Red (13 page)

T
rue to her promise to herself, in the days that passed, Becky Lynn kept her nose to the grindstone and her mouth shut. At first, she had waited, heart in her throat, for Sallie to call her into her office for a reprimand, or worse, to fire her.

It never happened. Sallie remained as open and friendly as she had ever been. Even Bruce had seemed to have forgotten the incident. Finally, Becky Lynn began to relax.

“Becky Lynn, my darling here needs a chardonnay.” Foster brought his hand to his chest and drew in his breath melodramatically. “She's recounting the most awful story, and she needs to brace herself. It's truly…tragic.”

Becky Lynn bit back a smile and nodded. Foster's “darling” of the moment was the woman in his chair, a senior studio executive's wife and Hollywood power-luncher. She came in several times a week, Joy did her nails, Sallie her makeup and facials, Foster her hair. Today she was having her sleek blond bob trimmed.

Becky Lynn poured a glass of the wine, careful not to leave fingerprints on the glass, then selected a few tidbits and arranged them on a gold-rimmed dessert plate. Her job had developed into that of fetch-it girl or gofer. (She had only done a half-dozen shampoos, and then only because of a flu bug that had swept through The Shop; Sallie employed professional hairdressers to man the shampoo
bowls.) She made herself available to the artists, for whatever they might need, restocked shelves, made sure the coffee was always fresh-brewed, the wine cold. In addition, she made certain The Shop always looked picture perfect, a job that included everything from straightening The Shop's multitude of magazines to wiping water spots from all the bathroom and shampoo room fixtures. People of wealth, privilege and beauty expected perfection. At The Image Shop, they got it.

Becky Lynn carried the wine and plate to Foster's station and set them carefully in front of the woman. “Here you are, Mrs. Cole,” she murmured. “I brought you a small arrangement of fruits, biscuits and Brie, just in case you missed lunch.”

Foster beamed at her for remembering that the last time Madeline Cole had been in, she had requested just such an assortment because she had, indeed, missed lunch.

“Thank you, dear. That's lovely.”

“You're welcome, ma'am.”

The woman looked at her, her lips tipping up in amusement. “Where in the world are you from?”

Becky Lynn's cheeks heated, but she met the woman's gaze evenly. “Mississippi, ma'am.”

“Mississippi?”
she repeated.
“Ma'am?”
Madeline Cole turned her gaze to Foster. “My God, Foster, where did Sallie find her?”

“Why, she's our own little Blossom,” Foster mocked in the way Becky Lynn had come to recognize was without personal malice. “We believe she's actually a princess on the run. Her father is determined to marry her to a fat old king.”

“With bad breath,” Brianna chirped up from the next station. “And no hair.”

Madeline Cole tilted her head. “Maybe she's in the federal witness protection program, hiding out from the mob. Next thing we know, my husband will be making a movie about her life.”

“So, which is it, Blossom?” Foster grinned at her. “The fat old king or the mob?”

Becky Lynn swallowed past the lump in her throat, wishing she could think up a snappy comeback, something that would satisfy them so they would leave her alone.

“Come on, Blossom,” Foster teased. “You can tell us. We'll only tell everyone else.”

“Stop it, you two,” Marty called from two chairs down. “You're embarrassing her. Besides, I need her to get me a fresh towel. Could you, Becky Lynn? This one is beyond sticky.”

Grateful for Marty's kindness, Becky Lynn hurried to the shampoo room. The artists teased her sometimes, calling her Blossom because of her accent and making up fantastic scenarios about her. Not to be mean—at least not in the way people in Bend had been—but because they were curious. And because they were all so open, they couldn't understand her being so reserved.

But this was the first time they had ever teased her in front of a client. She took one of the fluffy, white towels from the shelf, and drew her eyebrows together in thought. Did that mean anything? Were they becoming more comfortable with her? Or was she seeming even stranger to them?

She returned to the main salon and handed Marty the towel, grateful to see Foster and Madeline Cole deeply into another conversation. “Thanks,” she said softly.

“No problem.” Marty smiled. “Why don't you take a
break? There's a bit of a lull right now and it won't last forever. Besides, it's already past two and you haven't sat down once.”

That was true. Her feet ached and she did long to just sit, even if only for a minute or two. Still, she hesitated. “Sallie might need—”

“She just left for a lunch date.” Marty shook her head. “Go on. You deserve it.”

“Well…okay. But if you or anybody else needs me, I'll be in the break room.”

“You got it.”

Becky Lynn made her way to the staff's break room. Sallie insisted her employees use it, as she thought eating, smoking and talking around the clients both unprofessional and sloppy.

The room was empty and mercifully quiet. No throbbing rock and roll, no chatter, no hum and whine of blow dryers. Becky Lynn sighed, grateful to be alone, relieved to be able to let down her guard for a few minutes, minutes free of worrying about how she was acting or what someone might be thinking about her.

Rolling her tired shoulders, she went to the refrigerator, got herself a Coke and the apple she had brought with her to work. She took a giant bite of the fruit and crossed to the vinyl couch set up along the far wall. She sank onto it, making a sound of relief as she did. It felt good to get off her feet. She slipped off her sneakers and rubbed her arches. With her next paycheck she had to get herself a new pair of shoes, a pair with arch support.

On the floor beside the couch lay the new
Vogue,
the January issue. Someone had left it behind. Becky Lynn hesitated a moment, then picked it up. Sallie ordered every
magazine imaginable for The Shop, but Becky Lynn had only glanced at them so far. She feared if she showed how interested in them she really was, she would be singled out and made fun of, the way she had been back home.

She took another bite of the apple and leafed eagerly through the magazine. She studied the photographs, the makeup and hairstyles. She noted which models and photographers were being used, what the most current style statement was. She stopped on an ad for Bloomingdale's. The model sported a long spiky haircut, similar to the one made a household name by Tina Turner's latest video. Marty had given a client the same style only days ago.

Becky Lynn tilted her head, studying the picture. Something about it didn't work. What was it? She narrowed her eyes.
The lighting. Of course.
She smiled. If the photographer had used a softer, less direct light, the shadows would have been less harsh, less jarring. And, in her unschooled opinion, more in keeping with the romantic style of the dress.

She flipped through several more pages, stopping on a dramatic shot for Armani. She drew her eyebrows together.
This shot was perfect, without flaw.
This photographer had used—

Marty bopped in, humming the newest Cindy Lauper tune. “Hey, Becky Lynn.”

Becky Lynn lifted her gaze. Marty sported the androgynous look made popular by rockers like Annie Lennox of the Eurythmics, down to her super-short, bleached-blond hair. On her, it worked. “Hi, Marty.”

The other woman crossed to the refrigerator, peered inside, then shut the door without selecting anything. She arched her eyebrows. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing much.” Becky Lynn folded her hands over the
magazine, hoping the other woman wouldn't pursue her question. “Everything okay out there?”

“Yeah. Fine.” Marty lit a cigarette and crossed to the sofa. She sat on its arm, tipped her head and looked at the magazine. “That's David Bailey's work, isn't it?” she said, referring to the photographer.

“Uh-huh.”

“He's been around forever.” Marty pulled on the cigarette, then blew out a long stream of smoke. “I think he's the greatest.”

“Who's the greatest?”

Brianna strolled in, followed closely by Foster. Becky Lynn sank lower in her seat. Brianna was an aspiring actress, and very full of herself. She had a lover, a sugar daddy, who kept her in high style. Of all the artists at The Shop, Brianna had the most beautiful clothes and jewelry, the fanciest car, the finest life-style. She made Becky Lynn uncomfortable, not because she had ever been unduly ugly toward her, but because she put on airs like the women back home who had been.

Becky Lynn shifted her gaze to Foster. As for him, she just didn't know how to take him. He was funny and smart, but she had learned quickly that his sharp tongue cut the unwary to shreds.

“David Bailey.” Marty tapped the magazine page. “He captures a look better than anyone else.”

“No way.” Brianna dug a Coke from the back of the fridge. “No one's better than Giovanni. That whole sex thing he does, it's so potent.”

Foster poured himself a mineral water. “Have you seen his son Carlo's work? He uses the same elements. He's a real comer.”

“What about Avedon?” Becky Lynn asked before she thought to stop herself. “I think his work is really special. What he does with light and shadow, nobody else does that.”

Conversation ceased. Everybody looked at her. Becky Lynn blushed and squirmed and cursed herself for opening her mouth.

Foster brought a hand to his heart. “My God, she speaks. Our little Blossom not only has a voice, she has an opinion.”

“Fuck off, Foster.” Marty put her arm around Becky Lynn's shoulders. “Don't mind him, he's just a prick.”

He sniffed. “Could it be that you're just a bit homophobic?”

“Give me a break!” Marty glared at him. “Maybe it's more like I can't stand you and your snotty little asides.”

Brianna stepped in quickly, obviously wanting to avert a full-scale argument. “Becky Lynn's right. Nobody has ever done with light and shadow what Avedon has. But mark my words, Jack's better than them all. Just wait and see.”

Becky Lynn glanced from one to the other. “Jack who?”

“Jack Gallagher,” Brianna supplied. “Sallie's son.”

“He's gorgeous, too.” Marty sighed. “And available in a you'll-never-catch-him sort of way.”

“You should know, you've tried hard enough.” Foster grinned. “But I have to agree. He does have a rather spectacular ass. Just beautiful.”

“Like you'd ever get your hand on it,” Marty retorted, standing and crossing to the mirror above the sink. “Jack is all man. One hundred percent U.S. heterosexual male.”

Foster grinned again. “Such a pity.”

Becky Lynn frowned, struggling, as always, to follow their lightning-fast conversation. “This Jack's a fashion photographer?” she asked, standing and crossing to the trash can. She tossed her apple core in, then wiped her fingers on the seat of her jeans.

“Uh-huh.” Marty leaned toward the mirror and applied a glossy coat of bright pink to her lips. “You won't know his work yet. He's just starting out. But he's really good.” She shot an antagonistic glance at Foster. “I think it's because he likes women so much.”

Brianna made a sound of frustration. “Can't you two bury the hatchet? Don't you think you've fought over Kathleen Turner's head long enough? This is getting boring.” Brianna turned to Becky Lynn. “Kathleen Turner was Marty's client. One day when Marty was booked solid, she needed her hair done. It was an emergency, she said. Foster did it.”

“And did it supremely well,” he added. “She's asked for me ever since.”

Marty narrowed her eyes. “But Kim Alexis switched to me, and he can't stand it.”

“You stole her out of pure peevishness.” He glared at the other hairdresser. “You set out to do it. You—”

“Kim Alexis?” Becky Lynn interrupted at the same moment Brianna threw up her hands in disgust. “She's wonderful. Do you know how many
Vogue
covers she's had this year? I think she's just…the…”

Her words trailed off as silence fell over the room once more. Every gaze turned to her, and heat burned Becky Lynn's cheeks.

Foster arched an eyebrow. “You seem awfully interested in this stuff, Blossom. You harbor secret dreams of a modeling career, or something?”

Becky Lynn swallowed hard, feeling like a complete fool. She wanted to die. She wished she could crawl into a hole and hide forever.

Instead, she folded her arms across her chest and met his gaze, though it was hard to do so without cringing. “I'm not blind,” she said softly. “Or stupid.”

Marty glared at Foster again and squeezed Becky Lynn's shoulder. “He didn't mean anything by that. Really. Out here, everybody's trying to be something. Or somebody. That's all.”

Becky Lynn shifted her gaze. How could she tell them she only wanted to be who she was? How could she tell them she was out here because she wanted to go through a day without being judged according to rules that had nothing to do with her, with the person she was?

She couldn't tell them. They wouldn't understand or care. And she wouldn't make herself vulnerable to them—or anyone else.

“I knew if I looked long enough,” a man said from the doorway, “I'd find a sign of intelligent life. What is this? Some sort of hairdressers' convention?”

“Jack!” Marty sprang to her feet, her cheeks bright with color. She smoothed a hand over her short, black skirt. “What are you doing here?”

Becky Lynn turned. She had never seen this man— Jack—before. He stood in the doorway, hands thrust into the pockets of his faded, ripped Levi's, head tilted to one side, his expression amused.