Meet Me at the Starlight

Chapter 2

HARLOW

MARCH 1987

MANHATTAN, NEW YORK CITY

About a month ago, she’d started referring to herself in the third person. Harlow Hayes should do something about her life. Harlow Hayes should take a shower. Harlow Hayes should get a haircut. Harlow Hayes, Harlow Hayes, Harlow Hayes.

That’s when she realized something had to change.

But how? She had become a joke. To the world. To herself. Friends pitied her. Comedians made her a punch line for their late monologues. Last month, Saturday Night Live’s Victoria Jackson played Harlow Hayes while wearing a ridiculous wig and some sort of fat suit.

But when the love of her life crushed her without so much as an “I’m sorry,” Harlow Hayes gave up and gave in.

Maybe living in the third person wasn’t so bad. And the dark “cave” in which she dwelt most of the time was comforting. Her small, narrow bedroom—which was probably once a Gilded Age butler’s pantry—allowed no expectations and thus no failures. No letdowns. No feckless laughter from late-night audiences.

But it’s all sticks and stones, right?

Harlow flicked an empty box of Cheez-Its to the floor, ignoring the few crumbs that scattered over the small rug. She’d clean it up later. On her twin bed, she tried to sleep while Jinx—make no mistake, this was her apartment—blasted the six o’clock news.

Chuck Scarborough’s smooth news voice reminded America that presidential candidate Gary Hart withdrew from the race due to his affair with Donna Somebody, and then recapped the aftermath of a Belgium ferry capsizing, killing 193 passengers and crew.

She shivered with the cold of the news as well as her room. The old window in the exterior wall allowed in the heat and the cold. But Harlow didn’t care as long as she had a place to escape, a place to sleep, and let’s be honest, a place to eat.

When she moved in six months ago—her last landlord, also a friend and fellow model, had kicked her out to move her boyfriend in—Harlow had asked Jinx for a space heater.

“No, you’ll asphyxiate yourself or wake up in a fiery blaze.” She’d bent down to pick up the Hayes Cookie wrapper on the floor. “And burn us all down.”

Not true, but just in case, Harlow didn’t press the issue. Burrowing under the blanket she’d purchased in Egypt two years ago, she considered how that Harlow Hayes knew who she was, where she was going, and what she wanted.

Two years ago, her life of photo shoots, haute couture fashion shows, and one small part in a romantic comedy made sense, because every road led to Xander Cole, the gorgeous Gilded Age heir, financier, and almost billionaire. She’d been named the Most Beautiful Woman in the World and one of the first models to earn the moniker “super.”

Muffled voices seeped through the thin apartment wall.

Mom?

Harlow pressed her ear to the wall. A door clicked. Muted footsteps struck the hardwood, then landed on the carpet. Glasses clinked.

“Thank you ... darn plane was late ... rain ... Atlanta ... should’ve hired a car ... cab driver...”

What was Mom doing here? Did Jinx call her? Well, no surprise there. Those two were tight. Jinx, a former model turned Icon Agency scout turned executive for CCW Cosmetics, founded by the illustrious Charlotte Coral Winthrop.

But Jinx had discovered Harlow twelve years ago when she was barely seventeen—much to Mom’s delight. Then Icon took a slow approach to Harlow’s career—much to Mom’s consternation—until a photographer friend asked her to pose for a poster. Kaboom!

“I think we do, Jinx. Get her going. Moving forward. Kick in ... keister.”

Mom. Such a southerner. No one said keister in Manhattan in 1987.

“I can prescribe something.”

A third voice? Harlow slipped on her fuzzy slippers and, gathering the gaps in her too-tight pajama top, she schlepped from her dark hovel into the bright living room lights.

“Well, look who’s up.” Mom held Harlow by the shoulders and kissed her cheek. “Still wearing those same wool pajamas, I see.” Her gaze swept Harlow up and down. “A bit tight but still rather darling.”

“What are you doing here, Mom?” Harlow retrieved a glass and filled it with milk, which would be spectacular with a large squeeze of Hershey’s chocolate syrup. But considering her current audience, she’d refrain. “You brought the shrink along?”

“We’re here to help, Harlow.” Dr. Tagg had a smooth and not quite but almost condescending tone.

“Help me do what?” Harlow worked her way through the crowd for the sofa. Jinx’s apartment was a one bedroom, one bath, with a square living room and minuscule kitchen, along with Harlow’s “closet.” Two was a crowd. Four was a throng.

“Figure out your life, darling,” Mom said.

“Well, if you don’t mind . . .” Harlow sat on the sofa and reached for the VCR remote. “I fell asleep during All My Children today. Thank goodness I have it recorded. Angie and Jesse are in a real battle for their marriage.”

“And you are in a battle for your life, Harlow Anne. We want to talk to you.” If Mom added, “young lady,” Harlow would be out. Literally. Through the door in her too-tight pajamas.

“Can’t you berate me in the morning?” she said.

Mom grabbed the remote to shut off the TV, but a picture of Xander popped on the screen as Mary Hart opened Entertainment Tonight.

“We open with happy news. Xander Cole”—Harlow shrank back and cradled her milk—“and his ex-wife Davina will be tying the knot again, in style on the Coles’ private Caribbean Island.” A clip played of Xander and Davina standing on the sandy shore of the beach, their Frank Lloyd Wright–style home looming in the background.

“Did you know about this?” Harlow glanced at her guests as Mom shut off the TV. “Is that why you’re here, Mom? Because they’ve announced their wedding?”

“Of course not. How would I have even known? If he called, I’d have given him a piece of my mind.” Mom’s disgusted tone was offset by her lilting southern charm.

“Oh please, you love him. If he came back to Harlow Hayes, you’d be buying bridal magazines.”

“I beg your pardon. I would—”

“Anne, Harlow, let’s talk about why we are all here.” Jinx sat on Harlow’s right, while Mom sat on her left. Dr. Tagg perched on the coffee table, clicking her pen in an annoying rhythm, prescription pad in hand.

“Are you committing me to a psych ward?” Harlow pointed to the prescription pad. “Don’t even think about it. You’re all aware of the Studio 54 scene. Drugs kill. Listen to Nancy Reagan, if not me. ‘Just Say No.’”

“This is different,” Mom said. “This will help you get over this slump ... this depression.”

“Is that what you call a broken heart?” Harlow set her glass on the coffee table next to the good doctor and tried to squeeze out from between Mom and Jinx.

“Let’s review the last two years,” Jinx said, holding onto Harlow’s arm.

“Must we?” She’d been trying to forget the past two years. But when a supermodel gains something like forty pounds—she’d not stepped on the scale in a year—she loses her career.

“I’d like to point out two key words.” Mom’s lilt came with a verbal highlighter. “Two. Years. Harlow, it’s been two years since Xander went back to Davina. It’s time to move forward. Write a new future. Xander is getting married, yet you sit here—”

“Wallowing?” Harlow freed herself from the sofa’s confinement. “News flash, Mom, Jinx, Dr. Tagg. I’ve loved every minute of it.” Not true, but she had to fight back somehow. “The End. Film at eleven.” She leaned over Dr. Tagg. “Don’t you have something for these two? Help them leave me alone?”

“I really think losing your money sent you over the edge.” Mom frowned.

No, losing the love of her life sent her over the edge. Discovering her financial advisor—recommended by Xander, of all people—absconded with her small fortune was the cherry on top.

All she had left after being Felix Unger’ed from the penthouse she’d shared with her fiancé and future husband was the savings Dad insisted she set aside for a rainy day. Or, in her case, a deluge.

All of her hard work—the early days of go-sees, of running from one catalog shoot after another, of sleepless nights in Milan during fashion week, and years of being primped and plucked—vanished in an FBI white-collar crime raid.

She imposed on the generosity of friends, sleeping on their couches and in their guest rooms. When her fellow models were on location, she fed their cats in exchange for living quarters. Somewhere in the madness, food became her solace. Maybe it was her first bite of Lombardi’s Pizza, or that thick burger with a side of fries. Or maybe her first bag of Hayes Cookies—which she spotted at a Broadway tienda—that she’d consumed with a chocolate shake from a mom-and-pop diner.

Snap. Years of disciplined eating ended. Junk food was marvelous. Comforting. And something that was all hers.

Around her, Jinx, Mom, and Dr. Tagg talked as if she wasn’t there. Mom mentioned something about Harlow’s famous poster, the one that launched her career.

“If you had royalties from that thing, you’d be in better shape.” Mom had never forgiven Jinx for letting Harlow go to the shoot without a contract in play.

“He was a friend,” Jinx said. “Asking a favor. How was I to know it’d become a worldwide phenom?”

“In my view,” Dr. Tagg weighed in, clicking her pen, “you’ve given Xander too much authority. What right does he have to kill your spirit because he went back to his ex?”

“Exactly. Where’s our girl who wowed everyone on the set of Talk to Me Sweetly?” Mom switched from fretter to cheerleader. “Everyone thought you were amazing, and it was your first movie.”

“HH got the stuffing kicked out of her.” Harlow took a big gulp of milk, then tugged on her pajama top where her middle pushed against the buttons.

She’d met Xander—he was one of the executive producers—on that movie set, where she’d also been given the nickname HH because she was so businesslike.

“I know, sweetie.” When Jinx pulled Harlow down to the couch next to her, one of her pajama buttons popped off and landed on Dr. Tagg’s prescription pad. Okay, that was embarrassing. “But it’s time to get to work. Your mom is here because I have good news. Charlotte Winthrop wants you to be the new face of CCW Cosmetics.”

Dr. Tagg discreetly set the button in the coffee table ashtray.

“Why me? Trace Sterling is their face.”

“Her contract ends in August.” Jinx’s expression was bright, like a parent about to tell their kid he’s getting a puppy or a pony. “And she asked me to get you.” Ta-da. She spread her arms wide, smiling big. Expectant.

“Okay, but when? Not now.” August was only five months away. She’d have to starve herself to get down to her modeling weight, and frankly, she didn’t have the heart for it. Five-eleven, a hundred-and-thirty-two just didn’t seem feasible for a grown woman.

“She wanted to meet right away, but I put her off until September. Charlotte likes to launch new faces over the holidays. So, do you think you could, well, pull yourself together by then?” Jinx squeezed her hand. “CCW is willing to shell out big bucks to get you, Harlow. Like never-before-seen money.”

“Harlow, darling, isn’t that marvelous?” Mom carried Harlow’s glass of milk to the kitchen sink and dumped it out. “You’ve always wanted to work with CCW, and here they are coming for you.”

“To be honest,” Jinx said, “I think Charlotte hired me away from Icon for the express purpose of bringing you in one day.”

“I don’t know.” Harlow gathered her pajama top, missing the popped button. “CCW has always been a goal. Harlow Hayes likes their brand, history, and products.” She flipped to third person seamlessly. “Are you sure they don’t want Kim Alexis or Christie Brinkley?”

“It’s all you, sweetie. They believe your time away from the scene will make you all the more intriguing when they roll out their new campaign.”

Hmmm, this put a wrinkle in her wallowing. If she couldn’t have what she really wanted, had always wanted—a husband and kids with the house and sprawling yard, white fence, dogs and cats, a hamster on the wheel, and eventually the PTA and a mommy carpool—why not get back to work? Sign with CCW? She’d given her life to modeling. Trimmed the edges of her education, even friendships, to go along with Mom’s grand scheme of creating the Harlow Hayes, supermodel.

In that moment, the clouds parted, and she realized if she let her hard work go to waste, continued to give Xander Cole power over her, she was denying her very being.

On the other hand, she’d become accustomed to sleeping in, eating whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, and parking on the couch from one to four every afternoon for All My Children, One Life to Live, and General Hospital.

“I can prescribe diet pills.” Dr. Tagg clicked her pen.

“No way, Dr. T.” Harlow moved around the small space to think, to stretch.

“There’s more,” Mom said, nearly as expectant as Jinx had been. “Icon called and—”

“Icon fired me.”

“They want you back. Designers are asking for you, missing your focus and work ethic.”

“I’ll go to Wilhelmina or Ford before Icon.”

“I knew you still had some fight in you.” A giddy Anne Hayes launched into full cheerleader mode. S-u-c-c-e-s-s, that’s the way we spell H-a-r-l-o-w. “Darling, let all this with Xander go, and get back to work. You’re Harlow Hayes, the Most Beautiful Woman in the World.”

Yeah, about that ... The title was almost four years old, and she’d been eclipsed by Jaclyn Smith, yet every time her name was mentioned, the moniker tagged along. And she was proud of it. She’d worked hard at her craft, and the world took notice.

“I don’t know if I was ever the most beautiful, but I did work hard.”

“Exactly,” Jinx said. “So don’t lose all your hard work over a man.”

Dr. Tagg nodded as she doodled faces on her prescription pad. She’d done that through most of Harlow’s sessions last year. While she was grateful to talk to someone, Harlow never really gained any power over her troubles. The best part of each session was the subway ride afterward to Lombardi’s for a slice or two. Food was more than her solace. It was her late-in-life rebellion.

“One last thing,” Jinx said. “You can’t keep living in my closet. I was fine when you landed here last fall, but that room is not safe for you physically or emotionally. Not to mention it’s the only closet in the apartment.”

Harlow sank down to the nearest chair. “I figured this day would come sooner or later.”

“Darling, you’re coming home with me,” Mom said. “We can work on getting in shape together.”

“I’m not going to Atlanta, Mom.”

“Whyever not?”

“Because I’m not seventeen. I’m almost thirty. I’ll find a place. A room to rent.” It would deplete the last of her savings, but she was squandering her money anyway, one takeout at a time.

However, if she signed with CCW, she’d be in the black. “How big of a contract, Jinx?”

“Let’s just say I’ll be asking to room with you at your Park Avenue penthouse.”

“That’s it, you’re coming home with me.” Determination powered Mom’s words. “We’ll do this together, Harlow. It would make me so happy if you—”

“Anne, don’t. Harlow is not responsible for your happiness.” Dr. Tagg said what Harlow couldn’t. What she wouldn’t.

“I resent that, Dr. Tagg. I only have my daughter’s best—”

“Harlow, you’re right. You don’t need a prescription.” Dr. Tagg scooped up her Coco Chanel coat and matching bag. “You need to get off your duff, take control of your life, and stop letting someone else drag your heart around.” She glared at Mom. “I’m sending you the bill for this one.”

“Well, that was rude,” Mom said when the door closed behind the good doctor. “And what was that look she gave me on her way out?”

“What look?” Harlow said, feigning ignorance. She may have mentioned once or twice during her sessions with Dr. Tagg how she lived to make her mother happy.

Still, through all the pain and humiliation, she’d managed not to tuck her tail and run to Atlanta. She saw no reason to give in now. Yet how many options did a broke, overweight supermodel have?

A firm knock rattled the quiet room.

“Dr. Tagg must’ve forgotten something.” Jinx opened the door to find a messenger standing on the other side.

“Delivery for Harlow Hayes.”

The plain white envelope had no markings, only the letter inside along with a deed to a property in Florida. “It-it’s from Xander.”

“What does he want?” Jinx leaned to read over Harlow’s shoulder.

“Did he finally apologize?” Mom squeezed in for a look.

“No, he’s, um, he’s giving me the cottage we bought and renovated in Sea Blue Beach, Florida.” She’d secretly wanted the cottage when they separated but never had the chance to ask.

“Now?” Mom said. “Where’s this been the last two years? Read his note, Harlow.”

“Can you back up?” Harlow shrugged off Mom and Jinx. “Give me a minute.”

Harlow, see enclosed. Sincerely, Elmar, Assistant to Xander Cole. A second note fell to her lap, with a key taped to the plain, thick stationery.

Enjoy the house, H. I mean it. Please.—X.

“Well?” Mom hovered five feet away with Jinx.

“He said to enjoy the cottage.” She reread the deed with her name and buzzed with a bit of excitement.

“Why now?” Jinx said. “Can you accept it? What if there’s some sort of lien attached, or the police just discovered a murdered body?”

“Murdered body? Geez, Jinx, your one episode on Kojak really messed with you.” She’d played a murder victim during her modeling days. Slept with a night-light ever since.

Harlow reread Xander’s brief note. This was classic Xander Cole. He was equal parts scumbag and good guy.

“Tell him no thanks and come on home,” Mom said. “I think that’s best and—”

“Harlow Hayes is going to Sea Blue Beach.” She headed for her room. “It may be two years late, but this is his apology. And I accept. Jinx, I’ll write a check for my half of the utilities. Mom, thanks for coming.”

“You’re leaving now?” Mom said. “It’s almost eight o’clock.”

“Perfect. Traffic will have died down. I can drive all night.”

“Don’t you want to sleep? To think about it?”

“I’ve been sleeping for two years, and for the past hour, you’ve been telling me to get myself together, so here I go. This is it. Harlow Hayes is heading down the main line. Off to Margaritaville. I am woman, hear me roar.”

“Any more song lyrics in there?” Jinx said, laughing, approval in her voice.

“So you’d rather live in a house your ex-fiancé bought for you than come home with me?”

“I renovated that house, Mom. It’s all me—well, almost, except the ghastly chandelier Xander insisted on—and frankly, he owes me. One for recommending that lousy financial advisor, and two for ... for everything else.”

“Go get ’em, girl. The beach will do you good,” Jinx said. “Fresh air, sunshine, and sand. You’ll be in shape for CCW in no time.”

Maybe. Maybe not. But for now, Harlow Hayes was doing something with her life.