Shades of Fortune

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  Or at least that is what I imagine must have happened that night when he let himself into her office. How else to explain the four jeweled rings that were still on her coffee table the next morning, and her flustered look when she saw them there and hastily scooped them up and replaced them on the third finger of her left hand?

  And the guilty look when she glanced at the photographs in the silver frames on her desk: Brad in his Bachrach portrait and Badger in tennis whites, looking as though he had just aced a serve.

  That same night, I learned later, Granny Flo Myerson was busy on the telephone. “Alice?” she said to her startled daughter-in-law, who, in the twenty-five years since Henry’s death, had not had a telephone call from Granny Flo more than once a year, on Henry’s birthday, to remind her to decorate Henry’s grave at Salem Fields. “Alice?”

  “Yes, Flo. What can I do for you?”

  “Alice, I think it’s high time you and I buried the hatchet, and I’ll tell you why. There’s two reasons, and they’ve both got to do with Mimi. We’ve got to stand behind her, Alice, the both of us, and here’s why. That nice Mr. Greenway, you know, he tells me things, and so I know more than meets the eye, even if I happen to be blind. We talk about the stock market. I don’t like the boom that’s going on in the stock market. It doesn’t smell right, and I don’t think it’s going to last. I think there’s going to be a big crash, like ’twenty-nine, and I think it could happen within four or five weeks. That soon. By the middle of October, and Mr. Greenway thinks I might be right. Now the reason why that’s important is that Mimi has this plan. She calls it taking the company private, and I think we should stand behind her. If we stay a public company, we could all be hurt when this crash comes. But if we go private, the way Mimi wants, we’d hardly feel it. We’d be out of the stock market. We’d be off the Big Board, or whatever they call it. But we’ve got to be fast. We’ve got to all vote the way Mimi wants us to, for going private. Mimi doesn’t know it, but I know the names of all the Leo cousins, and I’m going to call them all and tell them the same thing. Mr. Greenway thinks I’m right, and Mr. Greenway ought to know. He works for Fortune, which is all about money and the stock market.

  “That’s the first thing I called to tell you. The second is more personal. There’s another man in Mimi’s life. How do I know? Let’s just say I smell another man. Since I’ve lost my eyesight, I can smell things better, and I can also smell situations, not just things. I smell another man in her life right now. In fact, there’s always been another man, but now he’s come back, and he’s sniffing around her again. I can smell this happening right now as I talk to you, it’s as plain as the nose on my face. She’s going to have to make a choice, and you and I are going to have to stand behind her and make sure she makes the right one. After all, she’s your flesh and blood, and she’s mine, too. So we’ve got to put up a united front, and see that she makes the right choice. United we stand, divided we fall—right? So let’s you and I bury the hatchet, Alice, and make sure Mimi chooses right. A family should stick together. What holds a family together is its blood, not flour-and-water paste.…”

  Now it is Tuesday morning, and the office is hectic with last-minute details and preparations for Thursday night’s launch party, and everyone, right down to the boys in the mailroom, is feverish with excitement. People dash in and out of Mimi’s office, each person presenting some tiny new crisis.

  “Here’s a sample of the roses. Are they the right color?”

  “The caterer can’t find wild strawberries. Will you settle for California jumbos?”

  “I told the banquet manager you wanted gold bunting on the ceiling! They’re tacking up silver!”

  “It’s Liz Taylor’s agent! She has a temperature of a hundred and two!”

  “Your grandmother’s on the phone! Line three!”

  “My grandmother?” Mimi picks up the phone. “Yes, Granny Flo?” she says.

  “Look,” her grandmother says, “you’re probably pretty busy, what with getting ready for your party and all, but this is pretty important, and I thought I ought to talk to you.”

  “Yes, Granny.”

  “I understand that you and Bradley are having your little difficulties,” she says.

  “Why, Granny, whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Let’s just say a little bird told me,” Granny Flo says. “And the same little bird told me that Bradger has been cheating on you. That won’t do, Mimi.”

  “Granny, right now I have a—”

  “Now wait a minute. Hear me out. A woman can’t put up with a husband who cheats on her. I never would have done, and you can’t, either. It’s just too embarrassing to a woman, Mimi, to have a husband who cheats on her. So if you’ll take my advice, Mimi, dump him. Take an old woman’s advice and dump him. Don’t tell me you always trusted him. He couldn’t cheat on you if you didn’t trust him! Dump him is the only thing you can do to save your face. Dump that Bradger, Mimi; he’s just plain no good. He’s certainly not good enough for you, a man who cheats. My Adolph would never have dared to cheat on me, because he knew I’d have dumped him faster than you can shake a stick at if he tried. And he couldn’t afford to have me dump him, because he needed my money. But you don’t need this Bradley’s money, Mimi. So dump him, and go out and look for Mr. Right. And I also have a suggestion for a Mr. Right who’d be just right for you. Remember that Horowitz fellow you were so in love with him? Marry him! He’s never married … and he’s rich! I guess you knew he’s bought my old Palm Beach place, and if he can keep up a place like that, he’s got to be rich! Why not marry him? He’d snap you up in a second, I bet. Besides, I think he’s awfully cute-looking—those dimples and that smile. At least, I used to think he was cute-looking when I still had my eyesight, and he can’t have changed that much. So dump that cheating Bradley and snap up Horowitz. He’s the best around, Mimi, and you deserve the best. That Horowitz—why, he’s like champagne! Why should you settle for vin ordinaire, like that cheat Bradger? Well, at least I’ve given you something to think about, haven’t I?”

  “Why, Flo, I’m actually shocked at you,” Rose Perlman says when Granny Flo reports this conversation to her friend. “Telling Mimi to dump that nice husband of hers they say is being considered to run for Senator Miller’s unexpired term! Yes, I’m shocked at you!”

  “And I’m shocked at you, Rose,” Granny Flo says. “You—with a high school education, and all that! Didn’t they ever teach you anything about human nature? What I’m talking about is human nature. Don’t you know what happens when a woman tells another woman what to do? Especially a woman like me telling a woman like Mimi what to do? Nine times out of ten, she’ll do just the opposite of what she’s told to do. That’s just human nature,”

  “Well, I hope you’re right,” Rose Perlman says, sounding unconvinced.

  “Of course I’m right. Mimi thinks I’m gaga. But there are times when it pays to let people think you’re gaga.”

  31

  “I don’t much care for the headline,” Mimi says to Mark Segal. It is Wednesday, the day before the launch party for her Mireille fragrance, they are in her office, and the headline—from the Advertising column of this morning’s Times—which Mimi doesn’t much care for, reads, “IS BEAUTY QUEEN IN THE ‘UGLIFICATION’ BUSINESS?”

  “Listen, all publicity is good publicity,” Mark says. “It’s a grabby headline, and his story’s cute. Read it.”

  Mimi reads:

  Remember the Man with the Eyepatch who plugged so long for Hathaway Shirts? Remember “Does she—or doesn’t she?” for Clairol? Remember “Which twin has the Toni?” Well, in a new wrinkle on that theme, Madison Avenue is asking today, Who is the mysterious Man with a Scar who will make his debut in print and television advertising later this week for “Mireille,” the new and pricey fragrance from Miray?

  And, just as the advertising community—and the public—spent months wondering whether Baron George Wrangel, Hathaway’s model, really needed his
eyepatch (he didn’t), now publishers and TV producers who will be running the ads and airing the commercials are wondering about the authenticity of the Mireille Man’s scar. The rugged good looks of the blond male model are marred by a nasty-looking scar across his left cheek, leaving the question: Was his scar legitimately acquired in a duel or some other romantic feat of derring-do? Or has his face been deliberately “uglified” through the artful application of cosmetics, something Miray knows more than a little about?

  For the moment, Mireille (“Mimi”) Myerson, Miray’s beauteous President and CEO, is being very close-mouthed on the subject. Nor will she reveal her male model’s name. All she will say is that guests at her Thursday night launch party for “Mireille” will be “introduced” to the Mireille Man. (But don’t count on getting all the answers even there, insiders say.)

  The sold-out party at the Pierre will be another of those push-me-pull-you affairs of which New Yorkers never seem to tire. On the one hand, it is clearly a commercial event designed to promote a new perfume, and is being completely underwritten by Miray. On the other hand, it is also a “social” affair by virtue of being a benefit for a Worthy Cause, the cause in this case being the New Books Fund for the Public Library. Proceeds from the sale of tickets (which start at $500 each) will benefit the library. Thus, once again, members of the beauty and fashion press, department store buyers, and other working stiffs will have an opportunity to rub shoulders with the likes of Brooke Astor and Jacqueline Onassis.

  “Are we really sold out, Mark?”

  “Yup.”

  “What about Elizabeth Taylor?”

  “If she shows up, I kinda think we’ll be able to make room for her—don’t you?”

  “I still haven’t decided what I’m going to wear,” she says.

  “A suggestion,” he says. “Wear red—lipstick red. Lipstick red has always been our signature color, the color of our logo. And something by an American designer, I think, don’t you? I think an American designer just makes for good P.R.”

  “When I first met you,” she told him years ago, “I had just almost—almost, but not quite—got over being in love with another man, just as you were getting over being in love with another girl. It wasn’t a physical affair, as yours was, but still it was very strong, very powerful. That first love made me feel weak, almost ill. It made me feel powerless to act, as though I had no will of my own. I felt helpless and weak, unable to think clearly, as though some force outside my life were in control of my body and my mind. The love I feel for you is very strong, too, and yet it’s different—a different kind of love that makes me feel strong, and powerful, and forceful, and in control of what I do. You’ve given me something to hang on to, something tangible and real. It’s just a different kind of love. Better, I think.”

  They lay in the sun, on the sand at the beach at St.-Jean-de-Luz. It was their wedding trip.

  “Are there different kinds of love? Of course there are. You can love people in so many different ways. Even though I was in love with this boy, there was always something about him that I couldn’t quite be sure of, and it made my feelings for him so confused and uncertain. I don’t think it would have made a good marriage. It wasn’t just that my family disapproved of him. There was something a little wild about the boy, something brash and headstrong. He was always headed into the fast lane, almost frighteningly ambitious. Maybe it was his drive that made me feel powerless and ineffectual. I mean, he was the kind of boy who, when he walked out of a room, I could never be certain that he’d return, that he wouldn’t turn up someone better while he was gone. With you, when you leave the room, I just think to myself: He’ll be back before you know it. Or maybe it’s just that I was younger then, and couldn’t believe that someone as damned self-confident and cocky as he was could really and truly be in love with someone like me. With you, there’s never been any question in my mind that you could love me. You make me believe in me, somehow. Do you see what I mean?

  “I’ll tell you what it’s like. When I was a little girl, and we lived in the apartment on Ninety-seventh Street, there was a tree that grew in an air shaft outside my bedroom window—a locust tree. A locust is a junk tree, a weed tree. It will grow anywhere, in any climate. You can’t kill it: you can cut it down to the stump, and it will grow up again. Someone told me once that if you cut a locust tree up into fence posts, you have too be sure to plant the fence posts upside down, or else instead of fence posts you’ll have a row of locust trees. It’s a messy tree. It has tiny, feathery leaves, and in the fall they all come down. I had to keep my window closed, or else my room would be full of falling locust leaves. But every winter, I noticed, there was always one little locust leaf that refused to fall. It was always in the same place, and it managed to cling to its stem all winter long. That’s the way you make me feel—that you’re my strong, tough stem, and I’m your determined little leaf, refusing to let go. Do you feel that way too, Brad? That we need to cling to each other, stick to each other, like a leaf fitted into its stem, refusing to be torn apart by any winter storm?”

  She can’t remember what his answer was as she lay in the sun, and he began covering her body with soft little mounds of warm sand.

  And now, the picture of domesticity, she turns her back to him to let him raise the zipper on the back of her red dress.

  “How do you feel about this evening?” he asks her. “Excited? Nervous?”

  “Terrified,” she says. “Absolutely terrified. I had a dream last night, and it was all about Candied Apple. Oh, I almost forgot my superstition, Brad—a kiss on the left shoulder, please. For luck.”

  He brushes her shoulder with his lips and touches her bare elbow. Then he looks up, and his eyes meet hers briefly in her mirror.

  “Well, what do you think?” she asks him as she studies her reflection in the glass. Her crimson silk-and-cashmere dress falls in a series of little swirls about her upper body, and in more swirls down the slightly pegged, mid-calf skirt. For tonight, Howard Barr of Cloutier has taken her trademark simple pony-tail and plaited it into a single, silvery braid, and, since tonight’s theme flowers are roses, he has woven dozens of tiny red tea-rose buds into the plait. With the flowers in her braid, she has decided on very little jewelry: just two small ruby earclips, and the ruby-and-diamond rings on her left hand.

  “You are too beautiful,” he says.

  As the guests begin to gather in the ballroom of the Hotel Pierre, I can’t help noticing how easily Mimi conducts herself. If there is terror here, it certainly doesn’t show. She manages, as she moves among her guests in her red dress, to hold the center of the stage and to find, as they say in the theatre, the key light. At the same time, she manages to draw the focus of attention to the guests themselves, making them seem to shine—as shine they must, for many of them are greater media stars than she is.

  It is hard to believe, watching Mimi move easily among her arriving guests, that this evening’s party is the culmination of two years’ worth of work and planning. And now all that work has been done, and the fragrance—“Mireille”—is here in this room, tonight, its final formula a secret, its suggested retail price a hundred and eighty dollars the ounce.

  All the members of the fashion press are here, the writers from Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar, the reporters from Women’s Wear, the Post, the Times, the Daily News, and New York Newsday, busily scribbling in their notebooks, noting who is here, and who is wearing what.

  “Whose dress is that, Mrs. Astor?”

  “This is Adolfo,” Brooke Astor says, touching her pale blue ruffled organza skirt. “I think it’s awfully pretty.”

  Guests have begun unstoppering their gift bottles of Mireille now and are dabbing it on their wrists. “There’s something almost feral about the scent,” Diana Vreeland is saying to Mimi, “something a little wild and primitive. It makes me think of mountain tarns, and jungle pools, and swaying liana vines, and sarongs, and—yes—volcanoes!”

  “Thank you, Diana, d
ear.”

  All this is nonsense, of course, and Mimi knows it. No one can judge a perfume in a crowded room like this, filled as it is with other odors: the red roses on the tables, other women’s scents, the smells of food as the red-coated waiters move among the guests with trays of canapés, the smells of liquor from the two bars, and cigarette smoke. The real judgment of the success of the fragrance will come later, but the success of the launching of the fragrance will depend only on the success of this evening, and how much the guests end up enjoying the party. Still, everyone ventures an opinion.

  “Mmm. Sexy!”

  “A bit too floral maybe? Of course I’ve personally never cared for floral scents, being from California.”

  “California is all floral, isn’t it.”

  “Totally. That’s why I moved to River House.”

  The room is a sea of moving people now, and the waiters move in and out adroitly between little knots of groups, and groups within groups, with their laden trays.

  “That’s Alice Myerson over there—in the green. Mimi’s mother.”

  “I must say she looks better than she’s looked in a long time. She used to be the most awful drunk, you know.”

  Her friend taps her champagne glass significantly. “Betty Ford Center is what I heard.”

  “They say she’s into est.”

  “Who is?”

  “Annette Reed.”

  There is suddenly a little flurry of activity at the entrance to the ballroom now, and a volley of flashbulbs explodes, as Jacqueline Onassis glides in, in a pouf of red and black. In an incidence of poor timing, Gloria Vanderbilt follows her through the door on the arm of Bobby Short—who will play later—and almost goes unnoticed as the reporters fire questions at Mrs. Onassis.

  “What’s your favorite scent, Mrs. Onassis?”

  “Actually, I have several favorites.”

  “What are you wearing now?”

  “Actually, I don’t remember.”

  A whisper: “It’s a Valentino. I’ve seen her wearing that dress before.”