesman. She didn't have the nerve to tell him the truth. The
fact was she was ashamed of where she came from.
Reece Webster had entered her life at exactly the right time-just when