Magdalenas shadow, p.17
Magdalena's Shadow, page 17
“You have no idea what type of modeling he has in mind. Please slow down. This man might not be doing legitimate work anymore – he may never have. He could want to photograph you naked, for heaven’s sake.”
Coco laughed suddenly at Tia’s look of concern. “He can photograph me any way he likes if it means I can buy food for my kids and pay the electric bill.”
“Coco, don’t you dare say such a thing! You have no idea where that road leads. It sounds so easy but being put in degrading situations eats at your soul.”
“Oh no.” Coco shook her head. “No talk of souls, please. Besides how do you know? You have never posed naked.”
“How would you know?” Tia turned angrily from the room.
Coco prepared as best she could for her meeting with Ryan Blackwell. She even sewed a new outfit for the occasion. When she pushed open the door to the restaurant, she wore a hip-length ivory trench coat with a plunging neckline over a beige silk skirt cut three inches longer than the fitted coat. These she coupled with beige stilettos and a strand of crystal beads wrapped twice around her neck. Her hair hung loose in shining waves down her back.
“You are a picture of perfection,” she heard a feminine sounding male voice call from somewhere behind her. “OMG, honey, you’re completely Mag’s daughter.”
When Coco turned, she saw a small man standing behind her in designer jeans and a fitted tee.
“Mr. Blackwell.” Coco walked toward him, her hand extended.
“Call me Ryan, please,” he drawled, “but no, I’m not Blackwell. He’s my partner. I’m Ryan Craig. Oh, honey, you just work it and you aren’t even trying.” He smiled, his eyes sweeping over Coco from top to bottom for the third time.
Coco gave a shy little laugh as Ryan Craig or Little Ryan, for that’s how she would always think of him now, took her by the arm and led her to a small private room in the back. The room was lit with expansive crystal chandeliers and matching wall sconces. In the center stood a large, perfectly round mahogany table where a girl, an older man, and a boy so beautiful he had to be a model were seated.
“Look who I found,” little Ryan giggled, parading Coco forward only to spin her at the end of his arm. The effect looked awkward since he was a foot shorter. “Isn’t she divine?”
Coco blinked and smiled shyly at the people who, except for the girl, had risen on her entrance. The moment felt fraudulently preplanned.
“Hello,” Coco murmured, suddenly too shy to move.
Thankfully she didn’t have to; in seconds the older man was beside her, taking her hand in his.
“You look just like her. I can’t believe it. You look just like Magdalena. But the crazy thing is, you are actually more beautiful. Look at her, Tom.” The man turned to the beautiful boy, who on further inspection was closer to Rob in age, around twenty-eight. “Isn’t she even more beautiful than Magdalena?”
Coco bristled. Somehow, in some way, it felt disrespectful and wrong to make the comparison; to diminish Magdalena in death felt cruel. Besides, what did the woman ever have besides her beauty? All of Coco’s shyness fled. She set her jaw, turning from the man she instinctively disliked.
“This is Tom, Coco.” Mr. Blackwell led her trophy-like to the table. “And Clara, and of course you have already met Ryan, my partner.” Mr. Blackwell didn’t elaborate on whether he meant for business or pleasure. “And here we are… all together… in Chicago… excited to make new friends.” The statements were strange and again Coco felt the instinctive bristle. Do people like this really exist?
The meeting felt shamefully contrived with little Ryan insisting on being everyone’s new best friend and Mr. Blackwell smiling on as the three young people became “acquainted.” No mention was made of modeling, shoots, fees, or schedules in this schmooze-fest where Coco was the main dish. In fact she slowly realized that Tom and Clara knew each other, had known each other for years, and yet it was made to seem as if everyone at the table was newly acquainted and joyful to be instant friends. Why all the subterfuge? Coco thought while she smiled, nodded, and answered questions.
Only after the waiter had gone, and Coco found she held a glass of wine, did anyone bring up modeling.
“Clara just did the most amazing shoot for Elle,” Little Ryan drawled in his falsetto voice. “Clara, you’re a goddess… truly dear a god-dess.”
Intrigued by a mention of the business that had created the meeting, Coco pushed her glass of wine to the right of her plate and asked, “Will it be in next month’s issue? I love Elle; it’s such a classy magazine.”
“Oh, yes,” Clara said in drawn out lazy syllables, “but you won’t be able to see me, I’m a giant pair of legs behind a white plumed fan. It’s totally art.”
Coco smiled, nodding as if she understood.
“So, dear, are you ready to dust off the soot of this little town and come to the CITY with us?” Ryan giggled, his odd intonation adding a vulgarly comedic element to the luncheon.
“And do what exactly?” Coco looked seriously around the table. “I need to know your expectations and my compensation before I commit to anything.”
“Do what?” little Ryan exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “Do everything! Become famous! Luncheon with Valentino, meet with Prada, get to know Dolce and Gabbana. And she asks DO WHAT?”
The passion embroidered into the little speech alarmed Coco.
Mr. Blackwell set a calming hand on his mini-counterpart before turning soft, almost concerned eyes on Coco. “Coco, dear, what my partner here is trying to say is that you have the look and the face and the name to do anything in this world that you want to. Women who sign on as Blackwell girls see the world, they party with the rich, and they are famous. If you choose to put your faith in us we’ll see to it that you become a rising star, that every door is open to you, that any and every opportunity is yours to take or refuse.”
Coco nodded quietly, her eyes glancing around the table into the seemingly earnest eyes that focused on her. Yet even these words created just another pretty speech with no real meat behind it. Pretty speeches wouldn’t induce her to leave James and Bebe, not even for a few days. Taking a deep breath, she invoked her very best Carmen-like attitude. “I’m sorry, but until you have tangible work for me, I won’t be ‘dusting off’ Chicago. I’ll happily go to New York City for a booked shoot, but partying with the rich and famous doesn’t interest me. Work interests me. Book something and we’ll talk.” She was reaching a shaking hand for her ivory clutch when Tom suddenly stood up beside her.
“I’ll walk you out,” he smiled brightly. He was so beautiful it hurt to look at him.
“Thanks.” Coco was surprised by how in a hurry he was to help her escape.
“Wait, wait, please,” Mr. Blackwell said, rising to his feet. “I haven’t been at all clear. Yes, of course there will be work, but you are, as of yet, an unknown. People must meet you, must see you, must hear your story; otherwise how do you propose to get your name out? When I talk about parties and dinners I am discussing your career. Please, Coco, for your mother’s sake, sit down. I’m so sorry I wasn’t clear.” Ryan Blackwell spoke in an earnest tone that belied the calculating glint in his eye.
“Why for my mother’s sake? Why for Magdalena? What does she have to do with this?”
“I think she would have wanted this life for you. The freedom, the style, money, travel, parties, and more fun than you can imagine. I built her career brick by brick; I can do the same for you.”
A new kind of bristling anger spread up Coco’s back, turning her cheeks pink. She watched the man in silence, her face giving away nothing. Are those the things Magdalena turned to when she turned from me and motherhood? Coco wondered while she surveyed the people who looked back at her.
“Perhaps it should be me who is sorry for not being clear,” she shook her head, glancing down at the floor, her bag clenched tightly in her shaking fingers. When she lifted her eyes again to Mr. Blackwell’s face she knew how Carmen would answer. “It’s important,” she said with slow command, “that you understand that I have commitments. I will need a streamlined schedule detailing what you want me to do and when – I can’t be away from Chicago for more than a few days at a time. Chicago is my home and I have commitments.”
“Now I don’t understand, Coco,” Mr. Blackwell looked both hurt and confused, his aged and sun damaged face filled with controlled emotion. “You sounded so committed on the phone. We flew here to meet you. Do you think we do this for every pretty face?”
And there it was: the needling guilt, the blatant manipulation that worked so instantly on Coco’s resolve.
“Do you have any idea how many girls beg to sign on with me every day? Do you have any idea what my time is worth? And here you are, with everything I have to offer thrown at your feet, and you narrow the door, limiting my generosity?” He shook his head, sliding back into his chair in a display of dejection.
The act was good, it was very good. Coco almost fell for it.
“On the phone,” Coco countered, pulling together her last shreds of courage, “you talked about work and money and a career. I’ve no time to waste on pretty words and fancy parties. You either have work for me or you don’t. If you have all the connections, then this shouldn’t be hard.”
“And it’s not. It’s not hard at all. Come to New York next week and I’ll have work for you.” Coco stared at him, trying to see if he was sincere. “I will have work for you,” he repeated with greater resolve.
Coco nodded, prompting a huge smile to spread across Blackwell’s face.
“I’ll come but at your expense. You send me the plane ticket and you book the hotel.”
And with that Coco left the room. By the time she reached the street she was shaking all over. She had stayed firm, hadn’t she? Everything was on her terms, wasn’t it? Or was she doing exactly what they had wanted anyway? None of it made sense. A feeling of foreboding settled over her as she walked down the block to catch the bus. If she had looked over her shoulder in that moment she would have seen Mr. Blackwell standing silently under the restaurant’s awning, watching her go.
Coco had nothing to say when she got home that afternoon. Tia didn’t press her. Lunch had been so strange, all the pretty words with no real purpose. Coco felt tired, rude, and confused after the unnaturally forceful way she had spoken with Blackwell. Once she had changed back into her uniform of sweats and a hoodie she took James out of his swing and settled down on the sofa. Her baby’s weight felt solid and reassuring against her chest. She tried not to think of the money she needed or the trip to New York the following week. Right here, right now, this was what she wanted: James in her arms, Tia in the kitchen rattling pans and dishes, and Bebe singing to her dolly on the living room floor. Coco closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of her son’s hair while she listened to Bebe’s song, making a memory she could take with her. Slowly she felt her body relax with the knowledge that this was all she needed.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The ticket arrived, the hotel was booked, and Coco flew to New York, smiling as best she could when she kissed her kids goodbye. The trip would be short; she would make money and return home again to buy groceries, kiss James, and play with Bebe. This was her quietly whispered mantra as she gripped the armrests on her aisle seat and tried not to cry. She felt the plane shoot into the air, felt the force of the acceleration pressing her into the cushioned seat, and tried not to imagine the earth disappearing from under her. Once in New York she would smile, shake hands, make pleasant conversation, and kick ass if things didn’t go her way. Now, in the quiet anonymity of the plane, she allowed herself to feel the subtle tremor that touched her fingers, the voice in her head crying out at her vulnerable stupidity. Fear lived with her, whispering its unwanted advice at the worst moments. It told her: You should have stayed small and quiet. You should have stayed home. Who are you to dream so big? Fear was a stalker she couldn’t shake. A thing she blocked out while she went on dreaming and hoping and working toward something more. Taking a deep breath Coco shook out her fingers, closed her eyes, and searched for the peace she felt when she held her son or watched Bebe play. She remembered riding the bus with James snuggled to her chest and Bebe looking out the window. She saw the streets slipping past, felt the weight of her son in her arms while Chicago, the only world she understood, slipped by.
Coco stepped out of the cab feeling lost in the brown stone maze that surrounded her. She shivered nervously in the gray wool slacks, black heeled boots, and black beaded tank she wore with a hip-length silver fox fur. The cabby dropped her suitcase at her side, took the money she offered, and left her standing dumbstruck and alone in the middle of New York City. The hotel she’d been driven to wasn’t a hotel; in fact, there were no hotels or homes anywhere in sight. Coco surveyed the building that matched the address Blackwell had given her with apprehension.
If little Ryan hadn’t walked out of a large brownstone building to her right, Coco would have cried; his sudden appearance saved her from showing how out of her element she truly felt. The moment she saw him she grabbed her suitcase and walked straight at him.
“I hope I’m not late.” She smiled brightly when she handed him her suitcase and walked confidently inside.
On entering the building Coco quickly realized that she had been dropped at some type of disorganized youth hostel. Inside she found what had once been the spacious old-world lobby of a hotel or boarding house. Just inside the door sat an enormous mahogany entry table covered in fashion magazines. To her right stood a mahogany console built into the wall with old brass hooks and a row of pigeonholes like those once used for a hotel registrar’s desk. Old sofas in every color, style, and state of disrepair lined the walls. Here and there among the used furnishings, dirty dishes, and dog-eared magazines sat dozens and dozens of girls her age. A willowy blonde gave her a sour look as she walked to meet her.
“You’ll be staying with La La tonight.” Little Ryan cheerfully indicated the blonde.
“I have to share a room?” Coco looked down on the little man with concern.
“Yes. I’m afraid we’re full up.”
La La glared at Ryan whose cheerful smile didn’t fade. “If my mother knew what a shithole this place was and how much debt I’ve incurred staying here she would have me back in Los Angeles by now,” La La said.
“Language, La La. You have housing in New York City and a brilliant career ahead of you. Please take Coco to the ninth floor and make her feel welcome.”
La La sauntered off, leaving Coco to follow.
The ninth floor was no better than the first. Dust lined the hallway in thick layers. Flip-flops sat abandoned outside each door in an attempt not to walk the filth into the bedrooms.
“This is my room.” La La indicated the door but kept walking. “This is your room.” The door swung in on an empty, dust coated room filled with boxes, old furniture, and late fall sunshine.
“But there’s no bed?”
“No matter what that toad says, I don’t share. There’s a spare bed in the next room and a dresser you can use. I’ll have someone bring them in. As for sheets, blankets, and pillows, I suggest you go shopping.” Without another word La La turned and walked away.
Coco looked through large dirty windows at the view outside. From where she stood in the doorway she could see brown brick buildings, green puffs of distant trees, and small birds flitting in and out of a nook in the weatherworn window casement.
I’m in New York. The sudden reality that she was living one of her greatest dreams hit her all at once. I’m in New York! Coco smiled before taking a step toward the window. In three strides she was across the room, grasping the heavy old molding around the window to steady herself against the view. But vertigo had lost its grip. She was only nine stories up and she was in New York. “I’m in New York.” The words tumbled out in a half-breathed sigh. The sun peaked between office buildings and warehouses while sirens blared and horns honked. If she closed her eyes she could hear the soundtrack from every New York movie she had ever seen, performed live right down to the “Hey, buddy” and “What the fuck?!”
Coco kept her eyes closed and listened to the city, not caring that this room didn’t have a dresser let alone a bed yet. The moment La La had opened the door Coco had known this was where she wanted to wake up and fall asleep for the next several days. The best part was that without the howling Chicago wind and the thirty-story height, the view wasn’t scary. Usually anything over five stories triggered her vertigo but not here. Slowly Coco realized that the building felt solid. The tower where she had spent her life seemed to move like a tall tree, swaying ever so slightly in the constant wind but not this place. Maybe it was its years of solid service, but the building felt real beneath her, strong and immovable.
Letting go of the molding Coco stood unsupported before the view, her arms raised over her head. She started to laugh. “I’m in New York,” she giggled, spinning in a sudden big circle. And then she did something she hadn’t done in all her years of high-rise living: she jumped for joy. It took only seconds before someone below her yelled, “Knock it off!”
“Sorry!” Coco yelled back, still laughing. But she wasn’t sorry; she was in New York and she wasn’t afraid.
Coco found the spare bed but not the dresser. Instead, she stole a packing crate from the end of the hall to set her suitcase on. With these two items in place her little room felt strangely cozy. Coco sat cross-legged on the edge of the mattress and watched the lights go on in the neighboring buildings. Closing her eyes, she felt the hum of the city, its pulsing life force washing over her.
