Shades of Fortune

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  Then she stood up. “We’d better get back,” she said, patting smooth the creases in her denim skirt.

  They drove back to the city in his car that afternoon, saying nothing. There seemed to be nothing more to say.

  Was that me? She asks herself now. Was that naive girl me, nearly twenty-seven years ago? We can never go back to that place again, that much is certain. The past is too recent, too new, and it is also too long ago. We cannot remake ended things. She and Brad had been married less than two years then, and perhaps Michael had been right, it was too soon to end that. “Think it through,” he had said, “you’re not a child anymore.” Yes, she had been angry, and hurt, and yes, she had thought: I will show him. I will show him that I can make this marriage work, and someday he will come back and be sorry that he did what he did then. And now he has, and he wants me again. I think. Or so he says. But he can never hurt me that way again.

  She and Brad had settled on their wedding date: October 10, 1958. Her mother had come into her room, looking anxious. “Have you checked the calendar?” her mother asked.

  “The calendar?”

  “Yes, the calendar. Are you sure the date is … all right?”

  “Of course it’s all right. It’s a Friday, and it works out well for both of us.”

  “But, I mean, it’s still four months away. Have you checked your calendar, to figure everything out?”

  “To figure what out, Mother?”

  “Oh, Mimi. I’m talking about your calendar. You know what I mean. Your wedding night—he’ll want to—you should check your calendar. To be sure the date’s all right.”

  “The date is fine, Mother,” she said.

  That was the closest her mother had ever come to discussing love with her, or marriage, or the facts of life.

  Is it possible, she had asked herself as they drove back to New York that afternoon, to be in love with one person as easily as with another? All she knew was that it was important, desperately important, for a woman to love someone, for a woman to be in love. Love was the prize, it was what one lived for, just to be in love. Without love, life had no meaning, no message. All her friends at Miss Hall’s School had told her that. Then was it possible to be in love with two people at the same time? she asked herself. Perhaps, she had answered. Perhaps. Why not?

  That, she thinks now, is how young I was.

  It was two months after Brad moved back into their apartment that she discovered she was pregnant. “This cements us,” he said.

  24

  “Now tell me what you think, Badger,” Mimi says as she, her son, and Mark Segal, her advertising director, gather in her office. “Should we schedule our stockholders’ meeting before or after the launch party on the sixteenth?” The launch party, scheduled for September 17, is now just ten days away.

  “After. Definitely,” Badger says. “All seven of the Leo cousins have been invited to the Pierre. Six have already accepted, and we’re sending limos for all of them. If the seventh accepts, we’ll be batting a thousand. We’re going to give them the real red-carpet treatment at the party. They’ll meet all the celebs—did I tell you Brooke Astor’s accepted? So have Barbara Walters, and what’s-his-name, her husband—”

  “I think we’ve got a good chance at Liz Taylor, too,” Mark Segal interjects. “I talked to her press agent this morning and told him it would be nice if she showed up, ‘to sniff out the competition.’ He liked the idea. Even if she doesn’t like the fragrance, there’d be nice ink in it for us: ‘Liz turns up nose at new Mireille scent.’ ‘The scent Liz Taylor loves to hate.’ That sort of thing.”

  “Yes,” Badger continues. “The cousins will meet all these people. It’s going to be a real New York razzle-dazzle party, and all for sweet charity. And what classier beneficiary is there than the New York Public Library? Most of these cousins seem to lead kind of quiet lives, and they’re going to be impressed by what they see on the seventeenth. They’re also going to meet all of us, and they’re going to be impressed by us—and the kind of company we run, and the kind of company they own. Then, on the heels of the whammo launch party, we’ll call the stockholders’ meeting. If the cousins come to that—and I’m betting they will—they’ll be coming on a launch-party high.”

  “Of course,” Mimi says carefully, “you’re assuming that this launch is going to be a success. What if it fails?”

  “What?” Badger cries. “You’re thinking failure? Aren’t we all thinking success right now? It’s too late to think about failure now. Too much time and money have been committed.”

  “Badger’s right,” Mark says. “We’ve all got to try to think success.”

  “Two little words always come back to haunt me,” Mimi says. “Candied Apple. It could happen again. We all know that.”

  “Candied Apple was long ago, and in another part of the forest. That was B.M.”

  “B.M.?”

  “Before Mimi.”

  “Here’s the first of the press releases that will go out about the party tomorrow,” Mark says, and he hands out copies of the release to each of them.

  They read:

  NEWS FROM: THE MIRAY CORPORATION

  666 Fifth Avenue

  New York, N.Y. 10020

  FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

  For Further Information

  Contact: Mark Segal

  (212) 555–8919

  LIBRARY GALA TO LAUNCH NEW MIREILLE FRAGRANCE

  Twelve hundred notables from the worlds of business, fashion, entertainment, and society will gather in the Ballroom of New York’s Hotel Pierre on Thursday evening, September 17, to sip champagne and nibble caviar for the launching of Miray’s exciting new fragrance—“Mireille.”

  The gala evening, which has been completely underwritten by the Miray Corporation, will benefit the New York Public Library’s New Books Fund.

  Guests who have already accepted invitations to the event include Mrs. Vincent Astor, Mr. and Mrs. William F. Buckley, Diana Vreeland, Steve Martin, Victoria Principal, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Redford, Si and Victoria Newhouse, Ricky and Ralph Lauren, Georges and Lois de Menil, Geraldine Stutz, Mr. and Mrs. Donald J. Trump, Barbara Walters and Merv Adelson, Dustin Hoffman, Michael Horowitz …

  “Michael Horowitz is coming to the party?” Mimi says.

  “He’s bought two thousand-dollar tickets,” Mark says.

  “Badger? What do you think?”

  “We can’t really stop him from coming, can we? We can’t turn down money for the library.”

  “I suppose not. But still … I don’t like it.”

  They read on.

  Elizabeth Taylor has also indicated that she may attend the “Mireille” gala “to sniff out the competition.” Miss Taylor has recently been on national tour to promote a fragrance entry of her own.

  “Should we mention the name of Elizabeth’s fragrance?” Mimi asks.

  “Hell, no. Why give her product a plug?”

  Also attending will be various members of the Myerson family, who have been associated with the Miray cosmetics company for three generations. Hosting the black-tie evening will be the legendary Mireille “Mimi” Myerson, President and CEO of Miray, and her husband, Wall Street attorney Bradford Moore.…

  “Do I have to be legendary?” Mimi says.

  “I like legendary,” Mark says.

  “Brad may not be able to make the party.”

  “Really?” Badger says. “Why not?”

  “You may have to be my co-host, Badger.”

  “Well, it doesn’t really matter,” Mark says. “Now here’s release number two.”

  MYSTERY “SCARFACE” MODEL TO APPEAR AT MIREILLE GALA

  “Really?” Mimi says. “I thought the mystery was that he wasn’t going to appear.”

  “Read on, please,” Mark says.

  Rumors have been circulating in the canyons of Madison Avenue, and in the beauty and fashion circles along Fifth and Seventh, concerning the identity of the handsome blond male model who will be used
in print and television advertising for “Mireille,” the exciting new fragrance being launched by the Miray Corporation later this month.

  “Mireille” ads and commercials will feature the “Mireille Couple,” promoting both “Mireille,” the fragrance for women, and “Mireille for Men,” a companion men’s cologne. The “Mireille Woman” will be portrayed by the beauteous raven-haired model, 19-year-old Sherrill Shearson. But the identity of the male model remains a secret and has become something of a mystery that has kept industry insiders, who have managed to sneak previews of the campaign, guessing.

  “He looks awfully familiar to me,” says Jessica Rayford, casting director for Young & Rubicam, “and I have a feeling we’ve even used him here. But then there’s this disfiguring, but kind of fascinating, scar across his cheek, his left cheek, that I don’t recognize ever seeing on any model before.”

  The question admen and beauty bigwigs are asking: Is this a model with a real scar? Or is the “scar” merely the clever creation of Miray, the cosmetics giant? Is it real … or is it makeup? Does he … or doesn’t he?

  At the launching gala for “Mireille,” to be held September 17 at New York’s Hotel Pierre, guests will be introduced to the real “Mireille Man.” Will the real “Mireille Man” please stand up? He will at the Miray gala, which benefits the New York Public Library’s New Books Fund.

  “Oh,” Mimi says. “I think that’s something of a letdown. I think I’d like it better if he didn’t appear. Let’s keep them guessing for a few more weeks—at least until the commercials have saturated. Don’t you think so, Mark?”

  “Now wait a minute,” he says. “Just hold on. Let me set the stage for you a bit, okay? Okay: we’re at the Pierre on the seventeenth. The guests start arriving at around seven. Cocktails are being served, and Glorious Food is doing their bit. The music is soft but lively, Bobby Short is doing his bit with Porter and Coward. Everybody is being sampled with Mireille, and the scent of Mireille is wafting … wafting”—he makes a wafting gesture with his hand—“while le tout New York is circulating and telling each other how mahvelous they look, the scent of Mireille is wafting through the air. At eight o’clock, the house lights dim. On the stage, the curtains part, and the giant screen comes down, and we air the first three thirty-second commercials, one, two, and three. Pause for thunderous applause. The house lights come up a bit, and that’s the cue for the legendary Mimi Myerson—looking legendary, I hope—to make her entrance from the wings. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she says, ‘friends and competitors alike, may I present … the Mireille Woman!’ Sherrill steps out from the wings, does a turn or two, and takes a bow. Applause, and exit smiling. ‘And the Mireille Man,’ Mimi says. The house lights drop altogether, and there’s just a single spot left on the act curtain. Now, excuse me; I have to get into costume.”

  He turns his back to them, reaches for something in his briefcase, and places something on his face. Then he turns and stands. He is wearing an enameled white plastic mask, with holes cut out for eyes, and the contour of the mask extends downward in an irregular line across the left side of his face.

  “My God!” Mimi cries. “What is it?”

  “I admit I’m not as good-looking as pretty-boy Gordon,” he says. “And the red beard doesn’t do much for the outfit.”

  “But what in the world …?”

  “It’s Michael Crawford’s mask from Phantom of the Opera. We’ll play Phantom theme music while our masked Dirk Gordon takes his bow.”

  “Oh, I love it, Mark!” Mimi exclaims. She jumps from her chair and runs to him and kisses him, smack on the acrylic mask.

  “Bravo, Mark!” Badger says, pumping his hand at the same time.

  “The crowd at the Pierre will go wild,” Mark Segal says. “With frustration. Needless to say, the Phantom people are nuts for the idea.”

  Five full business days have gone by since Nonie and Edwee had their meeting with John Marion and Philippe de Montebello, and Nonie has heard nothing from her brother. She has tried repeatedly to call him, but all she has been able to reach is Tonio, his houseboy, who tells her that her brother is unable to come to the phone. Now she is trying a different tack. She got through to Gloria and suggested that the two of them “have a little girlie lunch” today. “It’s time we got to know each other better, darling,” she said. And, fortunately, Jacques, the captain, has seated them in the front room of La Grenouille, not in the back, because the people from Women’s Wear keep track of who sits where. One way or another, Nonie intends to find out exactly what is going on.

  “And how is Edwee?” Nonie asks, after they have ordered their drinks—a Perrier for Nonie and a Tanqueray (Gloria pronounces it Tan-QUARE-y) on the rocks for Gloria. “I’ve tried to call him several times, and all I get is that Jap houseboy of his.”

  “Actually, Tonio’s not a Jap,” Gloria says. “He’s from the Philippines.”

  “It’s the same thing, darling.”

  “Is it?” Gloria asks innocently. “I didn’t know Japan was in the Philippines. Anyway, Edwee asked me to apologize. He’s just felt so punk lately. He’s just felt too punk to talk on the phone. He asked me to tell you that he’ll give you a call in a few days, as soon as he’s feeling a little better.”

  “I see,” Nonie says. And then, “Oh, yes, I remember. He told me. Morning sickness.”

  “But he also feels sick in the afternoon. He really does.”

  “Edwee told me your little secret, darling.”

  “Did he?” Gloria asks, wide-eyed. “Did he really? He told me not to tell a living soul, especially—but then, if he’s already told you, then I guess it’s all right for us to talk about it, Nonie.”

  “I’m terribly excited for you, dear.”

  “Well, yes,” Gloria giggles. “So am I, actually. It will be a whole new experience for me.”

  “Just think: there’s going to be a little stranger.”

  “Actually, I’m very good with strangers,” Gloria says. “I’m usually considered very good at making friends.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Nonie says, not exactly sure she knows what Gloria means by this. Their drinks have arrived, and Nonie lifts her glass and says, “Cheers—congratulations to you both.”

  “But I’m going to have to go out and get a lot of new clothes for it,” Gloria says. “That’s what’s thrown me for a loop.”

  “Well, friends have told me that during the first few months, you can usually get by if you have the seams on your regular dresses eased a bit.”

  “But I don’t intend to gain any weight,” Gloria says.

  “Oh, but you will, dear. You will. It’s inevitable.”

  “Well, Edwee and I do eat out a lot. And there are a lot of good restaurants. So maybe I will. But I hope not.”

  “Yes. You should watch your diet very carefully.”

  “Oh, I know. But the thing is—the clothes. I’ve got to get a lot of summery-type things. All I’ve got now is a lot of New Yorky-type things.”

  “Summery things?” Nonie counts on her fingers. “Well, let’s see. This is September. I suppose that could bring you up to June. When is all this going to happen, anyway?”

  “Oh, any day now. Maybe next week.”

  “Next week? Surely you’re not—”

  “That’s why I’ve got so much to do! After I leave you, I’ve got to go out and shop and shop and shop. I just hope they speak some English there.”

  “Where, in the stores?” But suddenly Nonie realizes that she and Gloria must be talking about two different things. She reaches for her glass. “My dear, what exactly are you talking about?”

  “Edwee’s and my little secret. Belize.”

  “Belize?”

  “It’s the most darling little tropical country, just off South America. We’re going to have the sweetest little house there, right on the beach.”

  “I see,” Nonie says. “You’re taking a trip.”

  “I’m so excited, Nonie. I’ve never been outside t
he United States of America.”

  Nonie takes a deep breath. “And how long do you plan to be gone?” she asks.

  “Oh, permanently. Didn’t Edwee tell you that? We’re moving there permanently. That’s what’s so—”

  “I see,” Nonie says, studying the little bubbles rising in her glass. “Edwee didn’t tell me … the exact purpose of this move.”

  “It’s his health,” Gloria says. “Edwee’s doctor’s told him that he’ll do much better in a tropical climate.”

  “There’s never been anything wrong with my brother’s health!”

  “His doctors say—but, anyway, all he’s waiting for is a certain letter, some sort of business he’s involved in, and then, off we go! You’ll come and visit us there, I hope.”

  “Edwee told me you were pregnant.”

  Gloria giggles again. “Oh, that turned out to be a false alarm. But we’re still trying. Edwee really wants a son. He says we need a son to carry on the Myerson name.”

  “So,” Nonie says. “It’s Belize.” She grips the stem of her glass but is afraid that her hand will tremble so violently that she will be unable to lift it to her lips. She looks at her watch. Then she says quickly, “Look, Gloria, do you mind if we make this just a drink, and not for lunch? I just remembered that I promised a friend I’d meet her plane at La Guardia at one-thirty, and it’s quarter of. And you’ve got all your shopping to do. Do you mind terribly, darling?” She calls out to a passing waiter. “Check, please!”

  Edwee is in fine spirits this morning. There is a faint, crisp scent of autumn in the air, but the sun is warm and the breeze is as light as Edwee’s step, ruffling his long silver hair—in an attractive, youthful fashion, he thinks, as he glances at his image in the shop windows along Madison Avenue as he walks uptown, and adjusts the fresh red carnation in his buttonhole. God is in his heaven, Edwee thinks, and all’s right with the world.