“Not at all. I’m just introducing myself because—”
“No need. I’m too busy for tea at the moment. You ought to move along,” she said, disappearing under the skirt again.
“I—well, I know some members of the Savage family. I just thought—”
Her head popped out again. “Should have said so, luv. Then you’re not a trespasser after all.”
“Still, I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
She uncrossed her long legs and stood up, brushing off her hands on her jeans. “I’m Tiz. Tiziana Bolt. Very sorry for your loss.”
There was a trace of a British accent in her speech, but it sounded very put-on.
“I can’t pretend to have been close to Mr. Savage himself. It’s actually been years since I saw him,” I said, remembering that Lily thought it very unlikely I’d met him at all. “I’m planning to come to the exhibit next week, but it just felt right to see if I could pop in because of—well, what a difficult time it’s been.”
“His spirit’s here, that’s for sure.”
“Do you—did you work with him?”
“More of a freelance thing,” Tiz said. “Velly was a friend, really. A good friend.”
“Velly?”
She toyed with some wisps of her hair. “Oh, just my name for him. He was born Velvel Savitsky. If you didn’t know that, you can read the background in the brochure you’ve got in your hand. Drove him crazy that I called him Velly, but then he counted on me driving him crazy.”
Tiziana Bolt tucked her thumbs in her rear jeans pockets. I supposed her remark was meant to be provocative. I’d get back to the question of their relationship in time.
“Yes. Yes, I knew that was his name,” I said. “I grew up with Lily, actually.”
“Lily? Who’s that?” I couldn’t see the expression on her face. Tiz had busied herself with smoothing the creases in the skirt of the navy-blue gown.
“Wolf’s oldest daughter,” I said. “Lily Savitsky.”
“Oh yeah. Heard about her, but I didn’t realize she was in the picture. Velly treated Reed like he was an only child,” Tiz said.
So much for Tanya. That still didn’t tell me whether this woman was close enough to anyone in the family—or the company—to have been in a position to know more.
“Strange,” I said, confident that the information about the connection between the two dead bodies in the morgue would be public by morning, “Lily always hinted that there was another sibling. I don’t know. Wives number three or four, I think. I should have paid more attention when she talked.”
“No shortage of wives was there?” Tiz said. “Mind if I keep working?”
“Please. Don’t let me get in the way.”
“Good to have company. Spooky in a big old museum when it’s so empty down here,” she said. “Would you hand me those gloves?”
I stooped to pick up a pair of elbow-length leather gloves from the floor and passed them to Tiz, who fitted them on to the fingers of the uncooperative mannequin.
“Did you say you worked for the company?” I asked.
“Once upon a time, but only for a nanosecond, when I first got out of school. Mostly I just freelance.”
“Wolf hired you to help with the exhibition?”
“You could say.”
“You must be very talented,” I said, trying another smile out on Tiziana to see whether I could loosen her tongue.
“Why’s that, luv? Because I can dress up a wooden doll?”
“Well, to be selected to prepare a major retrospective at the most iconic museum in the country. Is your background in design?”
“My background is nobody’s business, Alex,” Tiz said, looking me in the eye for the first time and laughing as she spoke. “My degree is in drama.”
“Let me guess. The Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts. London.” I was jumping ahead, thinking she had met Wolf—or Reed—in England, where both had lived.
“Did I fool you with that accent? Pure Bronx it is,” Tiz said. “But in this business, if you can’t be a little bit exotic among all the garmentos, you might as well drive a truck. I can’t speak a lick of French, so I throw in a ‘luv’ every now and then and it’s what’s kept me employed for the last ten years or so. Downton Abbey is the new Versailles.”
“Pretty good deal. Doing what?”
“You’re scaring me, girl. Are you in the business too? Spying on me for Calvin or Giorgio?”
“No way,” I said, laughing with her. “It just interests me. I mean, fashion does.”
“Have a look around. You can see all the stages of Savage style.”
I circled several of the costumed mannequins, taking in their outfits but thinking of what I should be asking Tiziana Bolt.
“I can’t believe women dressed like that in the ’80s,” I said. “Look at the size of those shoulder pads.”
“Velly said it was this power thing that working women had in those days. Pinched, wasp-waisted suits with enormous shoulders,” Tiz said. “Looks like football players to me, but loads of ladies bought into it.”
“What does your company do?”
“My company? That’s a stretch. You’re looking at my company, Alex. Velly taught me to call myself a consultant, like everyone else who’s unemployed.”
“But it’s you who picked the clothing to make up the retrospective?”
She shook her head. “He did it himself, months ago. He took enormous pride in this display. He knew all his rivals would be eating their hearts out. The Institute always features its permanent collections and only does two special exhibitions a year. This is totally his moment.”
“So interesting,” I said. “But then so tragic with his death.”
“He’d be laughing at the irony,” Tiz said. “Talk about going out on top. Do you think any reporters would take on criticizing Wolf Savage after Monday night’s show? Nobody will dare speak ill of the dead.”
“It doesn’t quite matter if he can’t hear the praise.”
“Aren’t you Debbie Downer, luv.”
“Well, it is depressing, Tiz. We didn’t have a clue—I mean, according to Lily—that her father was ill.”
“Nobody did. He’s a very private guy, as you must have been aware. So private he rarely even mentioned having a daughter named Lily,” she said, moving on to reposition a black-sequined long dress that had a plunging neckline and lace cut-outs on both sides of the waist.
I didn’t know if the callous remark was Wolf’s thinking or Tiz’s interpretation.
“That’s a beauty,” I said.
“One of a kind. I sort of wish he’d knocked it off for his retail line. Velly designed it for Julia Roberts to wear to the Oscars, but she chose that black-and-white Valentino instead, which was featured everywhere,” Tiz said. “This one got lost with the also-nominated runner-ups. Pity, that.”
“I have to say your work sounds riveting to me.”
Tiz turned her head and gave me the once-over. “You don’t look exactly like a devotee of high style, Alex. Basic black head to toe with a splash of color around your face. Really? You can do better.”
“Anytime you want to give me a hand, I accept, Tiz.”
“You should have let Velly take you under his wing. That’s how he helped me get started.”
“What was that like? It must have been an amazing opportunity.”
“Pick one,” Tiz said to me. “Do you like this sheer white blouse—or the same one in silver lamé?”
She held the sheer one close to her body and threw back her head, striking a pose.
“You’ve clearly done some modeling, haven’t you?” I asked.
“Till he rescued me, like I was saying.”
“From what?”
“That life, luv. I’m the type who never made the runway for the big shows. I was just what they call a fit model,” Tiz said. “You know what that is?”
“I think so. Aren’t they the ones who work in the top studios—the body on which
a designer makes his clothes?”
“Exactly,” she said, buttoning the sheer white blouse in place without waiting for my answer.
Tiziana Bolt said the name of the man who spotted her when she was vacationing with her boyfriend in the Caribbean. She was seventeen at the time. “Ever hear of him?”
“I don’t recognize his name,” I said.
“Flash in the pan, luv. You think I’m thin now? This guy thought the starting point for his upscale clothing line should be a girl on the brink of hospitalization from starvation,” Tiz said. “He basically limited my intake to diet sodas and unfiltered cigarettes. Sure, I had that young, coltish look. Almost six feet tall and built like a prepubescent boy, I was. The crew called me his in-house skeleton. And that was before he started me on cocaine.”
“The man you worked for—a known designer—started you on drugs?”
“And here I was worried you might be a journalist and I’m just shooting my mouth off to you.”
“No, no. I’m not a journalist.”
“I haven’t been to confession in fifteen years, but it’s very comfortable talking to you,” Tiz said. “Must be the Savitsky connection.”
“Probably so.”
“You’re shocked? You really have to be an outsider to this biz not to know that one of the ways models get through endless hours of shoots is being drugged,” Tiz said. “Couldn’t do it stone sober. Ever hear a model say she’s hot?”
“I don’t know any models, I don’t think.”
“One of the classic signs of anorexia is that light fuzz—you know, hair—that begins to grow on your face and arms,” she said. “It’s a response to the body trying to keep itself warm when it doesn’t have any fat on it. You could have dropped me in the middle of the Sahara Desert in those days, wearing a mink coat and combat boots, and I still wouldn’t have felt the least bit hot.”
“Drugs and an eating disorder,” I said. “That’s a deadly combination.”
“At seventeen? I was truly the walking dead.”
“But you couldn’t leave this guy?”
“Really, Alex. I guess you don’t know much about addiction,” Tiz said. “He had me totally hooked on coke, and equally handcuffed by the big salary. I had no education, no training to do anything else.”
“What stopped it? What got you sober?” I asked.
“My boss was a stoner, too,” she said, adjusting the wide-brimmed hat on the last mannequin, slanting it to give her a sexier air. “One night after he debuted his spring line during Fashion Week, he was texting back and forth with his boyfriend. Sexting’s the better word. This one was all over the tabs at the time. Ring a bell?”
“Not yet.”
“You must live a really secluded life, Alex. You’ll have to tell me what you do,” Tiz said. “Anyway, he took photos of his private parts, and instead of texting them to his lover, they wound up on his Twitter feed with the words “TOUCH ME!”
“Of course I know who you’re talking about. I do remember that. The Post had a field day with that story.”
“Well, it served to put that jackass out of business, and I wound up in rehab. Hazelden, in Center City, Minnesota—the butt end of nowhere.”
“It worked, didn’t it?” I said.
“You bet it did. Nineteen years old and totally washed-up. All the money I hadn’t spent on vintage designer clothes, I spent on six months of inpatient rehab.”
Tiz walked over to the rack of WolfWear that was standing against the far wall. She pulled a leather coat off its hanger and draped it over her slim shoulders, topping the look with a felt cloche hat and vogueing a bit as she walked toward me.
“I showed up at breakfast one morning, sporting a Balenciaga dress that I picked up at a thrift shop in SoHo for thirty-five bucks. Black silk, trimmed with hot-pink lace,” Tiz said. “Over the top for rehab, but it gets so damn dull there by your third month in. I wore pretty outrageous stuff, just to keep myself sane, but nobody ever noticed.”
“I’m sure they noticed you.”
“That day, there’s a new guy at the table. Older than my dad, but totally got my sense of style. Checks me out head to toe the minute I drag into the room, then points at me, kind of cocking his thumb and finger like it was a gun. ‘You got a killer look, girl. You got a real killer look.’”
“Wolf Savage,” I said, recognizing the signature compliment that Hal told us about just that morning.
Tiziana Bolt smiled at me again. “You do know him, Alex. You’ve heard that line before.”
“Wolf Savage was at Hazelden?” I said. “You met him in rehab?”
“He went by Velvel Savitsky out there. Much more hush-hush that way,” Tiz said. “Less likely to wind up in the newspapers. See my point? You’re his daughter’s friend and you didn’t even know about it, did you?”
“Not a clue,” I said. There were endless layers that Mike and I would need to peel back to know more about Wolf Savage.
“That’s when I nicknamed him Velly, ’cause I knew who he was from the moment I laid eyes on him. He’d have been busted out there if I called him Wolf—you know, if people in rehab actually knew who he was. Besides, the Velvel bit just cracked me up. Nothing he could do about it,” Tiz said, putting the coat back on the rack. “That man had a wicked addiction to Oxycontin.”
TWENTY-ONE
Tiziana Bolt and I were sitting at a table for two in the Members Dining Room on the fourth floor of the Metropolitan Museum. The staff was setting up for the evening service, but there was still enough daylight to see the spectacular vista of Central Park that the sloping wall of windows offered.
Tiz’s work on the exhibition won her perks like entrance to the private dining room, and since I had proved my insider status to her by recognizing a typical Savage compliment, Tiz asked me to join her for a late-afternoon cup of tea.
“May I have some Earl Grey?” she said to the waitress.
“I’d like a glass of Chardonnay, please,” I said. “Are you sure you won’t join me, Tiz?”
“Nine years clean and sober, Alex. Thanks very much.”
I wanted to get back to the beginnings of her relationship with Wolf Savage. Tiz spoke of him with a hint of intimacy that I hoped to explore before turning her over to Mike.
But she was going on and on about the excitement of opening the exhibition and helping to stage Wolf’s alternative to a Fashion Week show on Monday night. She didn’t seem the least bit interested in asking me any other questions about myself. She trusted me quickly, which made me feel a bit guilty—but not guilty enough to stop talking to her.
“What else does—did—Wolf have you working on?” I said.
“I’m coordinating the show. Monday night—the big one. Like totally coordinating everything,” she said, spreading both long arms in a wide circle over her head.
“What a huge responsibility.”
“You’re telling me, luv.”
“I thought that would be all in the hands of Hal and Reed,” I said.
“Well, dear, if you know them then you know why Velly had a limited respect for their abilities.”
“I don’t really know them,” I said. “I mean, we’ve met briefly. You’re in a much better position to understand all that.”
The waitress set down our drinks. I waited till Tiz squeezed her lemon and sugared her tea before taking a sip of my wine.
“Reed’s a nice guy. Mind you, we’re not close or anything, but he doesn’t have a fraction of the eye for style his father did,” Tiz said. “And Hal? He’s got a jealous streak longer than a runway at Heathrow.”
“Jealous of his brother?”
“Of course he is. Same gene pool, but Hal isn’t smart enough to get out of his own way. If those two can keep WolfWear alive for another six months it will be a miracle.”
“I thought Hal and Wolf—Velly—were best friends.”
“That’s the face they presented to the world, but if Velly hadn’t killed himself first, Hal might hav
e stuck a knife between his ribs before they were done,” Tiz said. “Buy yourself a ticket for Monday night and watch Hal preen and prance. I promise you it will be revolting.”
“I wish I could buy a ticket to the show,” I said. “But I know they’re entirely closed to the public.”
“Don’t you know why Velly got kicked out of Fashion Week after last season?” Tiz asked.
“Not exactly. Not the details, I mean.”
“God, Alex. You need to get out a little more. All the designers used to be in Bryant Park,” she said. “For years and years. You know? They tent that whole area behind the New York Public Library. Those tents are where most of the shows are held.”
“I know. I follow the blogs,” I said, grinning at my new friend. “It may not be apparent to you, but I’m a bit of a clotheshorse. Off the rack, though.”
“I thought as much,” she said. “Mix-and-match approach.”
Drama school hadn’t done much for her tact.
“Then some of the stars began breaking out. Out of the tents, I mean,” she said. “Imagine how it is. They each want a venue that can top the others. Some of them feel they’ve outgrown the Bryant Park setup. Kanye West—not that he knows the first thing about fashion—took over Madison Square Garden last winter. Think of that, will you? Eighteen thousand seats in a huge arena—not folding chairs in a Midtown tent—and he put on a show as well as released a new album the same night. They’ve all gone frigging mad.”
“Didn’t you say that Velly got kicked out?”
“Let me explain. Fashion Week’s been around since the 1940s, Alex. Meant to showcase American designers as well as to attract attention away from French fashion during World War II. Then this brilliant fashionista, Fern Mallis, was running the CFDA—the Council of Fashion Designers of America. You’ve probably heard Velly talk about her?” Tiz asked, barely stopping to draw breath. “In the ’90s she had this amazing idea to consolidate all the New York City events into one calendar and put them under a tent in Bryant Park.”
“It was always very exclusive, wasn’t it?” I asked.
“You bet. Always private. By invitation only. The entire focus was on the press and on the buyers. It became the biannual way the fashion industry did business, with fall shows for spring/summer lines and the February shows for fall/winter.”
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