For at least four months, Monica had devoted every second of her life to being beautiful and cultivating that unique quality called fantasy—gathering, life, or creative space. Fashion, the counting of souls, or the shallow pursuit of approval in which people drew near to say yes or no.
What can people do when all that’s left behind has already alard them? Nothing was surprising anymore. At a ti when she longed to make grand films, to move the masses, and to master the art of the screen, she made a subtle movent while the others went about their tasks—three runway shows in seven days. It was monotonous and exhausting work, each garnt worn with forced enthusiasm, paraded back and forth. The new dresses, the endless fittings—day after day, countless shows marked the end of autumn and the beginning of winter. The job was a swift current of ti, driven by the ever-repeating rhythm of consurism. Yet, sohow, it was a marvelous fantasy.
—Monica, we’re back in thirty minutes —called Agnes, the staging assistant with a black headband and a large folder of yellow envelopes, carrying out a tiny portion of the endless instructions sent by the producers or the runway director.
—Darling, we heard yesterday that the man finally arrived. —said Stephanie Seymour, her tone decisive. She was a woman of striking traits, her outlook simple yet perceptive. She was curious how a model could afford an apartnt facing Central Park—large enough to feel like a mansion, an entire floor worth four million dollars. Practically a lifeti of work.
—Yes, Billy Carson. It’s no secret. —Monica replied.
—A fine man. —the model said cheerfully.
—What’s surprising is that once you truly know him, once you see that person who seems to master everything he does, you’ll find yourself willing to do anything just to be near him. The thing is, he doesn’t even realize it—one hundred percent of won seem to find him irresistible, and only soone who truly gets close can ever be considered his possible partner. Nothing shocking about that. —Monica said, eting the won’s eyes. Though Seymour was one of the few with a stable relationship, the others loved to dance through life, moving between n for gifts and amusent—it was the easy luxury they lived by.
—Sounds like soone who’d be a headache for anyone with even the slightest responsibility. —comnted Stephanie Seymour.
Many won followed, listening closely to the stories as they were now fitted with long coats and dresses in pale blues, whites, and curiously, so blacks with darker lines.
Billy sipped his coffee as he watched Winona at work. She managed to appear like a foolish little girl—a woman who had completely failed in the book business, even after giving it her all. Yet, it was part of her charm. That innocent, naïve look was worth every cent. She was brilliant at reviving cinematic classics, always timing her releases perfectly for May or June, usually romances. All she needed was the right spark.
—Well, I guess it’s my turn now. —said Billy, realizing it was his cue to step in.
He was set to film his scene in the bookstore, where each subtle change took on a life of its own. Who could resist offering even the slightest pose of boldness? Billy, dressed in a fine designer shirt, jeans, and a jacket worth at least two thousand dollars—though he hardly looked it—carried himself with effortless elegance, even when surrounded by kids.
—Scene 31, take 5. —
INT. KATHLEEN’S BOOKSTORE – LATER.
Matt is sitting on the floor reading a book. Kathleen is showing Annabel a copy of Betsy-Tacy. Joe—Billy—moves slightly, just enough to show a comfortable unease, perfect for the scene.
KATHLEEN: This is her best friend, Tacy, whose real na is Anastasia. And then, in the next book, Betsy and Tacy beco friends with Tib—whose real na, I’m sorry to say, is Thelma.
In another corner of the store:
George shows Joe a first edition of The Swiss Family Robinson from the glass display. Three hidden caras—behind a false mirror, a window, and other angles—capture the scene from multiple perspectives.
GEORGE: The illustrations are all hand-drawn, that’s why…
JOE: …it costs so much.
GEORGE: That’s why it’s worth so much.
Joe smiles, turning to watch Kathleen and Annabel by a shelf full of Betsy-Tacy books.
ANNABEL: I want them all.
KATHLEEN: That might be a bit much for your dad to buy all at once.
ANNABEL: My dad buys every book I want.
KATHLEEN (looking at Joe)
Well, that’s very sweet of him.
ANNABEL: That’s not my dad. He’s my nephew.
KATHLEEN: Oh, I really don’t think he’s your nephew…
As Joe steps closer:
JOE: It’s true. Annabel’s my aunt. Aren’t you, Aunt Annabel?
Annabel nods solemnly.
Filming the sa scene over and over was exhausting—children forgot their lines, lost focus, fidgeted. Billy did what he could with the bare minimum.
ANNABEL: And Matt is…
KATHLEEN: Let guess.
(to Matt)
Your uncle?
MATT: No.
KATHLEEN: Your grandfather?
Annabel and Matt burst into laughter.
KATHLEEN (continuing):
Your great-grandfather?
MATT (shouting gleefully):
I’m her brother!
JOE: Annabel’s my grandfather’s daughter. And Matt’s my father’s son. We’re an Arican family.
He smiles at Kathleen; she smiles back. Annabel suddenly sneezes. Kathleen pulls a handkerchief from her sleeve—an embroidered vintage one—and offers it to her. Annabel wipes her nose with her hand first, then looks curiously at the cloth.
ANNABEL: What’s this?
KATHLEEN: A handkerchief. My goodness! Don’t children even know what handkerchiefs are anymore? It’s like a tissue you don’t throw away. My mother embroidered this one—see? My initials and a daisy, because daisies are my favorite flower.
ANNABEL: Orchids are my favorite.
KATHLEEN (to Joe):
You know what else kids don’t know? They don’t know what a phone booth is!
Joe looks at Kathleen.
JOE: Who are you?
KATHLEEN: Kathleen Kelly. I own this store. And you are?
JOE: Joe. Call Joe.
(quickly)
We’ll take these books. He’ll keep the one Matt’s reading, and the other two you picked out for Annabel.
KATHLEEN: Wonderful choices. As Annabel grows, so do the characters in these stories.
(to Annabel)
You can grow up with Betsy.
GEORGE: You’ll co back, right?
JOE: Of course.
GEORGE: That’s why we’ll never go out of business—our custors are loyal.
KATHLEEN (explaining):
They’re opening a Foxbooks just around the corner.
ANNABEL: Foxbooks! My dad—
JOE (gently covering her mouth):
—likes shopping for discounts. Don’t tell anyone, Annabel. It’s nothing to be proud of.
MATT (spelling):
F-O-X.
KATHLEEN: Very good! You can spell fox. Can you spell dog?
MATT: F-O-X.
JOE: Matt, look at this dinosaur book. Wouldn’t you like a dinosaur book?
(to Annabel)
Maybe you can read it to Matt while I finish up.
(ushering them aside)
Sit down, read, and don’t listen to anything I say.
He returns to the counter and hands Kathleen the money.
JOE: And the dinosaur book too.
KATHLEEN: The world doesn’t run on discounts, trust . I’ve been in this business forever. I started helping my mother here after school when I was six. I used to watch her—not selling books, but helping people beco who they were ant to be. When you read a book as a child, it becos part of your identity in a way no other reading ever does.
(pauses)
I suppose I got carried away.
JOE: Yes, and you made feel…
He can’t finish the thought. He looks behind her and spots a photo—Kathleen’s mother, unmistakable, with a young Kathleen.
JOE (continuing):
She was lovely. Your mother was lovely.
KATHLEEN: She was! How did you know?
JOE: Lucky guess.
KATHLEEN: Anyway, she left the store to , and I’ll leave it to my daughter.
JOE: How old is your daughter now?
KATHLEEN: Oh, I’m not married. But soday… —she smiles at Joe—
so that Foxbooks can…
KATHLEEN AND GEORGE (together):
Go to hell!
KATHLEEN (handing him the books):
Here you go.
JOE: Ready?
Annabel and Matt join him at the counter. Kathleen gives each a lollipop.
ANNABEL: Goodbye, Kathleen.
KATHLEEN: Goodbye, Annabel. Goodbye, Matt.
What about cat? Can you spell cat?
MATT: F-O-X.
—Cut. —
Billy sighed as they wrapped the scene. He knew the coming days would be packed, and repeating the scene ten more tis would be a challenge.
—Seems like I’m still just a scatterbrain. —Winona said in character.
...
User Comments
0 comments from readers