The Rothman Scandal (53 page)

“That is, if you still want to go ahead with this idea for the shoot,” Bob Shaw said.

“Oh, I think it would be definitely worth a try, don't you?” Alex said.

“Well, I've been thinking about it,” he said. “What's this shot supposed to
say?
What's it supposed to
mean?
I mean, bees swarming in a woman's hair could end up looking kind of
peculiar
, couldn't it? I just don't have a mental picture of what this shot's going to look like.”

“You're right, of course,” she said. “I've never seen bees swarming in a woman's hair, either. What
did
it look like, Gregory?”

“I thought it looked—beautiful,” he said. “With her head tilted back, her long hair hanging down, and this living festoon cascading from it, like a waterfall.”

“Yes, it could look beautiful,” she agreed. “It could also look exciting, exotic—dangerous, even. Swarms last at least twenty minutes, so we'd have time to get it from lots of different angles. Who were you thinking of for a photographer, Bob?”

“Helmut Newton?”

“Perfect!” She clapped her hands.

He hesitated. “Or should we wait and see what Fiona Fenton thinks about this?” he asked.

She gave him a quick look. “Miss Fenton hasn't even joined the organization yet, Bob,” she said.

He nodded, and looked down at the square of carpet between his feet.

Now there was a telephone call from Miss Lincoln, Herbert Rothman's secretary on the thirtieth floor. “I just wanted to extend my personal best wishes to you, Mrs. Rothman,” Miss Lincoln said.

“Best wishes for what, Miss Lincoln?”

“All of us up here on thirty were so terribly sorry to hear that you'll be leaving the magazine.”

“Now wherever did you hear that?” Alex said.

“Oh.… But that's what we were given to understand,” Miss Lincoln said.

“Not a word of truth in it, Miss Lincoln,” Alex said, and replaced the receiver in its cradle.

And now it was time to leave for the Scaasi show, and Gregory was waiting for her in the outer office with her briefcase.

In their taxi, on the way to the St. Regis, Alex said, “This is Arnold's winter resort collection. So think picnics.”

Gregory nodded.

All these fashion shows were somewhat alike, Alex thought—the music, the lighting, the flowers, the parading, skinny models, the often banal commentaries that no one really listened to. Each collection opened with a few little afternoon dresses, proceeded through evening dresses and ball gowns, and closed, traditionally, with the kind of elaborate wedding dress that no one paid the slightest attention to, much less considered buying. How many of these collections had she attended over the years? Hundreds, easily. But she attended them dutifully, always on the lookout for something that might appeal to her readers, that might be new and different enough to include in the magazine. And whenever she saw that special dress or outfit that seemed to have
Mode
's signature on it, she would touch Gregory's shoulder lightly, and whisper, “That one.” And he would make a note.

But Arnold Scaasi always liked to add little expensive touches when he showed his collections, and that made them at least superficially different. Today, for instance, instead of lining up his audience in rows of little gilt chairs, the St. Regis Roof had been set up with round tables for ten, with pastel-colored cloths, and sandwiches were being served—turkey, Westphalian ham, thin-sliced filet of beef, and smoked Scotch salmon on the thinnest of white bread slices—while waiters passed champagne. Thus the first commercial showing of his winter resort collection—to his regular customers and to buyers from the stores—became more like an invitation-only luncheon. There were even engraved place cards, all examples of spending to put women in a spending mood. And, after all, Scaasi was one of the last surviving designers of American
haute couture
. Even he had been thought to be finished, until he was discovered by Barbara Bush. And the expensiveness of his presentation was justified because his were very expensive clothes, designed to be worn at expensive gatherings at expensive resorts where rich people went simply to enjoy being rich together. There were so few of these places left: Palm Beach, Acapulco, Lyford Cay, the Mill Reef Club …

There were other costly touches, Alex noted as she looked around the room. Tubs of plantain and bird-of-paradise trees and fishtail palms had been brought in to create the illusion of a tropical rain forest. Concealed pink spots illuminated the runway to suggest a moonlit tropic night. Instead of ordinary centerpieces, each round table was centered with a pot of white phalaenopsis orchids, from which also sprouted a cluster of transparent balloons, some of which had been magically filled with crumpled silver Mylar. (“Those balloons go for a hundred dollars a bunch,” she heard someone comment.) Alex noticed that a number of the clear balloons had been partially filled with water, and that in these swam brightly colored tropical fish. (“A hundred and fifty with the fish,” someone else said. “He's spent at least a hundred big ones today.”) The collection opened with a simulated lightning flash, followed by the recorded roll of thunder, and a black model, wearing jaguar-printed chiffon beach pajamas, strode imperiously down the runway with a live jaguar on a leash. There were appreciative gasps, followed by applause, and the show was under way.

Still, for all the elaborateness of the presentation, the focus—thanks to the clever lighting of the runway—was always on the clothes. And, after each model did her turn on the runway, she had been instructed to step down from the stage and circulate among the tables so the women in the audience could reach out and touch the fabrics—a leisurely, and expensive, use of a model's time, Alex knew. Scaasi was showing a lot of chiffon today. Chiffon flowed in floating panels from wrists, elbows, waists, and plunging backlines. It had even been used, reinforced with invisible wiring, to create amusing artichoke and pumpkin-shaped capes in vivid greens and oranges. Suzette Bergerac, Scaasi's
directrice
, who was doing the commentary, was noting the preponderance of chiffon—“shee-foh,” she pronounced it. “Pumpkin is definitely going to be this winter's
in
color,” she advised her audience from the microphone. How did she know these things? How did even Arnold Scaasi know? Soft, lazy, vaguely Latin taped music played from hidden speakers, and the models paraded up and down the runway, did their turns and swirls, and then moved down into the audience to a sultry flamenco beat.

But was anyone really paying attention? Alex sometimes wondered. “Blaine Trump doesn't pay a penny for her clothes,” someone near her was saying. “They're all loaned to her. The designers drop them off for her the afternoon before the party, and a messenger picks them up the next morning. How do I know? I live in her building, and the concierge told me.”

“I make my cook use shallots.
Shallots
. That's the secret of perfect vichyssoise.”

“This? It isn't real. All my good stuff's in the box.”

Pussy McCutcheon was describing, to no one in particular, the recent incursions on her Visa card account. “Vuitton, Hermes, Giorgio, Baccarat,” she was saying. “All on Fifty-
seventh
Street. What does that say to you? It says to me that Maggie's burglar had to be a
woman
. Those are places where women shop. Men don't shop on Fifty-seventh. They shop on Madison.”

More little sandwiches were passed, and more champagne was poured. The tall, willowy models, wearing expressions ranging from indifference to insolence, moved one by one down the runway, paused to be admired, then moved between the tables to be touched and exclaimed over, before gliding backstage again where, Alex knew, the scene would be frantic and sweaty and not the least bit ladylike as the half-naked girls flung themselves out of one outfit and into the next. Zippers would jam, buttons would pop, pins would be applied. Shoes would be kicked off in every direction, and rat-tailed combs would attack errant hairdos. And there would be much profanity. Alex had stage-managed enough fashion shows to know what went on. “Who stole my fucking eyeliner?” “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this belt?” “Hook me up next, you black bitch! I go on before she does.” “
Ouch!
You stuck that pin in my tit!” “Fucking zipper broke!” “That happens to be
my
hair spray, cunt!” Scaasi's wardrobe mistress would be busily logging accessories in and out, watching for pilferage, because runway models were notorious thieves. After every fashion show, you could count on certain missing items—scarves, belts, earrings, gloves, even pairs of shoes.

Meanwhile, in the wings and invisible from the audience, but able to observe everything, the designer himself would be tensely watching the show, groaning inaudibly at the occasional miscues—the girl whose panty hose were supposed to be taupe, but who stepped out on the runway wearing black—and hoping that the audience wouldn't notice. Scaasi would not make his appearance, and take his bow, until the show was over. At which point—he dared to hope—the room would burst into applause and cheers and blown kisses.

Suzette continued with her commentary:

“Yards and yards of shirred organza … perfect for a Palm Beach moonlit night … youthfully cut, with a peekaboo cutout at the base of the spine … the little black dress that every woman needs, whether for cocktails in the city, or on a terrace in the Hamptons, this time with a saucy little flared skirt … notice the embroidered detailing at the hemline … sheer, sexy silk pants, for a tropical evening … a jeweled belt … skinny little spaghetti shoulder straps, almost invisible, so young-looking.…”

Youthfulness was clearly a theme of today's collection, and there was a certain irony here, Alex thought, since most of the women who could afford Scaasi—and most of his audience here today—were no longer young. They were her age, at least.

When she came to
Mode
seventeen years ago yesterday, Alexandra was young
.…

Across the table, a woman whose face she recognized, but whose name she didn't immediately recall, blew Alex an air kiss and mouthed the words, “My dear, I had no idea you'd been with
Mode
so
long!
”

Alex's answering smile was automatic.

… inexperienced … but with a boundless supply of fresh ideas … enthusiasm … zest … energy that only the young can have
. All at once she was certain that Fiona had written that ad.

“A fresh idea for ripply moiré … slinky … youthful … sexy … blue, palest blue, the youngest color of the season … the youthful energy of crispy pleated cotton … golden tulle, reflecting Arnold's newest enthusiasm and energy when it comes to bold colors … new … young … vibrant … exciting … new … youthful … young … daisy-fresh … a new idea … forever young.…”

Beside her, Gregory touched Alex's shoulder, and looked at his boss questioningly. “That one?” he whispered. It was an evening gown of white tiered chiffon, slashed to the knee, with a heart-shaped bodice sewn with mirrored paillettes and tiny seed pearls.

Alex nodded, and Gregory made a note on his steno pad. From the wings where he was hidden, Arnold Scaasi saw this exchange and grinned with pleasure, for now he could see this dress not only in the pages of
Mode
, but also in Bergdorf-Goodman's window … in Neiman-Marcus's window … in I. Magnin's window. And he made a mental note to ask young Gregory Kittredge to lunch. And somehow Alex knew that all this was happening and, with a little shiver, she realized that, listening to Suzette's commentary, she had been paying no attention to the clothes at all, though it was supposed to be the other way around.

She asked herself: Was it possible that Herbert Rothman was winning his war of nerves?

Back at her office that afternoon, she found a stack of layouts for the October issue on her desk, awaiting her approval. But on top of the stack of layouts was something else, a folded card on which someone in the art department had drawn a single long-stemmed red rose. She unfolded the card and read:

Dear Alex
,

This is just to tell you that, whatever happens, we love you, and always will
.

Many signatures followed, and as she ran a fingertip down the list she saw that the card had been signed by all the one hundred and twenty-four members of her staff.

Her eyes blurred. “Gregory,” she said, “was this your idea?”

He covered his heart with his right hand. “Swear to God it wasn't,” he said. “It was Billy Greenfield's.”

“Billy Greenfield? I don't think I know a Billy Greenfield.”

“He's one of the mail-room boys,” he said.

27

There was a dream Alex sometimes had. It was a dream of a nightmare experience that actually happened, and it always began the same, with the sound of angry fists pounding on the door, and shouts of “Open up! Police!” With that, she inevitably awoke, and had trouble getting to sleep again, remembering how it happened.…

“Open up! Police!” There was a loud banging on the door. It was early in the morning of their second week at the motel in Wichita. Skipper leaped out of bed and pulled on his trousers without putting on his underpants. Alex sat up in bed and covered her bare shoulders with the bedclothes.

“Open up! Police!”

She watched him as he moved, shirtless, across the darkened room toward the door, and undid the chain latch. She reached out and turned on one of the two lamps. Two burly Kansas state troopers pushed into the room, their service revolvers drawn. “Okay, Johnson, this is it,” one of them said. “You're under arrest.” The other said, “Get your shirt and shoes on, Johnson. You're coming with us.” Outside, in the early-morning light, she could see the yellow lights of their squad cars spinning and flashing.