depredations of middle age. Did anything exciting happen while I was out?”
“Not exciting, exactly,” Tiffany said. “I did the clippings.”
“And?”
“There was a paragraph about you in a piece in The New Yorker about women being elected to Congress. There was a paragraph about you in a piece in Boston magazine too, but it was just a reference, because you did all that work with the Environmental Jobs Council last year. I think they’re trying to start the same kind of thing in Massachusetts.”
“That’s nice.”
“It was a slow day, really. Not like during the election, when you were in the papers every day. I think I kind of miss it.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, I suppose it must have been horrible for you,” Tiffany said, “being followed around like that. But for the rest of us, it was neat. It was like being connected to a celebrity. I mean, you are a celebrity.”
“I’m a congresswoman. It’s not the same thing.”
“During the election I could go into bars and if I said I worked for you, fifteen guys wanted to take me home. I’m not kidding. I never do that well usually. Most of the time, guys in bars go for the tall types. The model-actress types. They don’t want secretaries.”
“You could try not going to bars.”
“You can’t find men if you don’t go to bars,” Tiffany said. “You don’t know what it’s like out there. It’s terrible, really. There aren’t enough men to go around. And all the men there just want to get laid.”
There was nothing she could do about her hair, Julianne decided. Usually she wore it up, teased and colored and wrapped until it looked half fake, but today it was limp and colorless and it was going to stay that way. Julianne went through the drawers of the vanity until she found a bright red scarf. She twirled it into a band and tied it around her head. She reminded herself of one of those sweater-girl publicity stills from the forties, except that her face was far too heavy and far too lined. She rummaged in her canvas bag again and came up with a pair of long, dangling earrings. They were turquoise and silver and constructed of hundreds of tiny pieces, each meant to swing and sound in the wind.
“There,” Julianne said.
“There was something else,” Tiffany told her. “In the clippings. Not about you.”
“Not about me?”
“It was about that friend of yours. At least, I think she’s a friend of yours. One of those women in that picture you keep on your desk.”
“Oh? Which of those women?”
“Karla Parrish.”
Julianne left the powder room for the outer office. There was a picture of Karla Parrish on her desk, although Karla hadn’t been the point of it. The picture had been taken in one of the living rooms of Jewett House at Vassar College in 1967. All the women in the picture had been juniors then, and only one of them was in the least bit noticeable. That, of course, was Patsy MacLaren. Julianne picked up the picture and then put it down again. She hated looking at it. She had no idea why she still kept it.
“So what about Karla Parrish,” she asked Tiffany. “Does she live in Philadelphia?”
“I don’t know where she lives. The article didn’t say. She’s a famous photographer.”
“Is she?”
“She takes pictures of war zones and refugees and things like that. She has a photograph on the cover of the Sunday Times Magazine this week. New York. The New York Times , I mean.”
“I’d heard she was taking photographs,” Julianne said. “I hadn’t realized she was that successful.”
“The article made her sound like the greatest thing since Matt Brady. ‘Documenting the horrors of the twentieth century.’ ‘Bearing witness to the atrocities of our age.’ ‘Arguably responsible for more relief efforts than the UN.’ That kind of thing.”
“I’m impressed,” Julianne said. Actually, she was more than impressed. She would not have expected Karla to get so far. She would have expected her to
“Not exciting, exactly,” Tiffany said. “I did the clippings.”
“And?”
“There was a paragraph about you in a piece in The New Yorker about women being elected to Congress. There was a paragraph about you in a piece in Boston magazine too, but it was just a reference, because you did all that work with the Environmental Jobs Council last year. I think they’re trying to start the same kind of thing in Massachusetts.”
“That’s nice.”
“It was a slow day, really. Not like during the election, when you were in the papers every day. I think I kind of miss it.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, I suppose it must have been horrible for you,” Tiffany said, “being followed around like that. But for the rest of us, it was neat. It was like being connected to a celebrity. I mean, you are a celebrity.”
“I’m a congresswoman. It’s not the same thing.”
“During the election I could go into bars and if I said I worked for you, fifteen guys wanted to take me home. I’m not kidding. I never do that well usually. Most of the time, guys in bars go for the tall types. The model-actress types. They don’t want secretaries.”
“You could try not going to bars.”
“You can’t find men if you don’t go to bars,” Tiffany said. “You don’t know what it’s like out there. It’s terrible, really. There aren’t enough men to go around. And all the men there just want to get laid.”
There was nothing she could do about her hair, Julianne decided. Usually she wore it up, teased and colored and wrapped until it looked half fake, but today it was limp and colorless and it was going to stay that way. Julianne went through the drawers of the vanity until she found a bright red scarf. She twirled it into a band and tied it around her head. She reminded herself of one of those sweater-girl publicity stills from the forties, except that her face was far too heavy and far too lined. She rummaged in her canvas bag again and came up with a pair of long, dangling earrings. They were turquoise and silver and constructed of hundreds of tiny pieces, each meant to swing and sound in the wind.
“There,” Julianne said.
“There was something else,” Tiffany told her. “In the clippings. Not about you.”
“Not about me?”
“It was about that friend of yours. At least, I think she’s a friend of yours. One of those women in that picture you keep on your desk.”
“Oh? Which of those women?”
“Karla Parrish.”
Julianne left the powder room for the outer office. There was a picture of Karla Parrish on her desk, although Karla hadn’t been the point of it. The picture had been taken in one of the living rooms of Jewett House at Vassar College in 1967. All the women in the picture had been juniors then, and only one of them was in the least bit noticeable. That, of course, was Patsy MacLaren. Julianne picked up the picture and then put it down again. She hated looking at it. She had no idea why she still kept it.
“So what about Karla Parrish,” she asked Tiffany. “Does she live in Philadelphia?”
“I don’t know where she lives. The article didn’t say. She’s a famous photographer.”
“Is she?”
“She takes pictures of war zones and refugees and things like that. She has a photograph on the cover of the Sunday Times Magazine this week. New York. The New York Times , I mean.”
“I’d heard she was taking photographs,” Julianne said. “I hadn’t realized she was that successful.”
“The article made her sound like the greatest thing since Matt Brady. ‘Documenting the horrors of the twentieth century.’ ‘Bearing witness to the atrocities of our age.’ ‘Arguably responsible for more relief efforts than the UN.’ That kind of thing.”
“I’m impressed,” Julianne said. Actually, she was more than impressed. She would not have expected Karla to get so far. She would have expected her to
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