“Wow.” The man sat back in his chair. “That was something. I don’t think we’ve met before, I’m Barnaby, Barnaby Stone.” He introduced the two others at the table, but Veronica didn’t catch their names. She was stunned they hadn’t tossed her out yet.
“Hey,” was all she said in return.
The three looked at each other without speaking, as if checking in on some psychic level to see if they all agreed that she was a joke, an absolute disaster. Veronica walked up to the table and grabbed her portfolio, then picked up her bag from where she’d dropped it on the floor.
“Wait.”
Barnaby tapped his finger on the table. “Are you free next week?”
After all that scowling and stomping, they were interested in her?
“I dunno.” She didn’t smile, didn’t register anything other than disdain. “You’ll have to check with my people.”
Later that day, Sabrina called with the news. Veronica’s flight to the States left that Sunday. She’d spend Monday in New York, Tuesday and Wednesday in Newport, and then head home Thursday. There was a chance, Sabrina said, that the New York arm of the agency might bring her back to the city after the Newport shoot and send her around to see more photographers and editors, so she should pack accordingly.
And just like that, she was on her way to a Vogue photo shoot with the hottest photographer of the decade.
And just like that, she’d blown it by lacquering on too much makeup. They’d hired her to project a cool aloofness, but she was jet-lagged and overwhelmed and simply couldn’t think straight.
As she stood there, mortified, in the doorway of this beautiful room, she sensed someone behind her.
“Excuse me, you can’t sit in those chairs.”
A young man in jeans and a white button-down shirt made his way around her and pointed at a chair against the far wall that was currently occupied by Gigi, who sported a plucked magnolia blossom above one ear. She sat with a leg slung over the arm of the chair, and slid it off with a thump before rising to her feet, rolling her eyes as she did so.
“That chair’s from the eighteenth century,” said the man. He wore a pair of square-framed glasses that rested above sharp cheekbones. He waited, as if there was supposed to be a reaction to his statement. “Please, don’t lean against the walls, either.”
The girls lounging on the floor exchanged smirks as they shifted slightly forward.
“Right, thanks, man.” Barnaby pointed to a white plastic bag filled with tape and film packaging. “Can you take out that trash for us, while you’re here?”
“I’m sorry?” The man tilted his head slightly.
“You’re the janitor, right?”
He didn’t move from the doorway, only crossed his arms. With his height and those chiseled features, he could have been a model himself, although his frame was too skinny and the glasses he wore gave off a nerdy air. But Veronica was certain that Barnaby had only seen the color of his skin, which was black. When the man finally spoke, he did so slowly, as if he’d practiced these lines before, with every other Barnaby who’d walked through the Frick doors. “I’m an archivist for the Frick Collection. They asked me to keep an eye out today, since the museum is closed. You can put your trash in the basement.” He looked at Barnaby disapprovingly, as if he were a child and not one of the most successful fashion photographers in the world.
Veronica cringed at the mistake, but Barnaby offered no hint of compunction. He strode forward and shook the man’s hand, all smiles and warmth. “Thanks for letting us shoot here,” he said. “Really love it. Fab location.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I promise we’ll behave, Sonny Jim.”
“The name’s Joshua. Joshua Lawrence.”
“Right.” Barnaby snapped his fingers in the general direction of the nearest PA. “You. Get rid of that trash, now.”
Veronica stepped out of the way as the PA shot by, plastic bag in hand.
Barnaby put his arm around Joshua. “Since you’re the main man here, why don’t you tell the girls a little about where we are right now?”
Joshua looked over at the clutch of models, who stared blankly back, not in the least bit interested in a history lesson. He cleared his throat. “The house was the residence of the Frick family starting in 1914. Henry Clay Frick was a steel magnate who loved art, and built the home with the express purpose of one day leaving the house and his extensive art collection to the city as a museum.” Joshua twisted his hands in front of him, losing steam at the lack of response. Having just been the recipient of a roomful of derision herself, Veronica offered an encouraging nod when he glanced her way. He swallowed once and carried on, speaking slightly louder. “After Mr. Frick died, his wife and daughter Helen lived on here until Mrs. Frick passed away in 1931, at which point it underwent some renovations and became the Frick Collection, opening in 1935.”