Read Online Five Brides by Eva Marie Everson - Free Book Online
Authors: Eva Marie Everson
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Joan said, her voice cracking.
Mrs. King smiled—white, even teeth behind full red lips. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m getting ready for a show.”
“A show?”
“For a private client.” She glided to a blond wood desk accented with gold trim. A French-style phone stood on one side, an ornate lamp on the other. In the center, an appointment book lay open wide with a fountain pen poised on top. Matching chairs sat angled just so on both sides. “She’ll be here momentarily, but I hoped we could at least talk for a minute.” Mrs. King turned, waiting for Joan to join her, and Joan quickly made her way to one of the chairs on the opposite side of the desk. After Mrs. King sat, Joan followed. “What did Betty tell you about the job?”
“Only that it’s part-time.”
“And that you’d be working for me? Here?”
Joan glanced around the room. Behind the carpeted stage stoodthree massive gilded mirrors where a client—she now understood—could see the form of a model dressed in any number of outfits and imagine herself looking as fashionable as the figure before her. “Here?” she asked, returning her attention to Mrs. King.
“As a model. Evenings mostly, with the occasional Saturday.”
“And I’ll—” she could hardly imagine it—“model for society women?”
“Mostly men. They come in, wanting to buy that special something for their wives. Mothers. Sisters.” The arched brows rose. “Whomever. We don’t ask and they don’t tell.”
Joan had managed to work in a number of capacities in her young life. Standing and turning in fine apparel couldn’t possibly be any more difficult than collecting scraps of food for a man’s pigs. “When do I start?”
“We’ll want to train you first.” Mrs. King flipped a page on the calendar. “Tomorrow evening. I’ll set an appointment for you with Mrs. Blue. She’ll teach you all you need to know about walking, standing, turning . . .”
“Modeling,” Joan said, feeling a sudden sense of adventure.
Mrs. King nodded as she wrote Joan’s name on a page of the calendar. “You get off from Hertz at five?”
“I do.”
“You can be here by five thirty?”
“I can be here by five fifteen,” Joan said, feeling assured.
Mrs. King opened the right-hand drawer, removed a small pad of paper, scrawled her pen across it, and then tore the top sheet away. “Here you go,” she said. “When you arrive tomorrow, let anyone downstairs know that you are here to see Mrs. Blue. You’ll be taken to her straightaway.”
Joan took the paper. Read it. “Thank you, Mrs. King,” she said.
Delores King pulled the hem of her glove away to reveal a thinwatch around a dainty wrist. “I’m sorry, Joan, but I must say good-bye now. The client will be here soon.”
Joan stood, opening her purse as she did, and dropped the now-folded piece of paper into it. “Thank you again,” she said.
Mrs. King glanced toward the elevator. “The dressing room for our models is to the right here,” she said, pointing her fountain pen in that direction. “Go through it, look around, and you’ll find a door that leads to a stairwell.” She smiled. “That’s the best way for you to leave.” Again her eye went to the elevator.
“I understand,” Joan said, and she did. “I’ll see you again soon, Mrs. King.”
Joan was trained in a matter of afternoons, ready to begin her new part-time position by the start of the following week. The job suited her as well as any she could have hoped for. She spent her days at Hertz, typing on forms and adding up sums, and her evenings draped in the finest ball gowns, party dresses, and furs.
Mrs. King had been correct in saying that most of the clients were men. And, as she’d assumed the day of her interview, the models were expected to be discreet. Whether the customers purchased for their wives or their sweethearts was not the concern of the models. They and their satisfaction , Mrs. King said time and again,
Mrs. King smiled—white, even teeth behind full red lips. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m getting ready for a show.”
“A show?”
“For a private client.” She glided to a blond wood desk accented with gold trim. A French-style phone stood on one side, an ornate lamp on the other. In the center, an appointment book lay open wide with a fountain pen poised on top. Matching chairs sat angled just so on both sides. “She’ll be here momentarily, but I hoped we could at least talk for a minute.” Mrs. King turned, waiting for Joan to join her, and Joan quickly made her way to one of the chairs on the opposite side of the desk. After Mrs. King sat, Joan followed. “What did Betty tell you about the job?”
“Only that it’s part-time.”
“And that you’d be working for me? Here?”
Joan glanced around the room. Behind the carpeted stage stoodthree massive gilded mirrors where a client—she now understood—could see the form of a model dressed in any number of outfits and imagine herself looking as fashionable as the figure before her. “Here?” she asked, returning her attention to Mrs. King.
“As a model. Evenings mostly, with the occasional Saturday.”
“And I’ll—” she could hardly imagine it—“model for society women?”
“Mostly men. They come in, wanting to buy that special something for their wives. Mothers. Sisters.” The arched brows rose. “Whomever. We don’t ask and they don’t tell.”
Joan had managed to work in a number of capacities in her young life. Standing and turning in fine apparel couldn’t possibly be any more difficult than collecting scraps of food for a man’s pigs. “When do I start?”
“We’ll want to train you first.” Mrs. King flipped a page on the calendar. “Tomorrow evening. I’ll set an appointment for you with Mrs. Blue. She’ll teach you all you need to know about walking, standing, turning . . .”
“Modeling,” Joan said, feeling a sudden sense of adventure.
Mrs. King nodded as she wrote Joan’s name on a page of the calendar. “You get off from Hertz at five?”
“I do.”
“You can be here by five thirty?”
“I can be here by five fifteen,” Joan said, feeling assured.
Mrs. King opened the right-hand drawer, removed a small pad of paper, scrawled her pen across it, and then tore the top sheet away. “Here you go,” she said. “When you arrive tomorrow, let anyone downstairs know that you are here to see Mrs. Blue. You’ll be taken to her straightaway.”
Joan took the paper. Read it. “Thank you, Mrs. King,” she said.
Delores King pulled the hem of her glove away to reveal a thinwatch around a dainty wrist. “I’m sorry, Joan, but I must say good-bye now. The client will be here soon.”
Joan stood, opening her purse as she did, and dropped the now-folded piece of paper into it. “Thank you again,” she said.
Mrs. King glanced toward the elevator. “The dressing room for our models is to the right here,” she said, pointing her fountain pen in that direction. “Go through it, look around, and you’ll find a door that leads to a stairwell.” She smiled. “That’s the best way for you to leave.” Again her eye went to the elevator.
“I understand,” Joan said, and she did. “I’ll see you again soon, Mrs. King.”
Joan was trained in a matter of afternoons, ready to begin her new part-time position by the start of the following week. The job suited her as well as any she could have hoped for. She spent her days at Hertz, typing on forms and adding up sums, and her evenings draped in the finest ball gowns, party dresses, and furs.
Mrs. King had been correct in saying that most of the clients were men. And, as she’d assumed the day of her interview, the models were expected to be discreet. Whether the customers purchased for their wives or their sweethearts was not the concern of the models. They and their satisfaction , Mrs. King said time and again,
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