By the time I met Tom, I was twenty-five and already had quite a past. What had propelled me to such frantic achievements was my family situation. My mother was an extreme narcissist. There are plenty of videos on Youtube to give you some ideas about narcissists. My mother was incapable of physical affection, depressed and unable to experience joy, self-involved to the point of neglecting her children, and I was the designated scapegoat.

My mother had predicted utter ruin for the family scapegoat, and my father, good at math, bad at emotions, placidly accepted that. So, it was a painful shock to my parents when I went forth to college and at eighteen became a successful model with Eileen Ford making double per year what my father made.

It was quite a shock to me, as well. I’d never been the Homecoming Queen type. I was skinny, taller than most of the boys at five feet ten inches with thick, kinky Irish hair. I’d never read a fashion magazine and hardly ever wore make-up. But my secret power turned out to be it was impossible to take a bad picture of me. I was hopelessly photogenic.

I got my first modelling job working for the college issue of Mademoiselle magazine at eighteen years old. Working as a model was a revelation to me. On a crisp autumn day, the magazine people came to the campus with a trailer where they dressed the girls they’d chosen to model in the coolest, college girl type clothes; then they did our hair and makeup until we looked fabulous. A charming photographer set up his camera and took pictures of us swanning around the Columbia Quad.

The magazine editor ladies had magic ways to make my hair behave, and makeup tricks that made me look better than I'd ever dreamed possible. I was beyond amazed and delighted. It was very Cinderella, and I will never forget that. The fashion industry was my fairy Godmother and very good to me. I went from being a too tall, skinny girl who'd just gotten out of braces to MODEL. It was quite heady.

At the beginning I was so naïve about the world of fashion and glamour, that I actually walked into the Ford Agency, the top fashion model agency at the time, with a manila envelope holding my cut out Mademoiselle pictures. I did know how to do my make-up and hair decently, but mercifully, I can’t remember what I wore.

There were about a dozen other girls sitting in the elegantly furnished room, decorated with huge fashion photos of famous models. The other girls were already professional models from less stellar modeling agencies who hoped to get signed by Ford's. They all had professional leather-bound books with large, glossy pages of 'tear sheets' from jobs they’d done. They were all very sophisticated models.

I still remember vividly the feeling of stark hopelessness I had as I sat in that reception room, all of us staring around and sizing each other up. It was obvious that I was totally outclassed by every single girl there. Even the ones who came back out having been rejected were worlds ahead of me in sophistication. But my turn came, I mustered my courage, trudged back to the office to be crucified, and probably laughed out of my silly delusions. After working with the "Mademoiselle" crew, I had noticed that kindness and sensitivity were not common traits of a true fashionista. No, their secret motto was 'be as scathing as possible.'

I walked into a large room where six or seven women were sitting, talking on headphones, facing a long wall with sliding vertical boards that had pockets holding weeklong calendars. Everyone was busy. The women were all chatting animatedly, sliding the boards back and forth to each other, reaching down weekly calendars and setting up bookings for models.

Behind them, overseeing everything, was a petite, attractive woman curled up in a chair at her desk. She was a ball of energy, talking on the phone, calling orders to the girls at the boards, and writing things down. She did not glance my way as I entered. I correctly guessed that this perfectly groomed, whiplash slim dynamo was Eileen Ford herself.

The receptionist bid me sit by the desk of a very pretty, svelte, warmly smiling, vivacious blonde, who I was too young to recognize as Sunny Harnett, the original Clairol "Is it true blondes have more fun?" girl. And she still looked like she was having more fun. But she was no longer modeling. Eileen, to her credit as a caring agent and friend, had given Sunny a job, because her career as a model was over. Plus, I think there had been a bad marriage which had left Sunny with temporary financial difficulties. She remained a remarkably good humored, down to earth person, still laughing and beaming her beautiful smile on everyone, including me.

As a matter of fact, as I took my pitiful little pictures out of the envelope, Sunny was very friendly to me, which greatly surprised me. But she explained that I looked very much like her good friend and former model Suzy Parker. She then brought me to Eileen's attention, saying something like, "Look, Eileen, doesn't she look exactly like Suzy?”

Eileen gave me the gimlet eye. As I later learned, she gave everyone the gimlet eye. Then she asked me if I'd ever plucked my eyebrows. Blushing furiously, I stammered no, because I had no idea what she meant by plucking your eyebrows. She promptly dived into her handbag, pulled out her tweezers, told me to bend my head back and started yanking out my eyebrow hairs, informing me that it would hurt a lot, because the first time was always the worst. I guess that was my big make or break moment. If I screamed and ran out, my dreams of freedom and my own life were over, so I sat there, endured the eyebrow pluck, flinching now and then, but I got through it.

Having shaped my eyebrows to her satisfaction, all the while talking on the phone propped between her shoulder and ear, Eileen became friendly, for her. Some secret signals passed between her and Sunny, and Sunny took me into the smaller office to introduce me as a new model. She said they would be setting me up with testing appointments to get pictures for my book, the large, leather-bound portfolios I’d seen the other models carrying. Sunny told me what makeup I needed, where to get it, and a million other things about what to do to get started. She explained that testing appointments would be set up for me with photographers who wanted pictures for their books. My reward would be large black and white or color prints for my book. No money would or should ever change hands. Pictures you had to pay for were worthless for the up and coming, professional model. It was my first experience with the code of the artist: real artists do a lot for free until they become famous enough to get paid.

This modeling book that I would gradually build up would be what I took with me on appointments to get jobs. But they would only send me up on job appointments when they thought I was ready. In other words, when the pictures in my book were finally up to their standards, they'd let me loose on the world of advertising and magazine publishing.

It was a lot more work than I'd anticipated. Every time I was free from class, there were three or four appointments, all long subway rides away in lower Manhattan, where the aspiring photographer's studios were located. I was on my own in this undertaking, usually providing some sort of outfit that would look fashionable in a photo and doing my own hair and makeup. It was a real challenge and great training. All this practice made a big difference when I started having real jobs.

When I wasn't studying chemistry or geology, my nose was buried in fashion magazines, trying to get the knack of style and how to achieve it. I invested in makeup and hair pieces, which were very expensive and made of real hair in those pre Dynel days. Stuffing all these things, including electric curlers, shoes, clothes and make up into a huge shoulder bag and setting off on the subway was my after-class hobby. I dragged that huge bag of equipment around for twenty years. It's a wonder I don't walk like a peg legged Long John Silver. I studied for my academic classes on weekends.

In the excitement and turmoil of my new life, I made a terrible first marriage to man who had to be paid off to eventually give me a divorce.

By the time I met Tom, I had almost a decade of fashion modelling behind me. I’d appeared in the editorial pages of Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Ladie’s Home Journal, and many more magazines. I’d worked in Paris, Rome, and Frankfort, getting interesting pictures and learning more about fashion. I’d been cast in many TV commercials in New York City, as well as Atlanta, Cleveland, Toronto, Dallas, and Los Angeles. And I’d still managed to get my BA and graduate with honors.

But the problem with modelling was that career would end when you hit thirty. I had to figure out something to do with the rest of my life. And models were taxed as if they were going to make this kind of money forever, so I lived frugally, putting away as much money as I could for the future. Due to my success doing TV commercials, I had begun studying acting and gotten bitten by the theater bug in the best city in the world to see great theater.

Consequently, when I met Tom and heard his career history, I knew he was a real, bona fide actor, not just someone dabbling in theater. He was earning a living as an actor. That was impressive.