Frank De Felitta: For Love of Audrey Rose

“What are you talking about, Russ?” Janice asked, suspecting she was being teased.

“You don’t know when you got it good, Janice,” he sighed, taking a folded note from his pocket.

“Come to the point, Russ.”

“The point is that Christine Daler, Ltd. — they’re fashions for women, you know — is going to expand. And it hasn’t been announced. They’re gonna need an army of assistant draftsmen — er, draftspeople…”

“Draftspersons,” Carole corrected, sipping brandy from a wide snifter.

Janice plucked the note from Russ’s hand and read an address on Lexington Avenue.

“Anyway,” Russ laughed, “I got it from the horse’s mouth. Elaine Romine. She’s head designer at Christine Daler. Well, to make a long story short, I mentioned you, and one thing led to the other, and—”

“And what, for God’s sake, Russ?” Janice asked.

“Well, I mean if you ain’t busy at 2:30 next Tuesday—”

“Oh, my God, suddenly I feel so nervous,” Janice said.

“They only need assistants. You know, people with brushes at the end of their arms. You don’t have to be Leonardo da Vinci.”

Janice, flabbergasted, could only blurt out her gratitude. That night, Janice furiously rearranged her portfolio seven times. She rejected five still lifes as too amateurish. Then she drew new sketches with a free-flowing hand until well past midnight. She was convinced that what she had done was no good, and went to bed downhearted, thinking she was unemployable.

Christine Daler, Ltd. — its logo was Big Ben with a decorative swirl of cloud that formed a CD — was located in a new building on Lexington Avenue. Janice paled at the wealth of the interior, the sculptures in the foyers, the collages by Paolozzi in the corridors. It was a high-pressure world, she realized immediately, like Simmons Advertising.

She waited several moments until the receptionist indicated for her to go to Ms. Romine’s office. Janice walked down a long carpeted corridor, clutching her portfolio like a lifesaver. On one side were offices with drafting tables and designers with sable brushes, bending down under brilliant fluorescent lights. On the other side, enormous windows looked out on the entire complex of midtown buildings.

She knocked hesitantly.

“Come in,” said a deep voice.

Elaine Romine was exactly as she had imagined her. A tall woman with light brown hair, she had the flat bust and long legs of a former model. Gold earrings dangled brightly, and she moved with devastating, almost aggressive self-confidence.

Without looking at Janice, Elaine untied the portfolio and examined her drawings. Janice had seen this kind of woman before, the goal-oriented woman of expensive tastes.

“Your pastels are weak,” Elaine said. “But your watercolors have good control.”

Elaine looked carefully at several more sketches. Janice heard her heart banging against her rib cage.

“The figures are not bad. The proportions are good. But the landscapes — these pastels — are really below standard. Have you ever used dry-brush? Don’t tell me you have, if you haven’t.”

“No,” Janice answered. “That is, I tried it a few times, but it didn’t work out.”

Elaine dropped the last of the pages back into the portfolio, thought a moment, then handed the portfolio back to Janice.

“Have you eaten lunch?” she asked.

“Not really — a little coffee—”

“Do you have time for a salad downstairs?”

“Why — yes, of course.”

Elaine’s smile was perfectly controlled, yet exuded a kind of warmth. Janice could not help but admire the woman’s poise, the elegance with which she dispensed people, ideas, careers.

“Downstairs” meant a prohibitively expensive luncheon bar. The clientele was dressed in a stunning array of trendy dresses, or, with the men, in pinstriped suits then coming back into fashion. A few of them saluted Elaine with nods or gestures of the hand. Janice was wearing her best business suit, one which had set her and Bill back a good deal, but now she suddenly felt shabbily dressed.

“I have five girls working under me,” Elaine said, digging into a small mountain of mushrooms, bean sprouts, avocado, and sundry other delicacies, smothered in a rich and creamy yogurt sauce. “One of them is good with dry-brush but a klutz with watercolor, so I’ll split the work between you two. I’ll give you the roughs, you’ll work them into sketches.”

Elaine studied Janice, who suddenly realized that an answer was expected.

“Yes. All right. I can do that.”

“Fine. How much were you expecting to earn?”

Janice choked on a long shredded bean sprout. She washed it down with water.

“I — er—”

“Come, come. We haven’t got all day.”

Janice panicked. She regained her composure but had to confess a most embarrassing truth.

“Miss Romine,” she whispered, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I was so nervous about the job, I didn’t think about it.”

Elaine stared at her, then burst out laughing, a sweet, musical laughter. She wiped her lips with a white napkin, looked at Janice, and started to laugh again.

“I’ll have to remember that,” Elaine said, her eyes twinkling. “Look. I’ll pay you five hundred dollars for the project. It’ll give you experience in knowing how to judge time if you ever get asked again.”

“All right. That sounds fair.”

“You should go to Quadrangle Art Supply House down the street, and tell Ralph — he’s the one with the earring— that you’re working for me. He’ll start you out with a few basic brushes and things. I want you to begin with clean tools.”

Janice had the sinking feeling that Ralph with the earring was about to stick her with a pretty fair-sized supply of expensive tools.

Elaine studied Janice with a different kind of eye.

“Would you like to be called Janice or Mrs. Templeton?”

“Janice, please.”

“Fine. I think things will work out well. You’re used to a little pressure?”

“Oh, certainly. Yes, of course.”

Elaine smiled. Her manner had none of the brittleness Janice had expected. There was nothing arch or aloof about Elaine Romine. She was direct and friendly, just frighteningly self-confident. She must be a genius, Janice thought.

“One more thing,” Elaine said.

“Yes?”

“My female employees do not make coffee for the male employees, get their mail, or laugh at their stupid jokes. None of that garbage around here. If anybody makes an uninvited pass at you, kick him in the teeth.”

Janice laughed and promised she would.

“I like men,” Elaine said, “but it’s a woman’s world on this floor. It’s that way because I prefer it. I want my staff to have boldness and integrity, and to make beautiful design.”

Janice nodded.

“So respect yourself, work hard, and you’ll learn a lot.”

“I will. And thank you. I’m very grateful.”

“Nonsense. Your work is competent. I didn’t hire you out of charity.”

On the way home Janice wanted to shout for joy. Instead, testing out her new station in life, she strolled down Lexington Avenue with her portfolio under her arm. She now had a place, at least for a while, in this mad whirl of New York. In a kind of daze, she wandered past the expensive shops, critically examining her wardrobe reflected in the windows, and she decided that Elaine was the most remarkable woman she had ever met.

With her first paycheck, she bought Bill an electric wrist watch, the kind that he had long admired. Dr. Geddes assured her that there were small signs — improved muscle tone, improved responses to being touched. Bill distinguished between friendly and neutral faces. To Janice, it seemed like no change at all. Bill was a man without a personality.