by Renée Rosen
We sorted through the clothes racks, packed with everything from casual separates to formal ball gowns. Thankfully, I found a sample size that fit though I could barely breathe after she zipped me up. It was a festive black lace sheath dress with a decorative satin bow at the waist. Bridget located a pair of silk black kitten heels and a matching clutch. She teased and pinned my hair up in a glamorous beehive that showed off the sparkling chandelier earrings we’d found.
When I arrived at the Plaza at a quarter past six, the cocktail hour was already in full swing. I searched through a long white table of place cards until I found Bobbie Ashley’s name and table number done up in beautiful calligraphy. Among the other names that jumped out at me were Truman Capote, Gore Vidal, Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem, along with editors and publishers from the big houses and magazines.
As promised, all of New York’s literati were there, and with a quick sweep, my eyes had already landed on Joan Didion and Susan Sontag. I saw Helen standing in the center of the room, dressed in a Valentino buttercup yellow dress with black fishnets, which would no doubt be torn before the end of the night. A daisy-like fascinator sat atop her wig. Despite the bigger personalities in the room, Helen appeared to be the star attraction.
I stood off to the side catching snippets of conversation as one woman, surprisingly underdressed in a checkerboard shift and enormous hoop earrings the size of bracelets, was gushing over Helen. “If you ever decide to write another book,” she said, “I’ll be the first in line for an autographed copy. Everything you write is . . . well, it’s just marvelous.”
The woman she was with, wearing an unmistakable Pucci dress, said, “All you’d have to do is ask and I’d write for your magazine in a heartbeat.”
Helen said something in return that I couldn’t hear, but the woman shot back with, “I’m finishing up a feature for Vogue. And, well, you know Diana Vreeland. Nothing’s ever quite—I don’t know—eccentric enough.”
Helen was smiling, laughing, nodding, not saying much but clearly enjoying the attention.
I took to roaming about, looking for a place to land, and spotted Elaine Sloan talking to a group of men. She was very stylish in a bold print dress, her silver-white hair lying smooth and sleek upon her shoulders. Thankfully she saw me and waved me over. After introducing me to her own posse of admirers—a dashing literary agent with thick, long sideburns; one of his clients, a novelist who smoked a pipe and wore an ascot; and two handsome hangers-on—she swept me off to the side.
“I’m so pleased to see you,” she said. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”
“Neither did I. I’m standing in for a coworker with food poisoning.”
“Very strategic on her part,” she said. “I loathe these dinners.”
“You do? Gosh, I feel like Cinderella.”
“Oh, I used to feel that way, too. In the beginning. But this circus gets old very quickly. You’ll see.” She sipped her drink and waved to someone across the room. “I wonder what’s keeping Christopher.”
“Christopher’s coming?”
“I invited him. He’s been so down lately, and I thought this might do him some good.”
He was down? “I just saw him over the holiday. Is everything okay?”
“Oh, he’ll be fine. Trust me, Daphne did him a favor. It’s a blessing in disguise.”
“They aren’t together anymore?” Did that explain why she’d stayed in LA for the weekend?
“Oh, there he is now. Finally.” She raised her chin.
I looked over and saw Christopher weaving through the crowd. Unlike the other men, he wasn’t wearing a suit, but at the same time, unlike the woman in the checkerboard shift, he didn’t seem underdressed. He wore a dark fingertip jacket with a satin collar, and dark trousers, tapered at the ankle where they met his boots. Expensive-looking boots, either new or freshly polished. As he passed through the crowd, several women turned to get a better look at him. Did he have any idea what effect he had on women? On me? I caught myself thinking about that moment between us at Coney Island, and suddenly, I was self-conscious. I felt the hairpins digging into my scalp and was reminded of how tight my dress was, how every time I inhaled, it pinched along my rib cage.
It wasn’t until Christopher came over to Elaine that I realized he was with a woman. I deflated some but what did I expect? Of course he’d have a line of women waiting to take Daphne’s place. I never caught the new girl’s name, but she was a petite redhead with alabaster skin, pretty but not glamorous like Daphne.
When I said hello to Christopher, he gave me a big hug just like he always did. “You clean up nice,” he whispered in my ear, the warmth of his breath dancing over my neck.
I didn’t say anything. I was struck dumb, filled with jitters and schoolgirl nerves. His date’s eyes were trained on me. I felt Elaine looking, too. We stood around making small talk, or at least they did. I mostly listened, too caught up in my head. A tuxedoed waiter came by holding out a silver tray of champagne and I helped myself to a glass. As I was about to take my first sip, a familiar voice called to me from behind.
“Ali? What are you doing here?”
I turned around and there was Erik. He leaned in and planted an awkward kiss on my cheek. “Oh, Erik. Erik Masterson, this is Christopher Mack and”—turning to the girl, I fumbled—“I’m sorry, this is, ah . . .”
“Meghan.” She provided her name along with her hand.
“That’s right. Meghan. Sorry. And this—this is Elaine Sloan. Elaine, Erik Masterson.”
Elaine dipped her chin, narrowing her eyes. Immediately I could see her connecting the dots, as if to say, This is him? Erik? The guy that’s trying to sabotage Helen? What the hell are you doing with this guy? I was embarrassed and questioning that very thing myself.
I wasn’t even sure when I finished my champagne or how our little circle had broken up, but soon I found that Erik had whisked me away to the bar on the other side of the room.
He kept asking if I was okay. “You seem distracted.”
“No. No, I’m fine.” I was still processing Elaine’s reaction to meeting him, still trying to find a place for the news about Christopher and Daphne splitting up.
Handing me another glass of champagne, Erik complimented me on my dress, my hair. He couldn’t have been more attentive, acting as if I were the only woman in the room.
We continued talking right up until the lights flickered and someone chimed a bell and we began moving toward the Grand Ballroom. As we inched our way through the crowd, I spotted Christopher across the way. He was looking right at me. I smiled and turned away, ridiculously shy.
The room was filled with dozens of round tables, each with centerpieces that called out the tables: Hearst, Condé Nast, Esquire, The New Yorker, Random House, Doubleday, the New York Times, and on and on it went. The Cosmopolitan table was toward the rear, which Helen wasn’t happy about.
“Why didn’t they just put us in the kitchen? We should be up front near Hearst,” she said, pouting, picking at her salad with her fingertips.
After dinner was served and before the awards ceremony began, I excused myself and went to the powder room, which was nicer than most people’s living rooms: marble floors and walls, gold handles on the faucets and a uniformed attendant off to the side, waiting to disburse soft white hand towels.
On my way back to the Grand Ballroom, I nearly collided with Francesco Scavullo.
“Say, don’t I know you?” He eyed me after I’d apologized.
“I’m Alice Weiss. Helen Gurley Brown’s secretary.”
“Ah, yes, of course. Don’t you look beautiful tonight,” he said, smiling.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I leaned in, hand to my mouth, and whispered, “but I looted the Beauty Closet.”
He burst out laughing. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Hey”—I heard
someone else say—“I didn’t know you two knew each other.”
We looked over, and my pulse quickened.
“Christopher.” Francesco shook his hand and gestured to me. “So, I gather you’ve already met Alice, here?”
“I have. She’s a budding photographer, you know.”
“You don’t say.” Francesco turned toward me, waving his finger like I’d done something naughty. “You’ve been holding out on me. Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“Because I’m not really a photographer. I’d like to be one, someday.”
Another man stepped in and began talking to Francesco.
“You really do look stunning tonight,” said Christopher.
I think I thanked him but couldn’t be sure. We were looking at each other. It was the same look we’d shared at Coney Island. Someone walked back into the dining room, letting a rush of applause escape through the open door. We were missing the awards ceremony but I didn’t care. Something was changing between us, like something opening up, making space for something new. But at what cost? I didn’t want to lose our friendship for the sake of trying something that might not work.
“So, ah,” he said, “you still want to get together this Saturday like we planned?”
“Yeah. Sure. Of course.”
“Okay. Good.”
The dining room door opened again, letting out more applause. “Well,” I said, “I should get back in there.”
Christopher held the door for me, and we both stepped inside and went our separate ways.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
That Saturday, Trudy and I went for breakfast, taking our usual seats at the counter of the Candy Shop on Lex.
“I can’t believe how fast the day goes there,” she said, giving me all the details about her new job. “When I was at Bergdorf’s, I would count the minutes till my break. Now I’m working straight through lunch and I don’t even miss it. Did I tell you they’re showing me how to read blueprints?”
“That’s great, Trudy.” I sipped my coffee and asked about Milton Steiner, one of the junior architects who’d taken a liking to Trudy. She’d already had drinks with him after work.
“He asked me out for tonight. Me, going on a Saturday night date. Oh, and did I tell you—he likes freckles.”
I laughed. “Told you so.”
“This sort of thing never happens to me. I feel like I’m dreaming. Like I’m living someone else’s life. You know, when you first said I should become an architect, I thought you were, you know . . .” She brought her finger to the side of her head, making a cuckoo sign. “But now I’m thinking, why not? I could go to night school. I’m only twenty-two. I could do it.”
“Of course you can do it.” I smiled, thinking about my own dream and how far I’d come with my photography, how much I’d learned from Christopher.
Speaking of which, after breakfast I rushed home to get ready before meeting him. In the past, I wouldn’t have made a fuss, but that day, I studied myself in the mirror while I brushed my hair and decided to change my clothes. I put on a pair of snug-fitting jeans and a blue sleeveless blouse, which I tied at the waist. After I applied some rouge and a hint of lipstick, I dabbed Emeraude behind my ears and along my wrists.
I met Christopher down in the Village and everything seemed normal. We were back to being friends, teasing each other and just knocking around for the better part of the afternoon, snapping off pictures and taking advantage of the beautiful weather.
“What now?” I asked when we ran out of film.
“You think you’re ready for the darkroom?”
He’d been promising to show me how to develop my own film, but before we did that, we stopped into a café on Bleecker Street that smelled like burnt nuts. We started with coffees and segued into bourbon. I’d never had bourbon before. It made me a Chatty Cathy, and before I knew it, I was asking him about his girlfriend.
“So,” I said, helping myself to his cigarette resting in the ashtray, “you and Daphne, huh? I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
He squinted and rubbed his chin. “I didn’t think you knew. Did Elaine tell you?”
“She mentioned it.” I took a puff off his cigarette and handed it back to him. “Oh yeah, and your date at the gala was a dead giveaway.”
He nodded and laughed. “Yeah, well, Elaine never really cared for Daphne. What all’d she tell you anyway?”
“No details. I mean, I don’t know what went wrong.”
“Well, that makes two of us,” he said, taking a pull from his drink. “She called from LA and said she’d been doing a lot of thinking lately and she thought we should take some time apart.” He blew out a deep sigh. “Elaine says Daphne’s a user. I don’t know. Maybe she’s right.” He rubbed his chin again. “I think I’ve already been replaced.”
“Oh, I know how that goes.”
“You, too, huh?”
I nodded, giving the ice in my glass a jiggle. “I was engaged before I moved here. He’s married now to someone else.” I smiled sadly, amazed that it still stung so much.
“You never told me about that. How come you never said anything?”
“Getting jilted isn’t one of my favorite topics.”
He nodded, raised his glass and clinked it to mine before taking a drink.
“So what makes you so sure you’ve been replaced?” I asked.
“There’s this guy. He’s been hanging around a lot. He’s her agent so I’m sure he can help her acting career more than I ever could. I’m pretty sure he went out to LA with her.” He pinched his cigarette between his index finger and thumb and brought it to the corner of his mouth, squinting as he inhaled. “She denies it, but I think it was going on while we were still together. And you know what the worst part is?” he said. “Now I have to find a new apartment.” He cracked a sad smile and finished his drink. “So,” he said in a way that indicated he was done with that topic, “that guy you were with at the gala?”
“Who? Erik?”
“You seeing him?”
“No. Not really.” Maybe it was because I was sitting with Christopher, or maybe because I was just so tired of it all, but in that moment, I knew I had to end it with Erik.
Christopher cracked a small smile and took a final drag off his cigarette before grinding it out. “Well, it’s getting late. I should probably let you get going.”
I didn’t want our time together to end and the bourbon made me bold enough to say, “Wait—I thought we were going to develop my film.”
“Do you still have time? I assume you have plans for tonight. After all, it is a Saturday night.”
“There’s time.” I excused myself and went to the phone booth in the back of the café and called Erik. He’d invited me to his place that night for cocktails and then dinner at Benihana. All that, of course, would be off once he’d heard what I had to say.
“I’m down in the Village,” I told him. “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it uptown by seven. Can we push our plans back?”
“Till when?” he asked. “Eight?”
I glanced back at Christopher. “More like nine.” I hung up and went back to the table. “Shall we?”
Christopher paid the bill, refusing to let me cover my share, and we headed to his photography studio on St. Mark’s Place and First Avenue. It was a quirky little building with stained glass windows and high ceilings. It made me wonder if it had once been a church. There was no shortage of clutter—piles of books, newspapers and magazines lying about.
“Sorry the place is such a mess. I’ve been staying here because of, well, you know . . .” His words ran out of steam. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s get started on the photos.”
We went into his darkroom, which doubled as his bathroom; trays stacked up in the tub, Lifebuoy soap and developing fluid next to a washcloth. He turned off the overhe
ad light and talked me through exactly what he was doing, demonstrating with his hand on top of mine, but I found it hard to concentrate. The touch of his fingers went to my head along with the bourbon.
He took me through the entire process, from agitating the film to applying the stop bath and fixer chemicals, and by the time he had rinsed the photos and hung them up to dry, I couldn’t have cared less about what we’d shot that day. With him standing close behind me, I could feel his breath against my neck, could feel a ripple of heat coming off him, and it terrified me. I was as fragile as spun glass. My last heartache felt suddenly raw like it had just happened. Christopher could shatter me with one kiss. If he kissed me once and went away, I would be devastated. It took all my will not to turn around because I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop myself if I looked into his eyes.
“I should really be going,” I said, forcing myself to take that one critical, establishing step away from him. I knew it was abrupt, but I had to get out of there.
My pulse was still racing even after I left Christopher’s studio. It was getting late, already half past nine. I thought about Erik sitting in his apartment, waiting for me. I didn’t even bother going home to change, because now that I knew what I had to do, I just wanted to get it over with. I jogged down the stairwell and caught the Broadway line, shoving my way inside the crowded train.
When I arrived at Erik’s apartment, the doorman nodded and said good evening as if we were old friends. Using the house phone, he called Erik and announced that I was on my way up. I went over to the bank of elevators, and as I stepped into a waiting car and the doors were starting to close, I looked up and did a double take. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was Bridget. Sprinting through the lobby.
My stomach dropped as the elevator took off, rising, rising, floor by floor. I was shocked and wondered how long that had been going on. And how many other women he’d been sleeping with? I should have known I couldn’t trust him. He’d just made it a whole lot easier for me to end it.