Page 12

Annie

New York City, 1978

After Annie’s strange conversation with Charlotte in the exhibition hall, she made her way to the staff cafeteria in the basement—she’d overheard Priscilla call it the “staff caf”—and stood in line to get a cup of tea and a cranberry scone.

The cafeteria consisted of a series of low-ceilinged rooms and several stations where Met employees could get hot or cold food. She poured milk into her tea and picked out the largest scone in the basket before paying at the cash register and settling down at a table near the back, where a few security guards dozed in chairs. On the other side of the room a half dozen pretty young women around Annie’s age sat at a large table, laughing uproariously.

Their lives were so different from her own. Sometimes she wondered what it would have been like if her father hadn’t died. Joyce would’ve found the adoration she craved in her husband’s eyes, while Annie would’ve been free to live a normal teenager’s life, joining clubs that met after school and sleeping over at friends’ apartments.

She took a sip of her tea and decided it needed more milk. But as she rose and turned to head back to the hot-drinks station, she rammed straight into a man or, more specifically, his tray of food. Annie caught the bowl of pasta just before it slid to the floor but at the expense of her tea, which splattered over the table.

All eyes turned to Annie. She was an oaf; the last place she should be working was a museum. She’d probably be fired before the week was over.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, grabbing her napkin and futilely dabbing at the lake of liquid that was forming on the tabletop.

The man with the tray let out a laugh. “It’s my fault, I’m so hungry I was walking way too fast.”

He wore a navy blue security guard uniform. She guessed he was only a few years older than she was, with long arms and skinny wrists that extended a few inches out from the hems of his jacket sleeves.

“That’ll teach me,” he said cheerily. The th sound came out as a d , an accent particular to the outer boroughs.

He put his tray down on a nearby table and jogged off to get a large pile of napkins. Once he returned and they’d cleaned up the mess, he pulled out the chair opposite hers, his pasta still steaming, and sat. “Wait a minute, can I get you another drink?” he asked, holding his fork in the air. “Tea, was it?”

“Oh, no, it’s fine.”

But he ran off again, this time coming back with a tea with exactly the right amount of milk.

She took it from him gratefully.

“Thank you,” she said. “Again, I’m sorry for bumping into you.”

“I was going to have to sit and eat dinner alone, so I consider it an opportunity. Wait a minute, is it okay if I sit here? I’ll be done fast; I only have ten minutes before I start my shift.”

“Of course, it’s fine.”

“What do you do here?” he asked.

“I’m the assistant to Diana Vreeland in the Costume Institute,” she said proudly.

“Dee-what?”

“ Diahna ,” repeated Annie. “Like the regular name Diana, but fancy.”

“The Costume Institute. Right. I’ve never worked one of the Met Galas before, but I signed up this year. I hear the toughest part is telling Mick Jagger not to smoke in the bathroom.”

Annie laughed. “I imagine he’d just ignore you. Or tell you off and have his bodyguards throw you into the fountain.”

Her dinner companion got a slightly panicked look in his eyes.

“I’m kidding, I’m sure he’s a sweetheart. I’m Annie, by the way.”

“Billy.” They shook hands.

“Where are you from, Billy?”

“Brooklyn, like pretty much every other guard in this place. It’s basically a huge, connected network of us, a union job, so it’s a good one. I started a month ago, got it through my uncle Marco.”

“Do you like it?”

“At first, all that standing around for twelve hours at a time did me in. I had sore feet, a sore back. But now I’m used to it.”

“Do you get bored?”

“Nah. There’s always some interesting person to watch, wonder who they are, where they’re from. Or, if it’s quiet, I’ll stare at the paintings or the suits of armor and let my mind wander. Imagine some poor dope riding a horse wearing all that metal while trying to poke someone else with a lance. There are so many galleries and so many objects, I don’t think it’s possible to get bored.” He held up one finger. “Actually, I take that back. It gets boring when you’re asked the same question over and over.”

“What question is that?”

“?‘Where’s the whale?’ Then I have to let some poor family down gently that it’s all the way across the park at the Museum of Natural History. I’ve seen kids melt down fast when they hear that. But then I tell them about the mummies and they perk back up. My favorite assignment is the Great Hall because it’s nonstop busy and time flies by. The worst is when you get Section D.”

“What’s that?”

“Cleaning duty. You spend the shift mopping floors and picking up trash.”

The table of pretty girls erupted in laughter. Billy gave them a cursory glance. “The development staffers. They always leave tons of scuff marks from their high heels, drives us nuts.”

“What’s your favorite painting?” she asked.

“Oh, that’s a tough one.” He glanced down at his watch. “Shoot, I better be heading off.”

“But you barely touched your food.”

“That’s okay. It was fun talking to you.”

“It was.” Annie was thrilled to have made a friend. “Where are you off to?”

“Nineteenth Century American Paintings, up on the second floor.” Billy gave a shy smile. “I’ll tell you what? Why don’t you walk with me and I’ll show you one of my favorites.”

Annie finished the last piece of her scone. “You bet.”

They tossed their trash and walked through to the Great Hall before climbing the sweeping staircase that led to the second floor.

Billy, as a security guard, probably knew more about the ins and outs of the building than anyone. “I know you’ve only been here a month, but have you ever had anyone try to steal anything while you’ve been guarding?” asked Annie as they ascended the shallow steps.

“No, thank goodness. I mean, it’s not as if we have guns or anything to stop them. A year ago, a couple of teenagers stole a ring from one of the vitrines in the Egyptian Art collection.”

“Aren’t they locked?”

“This particular one had a quarter-inch crack in between the door panels, as well as some space at the very bottom. The kids noticed the cracks, and then came back with a wire hanger and a museum floor plan. One acted as a lookout as the other fished into the vitrine with the hanger, knocked the ring onto the museum map, and pulled it out. Easy enough when you think about it.”

“It seems almost too simple. Where was the guard?”

“We can’t be in every room, and they timed it just right.”

“There aren’t any alarms or anything?”

“No. Not yet, anyway. That kind of technology is still a long way off. Luckily, the dopey kids went straight to a jeweler right on Lexington Avenue, who recognized the ring and called the museum asking for eighty thousand dollars for his trouble.”

She paused at the top of the staircase. “Wait a minute, the jeweler tried to blackmail the museum?”

“Stupid, right? The security head nabbed him as well as the kids.”

“What happened to the kids?”

Billy led her along the mezzanine balcony and into the American Paintings and Sculpture galleries. “It was their first offense, so they didn’t get any jail time. The jeweler got a light sentence, I think.” He smiled. “This place is full of crazy stories. I love it.”

“You should write a book about it.”

“Nah. My plan is to save enough money and get my undergrad degree, eventually be a technician here. They get to spend time with the art, make sure it’s in its optimal climate, create mounts, that kind of thing. Can you imagine being able to touch a Michelangelo? With gloves on, of course.”

“I can’t. I’d be terrified.”

He stopped in front of the enormous oil painting of George Washington crossing an icy Delaware River. “This is one of the most popular paintings in the museum.”

“I can see why.”

“But over here’s my favorite. Winslow Homer’s Northeaster .”

He guided her farther into the gallery, to an oil painting that showed a great wave smashing onto dark, craggy rocks, the water spraying up almost like smoke on one side and curling over in a massive breaker on the other.

“It’s almost like the water’s about to splash down on you,” said Annie.

“Exactly right. In an earlier version, Homer had two figures crouching on the rocks, but he later removed them. Whenever I’m posted to this gallery, I pretend that it’s a window, not a painting. I swear sometimes I can hear the rush of water if I listen hard enough.”

The security guard on duty came over and shook Billy’s hand, and then Billy took up his position, standing tall with his hands behind his back. A few tourists wandered by speaking French to each other. With its parquet floors and beautiful artwork, the gallery invited a sense of hushed awe upon its visitors, almost like a place of worship.

“I hope I’m not too chatty,” Billy said. “My dad says it’s like my brain never turns off, that my head is filled with words that just have to come out, like some kind of overstuffed ravioli.”

Annie giggled. “My dad used to say I was a magpie. I thought that was some kind of pie until he explained it was a bird who could talk.”

“You know, the magpie is a symbol of good luck in East Asia, you can find them all over Chinese artworks.”

He knew so much, it was a little intimidating.

“Cool.” What a stupid reply. But she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“You seem like a quiet type to me,” said Billy. “Or maybe that’s because I take up all the oxygen in the room.”

“No, that’s not true at all. After my dad died, I didn’t talk as much.” Annie would never forget the day she answered the door to their apartment to find two men in suits staring down at her. They asked for her mother, and then Joyce was crying, and Annie heard them say her father had tried to stop some kids from harassing a woman on the subway and been shot. The men in suits offered empty platitudes and handed over her father’s bloodstained wallet and his set of keys before eventually letting themselves out.

Billy lightly touched Annie’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago. It’s funny, we used to come to the museum at least once a week when I was a kid, and now I wonder what he would think if he knew I was working here.”

“He’d probably be very proud.”

Annie blushed and thanked Billy for the chat and the tour. “I should let you get to work.”

“I hope we bump into each other soon,” said Billy. “Although maybe not so violently the next time.”

Annie giggled and agreed.

“You must come to me right away.” Mrs. Vreeland’s voice sailed through the phone receiver as if she were standing in Annie’s kitchen. Annie had just finished cleaning the dinner dishes from the night before when it rang. “I’m at 550 Park. Right away, I tell you.”

“Right away? Of course.” Annie hung up the phone and dried her hands on her jeans. Her mother was still asleep and probably would be until noon. Now that the modeling work had dried up and Brad was still away on business, she had little motivation to rise.

Annie left her mother a note and jumped on a bus to 62nd Street. Mrs. Vreeland’s building was the fancy prewar kind with an awning that extended the width of the sidewalk. The doormen wore white gloves yet treated Annie, in her jeans and messy ponytail, as if she were a high-society debutante. She appreciated their kindness.

She took the elevator up and knocked on Mrs. Vreeland’s door.

“Come in!”

Annie opened the door and stood there, gaping. Everything was done in vibrant shades of red: the boldly floral wallpaper, the dozens of patterned throw pillows, the floor-to-ceiling chintz drapes, the shag carpeting, even the floral arrangements. It shouldn’t have worked, but somehow it did, the electrifying shock of color accented with tall Venetian screens and dark wood side tables.

Mrs. Vreeland lay sideways on the couch wearing a red dressing gown, a turban on her head. “It’s ravishing, isn’t it?” she said, lifting her arms wide. “I’m mad about red. I wanted my apartment to look like a garden in hell. All my life I’ve pursued the perfect red—I can never get painters to mix it for me. I’d tell them, ‘I want rococo with a spot of gothic in it and a bit of Buddhist temple,’ and they’d look at me like they had no idea what I’m talking about! Sit there.”

Annie perched on a Georgian easy chair, unsure why she’d been summoned. The coffee table in front of her was covered with spiral shells of different sizes. “That’s quite a collection.”

“In this room you’ll find many small gifts from friends, including a collection of Scottish horn snuffboxes and Himalayan snow leopard throw pillows. I’m very lucky to have been surrounded by some of the best of people. Not growing up, unfortunately. My mother rejected me thoroughly, called me an ‘ugly little monster.’ But I was exposed to such artistry when we lived in Paris. I mean, Nijinsky and Diaghilev visited our apartment on avenue du Bois de Boulogne, if you can imagine such a thing. That more than made up for not being wanted. France taught me so much. How to dance , how to dress .”

Annie looked down at her jeans. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting your call.”

“Don’t apologize, dear. I love blue jeans. Blue jeans are the most beautiful thing since the gondola. They have fit and dash and line .”

Annie took a moment to consider the pronouncement. It made sense, in a weird way. “I remember you did an entire shoot featuring denim.”

“You know my work, then?” Mrs. Vreeland said, pleased.

“Of course. While all the other women’s magazines were writing about how to take care of your husband or how to please your mother-in-law, you filled the pages with women striding across the African desert.”

“Those were magical days, but life goes on. Now, Annie, I know this job is difficult, being my helper, and it’s only going to be messier the closer we get to the big night. But it’s the way I work, and if you’re able to put up with my many eccentricities, I assure you, you’ll go far. My former former helper, a lovely Southern gentleman named André, has gone on to write for Women’s Wear Daily .”

“I’m just happy to be part of the team.”

“We are a team. And I can tell you love clothes as much as I do. The beautiful thing about working at the Costume Institute is the reverence with which the clothes in the collection are treated. Wrapped in acid-free tissue paper, nothing stored on hangers, which after three months simply ruin the shoulders. Drawer after drawer of soft treasures. It’s a dream, one that I did not expect after my years toiling away for the magazine world before being fired at the ripe old age of seventy. Now I’m in my element, and few can keep up with me, but I knew right away you could. We understand each other, don’t we?”

“Of course.” Annie nodded her head enthusiastically.

“The next few days, I’ll need you to check the spelling of every name, every exhibition label, and, the evening of, treat every donor with respect and gratitude. I like to think of this exhibition as a three-dimensional fashion magazine layout, and it must be properly grouped and accessorized. I choose the music, the lighting, the perfume—”

“Perfume?”

“Oh, yes. We have it infused into the exhibition hall. This year it’s Mitsouko, by Guerlain of Paris, which was originally created for Diaghilev. Isn’t that to die?”

“Incredible.” Although Annie had to wonder what kind of damage the perfume did to the costumes.

“I say, there are days I wake up and pinch myself.” Mrs. Vreeland swung her legs around and placed her feet delicately on the floor. “I love working with beautiful things and beautiful people.”

“What I most admire is how you hire women who break the rules of what a fashion model should look like,” offered Annie. “Cher, Lauren Hutton, Anjelica Huston.”

“I’ve always appreciated women who were interesting rather than beautiful. Probably to prove my mother wrong. You don’t need beauty, but you must have style. Embrace what you have, I say. If you’re tall, wear high heels. If you have big hands, wear chunky rings. The models I’ve had the pleasure to discover and work with were never boring.” Her eyes twinkled. “It’s not about the dress, it’s about the life you’re living in the dress. Now, pick up that notepad and I’ll dictate some memos.”

Annie gathered up the pen and notebook from a side table and they began, Mrs. Vreeland reeling off missives to fashion-world luminaries like Oscar de la Renta, Kenneth Jay Lane, and Richard Avedon. After the last one, Mrs. Vreeland glanced at her wristwatch. “Off you go, now. I’ll see you at the museum in an hour.”

Annie rose to her feet, still reeling from the tornado of words.

“I just had a splendid idea,” said Mrs. Vreeland. “Butterflies.”

“I’m sorry?” Annie waited for an explanation, but the woman was lost in thought, one hand under her chin, the other fluttering in front of her.

“Butterflies. Hundreds of them.”

“When? For the exhibition?”

“Of course for the exhibition! This year I’m inviting a group of VIPs to a special walk-through, conducted by me, while the rest of the guests are off dancing. And there simply must be butterflies for the VIP tour! I imagine a dizzying kaleidoscope of shape, pattern, and color. The room must feel as if it’s taking off in flight, just like the dancers once did on the stage of the Théatre du Chatelet. I know you will come up with something marvelous.”

The phone rang, and Mrs. Vreeland pounced on it with glee, motioning Annie to let herself out.

“Misha, my darling. How are you getting along with Mr. B? Now tell me everything .”

The day before the “Party of the Year,” as the Met Gala was often called, Mrs. Vreeland went into overdrive, which meant Annie did as well. Annie loved the feeling of taking ownership of the Metropolitan Museum, stomping after Mrs. Vreeland through the restaurant behind the Greek and Roman wing where dinner would be held after guests had streamed through the exhibition, followed by dancing in front of the Temple of Dendur. She made checklists and did her best to translate Mrs. Vreeland’s off-the-cuff, enigmatic commands into English. And then there was the exhibition itself, which Mrs. Vreeland fussed with until poor Marta looked like she was about to scream. Mrs. Vreeland had no qualms about climbing onto the platforms where the mannequins were displayed, adjusting the way the dresses fell, or objecting to the lighting. (“Shine it on the costumes , not the mannequin’s face; this isn’t some razzmatazz Broadway show!”)

That afternoon, Annie and Mona were sent off to the Temple of Dendur to oversee the placement of the bars and tall cocktail tables. The men setting up knew what they were doing, so she and Mona stood along the far wall and kept an eye on things as the gallery was transformed into a disco, replete with a neon dance floor.

“I stopped by the restaurant earlier, it looks very festive,” said Annie. She’d been pleased to see that the yellow feather fans at each place setting worked wonderfully with the floral centerpieces.

“There’s not much you can do with the Dorotheum,” sniffed Mona.

“Is that the name of the restaurant?”

“It was designed by a woman named Dorothy Draper, and no one likes it, hence the nickname. Those awful coral banquettes and the birdcage chandeliers? Even worse, the frolicking sprites that rise out of the fountain. Just terrible.”

There appeared to be a fine line between stylish and garish, thought Annie. A week ago, if asked, she would’ve deemed the restaurant to be elegant and Mrs. Vreeland’s apartment garish. But it was actually the opposite.

“I can’t believe the temple came all the way from Egypt,” said Annie.

“Did you know there’s graffiti on it?” asked Mona. She was skinny, but her voice was deep, a startling incongruity. Priscilla, meanwhile, spoke in a breathy Marilyn Monroe voice, which annoyed Mona but Annie found sweet. The two docent trainees were so different from each other, but both deeply devoted to the Met. “Here, I’ll show you.”

Mona led Annie around to the far side of the temple’s gate, where “Leonardo 1820” was carved into the sandstone.

Annie sighed. “I guess some things never change. Like spray paint on the subway cars, people love to leave their mark.”

“You take the subway?” said Mona. “Don’t you worry about getting mugged? My husband won’t allow me. He says these days it’s far too dangerous.”

“I keep an eye out for trouble.” And she had, ever since her dad had been killed. If something seemed off in the subway car she was sitting in, she got out.

“It’s so much easier to just jump into a cab.”

And much more expensive. “I suppose.”

“Although I must say, the traffic lights in New York City leave something to be desired. You can hardly go for one block before the next one’s changed to red. Drives me insane every time I get in a taxi. I seriously don’t know how you can stand it.”

Annie shrugged. Having never lived anywhere other than New York, she had nothing to compare it with.

“Annie!”

Billy the guard was loping their way, arms pumping, legs striding. She heard Mona stifle a laugh next to her.

“Billy,” said Annie warmly to make up for Mona’s rudeness. “You on Egyptian duty today?”

“I was. I’m about to take a break and then head to the Greek and Roman wing. You ready for the big night?”

Annie introduced Mona, who gave him a weak nod of the head.

“I suppose we’re ready,” said Annie. “Although there’s still a million things to be done.”

“I bet. You work for Dee- ah -nah, too?” he asked Mona, stressing the middle syllable and throwing a grin Annie’s way.

“I’m a docent trainee,” answered Mona. “And no, I don’t work directly for Mrs. Vreeland. I volunteer for the museum.”

Annie was only realizing now how cliquey the museum was, with its many factions: the director, the curators, the development staff, the art handlers, the conservators, the docents, and the docents in training. And then there was Mrs. Vreeland, floating above the fray as the “special consultant” to the Costume Institute.

“Huh. Okay,” said Billy. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow night. Since you’re both with the Costume Institute, I have to ask, does my outfit meet with your approval?” He held out the bottom of his suit jacket and did an awkward curtsy.

Annie laughed. “You look just fine.”

After he left, Mona turned to Annie with a smug look. “He likes you, you know.”

“Do you think?” The idea made her smile. He was a sweet, boyish kid.

“But you can do much better than a guard,” offered Mona. “They’re a dime a dozen. Don’t settle, whatever you do.”

“I think he’s nice.”

Before Mona could respond, Priscilla appeared, saying they were needed in the workroom. There, the trio unpacked dozens of boxes of perfume, taking care not to break any of the bottles. The butterfly question had been solved only the day before, when Annie had confided to Priscilla that she was panicked about Mrs. Vreeland’s strange request. Priscilla consulted with a friend who was a volunteer at the Museum of Natural History, and after several phone calls, Annie was all set. She’d arranged to pick up a box of butterflies right before the exhibition opened.

For her last project of the day, she addressed the invitations to the private VIP gathering. The list was a who’s who of New York City’s rich and famous, including Lee Radziwill, Betsy Bloomingdale, Mick Jagger, Diana Ross, and Steve Rubell.

Back at the apartment, although Annie’s back hurt and her eyes were red, she put the finishing touches on the dress she’d be wearing to the Met Gala. Taking Mrs. Vreeland’s advice, she’d decided to accent her more “interesting” features. Annie had chosen a plissé fabric that shimmered in the light and sewn in shoulder pads, hoping they would give her a nice line without making her look like a football player. From there, the gown dropped straight to the floor and swished around her legs—no waistline, just like her own sturdy torso. She’d borrow some of her mother’s chunky rings to wear on her fingers, just as Mrs. Vreeland suggested.

Annie had been lucky enough to secure a ticket for her mother as well. She couldn’t wait for Joyce to watch her thriving at her new job, escorting the VIPs through the Great Hall and acting as Mrs. Vreeland’s favorite helper. Maybe Joyce would meet someone wonderful there to take her mind off Brad. For Joyce’s dress, Annie had taken a simple wine-colored sheath and added a fantastical collar, ruffles trimmed in gold. Her mother would be the center of attention once again.

It was sure to be a magical, perfect night.