The Makeover (4 page)

FIVE

It wasn’t until two days before Diane von Furstenberg’s dinner party that Camellia emerged from her apartment again, although still using the service entrance. It had been a full week since
Flair
had closed – more than enough time, in her opinion, to get the expected anger and resentment out of her system and get on with her life. But the get-together with Marissa had thrown her. She had expected blubbering from her former assistant, a wide-eyed fear of the unemployment unknown. Instead, Marissa was composed and lighthearted. She nearly had the upper hand of the conversation until Camellia had yanked it back with her quick departure. Or so she had hoped. She was the one facing the unknown, not Marissa. And her only chance for redemption was to make a grand showing for Diane and all her sparkly guests.

She predicted the guest list to contain the usual suspects of fashion types: an internationally acclaimed photographer, a top-shelf wardrobe stylist, a couple of currently celebrated writers, a celebrity hairstylist and makeup artist, a fiercely styled musician, an of-the-moment runway model, a leading fashion editor, and a handful of society darlings. If she made a good showing to these people, they would start spreading the word that Camellia Rhodes was still in the game, contemplating a few hush-hush offers, and looking better than ever. It would run through the fashion community like a virus, working its way through the bloodstreams of all the naysayers and doubters. Within days the electrifying gossip would culminate into a lengthy paragraph in Page Six, and then it would be gospel.

With an Hermés scarf wrapped chicly around her head and a huge pair of Tom Ford sunglasses pushed high on the bridge of her nose, Camellia made the long walk to the John Barrett Salon for a fresh coat of color and a trim from John Barrett himself. No paparazzi would be looking for her along the sidewalks. Camellia was known for taking her car service everywhere. Henry was the only person who could persuade her to walk to a destination, which she would agree to under the arrangement of a post-date foot rub – her expectation for trekking the city in four-inch heels. 

It was a warm fall day. The sun ducked in and out of mounting clouds, feeling balmy and inviting on Camellia’s bare arms as she strolled along high-rise-lined streets embellished with potted evergreens that flanked streamlined doors. The next phase of her life was so close she could feel a lightness in her step that gave her a childlike urge to skip a few spaces, but she held fast to her composure, rolling her shoulders back and stepping into Bergdorf Goodman, the home of her precious salon, with her chin held high.

Stevie, the overly accessorized receptionist, flashed Camellia a wide-mouthed grin as she entered the salon. Camellia met Stevie nine years ago when she first came into the salon to interview the owner for an
Elle
article on taming frizz. While she would have liked to pluck a few necklaces from the pile Stevie customarily wore around her neck, Camellia found Stevie to be competent and rather good at her job. And if Stevie was ever jittery around the cacophony of
A-listers who paraded in and out the doors like teens changing classes, she never let it show. Professional all the way, just as Camellia preferred. 

“Mrs. Rhodes, it’s a pleasure to have you back,” Stevie purred, handing Camellia a chocolate-colored robe. “Can I get you
a cappuccino?”

Camellia smiled appreciatively, feeling more civilized than she had in days. “Yes, Stevie, thank you. And I’ll need a manicure today, as well.”

“Very good. John’s chair is already waiting for you. He’ll be with you in just a sec.”

Sliding into the cushiony chair, Camellia placed the folded robe in her lap, preferring not to cover her outfit until it was time to color. She pulled out her phone and checked her email. There was a message from Henry, pleading for a quiet take-out dinner at home, his day at the hospital already filled with more drama than he could reasonably take. Camellia chuckled and typed,
Tang Tang Noodles and thou. Sounds divine. XO

The sound of her name pulled her attention away from the phone. She peered around, but no one appeared to be speaking to her. Then she heard it again, clearer this time, coming from a hairstylist’s station just around the corner.

“Diane would
never
take back an invitation.”

“Right, but why
should
she? Camellia Rhodes has no business at that party now. I mean, how embarrassing would that be?”

“Yeah, for everyone. Would you show up at a dinner party knowing everyone in New York is
talking about you, and not in a good way?”

“No way. And what are we supposed to say to
her
? ‘Hey Camellia, sorry all your weird fashion shoots buried your magazine and cost all those people their jobs?’”

“Just stick with ‘Great shoes.’ Unless she’s already sold them to pay the rent.”

“You are terrible! I love it!”

The voices broke into raucous laughter. Before they could contain themselves, Camellia leaped up from the chair, grasping for her handbag, ready to make a swift exit. Just then one of the girls came around the corner, wiping a tear from her eye as she continued to giggle. She only froze for a split second before regaining her composure, which was accompanied by a snooty arched eyebrow.

“Oh, hi Camellia,” she said indifferently. “See you at the party then?” She kept on walking, her long black hair bouncing merrily behind her, obviously not expecting a reply.

With tightly knitted eyebrows, Camellia waited until the girl was out of site before practically slithering back to the front of the salon, taking care to avoid eye contact. As she pushed through the door, Stevie’s voice rang out in the background, “Mrs. Rhodes? Did you still want that manicure?”

A steady rain was waiting for Camellia outside, the cabs already filled with pedestrians escaping the abrupt weather change. She could have called for her car, but at the moment, walking through the rain felt like just punishment for her stupidity. She had let her guard down. Imagined the city would rally around her for showing up at a big shot dinner party with fresh hair and a good dress.

What had really shaken her was how freely those girls – models, to be exact – were gossiping about her. The one she had come face to face with had been
her
discovery. Melanie Duerr, who insisted on calling herself MelaD professionally, had been struggling to make a name for herself when Camellia handpicked the unknown and put her on the cover of
Flair
two years ago. She immediately shot to stardom, with dozens of fashion spreads and many walks down the runways in Milan, Paris, and New York. In fact, the rumor was she had just been tapped to be the new face of Dior. After all that, instead of reaching out to the woman who gave her her first big break, Melanie dismissed Camellia like an unwanted child.

If the people she had helped had already tossed her away, what could she expect from anyone else? Shivering, Camellia put on her sunglasses, wrapped her arms around herself, and slowly walked back to the Upper East Side. The rain soaked her
headscarf and clothes but had no chance penetrating the dark layer that was winding its way around her resolve.

SIX

Camellia spent the next few days going through the motions of her new, quiet life. She no longer rose with Henry to dress together and sit with tea and juice in the conservatory. Most mornings, she didn’t emerge from bed until after ten. She dismissed Alain and Yara by noon so she could have the apartment to herself, the solitary confinement a relief.

The night of the dinner party had been a difficult one. Thankfully, one of the radiologists had called off sick and Henry stayed at the hospital all evening to fill in. She couldn’t bare the extra attention. Henry, with his compassionate demeanor, could be counted on to put extra effort into cheering up his despondent wife. Instead, Camellia spent the evening languidly walking the rooms of the apartment in the dark, still wearing the same silk pajamas she had slept in the night before.

The next morning she woke to her alarm, which she hadn’t set. It was six-thirty, and she wasn’t close to being ready to get out from under the covers.

“Morning darling,” Henry chirped, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing a glass of orange juice into her hand.

Camellia waved him off then sighed, pushing herself into a seated position. She seized the glass from Henry and took a sip. “Did you set my alarm?” she asked, still in a sleepy haze.

“I did. Camellia, we’re not getting anywhere around here. You’re spending your days collecting dust, and I’m trying to get through this fellowship without informing the Chief that he should be more concerned with the staff than his playthings.” Henry moved over to the window and pushed open the drapery, letting the morning light drench the room. “Yesterday, his admin marched right past me as I was heading into his office, and locked the door and closed the blinds. Could anybody possibly be clueless as to what’s going on in there? Meanwhile, I’m still waiting for my meeting to be rescheduled.”

“He’s ridiculous,” Camellia consented, “but you have to maintain. You need him on your side until you’ve landed a
permanent position.”

“Yes, about that.” Henry, who Camellia always considered her rock, did something very uncharacteristic then that sent an icy sensation up her spine and landed in a cavity of dread in her stomach. He kicked the frame of the bed. Hard.

“Henry, your Ferragamos!” Camellia cried, nearly spilling her juice. Placing the glass on the bedside table she wondered how, in this moment of what was surely more bad news, her immediate concern was the state of her husband’s six-hundred-dollar shoes.

Taking a seat beside his wife on the bed again, he put his head in his hands, just long enough to regain his customary composure. “I’m sorry,” he finally said, straightening up and taking Camellia’s hands. Henry’s brow was furrowed but his eyes were gentle. “We’re in trouble, Camellia. I haven’t found a job yet. You don’t have a job. And we have,” he let go of one hand to motion around the room, “all this. It costs an incredible
amount of money each month. And I’m terrified.”

Camellia pulled away and leaned back against the headboard, crossing her arms in front of her. “We’re going to be all right,” she said with a surprising air of confidence.

“You need to apply for unemployment benefits.” Henry’s voice was low but commanding. For Camellia, the words were as piercing as if Henry had screamed them at her.

“What?”

Henry reached for his wife but she waved him away, tucking her legs under her to put some distance between them. “It’s not dirty,” he said. “It’s what people do when they lose their jobs.”

“I’ll find another position,” she huffed, “if not at a magazine then at a fashion house. Or with a cosmetics company.”

“I’m sure you will,” Henry said, his expression sincere, “But we’re in a recession and the job market is tight. It may take longer than expected to land employment. Until then, we need money coming in. My fellowship income hardly cuts it. And that will be gone, too, in less than ninety days.”

“But Henry, I can’t wait in line at an unemployment office.” A wave of anxiety rushed through Camellia, and she scrambled out of bed, feeling an overwhelming desire to flee from the room and away from this conversation.

Henry moved toward his wife, but she darted away from him, pressing her back against the closed door. “You can do it all online,” he assured her. “Nobody has to know.”

Relief flooded out the anxiety. “Oh,” Camellia blurted with heavy breath, feeling like she had just sprinted a mile. “I suppose I can handle that.” She flashed Henry a small smile, hoping to ensure him that her little spectacle did not mean she was losing it. “In fact, I’ll apply first thing this morning.”

“That’s my girl.” He took her in his arms and landed soft kisses up the side of her neck.

She was feeling slightly better. Although she wasn’t yet getting anywhere with her career, she at least had a to-do on her list. Something she could accomplish. And she desperately needed to accomplish something, even if it was a small something.

“Oh, and honey?” Henry called out just before exiting the bedroom.

“Yes?” Camellia answered almost brightly.

“If we can’t pay our bills, we can’t pay anyone else’s either. We’re going to have to cut the staff.”

SEVEN

Radiologists pull in a hefty income, especially radiologists with a specialty, which they train for during their optional fellowship. Fully aware how competitive the field had become, Henry had decided to pursue a specialty in interventional radiology, diagnosing and treating a variety of diseases using minimally invasive procedures. A friendly, caring man with a sharply focused personality, he preferred this niche, it being one of the only opportunities in the field to work directly with the patients.

Henry was a little late to the medicine game, having first tried his hand at photography after a college professor convinced him he had “an eye for it”. The professor turned out to be right. Henry’s uncanny ability to see more through a viewfinder than the typical person landed him assignments with a multitude of magazines, most notably
Elle
. While he hadn’t expected photography to be a life-long career, his raw images evoked emotions that excited editors, including Camellia, who was working as a junior editor at
Elle
when Henry received his first assignment with the magazine.

Having always given every assignment her full effort, Camellia had put in the time preparing for the fashion shoot with Henry, even though her minor role on set would be assisting the fashion credits editor with properly cataloguing all the clothing and accessories the model would be wearing. Numerous entries on Henry Rhodes turned up in a single Google search, and Camellia quickly found she could not deny the photographer’s talent, or his classic good looks. With a crop of white-blond hair, deep blue eyes, and fit build, Henry looked like he belonged in a JCrew ad. In most of the pictures Camellia found of him, he was clad in dark-wash jeans and soft, v-neck tee shirts, a comfortable yet sexy style befitting of a fashion photographer.

That first day on set when Henry and Camellia came face to face became legendary in the fashion world. Sparks flew immediately between the rising-star photographer and the outspoken yet undeniably talented junior fashion editor. When the shoot finally wrapped well past eleven p.m. – and the bulk of the crew gratefully made their way home to bed – Henry took Camellia to a tiny bar in the Village that was thick with smoke where they drank vodka tonics until the establishment closed at 4 a.m. and they found themselves back out on the street.

“I would kiss you, but it would never end there,” Henry said, the passion deep in his voice.

“Then you’ll kiss me tomorrow,” Camellia replied, perfectly composed, though inside, her heart was beating like a base drum.

The next day, after a luncheon rendezvous that lasted longer than Camellia had ever allowed herself to be away from the office, Henry moved his chair next to hers and placed a hand on her thigh, causing Camellia to catch her breath. “I would kiss you, but it would never end there,” he said again, teasing her.

“Then you’ll kiss me tomorrow,” she purred, while her body trembled.

They went on this way for days. Each time they came together, his touch was bolder and lingered longer, while her ability to contain her desire crumbled like an unstable rampart under direct fire. A week after that fateful photo shoot, Henry delivered his customary parting line following a couple rounds of cocktails, however, this time Camellia responded with, “That works for me.” That was all the persuading Henry needed. He had them in a cab to his shared apartment on the Lower East Side before she could change her mind, leading her up three flights of stairs right into his bed.

Within a month, they moved their sparse belongings into a charming 700-square-foot apartment in Washington Heights that was a short two blocks from the subway. Here they found unknown happiness, building their respective careers during the day then coming together at night, sleep suddenly less of a necessity than intense conversation and fervent lovemaking.

They didn’t talk marriage right away, Camellia quietly terrified of bursting this perfect unexpected bubble, and Henry feeling a growing loss of enthusiasm for his chosen career. Though he was obviously talented as a photographer, he was starting to realize he didn’t have the chops to put up with the industry. Having to baby too many entitled models while enduring ridiculous power struggles with editors and stylists were wearing on him, and it was starting to reflect in his images.

After a particularly long fashion shoot for
Marie Claire
where the model had arrived two and a half hours late, and a photo assistant walked off the set after a berating by a young, overzealous stylist who had overstepped her bounds, Henry had arrived home feeling listless and worn out. He found Camellia at the kitchen table, flipping through a tall stack of fashion magazines and typing furiously on her MacBook, her wavy, long brown hair replaced with a straightened, to-the-shoulder crop in a reddish-brown hue.

After only a year at
Elle
, Camellia had been offered a position with
W
magazine as a fashion editor. The move was “beyond exhilarating” as she described, to work for a glossy that pushed the envelope farther than most fashion pubs. Evoking reactions through fashion editorials – even if those reactions were sometimes uncomfortable – sparked Camellia. She loved how the right model wearing the right outfit in the right scenario with the right lighting told a story that words could not. And now, determined to make her mark at
W
and continue her fast rise up the fashion magazine ladder, she was spending every free moment brainstorming new ideas to take into her first editorial meeting.

As Henry watched Camellia’s hands quickly moving on the keyboard, her eyes alive and alert, he later told her he had experienced a sinking feeling he knew without a doubt he wouldn’t be able to shake. “I don’t want to be a photographer anymore,” he announced unexpectedly. Camellia immediately stopped typing, got a bottle of chardonnay out of the refrigerator and poured them each a big glass, listening intently as the love of her life confessed his childhood dreams of being a doctor.

Twelve years, and an obscene amount of student loans later, Henry was nearly finished with his education and training. All that was left was to find a job. While normally, securing a position in either a hospital or with a private practice wouldn’t be that difficult, radiology had become a highly competitive field, and the recession was looming large. Not only were fewer doctors moving from one practice to another, many hospitals were scaling back their staff. And for how well Henry had done throughout his residency and fellowship, with his supervisors big fans of his careful eye and good nature, and a headhunter who had been dutifully relaying all promising leads, he wasn’t getting any bites for a permanent position.

Camellia hadn’t thought much of her husband’s career issues. She knew he was highly capable and would eventually get a job offer. She also knew she was making more than enough money as editor-in-chief of
Flair
to carry them both in lavish style. But now she had no income and his meager fellowship salary was coming to an end. And their savings was negligible, Camellia sinking the bulk of her earnings into the apartment lease and the furnishings and the staff, plus numerous vacations with first-class accommodations.

Feeling bile rise into her throat, Camellia made a beeline to her office instead of the bathroom, certain the only thing that could make her feel better at this moment was the assurance of some money – any money – coming their way. She lifted the lid of her laptop and typed “unemployment benefits” into the Google search box. It was time to face reality.

The following afternoon, Henry arrived home early to settle up with and then dismiss Alain and Yara, neither of them hiding their disappointment nor a few uncontrolled tears. Camellia stayed away in the bedroom, listening behind the locked door, her tears far more than a few. Once Henry showed the duo out of the apartment, Yara unexpectedly throwing her arms around Henry’s neck and squeezing him tightly, crying out, “Oh Mr. Rhodes, Mr. Rhodes!” before making her exit, he picked up his cell phone and speed dialed the car service to discharge them, too.

From her post, Camellia shivered suddenly, the deafening silence far beyond being an omen.

Over the next two months, Henry cut out all their remaining extraneous expenses, including the grocery service, flower delivery, and clothes shopping. Thankfully, Camellia’s fall wardrobe was already in good shape, with many designers gifting her pieces from their 2008 collections in hopes she would feature them in the magazine or be photographed wearing them. Now that there was no more
Flair
, there would be no more designer freebies, either.

Camellia was back to working every angle to find another position. Now reaching the point of total despair, she had resigned herself to lower editorial positions, including fashion director and creative director. No one was biting. Only one editor, Maggie from
Vanity Fair
, whom Camellia had worked with for a short time at
W
, took her call and astonishingly stayed on the phone with her for several minutes, graciously attempting to help.

“It’s rough out there, Camellia,” Maggie said matter-of-fact. “You know how quickly this magazine merry-go-round spins, sending staffers to new pubs every day. But since this recession started having larger implications, no one’s moving. In fact, I haven’t had a single request for a promotion or a raise. Everyone in this business is praying they aren’t the next to be laid off.”

“I know, I know,” Camellia acquiesced. “Do you have any advice? Any contacts who many be helpful to me?”

Maggie was silent for a moment. “Have you reached out to any of the designers? You’ve obviously helped their careers over the years. Perhaps they could use an experienced mind for their sales or PR teams?”

Camellia sighed heavily. “Yes. It’s been no good.”

“What about ad agencies or publicists?”

“I’ve reached out to them all. Most don’t respond, and the few that do all say the same thing: not hiring.”

“Well, I feel for you, I really do. Magazines shutter during good times, and now, it’s occurring more than ever. This could happen to any of us.”

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your sincerity,” Camellia noted. “It’s been rather hard to come by lately.”

“I’ll let you know if I hear of a
nything. Until then, don’t be a stranger, okay?”

It had become clear to Camellia that she wouldn’t be finding a job in her field anytime soon. Between the recession and her name getting smeared in the tabloids, no one would be handpicking her to start a new magazine or chair a gala or style a grand collection. The only thing she could do was to lay low, keep expenses at a minimum, and wait for Henry to find employment. His first paycheck alone would be enough to get them back on track. The combination of her unemployment checks with the last of his fellowship was barely getting them by.

She was sorry now that she had been so careless with her money. Outside of a decent 401k she had accumulated over the course of her career, which Henry was intent on not touching unless absolutely necessary, there wasn’t much to speak of in their savings account. She had fast-tracked to the top of her game with such ease; the idea of falling onto hard times had never crossed her mind. And now, as Camellia looked down at her bare nails with scorn, a professional mani/pedi currently out of the question, she couldn’t believe how stupid she had been.

Never one to have experienced depression, Camellia was unprepared for the mood disorder that was slowly but viciously taking hold of her.