Everything and More

by Jacqueline Briskin

  57

  That spring and summer Roy would fall asleep thinking of Gerry and awaken thinking of him with tears oozing from her closed eyes. Memories of him intruded on her at Patricia’s. She read five or six thrillers a week, but even during the zippiest action his unhappy face would come between her and the print. She developed a case of hives. She was involved in three minor car accidents. Though she had lost the compulsive need for alcohol—the boozy haze through which she had just passed terrified her—she found herself addicted to sweets. As a girl she’d had a sweet tooth, but at Patricia’s, wearing clothes well was part of her job, so she had disciplined herself to take a single chocolate, a bite of somebody else’s dessert. Now she couldn’t stop herself. She would devour a pound of See’s chocolates, a carton of gingersnaps, a Sara Lee cheesecake. The sweetness always tasted slightly stale. She gained eight pounds, and her stylishly loose chemises hugged her hips and stomach. In desperation she took up smoking.

  One morning in early September as she was combing her hair for work she found a few grays at the temple. Her throat ached with an ambivalently pleasurable melancholy that her life, like Gerry’s, was over. The lugubrious curve of her freshly lipsticked mouth in the mirror struck her as humorous. “Cut it out, Wace!” she said aloud as she yanked out the offending hairs. “You’re not on the widow’s funeral pyre yet.”

  By the time the autumn heat faded, she had lost four pounds, her hives had disappeared, and the repainted car had no fresh dents. Her natural enthusiasm was winning out.

  * * *

  “As soon as you’re finished with your customer, Roy, come on back to the office. Mr. Fineman and I’re having coffee,” said Mrs. Fineman at the entry of the stockroom.

  This invitation, offered on the opening afternoon of the January sale, struck Roy as portentous.

  She edged into the office, her smile numb.

  As soon as Mrs. Fineman had poured coffee for her, Mr. Fineman set down his cup. In his New York accent he said matter-of-factly, “Roy, at the end of the month you’re to mark down the entire stock. We intend to keep on with the sale until everything is gone.”

  “But, Mr. Fineman—”

  “After that, the fixtures will go,” he continued in the same arid tone. “We’re leasing the building.”

  “You mean—is Patricia’s closing?” Roy asked in a thin, high wail.

  He nodded. “We spent the morning with our lawyer and accountant. We didn’t want you to hear our plans from anybody else.”

  Roy was sitting on the sofa, the sofa on which she had slumped in the aftershock of hearing about Gerry’s death. Another part of my life ending, she thought. Her fingers tightened on the cup handle.

  But death alone is irreversible.

  I can prevent this from happening, she thought. How? I’ll take over the shop. You idiot, what with? Thirty-four hundred and thirty-eight hard-saved dollars in a Bank of America savings account, a mortgaged house, half-paid-for furniture? (Gerry’s works were pledged to UCLA, with Althea underwriting the upkeep of the Gerrold Horak Gallery.)

  Male and female voices were alternating: “Whatever we can . . . highest recommendations to everyone we know . . . severance pay . . . speak to people in New York, if you want. . . .”

  Roy eased her throat by swallowing. “Patricia’s is the only place I’ve ever worked.”

  The couple exchanged glances, and Mrs. Fineman said unhappily, “Roy, we know exactly how you feel. The accountant pointed out that we’d be far better off financially to sell. We could get a decent price for the goodwill, and the fixtures would bring much more in a going concern. But this is our creation. We can’t bear a stranger coming in, maybe lowering the standards, maybe turning Patricia’s into a schlock shop.”

  “I can’t imagine working anyplace else.”

  Affection, grief and worry showed behind the skillfully applied cosmetics on Mrs. Fineman’s heavy face. “We haven’t told anyone else,” she said, “but Mr. Fineman’s been having chemotherapy for some time now.”

  Tears welled in Roy’s eyes. She reached out her hand, letting it hover tentatively near Mr. Fineman’s. He seldom touched anyone. His hard, dry fingers grasped hers briefly.

  “This takes a lot of gall, but—” Roy drew a breath. “Maybe I could buy Patricia’s. I’d keep it absolutely top-drawer, you know that.”

  In the ensuing quiet, her stomach lurched.

  “Your brother-in-law would help you?” Mrs. Fineman asked.

  “I wouldn’t ask him. But Mrs. Fineman, you just said you’re closing the doors. I’d pay you a hundred cents on the dollar for the fixtures, give whatever rent you ask.”

  “It’s not a question of money,” said Mrs. Fineman. “I meant, who would take over the financial aspects of the business.”

  “I would,” Roy said.

  “Roy, you’re a fine manageress.” Mr. Fineman rose, moving behind his desk. “Believe me, though, being your own boss is another game entirely. First of all, you’d be undercapitalized. A business without enough cash is always on the thin edge. One bad season.” He snapped his fingers. “It’s over.”

  “What if the economy goes into a slump and sales go sour? Or a sharp competitor sets out to take away the clientele?” asked Mrs. Fineman.

  “Women’s luxury trade is very chancy. There’s no margin for error. Buy badly for one season and—” A second snap of Mr. Fineman’s fingers. “I’ve seen capable, competent managers take over businesses and go under in less than a year.”

  “And once you’re a Chapter Eleven, you’re bad news,” said Mrs. Fineman. “People don’t want to be associated with you. Getting a job is nearly impossible.”

  “You’re too young for the responsibility.”

  “With your verve and sense of style,” Mrs. Fineman said, “you have a real future ahead of you as a buyer for the biggest chains.”

  “For your own good, forget the idea. It’s too big a gamble.”

  “Roy, dear, we’re far too fond of you to let you risk it.” Mrs. Fineman set down her cup to add weight to the refusal.

  Under the Finemans’ double barrage Roy’s impulse had dwindled and turned ludicrous. Back keeping watch on the crowded floor, though, rebuttals bubbled to her mind. She had found this building. Hardly any of the marked-down mistakes were her buying selections. The salesladies writing up put-together outfits instead of a single reduced blouse were trained by her. Patricia’s is my baby as well, she thought. As the week passed, her desire to buy Patricia’s strengthened into resolve. She tried to analyze her ambition, and found not logic but a complicated blend of emotions. The lure of a challenge, the need to fill the void in her life, and—possibly most important—that old, old inability to let go.

  When the Finemans did not carry through their original intent to mark down the entire stock, Roy understood that they were seriously considering her offer. And in March, they acquiesced. They sold her the stock as well as the store fixtures at a price set by their accountant (to be paid over three years), giving her a twenty-year lease. It was only at the insistence of their attorney that Joshua scrawled his name on both documents as cosigner.

  The first months proved even rougher than the Finemans had prophesied. Some of the older—and wealthier—clients began shopping at Amelia Gray or I. Magnin’s. The suppliers liked her, but that didn’t prevent them from putting Patricia’s on hold so that most of her merchandise was shipped COD. Roy, having refused to borrow from the Fernaulds, arranged a loan from the Bank of America, taking a second mortgage on her house. She scrimped mercilessly on herself, she worked sixteen hours a day.

  When it came time for her fall buying trip, she flew on a charter, reserving a room without bath in the Rue des Abesses not far from the tall gray building with the crumbling plaster angels where Gerry had borrowed a studio. The hotel might be cheap and clean, but it was a mistake for her to return to Montmartre. At night sorrow gnawed into her very gut. By day, though, she concentrated on the runways, jotting down every new t
rend, buying carefully yet not too carefully.

  After Paris she moved on to Milan for the Italian showings.

  The last day before her charter left, she traveled with a second-class train ticket to Rome. She wanted to visit a new designer, Francesca. Francesca used romantic, luxurious fabrics. Her spring line was perfectly proportioned for the so-called American figure, and her models posed in clever improvisations on the hot-selling Jackie Kennedy look. Considering this, her prices were excellent. Roy spent eight hectic hours, placing a far larger order than she had intended.

  Back at her pensione above the flower-bordered Spanish Steps, Roy sprawled on the squashy mattress, buyer’s remorse overwhelming her. Now I’ve done it! What Patricia’s customer will plunk down money for an unknown designer? She didn’t realize she had dozed until the persistent tapping awakened her. “Signora ’Orak. Signora, the telephone.”

  Roy knew nobody in Rome. In her blue funk, she decided that this was a long-distance call informing her of disaster at home.

  “Yes?” she gasped into the wall phone.

  “Roy?” said a male American. “This is Linc Fernauld.”

  She sank into the chair. “A voice from the past,” she managed to squeak. “How did you know I was here?”

  “Francesca’s a friend. She just spent a half-hour exulting about her tremendous sale to the most important Beverly Hills fashion personage there is. A young woman of brilliance and great warmth.”

  “I really snowed her, didn’t I?”

  “Listen, I know it’s last minute, but how about dinner?”

  “Oh Linc, how I’ve been dreading eating in this dining room!”

  He came by for her at 8:30.

  Except for that one time at the Fernaulds’ old house on Hillcrest, Roy hadn’t seen Linc since his Navy days, and in her memory he had a deep tan and wore a resplendent officer’s uniform. This Linc was paler and gaunter of face, which made him infinitely more human—doubtless this was a reflection of her own maturity, too—however after a couple of minutes with him she saw no reason to change her original adjective for him: clean.

  He took her to the elegant Hostaria dell’Orso. They were led around tables of chattering, smartly dressed diners to a smaller room dominated by a massive, blackened stone fireplace.

  As their waiter pared thin, rosy slices of prosciutto, from a ham with a hairy bone, Roy said, “I’ve heard of this place, but I never expected anything so wondrous old.”

  “It’s a thirteenth-century inn. People, especially those related to the proprietor, swear that Dante slept in this room, and Leonardo, too. I’ve never seen any verification, but I’ve come across proof that Rabelais and Montaigne came here.”

  “BJ’s told me you’re the only researcher in Europe.”

  “That’s my sister all over.” There was rueful fondness in his smile. “Touchingly modest about her near and dear.”

  They ate delicate threads of basil-scented fettuccine, followed by rich osso bucco, finishing with zuppa inglese.

  “The perfect way for an endomorph to spend her only night in Rome, gaining ten pounds.” Blissfully Roy spooned creamy custard from the bottom of her plate. “Linc, this meal is worthy of a month’s dieting.”

  Linc held his lighter to her Tareyton, then lit his own pipe, gazing through the coils of smoke at her, an expression in his very dark eyes that was somehow waiting. For what? Surely he didn’t expect her to bring up the subject of Marylin.

  He gave her the abbreviated Rome by Night tour, steering his Fiat down Via Impero from the Brescian marble garishness of the Victor Emanuel Monument past the ancient, floodlit stones of Trajan’s Forum to the massive Colosseum. Each time he turned to her, she saw—or imagined she saw—that anticipatory gleam. At her pensione they parked, strolling to the top of the Spanish Steps so she could see the city below with its floodlit domes, spires, ancient monuments.

  “Roy,” Linc said slowly, “I want you to hear this from me. At Christmas I’m getting married.”

  Roy turned, clutching his arm. BJ had authoritatively reiterated that Linc remained a bachelor because he was still mad for Marylin. (Roy often wondered in a wistful cloud of envy how it would be to have two males so wild for you that they lost their reason.) “Married? A winter wedding,” she said, sounding inane in her surprise.

  “I’m over forty.”

  “Now, there’s a wildly romantic reason.”

  “Gudrun is with the Norwegian embassy,” he said crisply. “She’s a redhead. A terrific skier, very intelligent, loves Beethoven and Tolstoy. We have everything in common.”

  Roy hesitated, staring down at the flow of a familiar-looking dome. “It’s none of my business, Linc, but are you sure? Really sure? I’ve been through a marriage with a guy who still cared about another woman and take it from me, bliss didn’t exactly reign on any side of the triangle.”

  “All evening I’ve been wondering if, well, if seeing somebody from Beverly Hills would alter my feelings about Gudrun. It hasn’t.”

  “She’s still a swell kid, right?” Roy said bitterly.

  “In Italy, people have more sensible ideas about marriage.”

  “You,” she said, “are an American.”

  “Roy!” he barked. “Let it drop.”

  She had forgotten Linc’s brief, hot temper.

  Bells began chiming from a hundred steeples below them.

  “What time is that?” she asked.

  He held his wrist up to a streetlamp. “Three.”

  “Three! God! I have a train to catch at seven.”

  As they hurried down the cobbled street to her pensione, she noticed for the first time that he still limped slightly. By the drab, chill light in the foyer she saw lines were carved around his dark brown eyes.

  “Linc, listen, we widows can wax very bitter about beginnings.”

  “It’s okay, Roy. I didn’t mean to bark at you.”

  “I was talking out of turn.”

  “Come on, Roy. No big deal.”

  “If you’ve chosen Gudrun, she must be a fabulous lady.”

  “She is.” He took her hand in farewell. “Roy, I’m sorry it worked out badly for you.”

  “I really do wish you and Gudrun all good things, Linc,” she said, kissing him lightly on his cheek, which smelled of pipe tobacco and—faintly—of Roger & Gallet soap.

  She had undressed and was folding her shocking pink wool shift into her suitcase before she realized that though Marylin had been omnipresent in her mind all evening, and inevitably in Linc’s, too, neither had spoken her name.

  And Roy vowed that when she saw Marylin, Linc would not be mentioned either.

  Book Seven

  1970

  RAIN FAIRBURN SHOW SNAGS LOCAL EMMY

  —Variety, March 2, 1970

  RAIN FAIRBURN schedule: Penny Crate, exercise expert; Jim Henson of the Muppets; Jacqueline Briskin, author of California Generation.

  —TV Guide, April 1, 1970

  FOUR STUDENTS SHOT BY NATIONAL GUARD AT KENT STATE

  President Nixon Calls College Protesters Bums.

  —Seattle Post-Intelligencer, April 5, 1970

  For those Winter Palace evenings of high romance, Patricia’s sees you in Ungaro’s black chiffon.

  —Copy for full-page advertisement in Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Town and Country, August 1970

  The Coyne New York Bank has prospered under the presidency of Archibald Coyne, grandson of its founder, Grover T. Coyne, but financial circles speculate whether or not the millionaire sportsman, now 57, will keep to his expressed wish to retire at 60. The bank has always been headed by a member of the Coyne family.

  —Fortune, August 1970

  58

  Marylin, in her Channel 5 dressing room, leaned back against the leather padding of the swivel chair. Sharply aromatic odors escaped from the makeup man’s vial as he carefully applied adhesive behind her left earlobe, then affixed a narrow flesh-colored rubberized string. He followed the same procedure on th
e right side, securing the strings an inch behind Marylin’s well-defined widow’s peak, erasing that near-invisible hint of relaxation below her jawline.

  “There you go, gorgeous,” he said. “Thirty, I swear, not a day more.”

  “Yesterday you said twenty-five.” At the moment her luminous smile felt comfortable, but if the strapping remained more than an hour her skin would be plagued by tautness.

  Marylin shrank in dismay from the knife of youth—that cruel look to the mouth, that taut skin, those subsequent wrinkles aligning in unnatural directions—yet she was also cognizant that each slight droop or fine line is magnified by the cruel eye of the television camera.

  This month, March of 1970, marked the eighth anniversary of The Rain Fairburn Show, now syndicated in forty-three markets and aired in Los Angeles from eleven to twelve noon Monday through Friday. Marylin conducted interviews with actors and actresses hustling new films, writers hustling their latest books, wide-smiling politicians hustling for reelection, sad-eyed, overwrought comedians hustling for a job in Vegas—whoever lolled on the beige-upholstered chairs and couch of The Rain Fairburn Show’s set was selling himself or herself. The mercenary fact was so softened by the hostess’s ravishing smile and angora-voiced questions that the women into whose homes her image was beamed considered Rain Fairburn a friend, a beautiful, gentle close friend who was introducing her friends. The show’s consistently high Nielsen ratings were bolstered by Marylin’s dazzling array of dressy sportswear: the credits flashed “Miss Fairburn’s clothes courtesy of Patricia’s,” a form of free advertising for Roy. (The shop had become far less staid under her ownership.)

  When Marylin weighed her two careers, the scales tilted deeply in favor of acting. She missed bringing life to a role, she missed her craft’s total immersion. For her, though, emoting on the big screen was an irrevocably departed luxury. Film actresses, unlike their masculine counterparts, are seldom permitted mature love. Her age aside, though, there was the financial aspect. TV sets had multiplied, begetting color, threatening extinction to the neighborhood movie theater. Studios had become torpid dinosaurs ailing in their individual swamps. To make a film involved months, even years, spent in a slushy, unpaid quagmire of deals and counterdeals.