Park Avenue Summer

by Renée Rosen

  “I beg your pardon?” Berlin slipped a finger inside his shirt collar as if it was suddenly too tight.

  She reached for the cover and held it up just as she would have done in the presentation she’d planned to make. “I’m sorry, but this is exactly the cover we need. This is going to catch people’s eyes. This says there’s a new Cosmopolitan on the stands.”

  “It’s disgusting.”

  “It’s provocative.” Helen set the comp aside and reached for a cigarette, taking her time lighting it. “I believe in this cover,” she said with a dramatic exhale.

  “I’m warning you, you don’t want to have this fight with me.”

  “I’m not fighting with you, Richard.” Helen smiled, which only infuriated Berlin more. “Why don’t we make a deal? If that cover doesn’t outsell the June issue, I’ll resign. I’ll tear up my contract. Let’s face it, you want me out anyway. Just think—you’d be off the hook. And if my July issue fails to perform, you can go ahead and fold Cosmopolitan just like you wanted to all along.”

  Berlin glared at her in such a way that I expected him to have fired back with a force that would have blown out the windows. But instead he kept his cool, which seemed more terrifying. “Is that really the way you want to play this?” he asked. “You should know that I don’t respond well to ultimatums.”

  Helen didn’t flinch. “You’ve left me no choice. I believe in what I’m doing with this issue and I’m willing to stake my career on it. You should be happy. You’ve got nothing to lose. Especially since you’re so cocksure that I’m wrong.”

  “Fine. Have it your way.” Berlin turned and walked out of her office.

  I left, too, taking my portfolio with me which I dumped in my desk drawer. After I sat down, I heard a gasp and looked over to find Helen standing in the middle of her office, both hands clasping her mouth, the color already draining from her cheeks.

  “Mrs. Brown?” I got up and stood in her doorway. “Are you okay?”

  All that bravado was evaporating into a pool of panic. I could tell she was second-guessing herself. I was prepared for the tears to start up, but she wasn’t crying. Instead she began pacing, wringing her hands, chanting, “What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?” With each step, her anxiety grew. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Can I get you some water? A cool cloth?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll go call Mr. Brown.”

  “No,” she screeched. “I can’t tell David. He left California for me. For this.” She threw her arms out to the sides. “What if I lose this job? What if they really do fire me? What if David’s next movie flops? What will we do? We’ll have to give up our apartment.”

  “Please try to get ahold of yourself.”

  She was walking back and forth so quickly. I’d never seen her like this before.

  “We’ll go broke. I won’t be able to send money to my mother. Or Mary.”

  I stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop. “You’re talking about a lot of what-ifs. You’re catastrophizing. Getting way ahead of yourself.”

  She hung her head, and after a moment, she allowed me to coax her over toward the sofa.

  “You know in your heart that you’re doing the right thing. You stood up for what you believed in.”

  She dropped down on the sofa, staring straight ahead, dry-eyed. “Do you really like the cover?” she asked eventually.

  “I love that cover. It’s arresting and it’s going to work. People will buy it out of curiosity if nothing else. There’s not another women’s magazine like it on the stands. Anywhere.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, pussycat. I needed to hear that.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to call Mr. Brown?”

  She cleared her throat, shaking her head. “I can handle this myself.” She nodded as if confirming it, and I swear, I saw something temper inside her. “Now,” she said, “we just have to find out what little bitch in this office hates me so much that they would have shown Hearst that cover.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Ever since she gave Richard Berlin her ultimatum, Helen had been oscillating like a desk fan, going from defiant confidence to downright panic. I found lots of broken pencils scattered around, under her desk, between the seat cushions, on her credenza.

  With a viper on the prowl, Helen didn’t trust anyone. At times, I thought even I was under suspicion, sensing she was looking at me askance. Wanting to prove that I was on her side after the cover leak, I immediately suggested that we put a lock on her office door. And after the locksmith gave me a single key, I handed it to Helen. When I explained that only she could access her office once she’d locked the door, she insisted I have a second key made for myself. I took that as both a vote of confidence and a test, because if anything else were to go missing, she’d have only one possible suspect.

  A few days after the leak, I questioned Erik. I spotted him as I was coming out of the deli on Broadway, where I’d gone to get Helen some soup for lunch, insisting that she try to eat something. They hadn’t put the lid on tight enough though, and I could see my brown paper bag growing dark and wet, beginning to sag along the bottom.

  I asked Erik if he knew anything about the cover and he was immediately defensive. “Jesus Christ, I knew you were going to blame me. I just knew it.”

  “Then tell me I’m wrong.”

  A man in a Hawaiian shirt was standing a few feet away, watching us, eavesdropping. I pulled Erik to the side. “Well? Am I wrong?”

  “Ali, I swear. I didn’t even see the cover until after the fact—after Berlin confronted Helen.”

  The bag in my hand was beginning to drip, oily chicken broth trickling over my fingers.

  He reached for my arm. “Tell me you believe me.”

  “I have to go.”

  “Ali.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “Okay, all right. I believe you. I have to go.”

  I didn’t know if I believed him or not. When I went back upstairs, I transferred the soup into a bowl, and as I was taking a tray into Helen, I heard laughter coming from her office. Laughter!

  “Oh, Helen,” said Bobbie Ashley, sopping tears from her eyes, “that is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Oh, but it’s true,” said Helen, laughing along.

  Liz Smith, Bill Guy and Walter Meade were doubled over, howling. I didn’t know what I missed but it was a good one. I set the tray down in front of Helen and backed away, not wanting to interrupt the mood. With the exception of Walter Meade, it was the first time I’d seen them genuinely appreciating Helen and rallying around her.

  Her staff was already deep into the August issue, and Helen was going into battle on that cover, too. Hearst had determined that it would feature Sean Connery and his Bond girls, but Helen wanted to scrap Connery and keep just the girls.

  When her meeting was over and the others trailed out of her office, all smiles and bright-faced, Helen grew somber. I went in to clear her tray away, not surprised that she hadn’t touched her soup, chicken fat beginning to coagulate on top.

  “Alice,” she called to me as I was backing out of her doorway, “would you do me a favor? See if you can arrange to have a direct line put in from my telephone to David’s.”

  She wanted to bypass the switchboard whenever she sought his counsel. I couldn’t say I blamed her for being paranoid. I myself had grown mistrusting of my coworkers, who, by the way, all seemed preoccupied with the topic of the viper, too.

  One day, after Helen’s direct line was installed, I went to lunch with Bridget, Margot and some of the other girls. We were sitting five in a row at a luncheonette counter on 56th Street. Over platters of greasy grilled cheese sandwiches, on special for 35¢, we tried to figure out who had leaked the cover.

&nb
sp; “Do you think it’s the same person who leaked the bosom memo to Women’s Wear Daily?” asked Margot.

  “If it’s not, then we have two vipers.” I couldn’t look at Margot when I said that, remembering that night I found her going through my desk.

  “I think it’s George,” said Bridget.

  “No.” I shook my head. “George has never been shy about throwing Helen under the bus.”

  “She’s right,” said Leslie. “George would have just walked it over to Hearst with a brass band. And why stop with Women’s Wear Daily? George would have sent that memo straight to the Times.”

  “Exactly,” said Margot.

  “You don’t think Bobbie or Liz would betray her like that, do you?” asked Carole.

  “Doubtful,” I said. “I think they’re actually starting to come around to Helen’s way of doing things.”

  “I have to admit,” said Leslie, “I’m starting to think she might actually be able to turn the magazine around.”

  “I hope you’re right, but I’m not convinced,” said Margot.

  “Well, even if she does,” said Bridget, “I doubt any of us will be getting a raise.”

  “I’m with Leslie,” said Penny, not acknowledging Bridget’s remark. “I think it’s kind of exciting. I mean, yeah, she’s taking a lot of risks, but that’s what this magazine needs.”

  “Did you ever think,” said Bridget, “that maybe—just maybe—Helen sent that memo to Women’s Wear Daily herself?”

  Everyone turned and looked at her.

  “You know,” she said in defense, “for publicity. For the magazine.”

  “No,” we said in a chorus.

  “Well, I for one,” said Carole, “hope July goes through the roof. I’d like to see her prove them wrong.”

  I was pleased by this growing support for Helen. She needed them on her side now more than ever, and it was possible that they realized they needed her to succeed. Everybody knew that if the issue tanked, Hearst would fold the magazine and we’d all be out of work.

  If anyone was already looking for a new job, it wasn’t apparent to me. Despite the uncertainty, we were moving ahead, already deep into August and planning for the September and October issues. In fact, for the first time since I’d been at Cosmo, the entire floor was humming with a renewed sense of purpose. The typewriter covers came off earlier and earlier each morning. There was less chitchat in the kitchen, fewer personal phone calls and far fewer typos in manuscripts and memos. Whether the staff liked Helen or not, whether they agreed with her sexual politics or not, I could tell they were rooting for her.

  Later that week, I was typing an advertising memo for Helen, finalizing the July ad space. We were going to press soon. The clock was ticking and Erik was hovering over my desk.

  “Just meet me for a drink,” he said while I typed. “C’mon. One quick drink.”

  “I can’t.”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “I’m working late all week. We’ll get together after July goes to press.”

  “Well, then, what about dinner? You have to eat, you know.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be working through dinner,” I said, my fingers continuing to type.

  He was still telling me he wanted to see me even after I’d ripped the sheet from the typewriter. “Erik, can’t you see I’m busy here? I have to get back to work.”

  “Okay, well, I’ll call you later.”

  “Why?” I looked at him, puzzled. “What has gotten into you?”

  “Nothing’s gotten into me.”

  I knew he was unaccustomed to women saying no. It made him all the more determined, as if winning me over was needed to restore faith in his irresistible charms. I got up and pushed away from my desk, leaving him standing there. All I could think as I walked into Helen’s office was that Erik Masterson was up to something.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  If I’d been putting in long hours before, it was nothing compared to those first few weeks in May. Evenings, weekends, I was at Helen’s side, turning down invites to parties and movies with Trudy, an evening or two of sex with Erik. I had even given up the chance to go to a Dorothea Lange photo exhibit with Christopher. Her Depression-era street photography was on display and I’d missed it. The show had closed the next day.

  I was thinking about that when the production manager handed me the July pages. No more typos, no more grammatical errors, no more tweaks to the photographs or captions. We were ready to go to press. Or so we thought.

  Twenty-four hours before the presses began rolling, Helen had me deliver a full mockup to Berlin. Less than an hour after I returned, I was in Helen’s office, reviewing items with her for the August issue when the four horsemen of Hearst—Berlin, Deems, Dupuy and Erik—showed up with pages in hand and a stop-the-presses urgency.

  “We’ve got a serious problem here,” said Berlin.

  “Again?” Helen, sitting in her doll’s chair, shook her head with an exaggerated blasé air.

  “You can’t go to press with this.” He slapped the pages down on her desk.

  “And whyever not? What’s bothering you this time?” She was on her feet now, knuckles to her narrow hips, foot tapping with impatience. She’d gotten bolder over the past few weeks. It was as if she’d adopted a nothing-to-lose attitude and figured if she was going to kill the magazine and take all of us down with her, she might as well do it with a bang.

  “You cannot go to press with that cover line.” Berlin thrust his finger at the copy that read: The New Pill That Promises to Make Women More Responsive to Men. “Honestly, did you do this just to goad me?”

  “Believe it or not, Richard, I wasn’t thinking about you. At all. I was thinking about my girls. We had an agreement,” she reminded him as she placed a cigarette in her holder and fired it up. “You were going to back off and let me do this my way.”

  “That was before you tried to pull a stunt like this.”

  “Do you want to sell copies of this issue or not?” But as the words left her mouth, she laughed sarcastically. “Oh, wait, of course you don’t. You want me to fall flat on my face so you can get rid of me. But I’m telling you, I’m not going anywhere. That’s a line that will move copies.”

  Surprisingly Deems, Dupuy and Erik didn’t say a word. They stood back and watched Berlin and Helen battle it out. Helen was like a fencer, gracefully attacking, going in for her jabs, and twenty minutes later, Berlin was done.

  Exhausted, he raised his hands and said, “I’m not asking, Helen. I’m telling you that cover line had better be changed before you go to press. The clock is ticking, and I insist on seeing a new line first thing tomorrow morning. If not sooner.”

  He turned around and left, his horsemen galloping off behind him.

  * * *

  • • •

  After they were gone, I expected tears, but Helen stayed strong and composed. She went to her desk, picked up her direct line and telephoned David. Ten minutes later, she came out of her office with a pair of dark sunglasses propped up on her head. “If anyone asks, David and I are taking a nooner.”

  I contemplated reminding her that she had a one o’clock appointment but decided she needed her nooner more than she needed to meet with another photographer.

  About an hour and a half later, the receptionist buzzed me, her voice squeaking through the intercom: “Alice? Mr. Scavullo is here to see Mrs. Brown. What should I tell him?”

  By now I knew better than to tell anyone that Helen was taking a nooner, so I went out to the lobby and greeted her guest. I’d never met Francesco Scavullo before. He was just as striking as the covers he’d photographed for Vogue, Seventeen and Town and Country. He had that artsy look about him right down to the fedora cocked on an angle, eclipsing his left eye. He was very tan, his hair so dark, it was almost black, and his teeth looked capped, each o
ne perfectly straight and a little too white.

  I introduced myself as Mrs. Brown’s secretary and said, “I’m terribly sorry, but something’s come up. I’m afraid Mrs. Brown had to step out. I would have called and rescheduled but it just happened.”

  “Ah.” He flashed a wicked smile and raised a knowing finger. “Maybe there’s no need to reschedule at all.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A little birdie told me there might not be an August issue.”

  Obviously, people on the street were talking, and all I wanted to do was find Helen, wrap my arms around her frail little body and shield her from the gossip.

  “Oh, surely,” I said, giving off a laugh that sounded strangely like Helen’s laugh, “you’re not one to listen to silly rumors now, are you?” I gave him a classic Helen smile and even cooed. It was like I was impersonating her but I wasn’t trying to. I just opened my mouth and she came out.

  He smiled, pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket and tapped the filter end on the receptionist’s desk before lighting it. “I can tell you’re very solicitous of her.”

  “And why shouldn’t I be?” I said, returning to my normal voice, returning to myself. “Mrs. Brown’s a wonderful boss.”

  Right after I said that, Helen burst through the lobby doors. “Oh, Alice,” she called to me, all smiles. “My husband is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Do me a favor, pussycat, type this up and get it over to Mr. Berlin right away.” She handed me a scrap of paper, suddenly noticing Francesco Scavullo standing off to the side.

  “Why, Frank—” She reached for his hand and brushed either side of his face with a light kiss. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “No need to apologize. I was just chatting with your lovely secretary. Better be good to her,” he said, using his cigarette as a pointer, “or I’ll swoop in and steal her away from you.”

  “You try that and I’ll have to kill you.” She smiled. “Come, come—” She ushered him down the hall toward her office. “Step into my parlor.”