The agency is finally up and running. Carla’s friend Sally runs a model agency called Hard Women. There’s a shoot to do. Of course, it can’t be that simple.
One of the more immediately appealing things about all the new business to Joe was the regular influx of gorgeous women. Sally’s ads used some good, relatively-inexpensive-at-this-stage-of-their-careers, girls, and he was never late for work. Admittedly they didn’t seem to have the sheer power of Carla, and seemed to shrink when she was in the same room. Joe put that down to his own feelings. That’s a convenient emotional out for a guy, because you can excuse yourself almost anything on the basis of an attractive woman, however therapeutic you find other women.
Carla winced at the little girls, as she saw them. She, at a vintage almost 28, a veritable crone, a hag,… well, no, but it sounded nice…….The fashion matrons were another matter. Dog trainers, one and all. Irrationality and dictatorial tendencies are not a fun mix, particularly before 9 in the morning. A lot of worldly and not very interesting photographers, some vague looking makeup artists, a few prissy set designers…… however, they made good ads, largely thanks to Al’s evidently limitless patience, and the business was getting up to speed.
The boyfriends and hangers-on were another matter. A tide of managers, agents, inevitable nonentities, the champagne-and-biscuits set, also had to be moved on at regular intervals. There the dog trainers came in handy, and were able to be the ogres they actually wanted to be, having had the same thing happen to them at that stage of their careers. Al got rid of the agents by speaking American at them, which they weren’t ready to admit they didn’t understand, and they were charmed off to some chic and blessedly remote elsewhere.
The “conversations” got on Carla’s nerves sometimes.
“…..He’s got a Porsche…..”
“Mine’s got a Ferrari………”
“We went to Cannes…..again…..”
“I wanted it in lilac, but the man at the kennel said Samoyeds don’t come in lilac. Wonder why…….”
“Jill said Alicia told Ashley that Ferdinand wasn’t ready to commit unless Joyce told Susan to get Maria out of the way and bring Noel back.”
Carla had a vision of a series of mating rituals among birds. The dance of the shop windows, the bird-brained call to the egg…….. even Joe suddenly looked human……again……twice, this week……..she wondered if she was coming down with some disease.
Some cursed infant was talking to her.
“Carla, can we have some coffee for Jane and Nigella, please?”
It occurred to Carla that she’d never actually fricasseed one of these before. Her leopard eyes surveyed the small doomed rodent. Her mighty fangs poised……… Al happened to be wandering by and saw the possible imminent death or worse of a young but deserving pest. The soon-to-be-devoured had the anonymous look of an Irritating Over-scrubbed Pseudo Wannabe Faux Lesbian With Lousy Makeup And No Brain, which is compulsory for anyone doing production in the fashion industry under 20. The idea is that they don’t outshine anyone else, and it seems to work. They generally look hideous because by then they are.
“Oh, I’m going over there, Suzie, I’ll get it. Anything else you guys want?”
Having said which he looked at Carla. “?” said the look.
The response was a look of mingled annoyance at having been prevented from biting the head off such a prime target, appreciation for being helped, and belated recognition of the fact that a bad situation was being so expertly defused by someone who didn’t have to do it. This compound expression gave way to a certain irritation at being obliged to acknowledge the fact, grudging admiration for the way it was done, some teeth-grinding at the fact that she now felt obligated to handle such things, and great amusement at the way he did it.
It was a fairly long nearly two seconds, really.
Carla smiled at Al.
“A few donuts, if you could, please, Al,” she asked. The current look said, “Gotcha.”
He came back with a big box full of the most delicious donuts she’d ever eaten. His expression was quite unbearable. He had to laugh at the crack about putting St Francis out of a job, though. Al didn’t come off entirely unscathed that day. It occasionally happened that Sally’s and Dorothy’s various things intersected at the office. They used it to map out shoots and copy and promos there and generally used the place to keep themselves all coordinated. At this point a bevy of models were sitting about primly and perkily waiting to do a shoot, and their various human attachments were also fluttering about. This particular model agency, called Hard Women, were actually pretty bearable as people to do business with. Al was finding reasons to be in the front area, much to Carla’s glee, because she kept making sad, mournful faces at him which kept cracking him up and making him try not to look as though he was cracking up. Then Dorothy walked in. Al was photocopying and trying not to look at Carla when he heard one of the dog trainers say,
“Oh, you must be June, dear. I must say, dear, I thought you’d be older, dear. We’re doing the shoot at Manly, dear, the bikini range for Sally’s……..”
Dorothy, at 32, might possibly have blinked at the “older” remark, but Carla wouldn’t have sworn to it. She’d seen Al, skulking among the models. She raised her voice just a little and produced a fruity model-like overstated voice,
“Oh, good. I love Manly. Manly’s nice………”
Carla ferreted about in her desk, trying to find something to laugh into. Al’s face, fortunately, wasn’t keeping up with his reactions. Worse, Bill had seen and heard it all, coming out of the other office. The benign smile on Bill’s face had to be illegal, somewhere. Dorothy looked to Al as though she was thinking Auntie Em was a nice lady, and Kansas a wonderful, wonderful, place ……..they bustled about, getting handbags, and looking as if they were in a catalogue.
Dorothy said in a bemused, if strangely penetrating, voice, “Now, where did I put that bra?”
Al scuttled out into the fire escape, from whence was soon heard a healthy cross between a sneeze and a bellow of laughter. Five models, one dog trainer, and a couple of desultory photographers looked at the closed door. He staggered back in, looking improbable.
“What a strange man,” said Dorothy. Then, in a suddenly heavy, breathy, Dietrich-like voice to the dog trainer, with a leer that suggested Sacher-Masoch was an incurable optimist, she said, “Actually, dear, I make pet food. Isn’t that nice? Bill, can I talk to you for a minute?”
Leaving a year’s supply of thoroughly confused fashionable somethings in her wake, she and Bill went into his office. Al followed, having had to run the gauntlet of Carla’s grinning face, and the doubting looks of the fashion industry.
“You………..fiend,” he said, thoughtfully.
“Well, I was thinking of the business side of it,” explained Dorothy. A Southern accent arose. “Us li’l ol’ pet food manufacturers need all the exposure we can get, as y’all know.”
She batted her eyelids insufferably and grinned like a really nice crocodile.
Al sighed. He’d never join that monastery, at this rate. He gave up gracefully.
“Can I take you out to dinner?”
Thus was begun a relationship.
He spent the evening talking David’s ears off.