The Magnolia Palace

Chapter Five

1966

Upstairs in her makeshift dressing room, Veronica dumped the contents of her purse out on the bureau, grabbed some tissues, and wiped at her face, the eyeliner leaving behind bruise-like smudges. She was out of her element in this grand house, with models and a crew who were experienced and savvy, and hoped she wouldn’t be fired before they gave her a chance to try again and show that she could pose and preen like the others. Prove that she wasn’t a freak, which was exactly what she looked like right now. An overly lacquered freak with a mushroom on her head.

Sabrina had warned her that the fashion industry was a fickle one. One day you were considered a hot commodity; the next, you were worse than nobody. Barnaby had probably forgotten all about how she’d impressed him at her go-see, why she was hired in the first place. But she had to move beyond her fears and worries about what everyone was thinking or saying about her. It was her job to fold herself into whatever the shoot required, and she’d do so. As soon as she fixed her face.

“Are you all right?”

Tangerine peeked her head in the door.

Veronica nodded, moved by the sympathetic look on Tangerine’s face. She had one friend here, at least.

Tangerine led Veronica into the bathroom and stood next to her in front of the mirror. “Don’t let Barnaby push you around. He’s all bark, I promise.”

“I’m embarrassed,” admitted Veronica. “This is my first really big shoot. I mean, it’s Vogue.”

“Good for you, then. It took me three years to make it to this level. Don’t beat yourself up.”

“Thanks.” Veronica picked up a thick makeup brush then paused, nervous that she’d do something wrong again.

Tangerine took it from her. “Let me.”

With a quiet assurance, Tangerine sat Veronica on the edge of the claw-footed bathtub and began putting Veronica’s face back together. Her hair smelled like lavender, and Veronica relaxed, relieved that someone else was in charge. She glanced in the mirror every so often, noting the techniques Tangerine used for future shoots.

“Look down at the floor,” instructed Tangerine, as she drew on a thin line of black eyeliner.

“Your shoes are smashing,” said Veronica. In sharp contrast to her own cheap black pumps, Tangerine wore bright pink heels with a delicate pearl accent on the toe.

“Dior. Nice, right?” She stepped back and studied her work, tapping one toe. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure.”

“I stole them after a photo shoot for the House of Dior’s 1965 line.”

“What?”

“Everyone does it. I mean, look at all of the clothes and things they’re tossing around during the shoots. They never keep track, and it’s a way to earn a little pocket money on the side. Either you keep it for yourself, or sell it at a consignment shop. Super easy. We only have a limited shelf life as models, so we might as well make the best of it. Especially with the beastly way they treat us half the time.”

Veronica didn’t think she’d have the nerve to take anything. But after being on the receiving end of Barnaby’s snark, she understood the impulse.

She looked at herself in the mirror. While she still wore eyeliner and false eyelashes, her mouth and cheeks were more subdued. “It’s perfect.”

“The focus is where it should be, on your eyes,” said Tangerine. “God, I love your hair so much. Did Vidal do it?”

Veronica put a hand to her hair. Why admit it was all a mistake? “Yes.”

She was learning.

“You’re so good at this, Tangerine.” Veronica wasn’t ready to relinquish the thin thread of kindness that had come her way just yet. “How did you figure it all out?”

“My older sister. She’s way prettier than I am, but went off and got married instead of working. She taught me the tricks of a perfect cat-eye from an early age. You just needed a sister.”

“I have a sister. A twin.”

“How fabulous. They should do a shoot with the two of you! Now, that would make waves.”

Veronica nodded as Tangerine took a can of hair spray and molded her hair into a shellacked helmet. Polly would never be in a photo shoot. They might be twins, but no one had ever viewed them as a matched set, even when they were both young children. While Veronica had emerged into the world unscathed, Polly had been deprived of oxygen for too long. Although she understood what was said and communicated with a series of gestures and sounds, she didn’t speak. Only Veronica and their parents understood her. To the outside world, she was something to be stared at, a girl with an odd, twitchy walk and a mouth that hung open. Big brown eyes that avoided one’s gaze.

The four of them had lived quite happily in a row house in the London district of Notting Hill. When Veronica’s father decided to step away from the pawnshop he’d founded with his brother and become a driver of a black cab instead, nine-year-old Veronica had been his study partner for the Knowledge, the training course required to earn a license. Famous for its difficulty, passing the Knowledge involved memorizing 320 routes through London, including places of interest along the way. A cabbie had to know the shortest route between any two points, as well as side streets, cross junctions, and traffic signals passed. Veronica loved poring over the map of London together, a sprawl of roads bisected by the snakelike River Thames. She would shout out the pickup spot and destination, gleefully point out his mistakes, and after he’d finally passed the last of the twelve exams that comprised the Knowledge, the family had gone out to dinner in a fancy restaurant with cloth napkins to celebrate. He’d made a toast to Veronica, praising her innate ability to remember the names of the smallest London alleyways, adding that he couldn’t have done it without her by his side.

Seven years later, Veronica had come out of the front door on her way to school to find her father’s taxicab idling in the driveway. He’d worked the night shift, and at first she thought he’d fallen asleep. She knocked on the window, and when he didn’t respond, she yanked open the door with a hearty hello. He remained still and silent, his lifeless hands clasped in his lap, as if lost in prayer.

The rest of the morning was a blur of images: an ambulance slicing down their street; the sickly lack of color in her mum’s face; Polly standing behind her, one fist pressed to her mouth. A heart attack, the doctor said.

Without him, Veronica’s mum lost both her husband and his steady income. She took a job working for a solicitor on Portobello Road and made it clear to Veronica that her dream of studying history at university was no longer an option, even if Trish didn’t say so out loud. Veronica passed her O levels and left school, putting in long hours at her uncle Donny’s shop. Unfortunately, Veronica’s and Trish’s measly wages combined were not enough to pay for someone to watch over Polly while they were both working and still cover the household expenses. While Polly had achieved some degree of independence, she was prone to seizures and simply couldn’t be left unattended.

Polly’s things were packed up, and the three of them drove to Kent House, a Victorian mansion that had been converted into a group home. It had been a dull, wet day, and the series of gables that spiked out from the slate rooftop lent the place an ominous air. Veronica was barely able to hide her panic that this was where her sister would be living from now on. “She’ll make all kinds of friends here,” Trish said, patting her on the arm.

They unpacked Polly’s trunk, arranging family photos along the windowsill, and kissed her goodbye. Polly stood in the doorway of her new room, one hand clutching the doorframe, and offered up a brave smile when Veronica turned around one last time to wave. Her heart had ripped apart in that instant. She’d heard the phrase before, but now understood it viscerally: her chest ached as if the membranes and chambers of that delicate organ had been cleaved open. While the loss of her father had been sudden and wretched, it was ultimately a matter of coming to terms with something that couldn’t be undone. The loss of Polly was worse, in some ways. If Veronica had a decent job, they could bring her home, yet she was utterly unqualified for anything that paid well. She even considered getting a taxicab license and following in her father’s footsteps, but dropped the idea after learning that only men were allowed to sit for the exams.

Veronica visited Kent House once a week, and watched helplessly as her sister declined. When they worked on a puzzle together in the recreation room, Polly’s mischievous glee at finding the piece they’d both been searching for was replaced with an unsteady shrug. Meanwhile, at home, Trish burbled over dinner about the idiosyncrasies of her new boss, of how demanding he was known to be and how pleased he was with her work ethic. Once, Veronica made a snide comment about how Trish had simply replaced one caretaking job with another, but this one for a stranger, and Trish erupted. “Your hourly wage at the pawnshop is nothing to brag about. It won’t do any good having Polly home if we’re all hungry, now will it?”

The hurt behind Trish’s eyes had revealed the true cost of sending her daughter away. A decision that she’d tried to paint as rosily as possible in order to execute it. Right then, Veronica had vowed to do everything she could to get Polly out, and at her next visit, she promised her sister that she’d find a way to bring her home. Then Sabrina had “discovered” Veronica at the pawnshop, and now here she was in New York City with the chance at hand, as long as she didn’t make a mess of it.

Back downstairs at the Frick Collection, the stylist approved Veronica’s revarnished face with a nod and put her in a crepe Yves Saint Laurent jumpsuit with flared trousers. Barnaby had the girls mimic some of the poses in the wall panels before deciding the room wouldn’t work at all, so they all tromped over to the library, where a book titled The Lives of the Queens of Scotland, bound in handsome maroon leather, was handed to Veronica. She was tempted to leaf through it, but instead took up a position next to the fireplace and tucked it under one arm, as directed. This seemed to please Barnaby, although Veronica caught the Frick archivist hovering in the doorway to the hallway looking concerned, only disappearing after she placed the book back into the bookshelf and everyone broke for lunch.

Down in the basement, the models were directed to a large room with several tables. A long buffet along one wall was set with sandwiches, fruit, and sodas. Starving, Veronica headed right to the food, but as she was reaching for one of the sandwiches, Tangerine grabbed her arm.

“In America, the photographer goes first.”

“Barnaby gets to eat first?” Veronica asked.

Tangerine nodded. “Not sure why, that’s just the way it is.”

Indeed, everyone waited at the tables—a hierarchy in itself, with the stylist and editorial director at one, models at another, and crew at what was left, the rest having to stand or go sit on the stairs—until Barnaby finally waltzed in, plopped a sandwich on a plate, and joined the editorial director’s table. Only then did the rest descend.

Back at the table, Tangerine nibbled at some grapes.

“Is that all you’re having?” asked Veronica.

She shrugged. “I have to lose a few pounds. My agent says I look like a truck.”

“That’s crazy. You’re skinny as can be.”

“You’re so sweet.”

Even though she was starving, Veronica left half of her sandwich on her plate, not wanting to appear greedy.

After lunch, they returned to the room with the panels and changed into silk Givenchy evening gowns. Veronica’s was jet black, and it picked up the radiance in her hair, making her skin look even paler than normal, but in an arty way that she hoped would please Barnaby. She made a note to wear more black when she went out on go-sees.

They gathered in the big living room in the center of the house, which had French doors that led out to what in summer must be a large lawn, but today was covered in snowdrifts that were getting larger by the hour.

“All right,” said Barnaby, rubbing his hands together. “Everyone outside.”

“What?” asked Tangerine.

“I want you girls leaping in snow. I’ll shoot from the doorway.”

The models all wore their own high-heeled shoes, which would be ruined by the snow. Veronica had paid twenty-four pounds for hers. What a waste. Not to mention their expensive clothes. “What about the outfits?” she asked.

“I don’t care about the outfits.”

Veronica noted a grim expression on the editorial director’s face. She certainly did, although she didn’t seem eager to share that fact.

One by one, the models gingerly made their way down the stone steps. The snowflakes acted as a gauzy filter for the weighty stone wall and gray trees rising above Fifth Avenue, the perfect winter tableau. Maybe Barnaby knew what he was doing, after all. They wouldn’t be out here long, certainly.

Within minutes, Veronica’s ankles turned to ice, the snowflakes bit into her bare cheeks and arms, and the wind, which had picked up, almost swept her off her feet.

They posed as directed, shivering together in a huddle while the PAs replaced the film in the camera, then posed again. Veronica couldn’t feel her fingers or her toes, and her silk shoes were sopping wet.

“I have a brilliant idea,” said Barnaby, pointing up with his free hand. “I’m going to go to the floor above and shoot down at you. I want you all on your backs making snow angels when I give the order.”

“What?” asked Tangerine. “In the snow?”

“Of course.”

“Can we come in and warm up a little while you set up?” Veronica ventured.

“No, won’t be long. Stay put.”

It would take him at least ten minutes to reset on the floor above. And then they were supposed to roll around on the ground? Veronica and Tangerine exchanged glances.

“But it’s freezing,” said Tangerine, her lips blue.

“Tangerine.” Barnaby pointed a finger at her. “I wouldn’t think you would be so cold, with that extra layer of fat you carry around.”

To Veronica’s astonishment, not one of the other models said a word in protest, even though they all had chattering teeth. She remembered the go-see where, fed up by the lack of consideration for the models’ time, she’d channeled her frustrations and discovered a power she didn’t even know she had. She drew on that now. He had no right to be so cruel.

“This is inhumane,” she said. “We’re all going to get terribly sick. And that’s an awful thing to say to Tangerine. You should apologize.”

“Stop it,” hissed Tangerine. “Shut up.”

Veronica turned to her. “We don’t have to be treated like this.”

Barnaby spoke up. “Are you going to hold up the shoot even further than it already is? Let me remind you, we all have a train to catch, and right now you’re the one keeping these girls stuck out in the cold.”

“Yeah, shut the hell up.” Gigi practically spit out the words.

Barnaby spoke with crisp displeasure. “I will make the next few days hell for you if you don’t obey me. You got that, Veronica? If you’re so cold, go inside. We’ll do this without you.”

She thought of Polly, of all the money she was earning, and grudgingly allowed her courage to dissipate. “I’m fine,” she muttered.

Ten minutes later she was flat on her back in a foot of snow, waving her arms and legs back and forth while Barnaby yelled out orders from the upper floor of the Frick Collection. The evening gown stuck to her body, the wet cutting into her skin like acid.

“Veronica, you’re not trying,” brayed Barnaby. “More arms, please.”

A strong gust of wind swept a coating of powdery snow over them, causing the girls to shriek. They’d be buried alive if this continued. Veronica sat up. “I can’t anymore. It’s too cold.”

Barnaby lowered his camera. “That’s it. Get out of my sight. Now.”

He didn’t have to say it twice.

Veronica ran past the crew and disappeared deep into the house.

Upstairs, Veronica stripped off the soaked, utterly wretched gown, and used her scarf to dry herself off. Shivering still, she pulled on her street clothes, thankful that she’d packed a thick turtleneck and jeans. Outside the window, the snow was coming down even harder. She watched it, mesmerized, miserable at herself for not being able to cope, frustrated at having stood up for Tangerine, only to make matters worse. She packed up her suitcases and sat for a moment, unsure of what to do next. Go down and wait? Leave and catch the next plane back to London?

She glanced out the window again. As much as she’d like to return home, she couldn’t imagine flights were taking off in this weather. In fact, she wondered if the train would make it out to Newport. Storms like this occurred so infrequently in Britain, she was unsure of how it all worked here. Americans most likely soldiered through regardless of the weather, as the models had earlier. That stupid, snowy caper had been ridiculous.

But was Veronica willing to put her plan for Polly in jeopardy over one lousy photographer? Sabrina would be terribly disappointed as well. Veronica let out a long breath. No, instead, she’d go down and talk to Barnaby, try to reason with him, and get him to agree to a fresh start in Newport. It was the grown-up thing to do.

She gave one last look at that unnerving portrait of the little girl on the wall and walked out.

As she rounded the corner, the high-pitched squeals of the other models rang up the stairwell. They were on their way back upstairs. For all of Veronica’s earlier swagger, she wasn’t ready to see the other girls yet, to have them regard her as if she were some kind of madwoman. Instead, she ducked through the nearest open door and closed it softly behind her.

She was standing in a small vestibule that opened off to the left into a larger room that was filled with strange shiny tubes. She put down her suitcases and walked farther inside.

The tubes must be the pipes for the organ in the stairwell. During her family’s few pilgrimages to the local parish, Veronica had stared up at the pipes that rose behind the church organ and wondered how the sound traveled from the keyboard, if there wasn’t someone back there blowing into them to make them work.

A narrow walkway cut through the maze of tubes, and she wandered through as carefully as she could toward a small window on the far side of the room, which looked to the north but didn’t have much of a view.

The girls’ voices had dissipated. They would need some time to change out of their clothes and pack up, so for now the coast was clear. Veronica was heading back to the vestibule to collect her suitcases when her right heel unexpectedly skidded along the floor and she lost her balance, stumbling backward. She fell hard on her bottom, breaking some of the impact with her palms. How pathetic. She had no right being a model if she couldn’t even put one foot in front of the other without ending up in a heap.

She sat for a moment, legs out in front of her, and rubbed her stinging palms together. As she braced herself to stand back up, a flash of white caught her eye. Deep within the forest of organ pipes lay what looked to be a small pile of papers. They were slightly curled at the edges, and reminded her of the love letters her mother had stashed in a box at the back of a hall closet after her father’s death. She reached in, sliding her fingers between the cold metal until she could grasp them, and slowly pulled them out.

The pages were covered in dust, and she sneezed twice. Sitting cross-legged, she gently fanned them to one side to shake off the residue. What a strange place for old papers. Maybe it was the instruction manual for the organ.

But it wasn’t. Each page contained some kind of odd poem, written with a fountain pen in an old-fashioned calligraphy. They were numbered, and filled with strange references to pillars of salt, marriage caskets, seascapes. You’re halfway to the end of the course of clues, read one.

A series of clues. The very first one had a date on it: November 1919.

When she and Polly were young, they’d entertain themselves with scavenger hunts on rainy days when they couldn’t go out in the garden. Or rather, Veronica entertained Polly. She’d rummage through their toy chest and pick out the smaller items, like a penny whistle, or a tiny doll, and make drawings of what they were and where they were—a doll holding a biscuit to indicate the biscuit jar, for example. Then she’d hide them about the house and watch with glee as Polly tried to locate each one. Whenever her sister found one, she’d throw her head back and make her happy sound, which always made Veronica burst into laughter as well.

She couldn’t remember the last time they’d done the treasure hunt—it must have been years ago. As they’d grown older, the toys were donated to the Salvation Army, and the silly games died out.

Veronica read through the clues, one by one, until the sound of a grandfather clock chiming deep in the house broke her out of her spell. How long had she been sitting there? She had to get downstairs, join the group, and try to make it up to Barnaby on the long train ride north.

The archivist from earlier might find these papers interesting; she’d hand them over before they left. She tucked the clues into the big pocket at the front of her sweater to free up her hands and stood carefully, wary of falling a second time. Her suitcases and small suede purse sat in the vestibule to the organ room where she’d left them, and before she headed down to the main floor, she opened up the purse to check for her train ticket.

It wasn’t there. Dread coursed through her like venom from a snakebite, making her feel shaky and faint. In her mind’s eye, she could picture it sitting on the bureau in the upstairs bedroom, after she’d dumped out the contents of her purse in a frenzy to find tissues. Clearly, the ticket hadn’t made it back inside.

Lugging her suitcases, she rushed down the hall and took a wrong turn, unsure which direction she was facing. Through trial and error, she finally found the room tucked off the back hallway. The ticket lay on the rug, where it had fallen.

She scooped it up and was turning to leave when the lights suddenly went out.

Darkness and an eerie silence, both inside and outside of the mansion, enveloped her. She froze, listening for voices but hearing none.

She flicked on the light switch, but it didn’t work. In the inky gloom, she made her way to the window. Outside, the streetlamps were unlit as well. As were all of the other buildings within sight.

It was as if the storm had erased the rest of the world, whipped it up into nothingness.

A blackout.

Her mother had talked about London’s nightly blackouts that prevented German bombers from finding their targets during the war, how terrifying it was not knowing what was lurking in the night sky. Veronica closed her eyes for a moment, reminding herself to breathe, that she was perfectly fine and just had to find the others.

She groped her way through the hallway to the stairwell. Cursing the kitten heels she’d put on that morning, she clunked her way down to the reception area on the ground floor, where she’d first come in.

“Hello?” she called out.

Someone still had to be here, surely. She headed past the reception desk toward two pairs of glass French doors that led out to the street.

The inside ones were locked, and there was no bolt or button to unlock them, only a keyhole. She cupped her hands and stared out through the front door’s glass windows, onto the street. A carpet of white covered the road and sidewalks. No people, no cars. And even if someone did come by, she wasn’t close enough to the outer doors that her shouts or banging would be heard. Not that many people would be out on a night like this.

She turned around and yelled, not caring that she sounded like a maniac. “Is anyone here? Help!”

And was met with silence.