Park Avenue Summer

by Renée Rosen

  “Really? You cook?”

  “No, not really.” I’d shrugged. “But I can.”

  He’d laughed, like it was charming. “That’s sweet, but why don’t I take you out instead.”

  “You’re going to spoil me,” I said.

  “That’s okay, isn’t it? I bet you’d love Tavern on the Green.”

  “Wow.” My mother had told me about that restaurant and I’d always wanted to go there. I’d been so pleased when he’d suggested it.

  “Only I can’t make it tomorrow night.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t known what else to say. I busied myself with the towel, wrapping it tighter around me, grateful then that Bridget had invited me to a party that Saturday night.

  “Another time, though,” he said. “I promise.” He had kissed my neck and tickled me until he had me laughing in spite of myself, squirming out of his arms and out of my towel, letting it drop to the damp floor. We had sex again and I had stayed the night, waking Saturday morning to sunny-side-up eggs in bed.

  “No date, huh?” Trudy said. “Well, you sure look real smart.”

  “Thanks.” I tilted my head while I clipped on my earrings. “I’m going to a party.”

  “Oh.”

  I glanced at Trudy through the mirror. She looked a little wounded and I couldn’t say I blamed her. We had an understanding that unless we had a date or some other obligation, Saturday night was girls’ night. The two of us would go to the movies or a play or sometimes splurge for a dinner out. Trudy had always included me in her plans, and I would have been lost my first few weeks in New York without her.

  “Why don’t you come with me?” I said.

  “Looking like this?” She pointed to her face. “No, but thanks. I’m going to go hide out in a dark movie theater. The new Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello picture just opened.” She looked in the mirror and turned away. “Need help getting to your party?” she asked, knowing I was still leery of the subway, especially at night and when it involved transferring trains.

  “Bridget’s meeting me at the 77th Street station.”

  Before I left that night, I looked at Trudy and said, “And about your freckles, don’t get rid of them. They’re part of what makes you you. And someday some man is going to fall in love with those freckles. Mark my words.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The party was at Katie Murphy’s, a secretary at Town and Country, who lived at 33rd and Madison. Bridget and I met Margot, Leslie and Penny at the Herald Square subway stop, and together we all walked the few blocks to the party. It was a cool spring night. The weather called for rain but so far it had been holding off. None of us wanted to carry umbrellas so we were taking our chances.

  As we were climbing the stairs, I heard music blaring: Herman’s Hermits, “I’m into Something Good.” When we reached the third-floor landing, we saw people dancing in the open doorway and spilling out into the hallway. Peering into the apartment, I felt as if I’d just stepped into one of Holly Golightly’s parties. Cigarette smoke hung in the air like fog rolling in off the Hudson. Everyone had a glass of something: wine, whiskey, gin or beer. The men were handsome, the women stylish. A redhead in a psychedelic pantsuit was dancing by herself with an inch of unbroken cigarette ash waiting to fall with each gyration.

  Bridget leaned in with an elbow nudge and said, “Let’s mingle. There’s a guy over there who does the hiring at Doubleday.”

  We dumped our jackets on a chair serving as a coat rack and off we went, dresses swishing as we maneuvered through the crowded apartment. I recognized a few people from the office. Liz Smith, in a mod high-button dress, was talking with Lyn Tornabene, who was perched on the arm of the crowded sofa. She was wearing a pair of floral culottes with a matching scarf. Rex Reed was with them. He was dark and handsome, but not in the classic sense. It took a moment for his looks to register, and when they did, they stuck. I remembered seeing him the day Helen fired him. Apparently, he still wasn’t over it.

  “And what do you think she tells me?” Reed said, standing on an ottoman like an orator, arms dramatically flung to his sides. “She tells me I write ‘pippy-poo’ copy.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” asked Lyn, laughing.

  “I have no idea. But then get this. She has the nerve to say they’re still running my last reviews because she has to and then—then she turns around and asks me for one last favor before she cans me. She wanted me to fly to Los Angeles and interview some hypnotist to the stars.”

  “Oh no.” Liz Smith laughed into her hands. “Helen’s been trying to push that Hip Hypnotist story off on everybody.”

  “Well, I told her I was taking my pippy-poo copy elsewhere, thank you very much.”

  They were laughing and I didn’t want to embarrass Rex Reed or myself. After all, Helen’s secretary didn’t need to be seen standing there, overhearing it all, so I drifted away.

  Since the hostess worked for a Hearst publication, most of her guests were in the magazine business, but I also met book editors and advertising executives, stockbrokers and a few lawyers. One of the ad guys was performing card tricks, pulling a jack of hearts from behind a girl’s ear.

  I ran into Bridget, who had struck out with the Doubleday man. She handed me a glass of something green with crème de menthe. “No job,” she said, clinking her glass to mine, “but I did get a date out of it, so I guess it wasn’t a total loss. I sure hope he takes me for a steak. God knows he can afford it.”

  The party carried on, the hour grew later, records were changed, bottles were drained and ashtrays overflowed. People continued to come and go. One of the stockbrokers, Ray something or other, was trying to get my telephone number. He was wearing an argyle vest and moved stiffly like a man accustomed to three-piece suits. “Or,” he said, handing me his business card, “you can call me.”

  I happened to look over and spotted a couple in the adjacent room. Ray was still talking while all the air caught inside my chest. I saw the back of the man’s head and something inside me just knew. A beat later, as if he sensed he was being watched, he slowly turned around. It was Erik. With another woman. A blonde. Exactly the sort of beauty I would have expected for him.

  The stockbroker was still coming on strong, telling me about his Fifth Avenue apartment overlooking the park, but his voice was muffled in my ears, drowned out by the sound of my heart pounding. I was crushed and humiliated, with no one to blame but myself. What did I expect? He was a Don Juan. Of course he was seeing other women. All along I told myself Erik was just for fun, but the body doesn’t lie. I felt sick to my stomach and that’s how you know you care.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off Erik and his date, not knowing if I wanted him to see me or not. The blonde wore an expensive gold watch with diamonds along the band. I knew it was a ridiculous assumption, an illogical leap, but I wondered if he’d given it to her. Maybe a birthday present or possibly an anniversary gift. They looked familiar and natural with one another, like they had been together forever.

  My face was burning hot and I excused myself from the stockbroker. I was leaning against a bookshelf, the empty glass in my hand feeling suddenly very heavy, when Bridget came up to me.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, resting her hand on my shoulder.

  I didn’t say anything as I watched her gaze reach across the room in Erik’s direction.

  “Ali, are you okay?”

  I nodded. She didn’t know about Erik and me. None of the other girls did. The only person I’d told was Trudy. “I think I just had too much to drink.”

  “Do you need to get some air?”

  I nodded again and closed my eyes. I couldn’t torture myself by watching them anymore.

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No. No thanks. I’ll be fine.”

  I sorted through the pile
of coats until I found my jacket and left the party. Down on the sidewalk, I tried to get my bearings and remember which direction to head for the subway. It was drizzling lightly and I could still hear the music from the party, the Four Tops singing “Baby I Need Your Loving.” A couple strolled by with their fingers laced together. The lump was rising in my throat but I swallowed it down. No way would I shed a single tear over Erik Masterson.

  The front door opened, and when I looked up, I saw Bridget standing beneath the streetlamp, raindrops visible in the light. “I’m worried about you,” she said. “Tell me what’s wrong. What happened up there?”

  I’d had just enough to drink to get me talking. Even though I felt foolish telling her about Erik, I couldn’t stop myself. Every last detail came tumbling out.

  “Men are rats,” she said as we stood beneath the awning, shielding ourselves from the drizzle. “Just tell me one thing—is he as good in bed as everyone says?”

  I closed my eyes and winced, listening to the sounds of cars going by, their tires rolling over the wet pavement.

  “Well? Is he?”

  I refused to answer. I didn’t want to think about his other conquests. “I feel like such a fool. I had his number from the start. I shouldn’t be surprised. I just don’t understand why I’m so upset.”

  “Because you slept with him and that changes everything. And it’s not your fault. It’s physiological,” she said, speaking with an air of great authority. “I read somewhere that when you have an orgasm, your body releases this hormone that attaches you to the man who gave you the orgasm.”

  I hoped that was true. I thought I was in control of this situation but all these feelings had snuck up on me.

  “And the part that really stinks,” said Bridget, “is that it’s not the same for men. They don’t have the same hormone so they can just sleep around and walk away. But not us girls. Think about it. How many women do you know who meet someone and all you hear is how he’s too old, too short, too poor, too this, too that. But then”—Bridget raised her finger—“she sleeps with him and suddenly he’s a god.”

  “Well, make no mistake, Erik Masterson is no god. He was just someone to have a little fun with. He was handsome and—”

  “And he takes you to expensive places.”

  I cringed. “That sounds terrible.”

  “Let’s face it, they use us and we use them.”

  I half nodded and half shrugged, remembering what Helen had told me about her 166 lovers. It was okay for her, but could it be okay for me? I wasn’t using Erik, was I? I shuddered thinking of how I’d offered to make him dinner when he knew he had a date with that blonde. I looked at the clock on the bank sign across the way. It was after midnight.

  “Listen,” I said, “it’s getting late. I’m going to head home. Why don’t you go back upstairs?”

  “You sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m sure.”

  She stepped to the edge of the awning and held her hand out, checking for raindrops. “Looks like it’s easing up. If you’re going to make a run for it, do it now.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I rode the subway and, for once, didn’t care if I missed my transfer or if the car was filled with muggers. I leaned my head against the window and watched the graffitied tiled stations flash by like movie frames.

  It was raining full on when I got to my stop, and by the time I made it back home, I was drenched. I slipped the key into the lock, raindrops dripping off the tips of my hair, puddles forming at my feet. As soon as I got inside, I hung my soggy jacket on the coat tree in the corner and slipped out of my shoes, soaked through so that my damp feet left a trail of footprints on the hardwood floor.

  I took a couple more steps and thought I heard someone out in the hallway. Trudy, maybe? I turned toward the door, but it was just a creak, the building settling. I stood there, staring at my jacket, its collar hanging by the hook on the coat tree, shoulders and sleeves drooping, raindrops still puddling on the floor next to my wet shoes. That image said it all, summing up exactly how I felt.

  I reached for my camera, and as I focused the lens, I knew I was onto something, something I hadn’t been able to capture before. For the first time, a title for a photograph came to me: After the Party.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Monday morning while at my desk, sorting through Helen’s fan mail and separating out any critical letters, I caught myself thinking about Erik and about the photos I’d taken when I got home from the party—nearly an entire roll devoted to my soggy shoes and jacket hanging off the coat tree. I couldn’t wait to get the film developed and see if those shots were as good as I thought.

  “Alice?” Helen called to me from her office. “Be a lamb, would you, and go get Bobbie, Walter and George. Ask them to come down here. I have an article idea I want to discuss with them.”

  “Right away.”

  I went down the hall to Bobbie Ashley’s office first. I found her hunched over a manuscript, its pages scattered across her desk. Bobbie was stylish, one of those women, like Elaine Sloan, who knew how to add a scarf or a cuff bracelet to chic up an outfit. Her office smelled of Chanel No. 5. I’d always had a keen sense of smell and knew my fragrances after weeks of spritzing myself at the Bloomingdale’s counter. I realized I was beginning to associate fragrances with my coworkers. Helen was L’Air du Temps, Bridget was Shalimar, Margot, Rive Gauche, and Penny, Coty.

  Bobbie was deep in concentration and didn’t notice me standing in her doorway. I eventually cleared my throat to get her attention.

  “Yes?”

  She was still scrutinizing the manuscript before her, scratching out a line or two with a red pencil, while I explained that Mrs. Brown needed to see her.

  “Mmm-hmm.” She still hadn’t bothered to look at me. “Tell her I’ll stop by this afternoon.”

  “Actually, she’d like to see you now.”

  Her eyebrows rose slightly. “Did she say what it’s about?”

  “She has an article idea she’d like to discuss with you and Mr. Meade and Mr. Walsh.”

  Bobbie set her pencil down with considerable force. “Someone needs to tell her there’s no money for any more articles. There’s no money for anything.” She got up from her desk and brushed past me.

  I stopped by and got Walter and George, following them down to Helen’s office. As I was about to close the door, she called me back in. “Come have a seat, dear. I’d like you to take notes for us.”

  Helen was in her doll’s chair, shoes kicked off, feet tucked beneath her. Bobbie and Walter sat on the sofa while George took one of the side chairs, knees pressed together, cigarettes in one hand, coffee cup in the other. I was next to him, pen and steno pad ready for dictation.

  “I have a marvelous story idea for July,” said Helen.

  “There’s no money to assign any more writers.”

  “George, it would be so lovely if, just once, you stopped worrying about the money.”

  “Well, someone has to. Do you realize what you’ve already spent on those writers for this issue? That is, if you can call them writers. You offered one freelancer $500 for a piece on a career girl who goes to a psychiatrist.”

  “I’m very aware of what I’m paying her, George. Now, let me tell you all about this new story idea. It’s a real grabber.”

  “I’m all ears,” said George, taking a sip of coffee.

  “I want us to do an article about how to properly handle a bosom.”

  I nearly dropped my pencil, and George almost spit out his coffee.

  “Oh, my goodness,” said Walter, already blushing.

  “You’re not serious, are you?” asked Bobbie. “Who would you even get to write a piece like that?”

  “It’s exactly the sort of article we need,” said Helen. “A woman’s bosom isn’t just a couple of melons. T
hey need attention and especially during lovemaking.”

  I could see how uncomfortable this discussion was making everyone. Everyone but Helen. She talked about sex the way other people talked about the weather.

  “Men need an education on how to caress the bosom, and what’s pleasurable to the nipple and what isn’t. I have a feeling there’s a lot of biters out there. And, after all, who better to teach them the right way to handle the bosom than women?”

  “You don’t have a dime to spend on a story like this,” said George.

  “Then I’ll write it myself.”

  “You won’t have time to do that,” said Bobbie.

  “Wanna bet?”

  “I don’t know a thing about bosom fondling,” admitted Walter, “but you know I’ll help you write it.”

  “This is ridiculous,” said George. “You can’t just pull a story like this out of thin air.”

  “I have an office full of women,” said Helen with a laugh. “Women who I’m sure enjoy having their bosom fondled by someone who knows how. I’ve got a test kitchen right outside my door and I’m going to use it.”

  Bobbie and George, and even Walter to an extent, were bewildered when they left Helen’s office, but she was inspired.

  “Alice, let’s issue a memo. Just for the female staff members. Mark it confidential.”

  Helen was talking fast, like she did when she got excited about something, and I was capturing it all in shorthand. I went back to my desk and began typing it up, thinking, I came to New York to become a photographer and I’m typing up boob memos.

  TO: My Girl Staffers

  FROM: HGB

  SUBJECT: Highly Confidential!!!

  We need your help for an upcoming piece about bosoms and foreplay. Please tell me how you would like men to handle your bosom during lovemaking. I want to know what arouses your desire as much as what you don’t like. I see this as a crucial guide for men and an opportunity for us to educate them on what will make our bosoms happy. You will be doing women everywhere a great service by participating in this. Please submit your replies to Alice no later than 5 p.m. on Friday. If you prefer, you may respond anonymously.