Page 28 of The Stolen Queen

“The one and only.” Annie explained about Mrs. Hollingsworth’s errand, and how Annie had returned today and ingratiated herself with her discovery of the broad collar.

Joyce took a slug of her drink. “What about your job waitressing? What about Mrs. Hollingsworth?”

“I’ll let them know that I’ve got a real job. Mrs. H can hire someone else. I’ll go up and tell her now.”

“Hold on. She’s bound to be upset, you know how picky she is about people coming into her home. How much will you get paid?”

That was a good question. “I don’t know all of the details just yet, but I’ll find out tomorrow.”

“You don’t even know the salary? What were you thinking? And we can’t upset Mrs. Hollingsworth, not now.”

“Why not?”

“Brad wants to meet and have a talk when he’s back from his business trip to Sausalito.”

A talk. That was never a good sign, and explained why Joyce was barefaced and boozing it up.

“What if Mrs. Hollingsworth gets angry and kicks us out?” slurred Joyce. “You understand that she gives us a discount on the rent? She could probably get double if she wanted to. You need to think of us, not yourself at a time like this. Sure, you might make a little more money, but then she’ll raise our rent and we’ll be in big trouble. I’m not saying you can’t do it, but I think it would be better to wait.”

“But that’s crazy. How can I tell Diana Vreeland to wait? For me? The Met Gala is coming up, they need me there now. Here I have a dream job at my fingertips and you want me to keep on doing Mrs. H’s laundry so we can stay in this rattrap?”

She’d never spoke so forcefully to her mother before. The glass trembled in Joyce’s hands and fell to the floor, shattering on the linoleum. Her mother sobbed as Annie found the broom and cleaned the mess up, dumping the glass into the dustbin and wiping up the spilled alcohol with a cloth.

Joyce wiped her eyes. “You’ve got so much going on. You’re just starting out, and I’m on my way to the loony bin for aged models. I hate my life.”

While Annie knew that this was her mother’s way of manipulating her, she also knew there was a real chance that her mother might do something tragic if pushed. “I’m sorry,” said Annie. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Hey, maybe I can get you a ticket to the Met Gala this year? Would you like that? You can dress up and have a night on the town, on me. What do you think?”

“Really?” There was a hint of hope in her voice. “The Met Gala? There are so many fancy people who go to that. Well-off people. What would I wear?”

“I’ll remake one of your old dresses.”

“Oh, darling.” A tentative smile broke out on Joyce’s lips. “What would I do without you?”

While Annie’s manager at the diner was spitting angry when Annie announced that she was quitting, Mrs. H’s face lit up with a huge grin when she gave her the news. “There you go, my girl. That’s what I’m talking about. Good for you.”

“You’re not mad that I can’t give you any notice?”

“Why would I be mad? Anyone can clean my bathtub, it’s not rocket science.”

“But the discount on the rent—I don’t know how much I’ll be making yet, so I don’t know how it’ll all work out. Orifit will all work out.”

“Your mother seems to be home a lot these days. Why don’t we have her take over?”

Annie couldn’t tell if Mrs. H was kidding or not. “Um, she’s very busy, in fact.”

“I’m sure she is.”

Luckily, Mrs. H didn’t pursue that idea any further.

A little before noon, Annie approached the security guard at the side entrance of the Met. He checked her name off in a book and let her inside. She found her way back to the Costume Institute workroom, where the women were all still hard at work, as if they’d never left, and she gave Mona and Priscilla a quick wave before knocking on the door to Mrs. Vreeland’s office.

“Come in!” Mrs. Vreeland was sitting behind a large desk, looking impeccably stylish in jersey pants and scarlet python boots. Roger Vivier, Annie guessed. The bag on top was a classic cordovan leather Gucci. Her desk was covered in papers and photos, as well as a galley of the exhibition catalog, and behind her a square window looked out onto Fifth Avenue. Mrs. Vreeland opened a yellow legal pad, picked up a pencil, and gestured for Annie to take a seat.

As she did, a waft of Opium perfume tickled her nose.

“Tell me your full name, please.”

“Ann Michele Jenkins. Everyone calls me Annie.”

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