by Amy Ephron
That first Christmas, after the tractor fell, I gave Alan a baby five-foot podocarpus tree, a tiny version of the one that saved the house. We replanted and re-landscaped and, just for fun, put in a path along the hill. There’s a bench up there, and sometimes Alan sits up there and reads a book. Sometimes Ethan sits up there, too, but I’m not quite sure what it is he’s doing. But down at the bottom, just at the edge of the tropical garden with its banana trees, Plumeria, ferns, and Bougainvillea, is that baby podocarpus tree, small and proud, a beacon and a sentry and a reminder that every other December, more than likely something will go wrong.
Eighteen
I Love Saks
In a way, I think, I can tell my life by Saks, in the way that I could tell my life by tuna fish sandwiches or the occasions on which I’ve run into Shelley Steinberg (my best friend from eighth grade) who later became Shelley Kirkwood and then became Shelley Cooper, if you know what I mean—that Saks for me is a funny bookend, like an old friend that’s always been there, sometimes worn at the edges, a little fractious, but just by its very existence, a haven nonetheless.
The smell of fresh pressed powder (or the memory of the smell of fresh pressed powder), French hand-milled soap, eau de cologne mixed in with the scent of the softest leather from gloves that have never before been worn. Deco glass display cases filled with makeup (Chanel, Le Prairie, and hipper brands like Mac and something Japanese I’ve never heard of called Kanebo); designer sunglasses by the yard; a hat department with wool caps and posher ones with lace and feathers; an old-fashioned glove bar, all lengths and sizes; scarves, silk ones from Hermès and Armani, cashmere ones and wool; purses; belts; and that’s only the first floor.
Saks Fifth Avenue. The flagship store on Fifth Avenue between Forty-Ninth and Fiftieth Streets.
The first time I went to New York, when I was eight and my mother took me to Saks to buy a hat so that we could march in the Easter Parade. It snowed. It was the first time I’d seen snow fall. I’d seen it on the ground before, somewhere silly like Mount Baldy, but I’d never actually seen it snow until that day on Fifth Avenue.
Six years later, when she took me to Saks and bought me a truly extraordinary Julie Christie/Dr. Zhivago coat, the color of calfskin, shearling, long to mid-calf (to ease the sting of the fact that my parents were so dysfunctional my only permanent address was going to be a boarding school in Woodstock, Vermont, where the temperature was regularly 30 below in winter). I think it was the coat that got me suspended and Phil expelled—if I hadn’t had the coat, we wouldn’t have been able to spend the night in the library (as they turned the heat off in the library at night) and they wouldn’t have found me and Phil Jones wrapped in each other’s arms underneath the coat, asleep on the library sofa at 3 A.M. (We were wearing our clothes, by the way, but the headmaster was unforgiving.)
A few years later, I was having a really bad day, some version of a broken heart, and I left work. It was raining and there weren’t any cabs. I’d been invited to a party in midtown and instead of crying, I ducked into Saks and changed, right there in the dressing room, out of the jeans and t-shirt I was wearing, into a skirt and sweater and new boots and stopped on the way out where the incredibly kind and beautiful Edith Ajubel, the manager at the Chanel counter, redid my makeup so I looked fresh and together and ready for whatever happened next.
Six years after that, a large white plastic tub from Saks (that was actually a baby bath) arrived on my Laurel Canyon doorstep, wrapped in cellophane and tied with a bow, filled with socks and blankets and sheets and onesies and t-shirts and adorable pajamas with kittens and planes and a satin baby quilt (an entire layette) from my older sister on the occasion of the birth of my first daughter, Maia. Maia was early and in a habit we had of leaving things to the last minute . . . we were slightly ill prepared. But on the doorstep in the plastic baby bath (which we also needed, by the way) was almost a years’ worth of clothes in a variety of colors and escalating sizes and a pair of ivory satin slippers (like ballet shoes) that tied with a ribbon around the ankle. And just the fact of it, like a new mother’s trousseau, made me feel more competent and able and as if I was tied to generations that had come before and would come after me.
Four years after that, when I popped into Saks on my way to lunch (with what I hoped would be a new editor at a new publishing company whom I was going to tell an idea for a new book) to buy a black silk cashmere TSE sweater using a form of girl logic—that if I had a new sweater, I wouldn’t look like I actually needed the money. It worked. He made me an offer but then he quit six months later to devote his life to ending apartheid (I don’t know what he’s doing, now) and the publishing company went out of business . . .
Any time I’m in New York I stop in, not always to shop, but just to sit in the café at a table alone and order a lemonade because, in a way, it’s like touching home base. In my mother’s day, it was a high-end general store with linens and soap and Saks-brand stockings. It’s not that anymore (and I don’t know if I would be able to use it that way if it were), but it is a sturdy companion in a world that’s sometimes sad or upside down, and for me it’s like a touchstone.
Four and a half years ago, when I ran in, after a long and tiring book tour, on my way home to L.A. where I was going to be married for a second time and bought a sleeveless Marc Jacobs silk print dress (because who does want to spend all that money on a dress that you’re only going to wear one day?—not me anyway), which was perfect for our June garden wedding.
And right after Christmas two years ago I ran in when they were having a ridiculous sale (or a fabulous sale—take 40% off the already reduced price—having come to the collective retailers’ realization that prices were getting ridiculous) and found a perfect little black wool Chloe jumper, like an old-fashioned French Audrey Hepburn jumper, to wear on New Year’s Eve (not having been told, of course, that New Year’s Eve was black tie). But there was no way you could get me to return that jumper.
And I love Saks because it’s still there and it’s weathered more than one economic downturn and double-digit numbers of skirt lengths and it still has saleswomen (and -men) who are actually helpful, who will actually still take a walk with you through the store across departments—“Let’s see if we can find some shoes to go with that dress. Do you need that in a bigger size? Let me see if I can get it for you at another store and have it sent.” But mostly I love Saks because it has a history and an elegance that is a throwback to a kinder, gentler time and, for me, it’s like a wall (or the memory of a wall) left standing, even though the family home is gone, with pencil marks traced on it, one on top of the other, every time I grew an inch.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my editor, Henry Ferris, for his long-standing belief in me, good humor, and perfect pitch, and with whom I have been fortunate enough to have an old-fashioned 25-year relationship; Sally Singer, for her eye, her extraordinary kindness, and support of this work; Anna Wintour, for making me feel I belonged there; the amazing Kate Lee; Craig Bolotin; David Wolf; and also Maia, Anna, and Ethan, for their patience with me and for being who they are.
About the Author
AMY EPHRON is the bestselling author of the acclaimed novels One Sunday Morning and A Cup of Tea. Her magazine pieces and essays have appeared in Vogue; Saveur; House Beautiful; the National Lampoon; the Los Angeles Times; the Huffington Post; Defamer; her own online magazine, One for the Table; and various other print and online publications. She recently directed a short film, Chloe@3AM, which was featured at the American Cinematheque’s Focus on Female Directors Short Film Showcase in January 2011. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, Alan Rader, and any of their five children who happen to drop in.
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Also by Amy Ephron
FICTION
One Sunday Morning
White Rose—Una Rosa Blanca
A Cup of Tea
Biodegradable Soup
Bruised Fruit
Cool Shades
Credits
Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Cover photograph by Jan Cobb
Copyright
Certain names and identifying details have been changed.
A version of “I Love Saks,” “Loose Diamonds,” and “The Birdman” appeared in Vogue magazine.
LOOSE DIAMONDS. Copyright © 2011 by Amy Ephron. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ephron, Amy.
Loose diamonds / Amy Ephron.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-06-195874-8 (hardback)—ISBN 978-0-06-195878-6 (paperback) 1. Ephron, Amy. I. Title.
PS3555.P47Z46 2011
813’.54—dc22
[B] 2011011034
EPub Edition © SEPTEMBER 2011 ISBN: 9780062100740
11 12 13 14 15 OV/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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