If Carolyn was interested, Grace would invite Malcolm on a double date.
The four met at the Hawaiian Room, the basement supper club at the Lexington Hotel. The hostess immediately gave Carolyn a string of paper flowers to wear around her neck, which made Carolyn feel less shy, as if she were at a costume party. Malcolm was courteous from the minute they arrived—helping Carolyn with her coat, ushering her ahead of him, holding the door, pulling out her chair. Yes, he was older, but he was also handsome, tall, and broad shouldered, with reddish blond hair. And he was confident.
A band was playing hula music as dancers sashayed in grass skirts. There were beach scenes painted on the walls and tropical palms in giant planters. Carolyn had never eaten Hawaiian food before. She was dazzled by all the unfamiliar names on the menu. Malcolm took matters into his own hands, ordering her “the best thing in the house.” Over dinner, he told her stories about his family in Georgia, about his job on Madison Avenue, working for an advertising agency. He laughed easily and often—and made her laugh, too.
Once dinner was over, he led her out onto the dance floor, spinning her away from him, then pulling her back again with perfect ease, as if to let her know that, with him, she was in capable hands.
* * *
NOW THAT CAROLYN and Grace had dates to squire them around town, their evenings were transformed. By the time the sun went down, they had pinched their tiny waists into satin cocktail dresses, thrown little fur stoles around their shoulders, and taken the elevator down to the lobby to meet their men. Stepping out onto Sixty-third Street—heels clacking smartly on the sidewalk—they were no longer two girls alone in the city but young women of the world. Where should they go? The answer was anywhere now. In 1948, as a woman without a date, it was impossible to gain entry to the best nightclubs—the club owners didn’t want angry wives sneaking in, surprising cheating husbands out on the town with mistresses. But now that Grace and Carolyn had men on their arms, there was no limit to where they might go. Maybe they’d have dinner at the Stork Club, where the owner always invited them back to lunch the next day, plying them with gifts of Chanel No. 5 and little golden cigarette cases. After dinner they might head over to El Morocco for dancing. Copacabana was best for nightclub shows—and Chinese food. You never knew who you might see there: Frank Sinatra, Ava Gardner, Cary Grant.
Carolyn kept her eyes trained on Grace, who seemed to have a sixth sense for knowing exactly what to do in any situation. She seemed to understand the codes of New York nightlife instinctively, always wearing the right dress, picking up the right fork at the table setting, turning to say the right thing at the right moment. By watching Grace and following her lead, Carolyn learned to maneuver in a world that was completely foreign to her and as far from Steubenville as she could imagine. A little before eleven, Grace and Carolyn would make their excuses, racing outside, two Cinderellas with curfews, arms waving to find a cab to take them back to the Barbizon before the clock struck the hour, always arriving back at the hotel as late as possible but just early enough to avoid a lecture from Mrs. Sibley. They were working models, after all; they knew they had to look fresh in the morning. Besides, there was always the next date, the next evening.
Before long, Alex left for an acting job in Paris, at which point Grace’s relationship with him came to its natural conclusion. They had never been serious, after all. But Malcolm and Carolyn were another matter. It didn’t matter to Carolyn that Malcolm had already been married, that he had a daughter from that marriage, that he was twelve years older. Malcolm was old-fashioned; he was a gentleman. He didn’t rush Carolyn. He simply wanted to spend time with her. And Carolyn found that if she looked in her heart, she wanted to spend more time with him.
Before 1948 was over, Carolyn found herself packing her bags and leaving town. Eileen Ford had booked her for a six-week shoot for the Sears, Roebuck catalog at the Bill Becker studio in Tucson, Arizona. Although Carolyn would miss the Barbizon, Grace, and, of course, Malcolm, the money was good, and the job would mean excellent visibility: there was hardly a household in America that didn’t receive a Sears, Roebuck catalog in the mail. Almost a year after she’d left Ohio to move to New York, Carolyn arrived at the new Idlewild airport in Queens, suitcase in hand, ready to board her first flight. Ten other girls from the Ford agency were going with her.
Eileen had briefed all the girls about Bill Becker, the owner of the largest photographic studio in the country. Eileen had worked for Becker in New York before she founded her agency, coordinating his shoots, packing and shipping the clothes that were going to be photographed out west, and booking the models to be flown there. She knew him well.
“He’s a bear,” Eileen warned her girls. “He’ll try to insult you and embarrass you. Stand your ground.”
Becker had his headquarters in Manhattan, but when winter came around, he defected to Tucson, a town with more hours of sunshine than any other city in the United States and where he could shoot for fifteen hours a day.
After Eileen’s girls arrived in Tucson, they made straight for the Pioneer Hotel, where they would be staying for the next six weeks. Becker’s studio was just outside the city in Tanque Verde. The studio was vast, with a special stage built on a turntable, like a giant lazy Susan,
