* * *
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.”