“Zings are too unstable,” she said. “Not good for bambina.”
Alicia wondered how she’d ended up in a custody dispute with her closest friend. On the other hand, Novella was not wrong.
When Alicia landed in New York, immigration authorities waved her through, no problem, which wasn’t the relief she expected. It only confirmed how inconsequential she was to Jack.
But then, on her third day in the city, Alicia had the sense of being followed, this time by a woman. When she spotted her well-dressed tail slip into a bathroom stall at El Morocco, she kicked open the door to confront the dark-haired woman crouched atop the toilet seat.
“You’re following me,” Alicia said. “And I’d like to know why.”
“Thank God.” The woman hopped down.
She extended a hand.
“Jean Sinclair Clark,” she said.
“Okay…” Alicia reciprocated the handshake. “So, you have been trailing me. By the way, you’re much prettier up close.”
Indeed, if someone said Jean Sinclair Clark was Elizabeth Taylor’s chubbier older sister, Alicia would’ve bought it. She had a certain sweetness, helped by her round cheeks and the endearing pinprick mole beside her right eye.
“Why thank you!” Jean giggled, her laugh like a handbell. “And, yes, I’ve been following you. Guilty as charged! I’m not very skilled at clandestine activities, I’m afraid.”
“No. You’re not. Who sent you? Bobby? Jack?”
Jean screwed up her face.
“No,” she said. “My ex-husband, Alfred Corning Clark.”
Alicia stared blankly. Was this one of Jack’s henchmen? Another hanger-on?
“You met him on a recent overseas voyage?” Jean tried. “He’s a stately man? Midforties?”
Alicia nodded absently, for first class on any ship was primarily comprised of such types.
“I see you don’t remember,” Jean said. “But for him, it was love at first sight! He’s been positively lovesick, a fever he can’t quell. When he heard you were in New York, Al was intent on tracking you down. I offered to help, lest he be mistaken for a prowler or a Peeping Tom.”
“You’re assisting your ex-husband in finding a date?”
“We’re on very good terms, always have been. Probably too good, given that during our marriage we were more friends than lovers!” She giggled again. “I stuck with it for the balls and luncheons and Yves St. Laurent. I must’ve chaired a hundred events in my day. Child Cancer Fund, Arthritis and Rheumatism Foundation, the National Association of Retarded Children.”
“Of course,” Alicia muttered, still perplexed.
“And Polo for Polio! I could go on and on, and according to Alfred I often do! I adore being in charge of so many people, and you can’t beat the weight loss. Stress is better than a shot in the rear, I’ll tell you what.”
Alicia blinked, unsure what to make of this woman and her do-gooding, status-seeking, and propensity to overshare.
“Also,” Jean prattled on, “Alfred didn’t want more children. Stepmother was the perfect role for me! Kids without the hassle of actual mothering. Just ship ’em off to Mum when they get to be too much!”
“What did Alfred get out of all this?” Alicia could not help but ask.
“The usual.” Jean wiggled her brows. “Also, a reputation for philanthropy. Before that, he was a rich-wastrel type. Anyhow. Might I play matchmaker? It’d be such an honor!”
She clapped. Meanwhile, the bathroom attendant stood at strict attention.
“I don’t know,” Alicia said, wondering if this attendant was being paid by any gossip rags. “I live in Rome and am in the States temporarily, to renew my traveling papers. I’m not a U.S. citizen.”
“If you married Alfred, you could be.”
Jean winked and Alicia chuckled nervously.
“That’s true,” she said. “But I’ve already traveled such a road, to disastrous consequences. Speaking of, I’m also in New York to finalize my divorce.”
“Well, hop to it!” Jean said, and snapped. “Rid yourself of the old one, to make room for the new.”
“I’m trying. But after agreeing to sign the papers last week, he’s skipped town again. I’m rather envious of your friendship with Alfred, and that you have an ex-husband in the first place. I’ve been trying to get one for years!”
“A testament to your allure, no doubt!” Jean said. “My guess? He doesn’t want to let you go.”
“Ha!” Alicia scoffed. “I assure you, it’s nothing like that. Edmund is doing his best to be an ass, and he is very skilled in that regard.”
“Which is why you deserve a gentleman like Alfred. Here.” Jean grasped her arm. “I’ll tell you all about him.”
She dragged Alicia through the bathroom door and to the seating area just outside. Alicia reminded herself to leave a tip for the attendant when they were done.
“The first thing you should know,” Jean began, “is that Alfred is heir to the Singer sewing machine fortune. His father started the Baseball Hall of Fame.”
Jean went on to describe Alfred’s looks, the extent of his fortune, and the particulars of each of his first four wives. Jean was his most recent ex-wife, and had been married to him the longest.
“Wife number three is an interesting case,” Jean said, then stopped and laughed, again. “I don’t need to tell you that! You know Norma!”
“I do?” Alicia wrinkled her forehead. “I don’t recall any Normas.…”
“Didn’t you burglarize her villa on Capri?”
Alicia startled, jarred to have her Italian life dragged onto American shores. In some ways, these were like two separate existences, happening to two different people at roughly the same time.
“It wasn’t a break-in,” Alicia stuttered. “I was gathering evidence for my divorce.”
She couldn’t believe it: Norma Clark. Had Jean not said anything, Alicia never would’ve put the names together and the revelation might’ve resulted in an unfortunate surprise if she decided to meet Alfred. Then again, it was Edmund’s fault that she was repeatedly forced to commit petty crimes.
“Alfred thought it was hilarious,” Jean said. “They were only married for a few months and Norma was awful. Why do you think he bought her that villa, on a craggy, rocky island, on the other side of the world? Have I told you how much he likes to buy gifts? And he has no nose for budgets.”
After Jean wrapped up a sell job that rivaled anything ever performed in the hat box at Brown’s, Alicia agreed to a date with Alfred Corning Clark. Any misgivings she had about his multiple divorces were overshadowed by the enthusiasm of his very likable fifth wife.
Alfred was everything Jean described. He was attractive, in his way, with dark, slicked hair, and a perpetual five-o’clock shadow. He wore bow ties, and smelled like cinnamon. Jean called him sweet, highly educated, and a stitch spoiled, and Alicia saw nothing to contradict these claims. Alfred worshiped her, and Alicia felt at home with him from the start.
“Beware,” Jean said, “he’s quick to propose!”
Indeed, after six weeks, Alfred presented Alicia with a ninety-five-thousand-dollar Cartier ring. Alicia said yes. Jean threw a party for them at the Harwyn.
Alicia didn’t love Alfred, necessarily, but she didn’t not love him either. That she might one day feel strongly toward him was not outside the realm of possibility. He had a thousand good qualities, not the least of which was his heart. He’d solve her citizenship problems, too, and even seemed jazzed about the prospect of a baby girl in the house. All these things and he’d be able to give Alicia what no one else could. He paid Edmund Purdom one hundred thousand dollars to go through with the divorce.
Edmund swiped the money as soon as they offered it. His career was sagging and he and Linda Christian planned to marry next month. Good luck to them both, Alicia thought. She didn’t know who needed it more.
But once Edmund cashed the check, he resumed his slithery ways. They’d agreed to Juarez, but
Edmund changed his mind.
“Mexican divorces aren’t recognized in Britain,” he alleged.
Plus, he was filming in Italy. How about a Swiss split?
Alicia was willing to undergo any hassle to rid herself of the man, so she flew to Switzerland to spend a week with Edmund, for an “attempted reconciliation,” as required by Swiss law. But midway through, authorities came knocking, thanks to the bad checks Alicia had written in St. Moritz last winter. They locked her up for the night and the arrest earned Alicia yet another three-page spread, this time in the Italian gossip magazine Oggi.
Edmund bailed her out, using money Alfred wired. Kate sent a rash of admonishing telegrams that Alicia partially skimmed. On the upside, getting arrested was easier the fourth time, especially now that she had Alfred to post her bail.
“I’m glad to know that life with you will never be dull,” he said. “But let’s make a list of all your creditors and pay them off. There are only so many times I can tell my family that my wife is in jail.”
Because of the arrest, Alicia and Edmund’s “reconciliation” did not meet Swiss standards. After another dip into Alfred’s piggy bank, Edmund finally agreed to Juarez, though he managed to drag what should’ve taken two days into three solid weeks. Edmund Purdom, the one person capable of making a “quickie divorce” seem long.
But it happened. The decree was signed, four years overdue.
ALICIA DARR TO DIVORCE PURDOM, WED SINGER HEIR.
Alicia wept when the papers were stamped and sealed. She took to her bed, sick with relief. Oh, how she wished she could erase their marriage. If not for Benny, Alicia would’ve considered these past four years a total waste. But soon she’d marry Alfred and become everything at once: a mother, a millionaire, a citizen of the United States.
Alfred and Alicia wed on the sixteenth of September, at his country home in Cooperstown, near the Baseball Hall of Fame. It was a modest ceremony, a cheerful sprinkle of family and friends. Alicia cried as they traded vows, overwhelmed with gratitude and a hundred other sensations she could not name. Alicia clipped the articles about their wedding, and kept the stories in an envelope, as if she planned to mail them one day.
In the years to follow, Alicia was mostly silent on the topic of Alfred Corning Clark. When people asked why she never spoke his name, Alicia told them there was nothing to say.
“He was always generous and kind,” she’d explain. “Our marriage was a honeymoon, a brief but satisfying dream. What possible dirt could I have on the man? We were only married thirteen days.”
The widowed Mrs. Alfred Corning Clark (Alicia Purdom, to you cats) was at the Four Seasons looking like a million which isn’t odd considering that she now has $10,000,000 or $20,000,000, as the case may be.
The Smart Set, by Cholly Knickerbocker, December 17, 1961
NEW YORK
Alicia didn’t know why she did it.
She didn’t know why she nudged the dollar figure upward when the inheritance was immense. It niggled at Alicia for days until she concluded it was this—its sheer size—that led to the gaffe. Anything over a million dollars seemed like funny money, something that couldn’t be true.
Plus, the pot was close to $20 million when one included the money she received outright, as well as the various homes, personal effects, and guaranteed annual income for life.
The will went to probate but was never contested, and the day after Thanksgiving, Alicia was officially declared the beneficiary of Alfred’s estate. It’d been easier to become a millionaire than to get divorced. Alicia wished it could’ve been Alfred, not Edmund, who received those four years. But Alfred got less than two weeks.
The butler found his body. He’d gone to check on Al, who’d not yet taken his morning coffee. That’s when he discovered the “society millionaire” dead, a victim of natural causes. He was only forty-five. Alicia had been apartment hunting in New York, and heard the news several hours after the fact.
Friends now called her Cinderella, in seriousness and in jest, but they always neglected that the original Cinderella gained a husband instead of lost one. Shouldn’t the fairy tale have ended at her wedding? Bride or widow, Alicia came into millions either way, and she would’ve preferred to have Al around.
It could’ve gone sideways. He had five ex-wives, after all. But she missed Alfred despite the short time she’d known him. He made her comfortable with who she was and where she wanted to go. She told him everything and he questioned no part of her.
“You’ve lived ten lives already,” he’d said. “It’s time for you to be indulged, to have it all.”
As a wedding present, Al bought her a home on the beach in the Bahamas. They’d also planned to purchase an apartment on Fifth Avenue, but Alicia pulled the contract after he died.
Now, a week before Christmas, Alicia was throwing a party at the Four Seasons for her friends. It was easier to socialize than it was to stare out the window of the Great Northern Hotel, pondering what might’ve been. Robert Lowell had written a poem about his friend Al, and she couldn’t get it out of her head.
“You were alive. You are dead.”
It went that fast, in what felt like one line.
Alicia sat at the head of the table, diamonds dangling from her ears and neck. She watched as her guests tittered and howled. Someone made a joke. Alicia laughed, but her smile felt empty, like she was in a foreign country and didn’t know the language. She caught eyes with Jean Sinclair Clark, who offered a wink of solidarity. Jean had been glum, too, now that all of her ex-husbands were dead.
Meanwhile, Alicia’s attorney was making his way through Europe, clearing up her old debts. Bobby Kennedy couldn’t keep her out of the country now, and once Simon paid her creditors, other countries couldn’t put her in jail. It wouldn’t be long until she could see Benny. Novella had no reason to withhold the girl now.
Alicia missed Benny’s second birthday. Was there a party? What gifts did she receive? Alicia didn’t know, because she couldn’t ask. Any answer would’ve been too painful to hear.
She had to get to Rome. Nova was loving, and she was fun, but this arrangement had gone on too long. It was possible—likely—that Benny wouldn’t remember Alicia at all. That was the problem of time. “Soon” could be a week, it could be a year or more. Each morning was one day closer to Benny, yet also one day farther away.
“It won’t be much longer,” Alicia assured herself, though she understood that too many days had passed.
Because while Alicia was desperate to see her little girl, she had the unwavering confidence, the absolute certainty, that Benny wanted for nothing. Benedetta Palmisano lived a lovely Roman childhood, with no worries and no familiarity with sadness or regret.
Wealthy widow Alicia Purdom Clark of the Singer Sewing Machine inheritance is talking on the transatlantic phone to perfume prince Bernard Lanvin. She will fly to Paris next month to meet him.
The Smart Set, by Cholly Knickerbocker, May 27, 1962
NEW YORK
Fred asked to meet at Sardi’s.
Alicia debated not going. She was leaving for Europe the next day, and had much to do beforehand. But Fred rarely made social calls, and never in New York. He had something to say, and though the very thought tickled her nerves, Alicia understood she couldn’t avoid him. Fred was born to tail.
Alicia strolled into Sardi’s at quarter past seven, in gold lamé pants and kid boots, sunglasses on. She found Fred in the corner, smoking and drinking scotch beneath a cartoon portrait of Joan Crawford.
“Hello, darling,” Alicia said, and slid into the booth. “How are you?”
“Sunglasses?” He raised his forehead. “At night?”
“I’m trying to be discreet.”
“There’s nothing discreet about those pants, or the dead animal on your back.”
Alicia rolled her eyes, though he could not see them. With a huff, she removed her sunglasses and flung them onto the table. She fluffed her hair.
“Why
dontcha take that off and stay awhile?” Fred said, and bobbed his head toward her mink.
Alicia exhaled. She summoned the waiter to take it to the coat check.
“A warm night for chinchilla,” Fred noted.
“I’ve grown accustomed to wearing fur.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
“Well, what is it?” Alicia asked. “What am I worrying about now?”
“Alicia Darr,” he said with a laugh, “I can’t tell if you’re the best or worst lay ever. If only Alfred lived longer, I could’ve gotten the real scoop.”
“Yes, if only.” Alicia glared.
“Are you aware that Purdom is saying that you’re still married? Because the Brits don’t recognize Mexican divorces?”
“I heard something like that,” Alicia said with a sigh. “He just wants more money. Al gave him some last summer to hasten the divorce, but he doesn’t get a penny more. He should be paying me for the torture I endured.”
“Purdom’s an issue for you. You realize that, yes?”
“The stuff about my marriage being illegal is nonsense. We anticipated such antics, so in his will, Alfred specifically—”
“This isn’t about your dead husband,” Fred barked. “It’s about you. Purdom’s a loose cannon and you must do something about him.”
“‘Do something about him’?” She snorted. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve spent the last four years trying to ‘do something’ about Edmund Purdom. We’re divorced. He’s not my problem anymore.”
“He’s called the White House three times, dangling threats about ‘bombshell’ information he has on the president.”
“Only three times? Edmund is usually a tad more relentless. Sounds like the prez is getting off easy. Give me a cigarette.”
She reached out a palm.
“You don’t smoke,” Fred said.
“I do now.”
As he hesitated, Alicia stuck out her hand with greater insistence. Fred lit a cigarette and passed it her way.
“How many times are you going to piss off the Kennedys before something bad happens?” he asked. “You’re only going to stay lucky for so long.”
The Summer I Met Jack Page 43