Judith Krantz Read Online Free Page B

just turned twenty-six, Phoebe had worked as photo assistant to Evan Jones, a portrait photographer who made a decent living taking flattering pictures of rich women to give to their husbands for Christmas.
    His real genius lay in retouching. He never showed raw contact prints to his clients. First he made his own selection, ruthlessly throwing out all but the best photographs. Then he did some exceedingly discreet work with an airbrush, work so impossible to detect that he presented the contacts as if they were unretouched. Only after the flattered subject had chosen her favorite contact did he really go to town withthe airbrush and the tiny paintbrushes with which he added and subtracted; longer lashes, veinless hands, brighter pupils, thinner nostrils, lusher lips, smaller chins, perfect necks.
    Though clever and kind, Evan had had a poor head for business. His accounts were badly kept and, worse, he had no idea of what constituted a fair price for his work. One day Phoebe, who had quickly realized that she didn’t have the talent or the patience to become an outstanding photographer, simply took over Evan’s office and began to run his business.
    In a day she replaced herself with a far better assistant than she had ever been. She took his client list and called each of the women on it, reminding them that their old photographs were dated. She doubled his prices without asking him, knowing that his clients would only assume that he was asking more because he was worth more. Phoebe’s sister, office manager for one of the top plastic surgeons in Hollywood, and a member in good standing of the office-manager mafia, provided an ever-fresh list of women who needed new photographs to replace those that revealed an older face.
    Within six months Evan had a long waiting list for portraits, and Phoebe had tripled his prices, keeping twenty-five percent of what he made for her services, a standard amount.
    Now she was ready to move Evan into the film industry. She made up presentation books of his most successful portraits and dropped copies off at the offices of every publicist, business manager, makeup artist and hair stylist in Hollywood. She quadrupled his prices.
    Female performers of a certain age—an age that began younger and younger every year—began to see Evan’s portraits. In less than a year he became the most popular photographer of that inexhaustible subject: women over twenty-one. His photos began to appear in magazine articles and on magazine covers, at the demand of his subjects. A great many womenhad never looked so good, and quickly male performers joined their ranks. Phoebe bought herself a two-door Mercedes 560 in bright yellow to match her hair.
    Once Evan was firmly established, Phoebe lost interest in him. There was only so far he could go, only so much money she could make as his rep. He didn’t have the desire to change and only the new and innovative interested her. She found him another rep in 1980, opened her own small office, and set herself to an analysis of the subjects of the ads in American magazines.
    There were more ads for food products than any other category including cosmetics. Next came cars. Automotive print ads were everywhere as soon as she started to look for them. Phoebe made herself an expert on the relative merits of food and car photographers and picked out Mel Botvinick and Pete di Constanza as the two of their species she was prepared to rep.
    She bagged the two men quickly, setting her percentage of their fees at one-third. The more she did for them, the more they needed her. The more she extended a hand, the tighter they grabbed on to it. Without her prudent management of their careers they would never have dared ask for the money they now commanded. Whenever there was a job going that they really coveted, they grew anxious and overeager, certain that someone else would nab it. At that crucial point they were willing to cut their own established fees.
    Fat chance of that