The Fame Game

by Rona Jaffe

  “Are you going to her party?” Dick asked.

  “Yes. I just got the invitation this morning. I guess Mr. Libra forced her into it.” She didn’t want him to think she traveled with the jet set.

  “I’m going too,” he said. “If you have no one to escort you, I’d be glad to take you there.”

  “That would be great.” At least she’d know somebody.

  He ordered knowledgeably, in perfect French, and Gerry was glad her French was as good as his. The restaurant intimidated her. She was relieved that she was wearing the green suit, and that even though it came from an unknown boutique it was at least an original. The food was marvelous and so was the wine he chose, and he surprised her by making her laugh almost all through the lunch with amusing stories about people he had worked with on his shows. He evidently had a keen eye for satire, and she thought that if he hadn’t turned out to be a director he could probably have been a writer.

  After lunch he said, “I want to do something extremely corny because it’s a nice day.” He had his car parked near the restaurant; an unshowy little yellow Mustang convertible, and he took the top down and drove her to the East Village, where he seemed to know a great many people—shopkeepers, old ladies leaning out of windows, whom he waved at, hippies lounging on benches in the sun, whom he said hello to. Everybody seemed to like him. “This is my second home,” he told her.

  He took her into an antique store, where he had a long chummy talk with the proprietor, priced several things he did not buy, and picked out a string of green glass beads which he bought and hung around Gerry’s neck.

  “Love beads,” Dick said. “So you’ll be lucky and loved.”

  She fingered the beads. She was touched. They were the nicest sixty-cent present anyone had bought her in her whole life. She liked the way Dick seemed to fit in anywhere, and the way people accepted him whether he was in an intimidating restaurant or on Avenue A. He really wasn’t as bad looking as she had thought the first time she saw him. A man didn’t have to be pretty, or even handsome, if he was bright and had charm. And Dick Devere certainly was bright and had charm.

  She realized in panic that it was a quarter to four. Libra would kill her. Dick drove her back to the office and shook her hand.

  “It was a pleasure,” he said, “and I’ll see you the night of the party, if not before. Give me your home phone number and address.” She did, and he wrote them down in a small leather-bound note pad, using a gold ballpoint pen. He seemed very neat. She wished she knew how to analyze handwriting. His was tiny and impeccable. Did that mean he was repressed—or just that he had a small notebook?

  That evening when she got home from the office a florist’s boy delivered a dozen roses with a card saying: ‘Thanks again. Dick.’

  It was the same tiny handwriting. She put the roses into her one and only vase, pleased and flattered. He didn’t have to do a thing like that, but wasn’t it marvelous to get flowers from a man, even if he was a client! Somehow she knew there was nothing businesslike about sending those flowers.

  She phoned him the next day from the office while Libra was at the gym working off his vitamin shot from Ingrid the Lady Barber, and thanked him.

  “I hope they didn’t clash with your apartment,” he said.

  “What could clash with an empty apartment?”

  “If you’re looking for furniture, I know some very good, cheap antique stores I can take you to. I also know a very cheap, good carpenter who builds things—shelves and shutters and stuff. He’s an artist. I can turn you on to him if you’d like.”

  She wrote down the name of the carpenter and made a date to go looking for antiques with Dick on Saturday afternoon. Then she looked at the schedule of where all the clients were, thinking she would invite Silky to lunch tomorrow, and she discovered Silky and the Satins were doing a club date out of town. The news didn’t please her. Now she still didn’t know where Dick and Silky stood.

  On Saturday they went to several cheap antique shops, where Gerry bought a metal headboard that had formerly been a gate, two glass bottles that had formerly held opium and marijuana, according to the labels, and a miniature chest to use as an end table, which Dick told her was what they used to sell furniture instead of blueprints in the old days. It was an exact replica of what the chest would be when the customer ordered it full-sized. He told her the carpenter would install the headboard, and didn’t offer to come up and install it himself, so she realized he would never allow himself to be categorized as Good Old Helpful Dick, which in a funny way pleased her. The store said they would deliver that evening, so Dick took her to a dark bar for a three-hour lunch and then drove her home.

  “Would you like to come up for a drink?” she asked.

  He looked at his watch. “I have to go to a dinner party. I’m in great demand because I’m single and have a blue suit.” He smiled and patted her on the head. “I’ll call you.”

  She couldn’t figure him out, but he was nice. He was very cool. She went up to her apartment, glad that the day had been spent so pleasantly, and thinking that a Saturday-afternoon date was as good as a Saturday-night date because at least you didn’t have to be depressed that you didn’t see a soul all weekend.

  There were great plans in the office for the B.P.’s party the following week. Lizzie and Elaine were both going to wear new Franco creations, fortunately not the Gilda Look, which was still on the drawing board, and Nelson was going to do everybody’s hair, even Gerry’s. The day of the party Gerry went to Nelson’s salon on her lunch hour and he trimmed off an inch of her hair and set it in ninety-three pigtails so she looked like a cross between Topsy and Medusa. If Libra hadn’t been picking up the bill she would have cried right there. She thanked him profusely, rushed back to the office, and in the lobby Ladies’ Room—which she had been using faithfully since Libra’s rebuff that first day, although he never seemed to notice it—Gerry brushed out all the pigtails until her hair was normal-looking again, if a little crimped. At least it was shiny, and Nelson gave a very good blunt cut. She hoped the crimps from the pigtails would all straighten out by that night; maybe sitting in a steamy hot bath would help.

  “Didn’t Nelson do your hair?” Libra asked when she returned upstairs.

  “Yes.”

  “It doesn’t look like he did anything,” Libra said.

  “It’s the Gilda Look,” Gerry lied beautifully, letting a wave of hair slide over one eye.

  “So it is. It’s very nice.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and returned to work.

  She was allowed to leave at six, and hurried home to fix herself up. Dick was coming for her at seven fifteen. The party wasn’t black tie, so she decided to wear the best thing she had: a pink and gold brocade Chanel suit—or copy, rather, from the same little boutique where she bought her other things. It was a hand-made copy, and she figured she would see two or three of the originals in the same room that night, but since nobody was taking off their jackets to show labels it wouldn’t matter. Besides, she was a Girl Friday, not the wife of some millionaire, and if she’d owned diamonds to wear everybody would probably assume they were glass.

  Dick picked her up and she made martinis, which he liked, to fortify them for the ordeal ahead. He wandered into the bedroom to inspect the new headboard his carpenter had installed for her, and very casually looked at everything as if he were taking inventory so he wouldn’t fall over anything on a dark night. He was the kind of man who made her feel glad she had made the bed and cleaned up the place. She had a porcelain hand on the dresser, and the love beads he had given her were entwined around one of the fingers. He noticed that, too. She hated martinis so she gave him hers to finish, and then he put both glasses into the sink. You could certainly take him home to mother—the problem would be getting him to go.

  The B.P.’s lived in a duplex apartment on Fifth Avenue. There was a doorman, of course, an elevator man, of course, and a line of limousines, both rented and privately owned, along th
e curb—of course. There was no coat rack in the hall outside the apartment, nor was there a pile of coats on anybody’s bed. A uniformed maid whisked Gerry’s coat away almost before she could get out of it, and a butler with a silver tray asked her what she wanted to drink.

  One room was the bar, decorated exactly like a Third Avenue bar, complete to Tiffany lamps and dark, mirrored walls. A bartender in a red jacket was busily in attendance. Gerry figured there must be almost a hundred people at the party, all of them either Beautiful or rich or famous, or all three. She saw her suit going by on two other ladies, both of whom gave her a smile and then avoided her for the rest of the night. Libra was already there, in the corner of the bar, with Lizzie and the comic Arnie Gurney, who had flown in for this party between engagements, and a woman in silver with badly dyed black hair, who must have been Arnie Gurney’s wife.

  Libra introduced Gerry and Dick to Arnie Gurney, who said hello and told them five jokes, exactly as Libra had said he would. Lizzie and Arnie Gurney’s wife laughed merrily at all the jokes, none of which Gerry could remember two minutes after he finished telling them. Then Gerry and Dick wandered off to inspect the rest of the party.

  The living room was huge and done all in pale silks and English antiques. There were many oil paintings, all fairly famous and obviously real, elaborately framed in curly goldish frames and lit from below. There was a big needlepoint thing on a stand in front of the working fireplace, and the fireplace looked as if it had either never been used or had been scrubbed from top to bottom by a maid. Four butlers and four uniformed maids circulated through the crowd, passing drinks and hot hors d’oeuvres. There was no place to put your drink down, however, because every table was covered with objects: a collection of alabaster, porcelain, gold and silver eggs; a collection of vermeil flowers; and a collection of photographs of famous people and relatives (some were both) in identical sterling-silver frames.

  “All that stuff is real,” Dick said, gesturing at the furniture.

  “I figured.”

  Penny Potter stood in the middle of a circle of admirers, small and frail, wearing a mauvy-colored watered-silk dress that was cut on top like a Nehru jacket, and love beads made of real rubies, diamonds, and pearls. She had at least three falls on; Nelson’s famous Dynel, judging from the hair’s abnormal straightaess. Next to her, dressed in a real Nehru jacket of identical mauvy watered silk, and real love beads, was her husband, Peter Potter. They made a very pretty papier-mâché couple.

  Mr. Nelson was there, in his white suede suit, and when he saw Gerry he gave a strangled scream and rushed over to her.

  “What did you do to yourself?” he cried in horror.

  Her hand went up to her hair. “Me?”

  “Where is your coiffeur?” She thought he might take a fit and collapse right there, frothing at the mouth. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Mr. Libra thought the Gilda Look you gave me was divine,” Gerry said innocently. “I just adore it.”

  “Don’t give me credit for that mess,” Nelson said indignantly. “You look like you’re going to the beach!”

  “I think she looks very sexy,” Dick said. “I compliment you, Nelson. Very simple hair does wonderful things for Gerry’s eyes.”

  “The only reason it hangs right is because she had it braided all afternoon,” Nelson said malevolently. “Gerry has hair like straw. You can’t do anything with it. I think she should give up and get a decent wig.”

  A tall, beautiful-looking young man wearing a thin coat of makeup came in accompanied by a short, middle-aged man who was wearing a thin coat of make-up carefully disguised as a suntan. Nelson rushed over to them, waving greetings.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” Gerry said to Dick. She started to laugh. “I thought he would die when you pretended you thought he’d done my hair the way it is now.”

  “Well, I’m peculiar,” Dick said. “I like hair that doesn’t cut my fingers.”

  “I’d better go over and introduce myself to the hostess.”

  Dick led her through the crowd to where the B.P.’s were standing with their admirers. He already knew the B.P.’s and he introduced Gerry to them. Peter B.P. looked rather pleased to see Gerry, his eyes acknowledging that she was an attractive girl, but Penny B.P. looked bored.

  “So glad you could come,” Penny said, looking over Gerry’s shoulder.

  “Do you have everything you need?” Peter asked.

  “Yes, thank you,” Gerry said.

  “After dinner the King James Version will play for dancing, and Silky and the Satins are coming to sing,” Peter said.

  “Oh, good!” She looked at Dick, but he was smiling politely and she couldn’t read him.

  “Honey, where’s the Senator?” Peter said to Penny. “Has anybody seen the Senator?”

  “They’re coming,” Penny said. She turned to resume her conversation with the couple at her left, whom she had introduced to Gerry as Mr. and Mrs. Mumble. Obviously she thought they were so well known that to enunciate their names would be insulting to them. Gerry glanced at Dick and he led her away.

  A butler gave them more drinks, and they went into the next room, which was all done in Chinese style, complete to the last detail. Elaine Fellin and Mad Daddy were standing in the corner with some people. Elaine was wearing a twenty-five-hundred-dollar beaded number by Franco, and she looked slightly drunk already. Mad Daddy, in a tuxedo, looked as uncomfortable as a man could get. He didn’t seem to have anyone he wanted to talk to. He glanced around the room furtively at all the people, like a child at a grown-ups’ party who is afraid he will be caught peeking from the stairs. Elaine waved at Gerry.

  “Oh, hello,” Elaine said gaily. “Isn’t this a lovely party? I was just telling the Ambassador here about Nina’s French school. They don’t speak a word of English all day. They even do their little arithmetic in French. She’s going to be completely bilingual. Isn’t this room divine? I love Chinoiserie.”

  Mad Daddy sighed.

  “You should see the other room!” Elaine went on. “It’s all done in Turquerie, just like Lee Bouvier’s apartment, or is it Lee Radziwill?”

  “I work for Mr. Libra,” Gerry told Mad Daddy.

  “Oh, yeah?” he said, obviously delighted. “Come on, I’ll show you two the Turkey Room.”

  They made their excuses to the Ambassador and his wife and left them with Elaine chattering on. Mad Daddy took them directly to the bar. “I’m starving,” he said morosely.

  “There’s some caviar,” Dick said, pointing at a tray one of the butlers was carrying. The tray held an impressive ice mold which cupped a large dish of real Beluga Malossol caviar. Dick motioned to the butler to come over.

  “I hate caviar,” Mad Daddy said. “I wish they’d have some of those little hamburgers on toothpicks.”

  Gerry and Dick helped themselves to caviar. Mad Daddy shook his head.

  “I love caviar,” Dick said.

  “Me too,” said Gerry.

  “I wish I had some pizza,” said Mad Daddy sadly. “What do you think they’re having for dinner?”

  “Not pizza,” Gerry said. There was something about this man that she liked enormously. He was like a big kid. “My name is Gerry Thompson,” she said. “And this is Dick Devere, who’s a client of Mr. Libra’s too.”

  Mad Daddy’s face lighted up and he shook Dick’s hand. “I don’t know why they invited us to this thing,” Mad Daddy said. “I guess because Libra helped with the guest list. I don’t know anybody here. There’s nobody I even feel like talking to. I wish I was at the movies.”

  “Yeah,” Dick agreed with a charming smile.

  “Do you know any of these people?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact,” Dick said, “I do know a few.”

  I bet you do, Gerry thought without rancor. You would.

  Suddenly everybody in the room was applauding. She looked toward the door and saw Franco making his grand entrance as guest of honor. He was bald aga
in, not brave enough to wear the wig of his dreams except as a joke, and he was in black tie and ruffles, topped by a splendid Count Dracula cape of black velvet lined in red. He bowed his head slightly in appreciation of the applause, and solemnly smiled greetings at the people he knew. A step behind Franco, evidently his date, was a tall, thin girl in a tiny little dress that looked like a doily. She had luxuriant tawny hair and a classically beautiful face. Gerry recognized her from the picture in Time as the model who had worn the transparent bride’s dress in Franco’s collection.

  Franco and the girl accepted drinks from one of the traveling butlers, and made their way to where Gerry and the others were standing. Mad Daddy looked at the girl with obvious pleasure and no lust. Dick just looked cool. Gerry noticed that most of the women were looking jealous and insecure. The girl really was a knockout, if you liked models.

  “This is Fred,” Franco said.

  The girl, Fred, smiled at all of them. “How do you do,” she said in a thin squeak which immediately dispelled the illusion of an inaccessible princess and turned her right into a kid from the Bronx with good bones.

  “How do you like my party?” Franco asked, pleased.

  “Very impressive,” Dick said.

  “What do you do, Fred?” Mad Daddy asked.