Chapter Nine
Annie
New York City, 1978
The day after her late-night visit to the Costume Institute, Annie was still thinking about Mrs. Vreeland’s hazy directive as she cleaned Mrs. Hollingsworth’s bedroom. When she’d returned with the boa, she’d told Mrs. H that Mrs. Vreeland said it wasn’t exactly right and left it at that, and luckily Mrs. H had just shrugged and put it aside. Now, staring into the woman’s vast closet, Annie couldn’t help but wonder what would work instead. The scarves were all predictably Hermès and would look silly over the costume on the mannequin. She let out a small sigh.
“What is it, Annie? Are you done straightening out the shelves in there?”
She’d completely forgotten Mrs. H’s presence on the divan by the window. “Yes. They’re all set.” She shut the closet doors. “How do you know Diana Vreeland? Were you a docent?”
“I was, for a good ten years. Enjoyed every minute.” Mrs. H took a sip of her tea. “It’s the best decision I ever made, other than marrying Mr. Hollingsworth. You’re with other people who possess a love for the art world, a dedication to passing on knowledge. I came into my own as a docent, after years of playing second fiddle. Suddenly I was thrust in front of strangers, sharing my passion for my favorite painters and sculptors. I had studied art history in college, but this was as if I were part of history, carrying on the legacy.”
“I’d love to work for the Costume Institute,” Annie shyly admitted.
“You’ll have to marry rich, then. Or hope your mother does. There’s no pay. All those women toil away for the sheer glory of it.”
So that was out. Disappointed, Annie did what she always did when life grew dark: She pulled on her cowboy boots and headed straight for the Met. The Great Hall was crowded with visitors, babies in their mothers’ arms and old folks in wheelchairs, a medley of different languages drifting up to the mezzanine balcony.
She wandered through the Arms and Armor section, wondering how on earth anyone could fight wearing so much gear, followed by the Western European Arts section, which took up two floors and included her favorite painting, Bastien-Lepage’s Joan of Arc , which depicted the saint as a poor, disheveled girl standing in an unkempt garden. Annie recognized herself in the jut of the girl’s chin and the wondering eyes.
In the Greek and Roman Art section, she came upon a Greek bronze chest plate from the fourth century BC, which had been forged to fit perfectly against the body it protected, replete with rippling muscles and a belly button. When she’d visited with her father as a young girl, they’d speculated about the soldier who’d worn it, whether he lived to old age or died in battle. That was the fun of exploring the Met: stumbling upon surprises that made you realize how small your problems were in the grand scheme of things, how many centuries the human race had been in existence. She found it reassuring.
Just beyond that section was a restaurant where sculptures rose out of a huge pool of water in the center of the room and the walls were painted the color of blackberries. It was fancy, not the sort of place Annie would ever feel comfortable in.
The layout of the museum had changed only slightly since she was a little girl. A big glass room had recently been added to the north side of the building for the Temple of Dendur. Annie had dragged Joyce to see it two months ago: an Egyptian temple that had been granted to the Met as a gift, in order to protect it from flooding from the construction of the Aswan Dam on the Nile. The Nubian sandstone building had been disassembled, shipped to New York, and reassembled, and, at eight hundred tons, weighed three times more than the Statue of Liberty. When Annie first saw it, she couldn’t help but wonder if the temple was a little disappointed at its new home. Instead of gazing out over the Nile and the Egyptian desert, as it had for almost two millennia, it was tucked away in a kind of oversized greenhouse, its only view this time of year a line of leafless trees. Joyce had looked at Annie like she was mad when she’d voiced this concern out loud.
Over in the other galleries of the Egyptian Art collection, the Cerulean Queen beckoned. Annie’s father had loved this strange half face, so she loved it as well. She drew close, puffing up her lips so they resembled that of the queen, just as an older woman with a close-cropped hairstyle and cool blue eyes walked by. Annie stepped back, blushing, but the woman didn’t seem fazed by the fact that a patron was making faces at an inanimate object. Instead, she offered a brief nod and a smile before disappearing behind an unmarked door.
Part of the collection was cordoned off, as the museum prepared for the King Tut exhibition due to open next month. But Annie was still able to visit her other favorites, like the blue hippo that had become the unofficial mascot of the Met. It was a tiny thing, and had been buried in the tomb of some Egyptian steward. The description next to it said that hippos were feared for their ferocity, and that three of the figurine’s legs had been broken before it was placed into the tomb, so that in the afterlife it couldn’t harm the steward. She liked to imagine that at night the creature escaped from its vitrine and limped around the Met roaring its displeasure.
Her attention was drawn to the far side of the gallery, where several members of the museum staff had gathered in front of an open display case as a man wearing white gloves handled whatever was being placed inside. Annie stepped closer to get a better look and let out a small breath: The object was a gold necklace, but this was more than a necklace. Six rows of what looked like tiny spoons formed a foot-wide arc, like an upside-down rainbow. It was intricate and intriguing, and must have been quite heavy to wear. As the technician with the gloves lifted one side to adjust it, the tinkling of gold against gold filled the air.
Annie stared at the necklace sparkling under the bright lights. What a beautiful piece of art. And jewelry. A perfect mix of the two.
What had Diana Vreeland said the other night? An intoxicating release from the banality of the world. This was certainly that. The madness of the design definitely intoxicated Annie’s senses.
It would be perfect for the neckline of the mannequin.
The gallery for the Costume Institute was right below the Egyptian Art collection. Annie swerved around the sign that read “Exhibition Closed” and flew down the stairs before one of the security guards saw her. To her delight, Mrs. Vreeland and half a dozen members of her entourage were gathered around one of the platforms where the mannequins were to be displayed. Mrs. Vreeland was holding several yards of velvet drapery in her arms while the others nodded their heads enthusiastically.
Annie stopped short a few feet away. “Um, excuse me, Mrs. Vreeland?”
The entire group turned and stared.
“Mrs. Hollingsworth’s minion?” said Mrs. Vreeland. Annie was surprised she remembered her, although the word “minion” was off-putting.
“I found something for the Scheherazade costume. The zebra one.”
A couple of women in the group tittered.
“Zobeida, you mean,” said Mrs. Vreeland. “Is that so?” Her eyelids were shiny, as if she’d rubbed Vaseline on them after putting on her makeup. An unusual choice, but it made her brown eyes pop. Her lips and cheeks were red slashes again today, her hair styled to curl around her ears so it was hard to tell if the lobes were rouged as well.
“Zobeida,” repeated Annie carefully. “It’s just upstairs from here. I think you’ll love it.”
“Do we have time for that? We really must decide about the drapery,” said a woman to Mrs. Vreeland’s left. Her eyebrows danced as she spoke, lifting with the question and pulling together in consternation at the statement. “We need your preference today.”
“Let’s make it extreme, Marta. I want flouncing, not draping. Everything interesting is a little extreme. Understatement is just pitter-patter.”
“What’s upstairs is extreme,” ventured Annie.
Mrs. Vreeland waved one hand in the air. “Oh, why not, I’m on my way out anyway. Come along, Marta, shall we see what this boa bearer is all worked up about? Let’s get crackin’.”
Annie led the two women upstairs to the display case, which the workers were in the process of locking. The necklace beckoned, twinkling under the bright lights.
Mrs. Vreeland peered over the vitrine, one hand on her neck.
“Frederick!” she yelled out.
The workers, as well as the visitors in the room, swiveled their heads in her direction with alarm.
“Get me Frederick right now!” she said to one of the workers. He took off running as Mrs. Vreeland wrapped her skinny arm around Annie’s shoulders. “This is the piece, of course . You have an eye, my dear.”
“It reminded me of Cartier’s Art Deco period,” Annie said, beaming.
“That’s a girl who knows her stuff.” She stepped back and studied her. “Nice boots, by the way.”
Before Annie could respond, a tall man—supposedly Frederick—approached them with an air of authority. He was followed by the same woman with the short hair Annie had seen by the Cerulean Queen not ten minutes ago.
“Mrs. Vreeland, how lovely to see you,” said the man. “May I introduce Charlotte Cross, the associate curator here in the Egyptian Art collection?”
The two women shook hands, Mrs. Vreeland doing so with an enthusiastic fervor that wasn’t matched by the associate curator.
“Frederick, you know Marta Meyer, the curator for the Costume Institute.”
More hands were shaken.
“You are admiring our new acquisitions?” said Frederick.
“It appears that you have been keeping secrets from us. Tell me about this necklace,” she answered.
“We call it a broad collar, made of gold, crizzled glass, and a pigment known as Egyptian blue. It’s composed of hundreds of small nefer hieroglyphs, which resemble tiny spoons. ‘Nefer’ is the Egyptian word for ‘good’ or ‘beautiful,’ and the craftsmanship and size imply that it belonged to a member of royalty. The piece was discovered in the Valley of the Kings in 1936, and the back is inscribed with the name of the female pharaoh Hathorkare, who ruled during the early period of the New Kingdom. It’s one of a kind.”
“A female pharaoh, you say?”
“Indeed.”
“That settles it. I want the broad collar for my exhibition.”
The woman named Charlotte stepped in before Frederick could answer. “Absolutely not. This is not a bauble for some fashion show. We’re still determining whether it should be displayed at all, as I have questions about the provenance.” She glared at Frederick.
Mrs. Vreeland made a graceful flicking motion with one hand, her polished nails shining like rubies. “As far as I’m concerned, fashion is not to be so casually insulted. Fashion is part of the daily air; you can see the approach of a revolution in clothes.”
Charlotte ran her hand through her short hair, making it stand up on end. While her part was streaked with gray, the rest was a dark chocolate color. “What does that even mean?”
Mrs. Vreeland was undeterred. “Not to mention the Costume Institute is part of this great museum for a good reason. I’m sure we don’t need to remind the board how much money the Met Gala brings in each year.”
Charlotte began to speak, but Frederick interrupted her. “That’s enough. Let me handle this. We all must work together.”
“I knew you’d understand, Frederick,” said Mrs. Vreeland.
But Charlotte refused to be ignored. “We don’t need the money. I assure you, the Tut exhibition is going to shower the Egyptian Art collection in riches. You can’t put the collar at risk—it’s too valuable. There are no barriers in the costume exhibition, nothing to keep it safe from the public.”
The woman named Marta spoke up. “I also worry about putting something like this into the exhibition, Diana. It’s not original to the costume or Diaghilev’s vision.”
“You could say the same about the Rodin sculpture that we’re using in the show,” answered Mrs. Vreeland. “I love the idea of integrating two different mediums, and this calls out to me in the same way the Rodin does. I’m simply mad about it.”
“But it’s not historically accurate,” said Marta.
“Don’t worry about that. I prefer to blend fiction and fact. I call it faction .”
Charlotte threw her hands in the air. “Now she’s making up words?”
“Enough, Charlotte,” barked Frederick. “My goodness.” He turned to Mrs. Vreeland. “Diana, let’s talk about this over coffee, shall we?”
Mrs. Vreeland took his arm but at the last minute looked back over her shoulder at Annie. “Well done, girl. Show up tomorrow at noon in my office. I’m thinking I could use a new assistant, someone with verve. It’s hard work and long hours, but I think we might make a good match.”
Annie barely stopped herself from jumping up and down, her entire body sizzling with excitement and pride. She’d taken a risk and it had paid off.
Starting tomorrow, if all went well, she would be working for Diana Vreeland, the leader of the fashion world. Certainly, the pay had to be decent, the wages better than those of a maid. She might never have to clean houses or waitress again.
She watched as Frederick and Mrs. Vreeland sauntered out and the others slowly dispersed, all except for Charlotte, who stood staring into the display case, inexplicably shaking with rage.
Annie burst into the apartment and yelled for her mother.
Joyce came running in from the kitchen, one hand on her heart. “What is it? Is everything all right?”
“Everything is wonderful. Guess what, I got a job!”
“Oh.” Her mother deflated slightly. “I thought you were hurt. You gave me a terrible scare.” She pulled away from Annie and walked back to the kitchen. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, which was odd. Without her thick mascara and glossy lips, Joyce was a ghostly version of herself, wan skin over sharp cheekbones. “I was just pouring myself a drink.”
Annie followed her. It was only four o’clock in the afternoon.
“Are you all right?”
“Sure. What were you talking about? A job?”
“Yes. I was asked to be Diana Vreeland’s assistant at the Met Museum. She’s working on the Met Gala for the Costume Institute.”
Joyce’s mouth dropped open. “ The Diana Vreeland?”
“The one and only.” Annie explained about Mrs. Hollingsworth’s errand, and how Annie had returned today and ingratiated herself with her discovery of the broad collar.
Joyce took a slug of her drink. “What about your job waitressing? What about Mrs. Hollingsworth?”
“I’ll let them know that I’ve got a real job. Mrs. H can hire someone else. I’ll go up and tell her now.”
“Hold on. She’s bound to be upset, you know how picky she is about people coming into her home. How much will you get paid?”
That was a good question. “I don’t know all of the details just yet, but I’ll find out tomorrow.”
“You don’t even know the salary? What were you thinking? And we can’t upset Mrs. Hollingsworth, not now.”
“Why not?”
“Brad wants to meet and have a talk when he’s back from his business trip to Sausalito.”
A talk. That was never a good sign, and explained why Joyce was barefaced and boozing it up.
“What if Mrs. Hollingsworth gets angry and kicks us out?” slurred Joyce. “You understand that she gives us a discount on the rent? She could probably get double if she wanted to. You need to think of us, not yourself at a time like this. Sure, you might make a little more money, but then she’ll raise our rent and we’ll be in big trouble. I’m not saying you can’t do it, but I think it would be better to wait.”
“But that’s crazy. How can I tell Diana Vreeland to wait? For me? The Met Gala is coming up, they need me there now. Here I have a dream job at my fingertips and you want me to keep on doing Mrs. H’s laundry so we can stay in this rattrap?”
She’d never spoke so forcefully to her mother before. The glass trembled in Joyce’s hands and fell to the floor, shattering on the linoleum. Her mother sobbed as Annie found the broom and cleaned the mess up, dumping the glass into the dustbin and wiping up the spilled alcohol with a cloth.
Joyce wiped her eyes. “You’ve got so much going on. You’re just starting out, and I’m on my way to the loony bin for aged models. I hate my life.”
While Annie knew that this was her mother’s way of manipulating her, she also knew there was a real chance that her mother might do something tragic if pushed. “I’m sorry,” said Annie. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Hey, maybe I can get you a ticket to the Met Gala this year? Would you like that? You can dress up and have a night on the town, on me. What do you think?”
“Really?” There was a hint of hope in her voice. “The Met Gala? There are so many fancy people who go to that. Well-off people. What would I wear?”
“I’ll remake one of your old dresses.”
“Oh, darling.” A tentative smile broke out on Joyce’s lips. “What would I do without you?”
While Annie’s manager at the diner was spitting angry when Annie announced that she was quitting, Mrs. H’s face lit up with a huge grin when she gave her the news. “There you go, my girl. That’s what I’m talking about. Good for you.”
“You’re not mad that I can’t give you any notice?”
“Why would I be mad? Anyone can clean my bathtub, it’s not rocket science.”
“But the discount on the rent—I don’t know how much I’ll be making yet, so I don’t know how it’ll all work out. Or if it will all work out.”
“Your mother seems to be home a lot these days. Why don’t we have her take over?”
Annie couldn’t tell if Mrs. H was kidding or not. “Um, she’s very busy, in fact.”
“I’m sure she is.”
Luckily, Mrs. H didn’t pursue that idea any further.
A little before noon, Annie approached the security guard at the side entrance of the Met. He checked her name off in a book and let her inside. She found her way back to the Costume Institute workroom, where the women were all still hard at work, as if they’d never left, and she gave Mona and Priscilla a quick wave before knocking on the door to Mrs. Vreeland’s office.
“Come in!” Mrs. Vreeland was sitting behind a large desk, looking impeccably stylish in jersey pants and scarlet python boots. Roger Vivier, Annie guessed. The bag on top was a classic cordovan leather Gucci. Her desk was covered in papers and photos, as well as a galley of the exhibition catalog, and behind her a square window looked out onto Fifth Avenue. Mrs. Vreeland opened a yellow legal pad, picked up a pencil, and gestured for Annie to take a seat.
As she did, a waft of Opium perfume tickled her nose.
“Tell me your full name, please.”
“Ann Michele Jenkins. Everyone calls me Annie.”
Mrs. Vreeland scribbled Annie’s name down on the pad and underlined it twice. “Well, Annie, you’re my new helper.” Even in the small room, Mrs. Vreeland’s voice bellowed out like a foghorn. “As the special consultant to the Costume Institute, it is my job to make this exhibition shine, it must be to die . Come in every day at nine and be prepared to stay late.”
“I will. My schedule is wide open.” Annie swallowed. “May I ask, how much do I get paid?”
“Money? A tiresome subject.”
“Only if you have too much of it.”
Mrs. Vreeland regarded Annie with delight. “ Excellent point. I’m allowed to pay you twelve thousand dollars a year. Will that do?”
Twelve thousand was much more than Annie currently made. She was moving up in the world, all right. “Of course. Thank you.”
“Let’s do an inspection, shall we? See how our ladies are managing.”
Annie followed her new boss into the workroom, and together they walked from mannequin to mannequin, Mrs. Vreeland stopping at each one to assess, adjust, and critique as the docents stood by nervously.
“Sergei Pavlovich Diaghilev was a genius,” said Mrs. Vreeland as she wandered the floor. “He took the boring pastels of the fin de siècle and replaced them with bright reds, oranges, and purples. His strong personality attracted all kinds of five-star artists to the Ballets Russes, from Stravinsky to Picasso. He had flair, taste, and he transformed the art of ballet. In our exhibition, we have some of the best of his costumes from seminal ballets such as Swan Lake and The Sleeping Princess . Just look at this diaphanous dress from Narcisse ,” said Mrs. Vreeland to Annie. “Couldn’t you see it at Studio 54?”
Annie nodded, her head spinning. She’d never been to Studio 54.
“But we have a big problem,” said Mrs. Vreeland.
“What’s that?”
“The bosoms on these mannequins are not right, and because of that, the line of the costumes is all wrong.”
“But they’re the mannequins you specified, from Bergdorf’s,” ventured one of the docents.
“They simply will not do as is. Annie, your first job is to cut off the bosoms from all the female mannequins. I’m off to meet Jackie O for tea. Ta-ta, ladies.”
And she was gone.
Annie had figured that cleaning for Mrs. Hollingsworth was backbreaking, but her arm was practically numb by the time she finished sawing sixty-six breasts off thirty-three mannequins. After that, she was tasked with picking up two stuffed peacocks from a man named Bill who lived atop Carnegie Hall. Annie spent a good hour wandering the two floors of studios that perched over the storied concert hall—she’d never even known that they existed until today—before she located someone who said, “Of course, Bill Cunningham,” and directed her to the correct studio. Then she had to wrestle the birds into a cab without damaging their tails and get them safely back up to the Met. At that point, Mrs. Vreeland had decided that feather fans would make perfect gifts for all the guests at the gala (“Choose a yellow that vibrates”), and so Annie flew down to the garment district to source them. And when the examples she brought back weren’t the exact color Mrs. Vreeland had in mind, Annie barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes before heading downtown once again.
She returned with several shopping bags filled with feathers, but the office was empty. A note on Annie’s desk asked Annie to “coordinate with the Egyptian gadabouts regarding Zobeida’s special trinket,” signed by Mrs. Vreeland. The handwriting was flowery, but every letter t contained a powerful slash that ran the length of the entire word.
Annie was let into the Egyptian Art staff offices by the curator, Frederick, who was on his way out and breezily pointed across the room. “Speak with Charlotte.”
Charlotte, the woman who was dead set against the whole idea of the Costume Institute using the necklace in the first place. Annie straightened her shoulders and walked over. Charlotte was using a loupe to examine a photograph of some ancient building, and didn’t sense her presence until Annie cleared her throat.
She jumped in surprise and the loupe fell onto the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” said Annie, getting down on all fours. “I’ll get it.”
At the same time, Charlotte leaned over, and they just barely avoided knocking their heads together. “Please,” said Charlotte in a curt tone. “I’ll pick it up.”
Annie looked up at her, still on her hands and knees, and nodded.
“Give me a little room,” directed Charlotte.
Annie scooted back and sat on her heels. “Just there. No, a little to the right,” she said as Charlotte groped and finally got hold of the loupe.
Charlotte placed it on her desk and swiveled her chair around to face Annie, who rose to a standing position with as much grace as she could muster.
“Yes?” Charlotte said, wrinkling her forehead. It was hard to guess her age. She wore no makeup or jewelry, and her jawline was sharp. Her eyes had heavy lids that lent her an air of elegant detachment. “Are you here to purloin more of our antiquities?”
“Um, just the one. Mrs. Vreeland asked that I come here to coordinate the transfer.”
“Coordinate the transfer?”
“Yes, of the necklace.”
“Broad collar.”
“Broad collar. Right.” She refused to let Charlotte know how intimidated she was. After all, she had Mrs. Vreeland’s backing, and had seen firsthand the woman’s power. If Mrs. Vreeland wanted the broad collar, she got it. If Charlotte wanted to be all business, Annie would comply. “I’m happy to bring any paperwork you have to Mrs. Vreeland for her signature.”
“There’s no paperwork. It’s not a formal loan. I do have to let the technician know, and the earlier, the better.”
“Okay, then. When should I pick it up?”
“You won’t be picking up anything. I’ll have one of the technicians bring it to the exhibition hall. When do you need it by?”
“Well, the gala is on Monday, and they’re moving the mannequins in today. So tomorrow?”
“Is that a question?”
“Tomorrow. Yes. Tomorrow would be fine.”
“Very well.” Charlotte jotted it down on the calendar on her desk. “I’ll be in touch.”
Annie didn’t move. “I think it’s beautiful.”
“Sorry?”
“The broad collar. I think it’s beautiful. I promise we’ll take good care of it, as it obviously means a lot to you.”
For the first time in their conversation, Charlotte’s expression softened. Annie held her gaze as something—fear, maybe pain—flitted across Charlotte’s face.
“You’re Little Red Riding Hood,” Charlotte finally said.
Annie wondered if she’d misheard. “I’m sorry?”
“You have a red coat. I’ve seen you here before.”
“Sure, I’m in the museum a lot. I loved the Met even before I got hired. My dad, before he died, used to bring me to the museum, and so sometimes when I’m nervous or upset, I come and stare at these super-old things and it calms me down.”
Super-old things? Why was she babbling on about what a mess she was? This wasn’t professional at all.
“I do that as well.” Charlotte spoke so softly Annie almost didn’t hear her.
Several of the other staff members flew in through the door, talking loudly and laughing, and the moment was broken. Charlotte gave a curt nod and turned back to her photo, and Annie slipped out, relieved she’d at least accomplished what she’d set out to do.
By eight o’clock that night, Annie was exhausted but also exhilarated. She stepped into Mrs. Vreeland’s office to ask if she was done for the day.
Mrs. Vreeland took a long drag on her cigarette. “The yellow is wrong for the fans.” She held up one offending feather. “You don’t understand yellow. Only Matisse and I understand yellow. First thing tomorrow, you must return and get it right.”
Annie’s heart sank. Maybe she wasn’t as adept at reading Mrs. Vreeland’s cryptic orders as she’d hoped.
“And as for those…”
Annie followed Mrs. Vreeland’s gaze down to the floor. She’d worn a pair of Mary Janes in the hopes that they would be fashionable yet walkable, but they were scuffed up and dirty after seven hours of wrangling stuffed peacocks and tromping through puddles.
“I shouldn’t have to say this, Annie Jenkins”—Mrs. Vreeland paused for effect—“but everyone knows that unshined shoes are the end of civilization.”