When Serena saw the apartment, she was enchanted. The furniture was simple and unpretentious, freshly painted white wicker chairs, a bright hooked rug, bright prints on the walls, and a handsome quilt on Vanessa's bed, which she later discovered was a present from Teddy. It looked like a cozy guest apartment in someone's house, instead of an entire apartment. The kitchen was barely bigger than a closet, but it was furnished with just enough pots and pans to put a meal together for herself arid Vanessa, and as she closed the last cupboard and looked around, she looked at Teddy with a delighted smile and clapped her hands like a child. Vanessa was already busy with the dollhouse from Uncle Teddy.
“Teddy, it's wonderful! I like it even better than our apartment in San Francisco.”
He smiled at her apologetically. “I wouldn't exactly compare the view.” He peered out at the other narrow buildings crowded onto Sixty-third Street, and could well imagine it all with snow and slush and soot in a few months. He turned around to face her then, with a gentle look in his eyes. “Serena, I'm glad you're here.” He knew that for her it had been an act of enormous trust. What if she didn't find work here? What if he had been wrong? There was no certain knowing.
“I'm-glad too. Frightened out of my wits,” she said, smiling, “but happy.” The very tempo of the town had filled her with excitement on the way in from the airport.
He spent the rest of the evening explaining to her how to get around the city, what was where, where not to go, and what were the safest areas. And the more she listened, the more she liked it. She had to go to the agency for her first interview the next day, and she was so excited, she could barely stand it.
When Serena appeared at the Kerr Agency the next morning, she was startled at what she found there, gone were the easygoing, relaxed people she had run into modeling in San Francisco. Here everything was business, it was quick-fire, high pressure, rushed, and hurried, and there was no fooling around. No casual air surrounded this business, it was an office filled with well-dressed, well-made-up women sitting at desks, speaking on phones with stacks of composites piled up before them, file cards referring to jobs pinned up on boards in front of them, and telephones ringing every time one turned around. Serena was ushered to one of the desks in a businesslike way, and she found herself being looked over by an attractive dark-haired woman. The woman at the desk was wearing a crisp beige wool suit, a matching silk shirt, her hair was impeccably combed in a shoulder-length pageboy, and hanging over the silk blouse was a thick rope of pearls.
“I saw your photographs a few weeks ago,” she told Serena. “You're going to need new ones, probably a whole book, and a composite.” Serena nodded dumbly, feeling terribly stupid and almost too inarticulate to speak. “Have you got anyone who can do that?” With wide eyes she shook her head. She had worn a pale blue sweater, a gray skirt, a simple navy-blue cashmere blazer she had bought at the store in San Francisco, and her long graceful legs seemed endless as she crossed them and the woman noticed the black Dior pumps. Her hair was carefully knotted, and in each ear she had worn a simple pearl. She looked more like she was going to tea with a friend in San Francisco than going to a modeling interview in New York. But she was so nervous about what to wear that she had decided to dress simply. Whatever she had on they probably wouldn't like anyway, so what the hell. She had gone to the interview almost rigid with fear, and now she sat staring at this woman, wondering what she was thinking of her. Probably they would never use her, Teddy had been crazy. Whatever made her think that she could model in New York? But the woman in the beige suit was nodding, and wrote down a name on a card that she handed across the desk. “Make an appointment with this photographer, put the photographs of your past jobs in order, get your hair cut, have your nails done a deep red, and come back to see me in a week.” Serena sat there staring at her, wondering if there was really any point, and as though the woman could see what she was thinking, she smiled at her. “It'll be all right, you know. Everyone's nervous at first. It's not the same here as it was in San Francisco. You're from out there?” She suddenly looked kindly and interested, and Serena tried desperately not to seem so ill at ease.
“I've been living there for seven years.”
“That is a long time.” And then she cocked her head, as though hearing an accent. “Where were you from before that?”
“Oh,” Serena sighed, feeling uncomfortable, “that's a long story. My husband and I moved there from Paris. We were in Rome before that. I'm Italian.” The woman's eyebrows raised.
“Was he Italian too?”
“No, American.” She almost said facetiously that she was a war bride, but there was no reason to be nasty to this woman. She seemed genuinely interested in Serena.
“Is that why you speak such good English?”
Serena shook her head slowly. In two minutes this woman had got more out of her than anyone had in years. In the years she was married to Brad, she was so wrapped up in him and Vanessa and Teddy that she had made no close friends on the base, and afterward, when she was modeling, there was no room in her life for anyone but her child. And now suddenly this woman had extracted much of her life story. There was nothing left to tell her except the nightmare of losing her parents to Mussolini and how her husband had died. But she still had the woman's question to answer. “I was here during the war. My family sent me over.”
The woman seemed to be calculating something as she looked down at Serena's file card again. “What was your name again?”
“Serena Fullerton.”
The other woman smiled. “It sounds too English. Couldn't we make it more exotic? What was it before you got married?”
Serena looked at her hesitantly. “Serena di San Tibaldo.” She said it with the full lilt of the Italian.
“That's lovely.…” She grew pensive. “But it's so long…” She looked up at Serena hopefully. “Did you have a title?” It was an odd question to ask, but she was in the business of selling people, beautiful faces with exotic names. Tallulah. Zina. Zorra. Phaedra. This was not a business for Nancy or Mary or Jane. She looked at Serena expectantly, as Serena seemed to hold back.
“I … no … I …” And then she suddenly thought what the hell, what difference did it make? Who cared anymore? There was no one to be shocked or raise an eyebrow or object. Her whole family was dead, and if a title mattered so much, why not give them hers? If it meant that much more money for her and Vanessa, so what? “Yes.” The woman's eyes narrowed, wondering if Serena was telling the truth. “Principessa.”
“Princess?” The woman in beige looked genuinely shocked.
“Yes. You can check it out. I'll give you my birthdate and all that if you want.”
“My, my.” She looked very pleased. “That ought to look very pretty on your composite … Princess Serena …” She squinted, again looking at the paper on which she wrote it, and then Serena again. “Sit up straight for a minute.” Serena did. Then she pointed to the far comer, past some other desks. “Walk over there and come back.” Gracefully, her head held high, Serena did so, and as she returned, her green eyes flashed. “Nice, very nice. I've just thought of something. I'll be right back.” She disappeared into an inner office, and it was a full five minutes before she came back. When she came back, she brought someone with her.
“This is Dorothea Kerr,” she announced simply. “The head of the agency.” It was unnecessary to explain that. Serena stood up quickly and extended her hand.
“How do you do?” But the tall spare woman with gray hair pulled sharply back and sharp spectacular cheekbones wedged in at an extraordinary angle beneath huge gray eyes said nothing to Serena. She merely looked her over, like a horse she was buying, or a very expensive car.