Mr. Broderick rose from the sofa and held out his hands to her. He was younger than she’d expected, probably in his late thirties, and sported a tan that made his green eyes sparkle. The very picture of health, especially when compared with the wheezing, sickly pallor of Mr. Frick. “Very nice to meet you. Tell me your name, please.”
She looked over at the assistant and back to Mr. Broderick, confused. “Angelica.”
Mr. Broderick gave her a sly look. “Right. Early on, we heard from a number of women claiming they were Angelica. All pretty with long, dark hair. But not a one since the scandal broke. You have quite a bit of courage coming forward, whoever you are.”
Whoever she was? But he knew who she was. “You were so kind in your letters, I figured I could trust you.”
“Letters?” He waved a hand in the air. “Oh, right. I don’t handle the correspondence. That’s up to my assistant.”
She looked over at the toothy kid. That was who she’d been exchanging letters with? Who she’d confided in with great detail about her life as Angelica, as a way to prove her identity?
And who’d replied with such an enthusiastic response?
Mr. Broderick had neither written nor read any of it.
“I think she’s the real deal, Mr. Broderick,” said the assistant. “I think this is her.” He gave Lillian an encouraging and slightly apologetic smile.
“You don’t say?” Mr. Broderick looked her up and down.
Well, Lillian was certainly getting her just rewards, having forged many a note herself these past few months. But she wouldn’t let this hitch stop her; she’d made it this far. “I am her. Angelica, I mean.”
Mr. Broderick sent away the assistant and offered her a seat on the sofa. “In that case, how are you doing, my dear Angelica?”
Such a simple question, yet she found herself tongue-tied. So much was at stake on the answer. Mr. Broderick was looking at her so deeply, with such compassion, that, much to her own surprise, she burst into tears.
He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a monogrammed handkerchief. She pressed it to her eyes, careful not to smudge the kohl liner. The makeup she’d applied that morning felt like a thick mask on her skin after months of sporting a clean face. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“There, there.” He took her hand in his. His touch was as soft as a kid leather glove. “You’ve been through so much lately, I’m sure. Tell me all about it, my dear girl.”
Dare she? He could call the police at any moment. She had to earn his sympathy, make him see her value and agree to take her back to Hollywood with him. “I’ve been lying low, after all the articles in the press. Again, thank you for seeing me.”
“I feel like I see you whenever I’m in New York. You’re outside my hotel, above a fountain, up on a pedestal near the park, embedded in the library’s facade. You’re everywhere, Angelica.”
“Lately, I’ve wished that wasn’t so. That terrible murder, I didn’t have anything to do with it. The man was my landlord, but that was all.”
“Of course. Where have you been all this time?”
“I found a job working for a family and stayed out of sight. My plan was to come to you in California, but then I read in the newspaper that you were in the city, and here I am.”
Mr. Broderick leaned in closer. “What a time you’ve had of it, my girl. Trust me, I know these reporters, and they don’t care what the real story is. Nor do the police. You were right to stay out of sight and then seek me out. I will take care of you. Don’t you worry about a thing.”
“You will?” Opening up to him had been the right decision. “I’d be happy to audition for any role, no matter how small.”
He stood and began to pace. “I can already see it in my mind’s eye, which is always a good sign. This is how I work, I wait until the story comes to me. One can’t rush the creative process.”
A ripple of courage zinged through her. “You remind me of the artists I posed for,” she said. “The best ones often circled me in the studio for an hour before they even began. They’d mumble to themselves, make sketches, that sort of thing. Once they started work, it became a partnership, in many ways. I’d often offer up suggestions that came to mind as I posed.”
“You were a muse to them and you’ll be a muse to me, I can see that. Do you have anything that’s keeping you here in New York?”
She thought of Miss Helen and Richard. It was better for her to leave so they could figure out whatever arrangement would work best without her muddying things up. “No. I have no one.”
“I meant, this investigation. Do the police have a warrant out for your arrest?”
“I believe I may be wanted for questioning, or at least that’s the way it’s been written about in the press.”
“Fine. Then you can leave with me tomorrow, and we’ll put you up somewhere quiet near the studio while we figure out the best story for the press. We’ll say that you fled the big, bad city for the sunshine of Los Angeles, and that you’ve been reborn.”
“Reborn?”
“I’d prefer to give you a screen test in the studio, with the proper sets and costumes, but I’m willing to make do with what we have here. Stand there.” He pointed to the center of the room.
She did so and waited. He backed away, holding out his hands in two L shapes, and knelt low. “That’s right, bring your chin up, look above me, over me.”
For a fleeting moment, her nerves kicked in again, but she reminded herself she’d been studied closely before, that this was no different from the hundreds of other times she’d been inspected, scrutinized. She hoped the bags under her eyes from the weekend of sleep deprivation didn’t show.
“My God, you look good from every angle,” he said. “I’m going to talk, and I’d like you to react to what I’m saying in whatever way feels natural. Are you ready?”
She nodded.
“Go to the doorway.”
She walked to where she’d first entered.
“Here’s what I envision. I want to tell your story.”
“My story?”
“Yes. This will be a collaboration. Angelica, the Artists’ Muse.”
A collaboration. Her name in the movie’s title.
He continued. “We must capitalize on what you’ve done before, show that you’re an emblem, embedded in the culture of New York City. That you’ve been persecuted and called vile names, but that your essence is still pure.”
Vile names? She didn’t want to draw attention to the scandal with her landlord. The whole point of going to California and acting was to get beyond all that, move forward. She was about to volunteer that she’d be happy to act in a movie that had already been written, but she couldn’t get a word in. He was backing up, talking quickly.
“Let’s pretend it’s the first time that you’ve come to an artist’s studio and been asked to pose. Go ahead, action.”
“Action?”
He stood and blew out a breath. “Yes. Enter the room as if it was a studio. Can you do that?”
“My mother was always with me.”
“No mother. We need to raise the stakes, heighten the narrative. You’re all alone, and this is the first time you’ve done this. Can you remember that?”
She could, and shivered a little at the memory.
“Yes! Exactly what I’m looking for. What you did there. Keep on going.”
She’d impress him with her acting skills, even if this was not what she had expected. Lillian entered the room and stood, looking about with wide eyes, as if she were surrounded by finished statues and works in progress.
“Wonderful! Now here comes the artist. He’s circling you.”
She stiffened, watching the imaginary man as he passed by.
“Terrific. Now, we’ll have to re-create what happened to you in the studio. You sense that he wants more than just a model, and it frightens you. Show me that.”