Park Avenue Summer

by Renée Rosen

  As the maître d’ led us to our table, Erik stopped every few feet to shake hands or kiss some woman’s cheek. “You’re very popular,” I said.

  “The office is right around the corner. A lot of Hearst folks come here after work,” he explained matter-of-factly as we took our seats at one of the banquettes, a gold samovar stationed next to it.

  I looked across the room, watching the women in their beautiful dresses, cigarettes held gracefully in one hand, cocktails in the other, a stylish clutch tucked under an arm. I was so taken by the atmosphere, I didn’t remember Erik ordering me a vodka martini. I wasn’t much of a drinker but martinis were very sophisticated, very big-city-like, and a lovely glass had just appeared before me with shimmers of ice crystals floating on top along with two speared olives.

  “To you,” he said. “Welcome aboard.”

  “Anchors aweigh,” I said as I clinked my glass to his a little too hard. The line and the gesture fell short, like a tossed fedora missing the hat rack. I was trying to act as if it were nothing out of the ordinary for me to be in this restaurant with a man who probably rowed crew at Harvard or Yale. No doubt he had season tickets to the Met and a family summer home in the Hamptons.

  “So what do you think of the Tea Room?” he asked, setting his glass down.

  “It’s okay.” I offered a mock blasé roll of my eyes. “But honestly, it doesn’t hold a candle to the luncheonette on 74th and Third.”

  He laughed outright for the first time. It showed the sliver of a different, more relaxed side of him, but he quickly checked himself. “So how goes it with the new job?”

  “It goes just fine,” I said. “Couldn’t be better.”

  “Really?” He tilted his head, sending a lock of hair onto his forehead. “So you like working for the new boss lady?”

  “I haven’t been there very long, but yes,” I said. “She’s been wonderful. And after all, I mean, look who she is.”

  He gave me a cryptic smile before brushing his hair back in place.

  The waiter came over to take our order but Erik sent him away. I hadn’t looked at the menu yet, and when I did, I was intimidated; something called lamb loin carpaccio with mâche salad, dozens of caviars, quail, wild boar.

  “Do you like salmon?” Erik asked, sensing my befuddlement.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Very well, then.” He closed his menu and gestured to the waiter. “We’ll take two of the coulibiac of salmon.”

  Erik excused himself for a moment and I watched him work his way through the room, stopping for quick hellos with a couple of men, another kiss or two on the cheeks of a few women. I felt a twinge—not of jealousy—but more a sense of competition. And certainly not for Erik’s attention. This was all about me sizing up my own worth. I knew I was an attractive woman. People told me I looked like my mother and I could see the resemblance in old photographs of her. I had her blue eyes and dark hair, the same tapered chin, the high cheekbones and good, clear skin. But even with my mother’s genes, I was nowhere near as worldly and polished as the women in that room. I was questioning what I was doing there—on a Friday night, no less—with Erik Masterson.

  The last man who asked me to dinner was Michael. It was my twenty-first birthday and he’d taken me to an Italian buffet. With plates in hand, we stood in line before metal bins of spaghetti and meatballs, chicken buried beneath a golden gelatinous gravy and eggplant parmesan. While the waiters were singing and I was blowing out the candle in my spumoni and making my birthday wish, little did I know that it would be the last time I’d sit across from Michael. It would take him another week to work up the nerve to tell me he didn’t want to marry me.

  After our food arrived, two coulibiac of salmon, which turned out to be puff pastry pies on spitting hot plates, we ate in silence. With each bite, I could hear his front teeth scraping against the tines of his fork. The first contradiction to the pedigree I’d assigned him. It brought him a few inches closer to earth, which put me more at ease.

  The salmon was delicious and I was still eating when Erik pushed his plate aside and scooted forward. Squaring his elbows on the table and lacing his perfectly manicured fingers together, he said, “Can I be brutally honest with you?”

  “Sounds painful. Are you going to tell me you don’t like the way I wear my hair?”

  “Actually, no.” He gave me a suggestive look. “I like your hair. Very much.”

  “Go ahead then,” I said with a wry smile, “slay me with your brute honesty.”

  He leaned in closer still, his elbow nearly touching my arm. “Now I’m sure you’ve already heard all this,” he began, “but once upon a time, Cosmopolitan was one of the most respected magazines around. It was William Randolph Hearst’s favorite publication. His baby, if you will, until someone got the bright idea to turn it into a magazine for suburban housewives. That was its downfall. It’s been dying ever since. And if Cosmopolitan has to die, shouldn’t it at least be put to rest with its dignity intact?”

  “What are you talking about?” I reached for my martini and took a sip. “You’re giving the magazine a fresh start and a new look. That’s why you hired Mrs. Brown.” As I said this, I saw his eyebrow rise as if it were lifted by a pull string. “Isn’t it?”

  “Look, it’s no secret that Cosmopolitan’s been struggling. Everybody knows that. Circulation’s down below 800,000, and Mr. Berlin and the board of directors were prepared to close it down altogether. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but”—he looked left then right to emphasize confidentiality—“we’ve intentionally put very few resources toward getting new subscriptions. We’ve hardly run any advertising for the magazine. We even cut the staff. Cosmopolitan’s been operating on a skeleton crew.”

  “So you’re saying you wanted the magazine to fail?”

  He smiled as if pleased that I’d figured out the riddle. “That was the plan all along.”

  “But why?”

  “A very practical business decision. The magazine’s been underperforming, dragging profits down for the entire Hearst Corporation, and the board of directors wanted to see it go away—but as I said earlier”—he raised a finger—“we wanted it to go away with dignity.”

  “Then why did you bring in Mrs. Brown?”

  “Let’s just say her husband did a hell of a sales job on the board. He’s the one who got her hired. David Brown’s a big Hollywood movie producer. A real charmer. That man could sell ice to Eskimos.” He took a moment, his fingers toying with his cufflink. “You’re obviously a bright girl. If you play your cards right, I’m sure there’s a better opportunity for you at Hearst.”

  With that comment, I finished my martini. This whole evening had taken a sharp turn. Despite his flirtatious glances and the clever banter, this was no dinner date. I was mildly disappointed, but in the same way a child is disappointed when his sea monkeys turn out to be reconstituted brine shrimp. My romantic expectations aside, I was curious about this better opportunity.

  “Are you saying you want to move me to another Hearst magazine?”

  He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “I’ll be brutally honest with you.”

  “Oy, more brute honesty? I’m not sure I’m ready for it.”

  “Alice,” he said, ignoring my flippancy, “everyone knows that Helen—Mrs. Brown—is in over her head. The company is taking a huge gamble by bringing her in, and quite candidly, we’re not convinced she’s up for the challenge.”

  My head was swimming from vodka and confusion. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I need your help. I need you to be my eyes and ears.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’d like you to keep tabs on things for me. Tell me what writers she’s talking to, which photographers and illustrators she’s looking at. I’d like to know who she’s lunching with, who’s calling for her. That so
rt of thing.”

  “You’re asking me to spy on her?”

  “No, no, no, nothing like that. I would never.” He sat back and tweaked his necktie. “I just want to make sure the magazine doesn’t end up looking and sounding like her book.”

  Now he was sounding like the girls in the office. It was obvious that Hearst wanted to rein in Helen Gurley Brown, but I wasn’t going to help them. I may have had a few qualms about some of her ideas, but if I’d been rooting for her before, now I wanted to see her crush them, beat them at their own game.

  “You’d be doing me and the board a big favor,” he said. “And a favor like that won’t go unnoticed. Or unrewarded.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’ve got the wrong girl for that job.”

  “Do I?” He was looking at me with those eyes, and I was sure his charisma had worked on a lot of girls, penetrating even the slightest crack in their hearts. He probably thought he could convince me that the sky was green and the grass was blue, and that it was my duty to spy on my boss. Suddenly I didn’t want to be in this fancy restaurant anymore.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” I said, reaching for my pocketbook. “It’s getting late and I need to get home.”

  He held my gaze for a beat or two before he said, “I understand, Alice. Perhaps we’ll talk about this again some other time.”

  “Perhaps not.” I tossed my napkin onto the table. “Thank you for dinner and for putting me in an impossible position.”

  I got up and headed downstairs, getting as far as the coat check before realizing I’d just walked out on a Hearst executive and had probably gotten myself fired. For a moment I contemplated going back upstairs to apologize, but I couldn’t do it.

  I stood outside beneath the Tea Room’s red awning, trying to collect my thoughts. A wind gust came out of nowhere, carrying crumpled newspapers and litter down the street. I buttoned my coat and turned up the collar. It was almost ten o’clock but I needed the walk home to clear my mind.

  As I headed up 57th Street, I happened to glance at the 224 building, noticing that Helen’s office light was on. She must have gone back to work after her dinner with David because there she was, her tiny frame visible through the fourth-floor window, seated at her desk, furiously typing away.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  That night the streetlights shone through my window as I stared at the shadows streaking across my spider-cracked ceiling. An ambulance or maybe it was a fire truck raced down Second Avenue, its siren piercing the darkness, drowning out the laughter of people—probably drunk—passing by on the sidewalk below. My eyes were burning and my body had that heavy exhausted feeling as if my bones were filled with sand, but my mind wouldn’t shut off.

  Each time I began to drift, anxiety yanked me awake. I rolled over and flipped my pillow to the cool side, while my thoughts alternated from worrying about my job to being furious with Erik Masterson. I flopped onto my back again, letting everything fester. By two in the morning, after another siren went by, I began crafting my telephone call to Elaine Sloan, explaining that I’d already lost the job she’d helped me get. I had visions of packing my suitcase, boarding a Greyhound and heading back home, failing to have fulfilled my mother’s dream. And mine.

  The last time I looked at the clock, it was half past four, and when I woke up in the morning, I was still in a foggy panic. I fixed myself a cup of instant coffee and telephoned Elaine to ask for her advice.

  “I’m heading into the office in a few minutes,” she said. “It’s quiet on the weekends and I can actually get some work done.” I heard classical music playing in the background. “Why don’t you meet me down there? Just ring the buzzer on the front door and I’ll come let you in.”

  But when I arrived at Bernard Geis Associates that Saturday morning, the front door was unlocked and all the lights were on in the lobby. People were coming and going and I heard telephone lines ringing down the hall, typewriters clacking. It seemed like business as usual.

  A man in gold corduroy slacks slid down the fire pole, landing with a thud.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m looking for Miss Sloan.”

  He went to get her, and moments later Elaine appeared around the corner, looking like she’d come from a horse stable, dressed in a pair of khaki slacks and riding boots. Her silver hair was loose, resting easy on her slender shoulders.

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Miss Sloan.”

  “Please.” She waved a hand through the air. “What did I tell you? Call me Elaine.” She gestured for me to follow her. “So much for a quiet Saturday around here, huh?” she said, walking down the hall, nearly every office occupied. “We have a big book coming out soon, and the author has us all jumping through hoops.”

  She led me into her office, which impressed me every bit as much as it had that first day. Somehow I hadn’t noticed the series of photographs on her credenza before, but now they caught my eye, showcasing all the celebrity authors she’d worked with. There she was, standing alongside Groucho Marx, the two of them puffing away on thick cigars. In another shot she was shaking hands with Harry Truman. And yes, there was one with Helen, their cheeks pressed together, arms clasped about one another.

  As I was about to sit down, a young woman with abnormally rosy cheeks came rushing in. “Berney wants you to look at the new Jackie Susann cover right away.” She held up a nine-by-twelve-inch sheet of paper with Valley of the Dolls in bold black type.

  Elaine took the mockup and eyed it while leaning against her desk. “It’s still not right.” She handed the cover back to the girl. “Tell him it needs more pills.”

  “More?”

  “Yes. More pills. More dolls.”

  The girl nodded and disappeared.

  Elaine closed her office door and turned back to me. “So what can I do for you today?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday.”

  “Don’t be silly.” She smiled, dismissing my concern. “I told you my door’s always open. You sounded upset on the phone. Would you like some coffee?” She gestured to the chrome pot and delicate china cups resting on a tray.

  I shook my head, setting my pocketbook on the corner of her desk and pressing my fingers to my throbbing temples. “I think I’ve made a mess of everything with my job.”

  “Well, in that case . . .” She reached for a crystal decanter on her credenza. “But honestly,” she said, pouring a shot of brandy into two cups, “I don’t think you’ve been there long enough yet to make a mess.”

  I heard someone running down the hallway outside her door. Elaine added coffee to each cup and slid one across the desk to me. With a hand gesture, she encouraged me to drink up while I explained what had happened the night before with Erik.

  “Ah,” she said, setting her cup down, “let the games begin.”

  “What do I do?”

  She thought for a moment and offered a sly smile. “You do nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  “You don’t think I should warn Helen?” I could feel the brandy going to my head.

  “Nope.” She leaned forward and folded her hands. “Helen knew what she signed on for.”

  “But no one there seems to like her,” I said, remembering my lunch with Margot and the other girls. “Not even the women.”

  “That’s not surprising. People aren’t comfortable with women being in charge. Even other women, who should be their biggest cheerleaders. I had the same problem when I was at Random House. One of the only female editors with big back-to-back books. Both of them hit the Times list and that ruffled a few feathers. Believe me, the reason I came to Geis wasn’t because of their fine literary reputation.” She rolled her eyes. “I just knew Berney wasn’t afraid of working with strong women. He shows me respect, stays out of my way and pays me a pretty penny to boot.” She took another sip of coffee. “I’m sorry this happened, but I’m not surpr
ised. Don’t worry, though. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  “So you don’t think I’m going to get fired?”

  “Heavens no.” She laughed. “This Erik fellow couldn’t possibly get you fired. Not without giving them a reason. And his reason wouldn’t sit well—even with the boys at Hearst. If anything, he should be worried that you’re going to get him fired.”

  I hadn’t thought of that but Elaine was right. That sinking feeling in my gut began to ease. I took another sip of brandied coffee.

  “You have more power in this situation than he does,” she said. “Unless, of course, Hearst put him up to this, which I highly doubt. Even Richard Berlin and Dick Deems wouldn’t stoop that low. One word to Helen—which I wouldn’t recommend—and she’d have Erik thrown out on his ear. But I have a feeling Erik will hang himself with no help needed from you. Or anyone else.” She smiled, raised her coffee cup as if toasting me. “Feel better now?”

  “You have no idea.” I splayed an open hand across my chest. “I didn’t sleep all night. I was so worried. Thank you.”

  With a gentle, easy smile, Elaine took a cigarette from a gold monogrammed case and lit it with a matching lighter. After exhaling toward the ceiling, she studied me for such a long moment that I thought I had something on my face.

  “What?” My fingers searched my mouth.

  “Nothing. Nothing.” Elaine leaned forward, elbows on her desk. “I was just thinking how much you remind me of your mother. You look just like her. But I suppose you hear that all the time.” Elaine rested her cigarette in the ashtray and removed two beautiful silver rings, neither of which had been on her ring finger. “I have some old photographs of your mother somewhere. I’ll have to find them and show you,” she said, reaching for an elegant Le Bain hand cream dispenser on the corner of her desk.