Morning, Noon and Night

Tragedy: the speaker system was not working.

Disaster: one of the top models was ill.

Emergency: two of the make-up artists were fighting backstage and were far behind schedule.

Calamity: all the seams on the cigarette skirts were tearing.

In other words, Kendall thought wryly, everything is normal.

Kendall Stanford Renaud could have been mistaken for one of the models herself, and at one time she had been a model. She exuded carefully plotted elegance from her golden chignon to her Chanel pumps. Everything about her – the curve of her arm, the shade of her nail polish, the timbre of her laugh – bespoke well-mannered chic. Her face, if stripped of its careful make-up, was actually plain, but Kendall took pains to see that no one ever realized this, and no one ever did.

She was everywhere at once.

‘Who lit that runway, Ray Charles?’

‘I want a blue backdrop …’

The lining is showing. Fix it!’

‘I don’t want the models doing their hair and make-up in the holding area. Have Lulu find them a dressing room!’

Kendall’s venue manager came hurrying up to her. ‘Kendall, thirty minutes is too long! Too long! The show should be no more than twenty-five minutes.’

She stopped what she was doing. ‘What do you suggest, Scott?’

‘We could cut a few of the designs and –’

‘No. I’ll have the models move faster.’

She heard her name called again, and turned.

‘Kendall, we can’t locate Pia. Do you want Tami to switch to the charcoal gray jacket with the trousers?’

‘No. Give that to Dana. Give the cat suit and tunic to Tami.’

‘What about the dark gray jersey?’

‘Monique. And make sure she wears the dark gray stockings.’

Kendall looked at the board holding a set of Polaroid pictures of the models in a variety of gowns. When they were set, the pictures would be placed in a precise order. She ran a practiced eye over the board. ‘Let’s change this. I want the beige cardigan out first, then the separates, followed by the strapless silk jersey, then the taffeta evening gown, the afternoon dresses with matching jackets …’

Two of her assistants hurried up to her.

‘Kendall, we’re having an argument about the seating. Do you want the retailers together, or do you want to mix them with the celebrities?’

The other assistant spoke up. ‘Or we could mix the celebrities and press together.’

Kendall was hardly listening. She had been up for two nights, checking everything to make sure nothing would go wrong. ‘Work it out yourselves,’ she said.

She looked around at all the activity and thought about the show that was about to begin, and the famous names from all over the world who would be there to applaud what she had created. I should thank my father for all this. He told me I would never succeed …

She had always known that she wanted to be a designer. From the time she was a little girl, she had had a natural sense of style. Her dolls had the trendiest outfits in town. She would show off her latest creations for her mother’s approval. Her mother would hug her and say, ‘You’re very talented, darling. Someday you’re going to be a very important designer.’

And Kendall was sure of it.

In school, Kendall studied graphic design, structural drawing, spatial conceptions, and color coordination.

‘The best way to begin,’ one of her teachers had advised her, ‘is to become a model yourself. That way, you will meet all the top designers, and if you keep your eyes open, you will learn from them.’

When Kendall had mentioned her dream to her father, he had looked at her and said, ‘You? A model! You must be joking!’

When Kendall finished school, she returned to Rose Hill. Father needs me to run the house, she thought. There were a dozen servants, but no one was really in charge. Since Harry Stanford was away a good deal of the time, the staff was left to its own devices. Kendall tried to organize things. She scheduled the household activities, served as hostess for her father’s parties, and did everything she could to make him comfortable. She was longing for his approval. Instead, she suffered a barrage of criticisms.

‘Who hired that damned chef? Get rid of him.’

‘I don’t like the new dishes you bought. Where the hell is your taste …?’

‘Who told you you could redecorate my bedroom? Keep the hell out of there.’

No matter what Kendall did, it was never good enough.

It was her father’s domineering cruelty that finally drove her out of the house. It had always been a loveless household, and her father had paid no attention to his children, except to try to control and discipline them. One night, Kendall overheard her father saying to a visitor, ‘My daughter has a face like a horse. She’s going to need a lot of money to hook some poor sucker.’

It was the final straw. The following day, Kendall left Boston and headed for New York.

Alone in her hotel room, Kendall thought, All right. Here I am in New York. How do I become a designer? How do I break into the fashion industry? How do I get anyone even to notice me? She remembered her teacher’s advice. I’ll start as a model. That’s the way to begin.

The following morning, Kendall looked through the yellow pages, copied a list of modeling agencies, and began making the rounds. I have to be honest with them, Kendall thought. I’ll tell them that I can stay with them only temporarily, until I get started designing.

She walked into the office of the first agency on her list. A middle-aged woman behind a desk said, ‘May I help you?’

‘Yes. I want to be a model.’

‘So do I, dearie. Forget it.’

‘What?’

‘You’re too tall.’

Kendall’s jaw tightened. ‘I’d like to see whoever is in charge here.’

‘You’re looking at her. I own this joint.’

The next half a dozen stops were no more successful.

‘You’re too short.’

‘Too thin.’