Tanya pursed her lips. Then she laced her fingers together and cracked her knuckles. “You have all the technical qualifications,” she murmured. “I’ll give you that. But there’s more to being a curator than experience and education. Curators are the public face of the institution. And we’re a fashion museum. Look at you—no makeup, no manicure. And the way you dress, Holly.” She pointed to Corny’s Yves Saint Laurent. “It’s so pedestrian.”
I glanced at the sleek, streamlined suit. It was from the 1966–67 couture collection, one of the earliest examples of “Le Smoking,” which became a perennial style in Saint Laurent’s future collections. A similar ensemble had sold at Sotheby’s last winter for fifty-eight thousand dollars. Tanya had an MBA from Arizona State University. She knew her profits from her losses, but not her vintage Yves Saint Laurents from Loehmann’s backroom specials.
“I earn forty thousand dollars a year. It’s all I can do to shop thrift stores and rummage sales or sew my own stuff. If you promoted me to curator, I’d get a clothing allowance and invitations to private sample sales. Designers would lend me things.”
“Holly, Holly, Holly,” she said sadly. “It’s not just your clothes. It’s…it’s your whole package. You lack style, polish, je ne sais quoi. These aren’t qualities you can learn. No, you can acquire them only by moving in the right circles. Sammie was raised on the Upper East Side. She went to Spence. Her family is wealthy. She knows the right people. She’ll attract donors. You can’t do that. You grew up, where? In Queens?”
I held my head high. “I lived on Park Avenue till I was twelve. Then I moved to Queens.”
Tanya pursed her lips together. “Yes, well, living in servants’ quarters on Park Avenue isn’t the same thing. When Sammie became available, I had no choice but to take her over you. I’m sorry.”
I swallowed hard. “So that’s why I didn’t get the job?” I said. “Because my father was the help?”
Tanya sighed. “Sammie’s father is heir to a huge fortune. Who do you think will garner more respect from our patrons? You or—”
“Tanya, please,” I said, holding up both hands. “I wasn’t born yesterday. You gave Sammie the job because her parents promised a big donation. Why can’t you be honest instead of blaming my clothes or my lack of pedigree?”
“That’s another thing. You’re always so negative,” Tanya added.
What? I thought. Now, that’s unfair. Joy is my middle name. It really is. Holly Joy Ross. “I’m not being negative. It’s just…I’m trying to understand why you gave Sammie the job you promised to me.”
“Okay, fine,” Tanya said, spritzing herself with perfume, infusing the office with the subtle scent of roses. “There’s truth to what you said. Sammie Kittenplatt will more than cover her salary with the donations she’ll attract. The day you bring me a million-dollar check, we’ll talk about making you a curator. Until then, I’m promoting you to senior assistant. How does that sound?”
I stared at her.
Tanya made an apologetic smile. “Holly, you’re very talented and a hard worker and I love having you by my side. I’ll even give you a five percent raise. That’s two thousand more a year. What do you think of that?”
“Thanks,” I grumbled. My career dreams were dead, at least for the moment.
Send for Me
THAT EVENING, AFTER GOING home to change, I met Nigel at the Coffee Shop. It was a retro-inspired joint on Union Square featuring stunning waiflike waitstaff, mostly young women biding their time before becoming models or actresses. I rarely went there, because hip places intimidate me as a rule. But Nigel was paying, so I made an exception. We sat at the bar.
Nigel regarded me with sympathy and I regarded him back. With his drop-dead looks, he fit perfectly into this place. “How about we make me vice president in charge of cheering you up?” he said, tapping my chin with his finger.
“Leave me alone. Let me sulk.”
“Maybe you should apply at the Met,” Nigel suggested. “I’d hate to see you go, but it would serve the bitch right.”
Being British, he pronounced right like “roit.”
“I’m not going anywhere at the museum,” I said. “She made that clear.”
The bartender interrupted, uncorking a bottle of Cakebread chardonnay that Nigel had generously ordered. He poured a smidge into a glass so that I could test it. I sniffed, swirled it around, and acted like I knew what I was doing. Then I took a small swallow. “Mmm, yummy,” I declared. “So, do you have contacts at the Met?”
“Sweetheart, do I have contacts at the Met?” Nigel asked. “Do goldfish piss in their bowls?”
“I don’t know. Do I look like a marine biologist?”
“It’s an expression, luv.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just frustrated. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to talk to someone there,” I said, sipping. “You know, tomorrow we’re doing What’s My Line? I should tell Tanya to take Sammie instead of me.”
“Don’t you dare. If you want to work at the Met, then you must sit in,” Nigel pointed out. “I reckon they’ll see how brilliant you are, won’t they?”
I considered his point. What’s My Line? was the fierce competition we held every year against the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum. The Fashion Council–sponsored contest at Bryant Park featured vintage couture creations from top twentieth-century designers. Both museums were allowed to appoint two experts to name the line each outfit came from and the year of the collection. The winner received a fifty-thousand-dollar grant from the Fashion Council. Tanya always appointed herself for the visibility and me for the answers. We’d won the past two out of three years.
“You’re right. It’d be good for me. But let’s change the subject. I’m sick of talking about me. Did I tell you Denis
