Trump Tower (30 page)

She poked her head in. “Merry Christmas to you, too.” She opened her hands and put her palms together, as if they were handcuffed.

He looked up from his desk and smiled. “I kept the spare key, just in case.”

“I'll think of you every time.”

“That's probably not necessary . . . but nice of you to offer.”

She blew him a kiss, “Thank you,” waved and ran back to Horace. She kissed him yet again, took his arm, “I am so glad you're here,” and the two of them left the Tower.

The limo driver was standing next to the rear door, holding it open. Cyndi got in and Horace climbed in next to her.

They'd known each other since her Chanel days. Once upon a long time ago, he'd been a theatrical hairdresser in London's West End. And, for a while, when he first moved to Paris, he oversaw makeup for several French houses. By the time Cyndi met him, he was dressing models and directing traffic backstage at all the major catwalk shows.

He treated the models like the benevolent headmaster of a school for wayward girls.

They all called him “Uncle Horace,” but never to his face.

These days, retired and living in Arizona, he occasionally freelanced as a shoot supervisor, but only for those models he still liked. Most of them he didn't.

He'd always treated Cyndi like a daughter and somewhere in her mind, he was almost the father she never had. So when she phoned him and asked him to fly east for her, he got on the first plane.

They spoke on the phone all the time, but they hadn't seen each other for nearly three years.

“I'm so glad we're doing this,” he swooned, pointing to a cooler and showing her that there was champagne.

She shook her head to say,
no champagne
, then told him, “Me too. Makes me feel like old times.”

“I'll have yours, darling,” and he poured himself a glass. “Speaking of old times . . . I've lined up everyone. Giancarlo will do hair with Inez on makeup. And, of course, the moment Gennaro heard you'd agreed to do this, he insisted on flying in from Paris. Cartier was thrilled beyond words, darling, absolutely thrilled beyond words. Now . . . don't be shocked when you see him because he walks with a cane, but even so . . . how I still wish he wasn't straight.”

She gently patted the side of his face. “He was always much too old for you.”

“We're the same age. But I know what you mean.” Horace raised his eyebrows. “And do you remember Sienna? His toy-girl? She must have been, what, sixteen? Dirty old bugger that he is. Well, believe it or not, she's all grown up and they're still together. Now, instead of pretending that she's his children's nanny, she pretends that she's his assistant.”

“Sounds like a party,” she said.

“A sixth form reunion.”

“Sixth form?”

“High school to you, my dear.”

“I wasn't going to do it,” she said. “When Arthur called to say he'd received a request . . . he didn't tell me who it was . . . well, I told him no. And even when he told me the fee . . .”

“Oh . . . yes . . . the fee.” Horace said, “I heard. We've come a long way from the thousand French Franc days . . . haven't we just.”

“Arthur told me the fee and even then I said no. Then he told me that Cartier would hire you, and when you said that you wanted to bring Gennaro . . .”

“One of those offers you couldn't refuse.”

“What else would I do all day on a Monday? How's Roland?”

He paused for a second, then forced a smile. “Same old, same old,” he said. “Mondays he plays tennis and I sit home and . . . bake.”

She clasped his hands in hers. “Thank you for doing this for me.” But something in his eyes had changed.

“Stop thanking me or we'll both start weeping.”

She looked at him and for a brief second she wanted to ask him if everything was really all right.

But then he said, “You will never guess who I ran into in Palm Springs a few weeks ago . . . did I already tell you?”

And the moment passed. “Who?”

“Remember Isabella?”

“Isabella? With the cross-eyed nipples?”

He crossed his eyes and made a face.

As they rode downtown, Horace went through a long list of people they'd both known in Paris and gave her all the latest gossip.

Cartier's original idea was to shoot Cyndi in her own apartment, but then Gennaro bumped into Antoine de Maisonneuve in Paris, said that he was coming to New York for a shoot, and Antoine said, “You're welcome to use my place.”

He and Bobby Baldwyn lived in a four-story, old pickle factory on Washington Street, a few blocks below Canal Street.

Architectural Digest
had featured it in their top-ten list of best apartments in the world.

The limo pulled up to the front door, where three burly security men in dark suits were waiting with a strikingly beautiful redhead in a miniskirt.

“Sienna,” Cyndi screamed and rushed into her arms. They hugged and kissed, and then Sienna kissed Horace, and after several minutes of that, Sienna brought them into the building.

There was a small lobby where Cyndi, Horace, Sienna and one of the security men stepped into a decorated elevator that was large enough for the four of them, and also for two rococo couches that were there in case someone wanted to sit.

When they got to the top floor, the door opened and Gennaro was waiting with Giancarlo and Inez.

The hugging and kissing started all over again.

“I can't believe it,” Cyndi kept saying.

Giancarlo and Inez still looked pretty much the same, but she had to admit that Gennaro looked much older. Although he still had that wonderful head of hair that flopped in front of his handsome, weathered face.

“Nothing's changed,” Cyndi lied, seeing him holding a cane, and kissing the three of them again.

The floor was loft style, wide open, decorated impeccably with museum-quality, signed-Deco furniture and major twentieth-century American art.

There was Picasso, Rothko, Rauschenberg, Lichtenstein, Warhol, Francis Bacon and the most recent addition to the collection, a huge Jasper Johns American Flag, which de Maisonneuve bought for himself at Christie's as a birthday present, paying a record price of $30.9 million.

For the shoot, Gennaro and Maisonneuve's “apartment manager”—a young man named Alain—had cleared away a corner of the room. The Johns hung on one wall, the other had huge windows looking out to the Hudson River and New Jersey beyond it.

In the middle of this empty space, Gennaro had placed an original, signed Emile-Jacques Ruhlmann chair—once part of Yves St. Laurent's personal Art Deco collection, for which Maisonneuve had also paid a record auction price of $393,000—and lit it.

That's all that was going to be in the shot—a corner of the Jasper Johns painting, a corner of the window with the Hudson and New Jersey, a large expanse of hardwood floor, the chair and Cyndi.

Maisonneuve's two Portuguese housekeepers now both appeared, reminding everyone that they'd set the dining table on the far side of the room with refreshments.

Alain was introduced to Cyndi—he gave her a slight kiss on both cheeks—then introduced her to an older woman named Karen. Next to her was a very burly young man wearing a shoulder holster.

Karen was carrying a large, silk-covered box. “This is them,” she said.

Cyndi couldn't wait. “Can I see?”

Karen opened the box.

Inside was a magnificent double strand of eighty-eight natural pearls.

Each pearl, Karen explained, weighed 2.15 carats, was silvery white in color with overtones of pink and was of the highest quality of luster.

Not only was each pearl separated with a diamond, but there was a six-carat heart-shaped diamond pendant in the front.

“Oh my God . . .” Cyndi's eyes were wide open. “Wow.”

Horace leaned over, inspected the necklace, and started singing softly, “. . . Woolworth's doesn't sell, baby . . .”

Now Gennaro whispered in Cyndi's ear, “If you brought your credit card, it's only three point four million.”

She turned to him. “Think of all the airline miles.”

Karen shut the box, nodded to her bodyguard and the two of them went back to the far side of the room.

Next, Alain escorted over a bunch of other people to meet Cyndi—five young men and four young women—who were introduced as being from the ad agency. They were eating and holding wine glasses while they shook hands with her. She smiled politely as they gushed on about how glad they were that she'd agreed to do this.

While they hovered around her, the security guard who'd come up in the elevator with her stood close by.

One of the young men pointed to the set. “That's all?”

Gennaro said, “That's all.”

Not surprisingly, most of those young men and some of those women started making suggestions. “Maybe a plant . . . how about a bottle of champagne
on the floor . . . why don't we wait until sundown and backlight her with the sunset and the river . . .”

Gennaro paid absolutely no attention to them.

Neither did Cyndi, who announced, “Hair and war paint, please, excuse me,” and walked away.

Giancarlo and Inez took her down the back stairway to a dressing area off de Maisonneuve's bedroom, and Horace followed.

Having no one else to talk to, the group turned to Sienna, who said, “Excuse me,” and got very busy with Gennaro.

Two hours later, once Cyndi's hair and makeup was done, Horace reappeared and said to the crowd of young men and young women—a few of whom were pretty tipsy by this point—“Thank you very much for coming along this morning, and now if you will all please excuse us . . .” He extended his arm to show them to the elevator.

“What do you think you're doing?” One of the young men demanded.

“I'm afraid this is a closed shoot,” Horace said.

The man objected. “You got that wrong, friend.”

Another man agreed. “We're the agency people who are . . .”

“I'm sure, as agency people, you've seen the rider,” Horace said.

“What rider?” the second man wanted to know.

“Who are you anyway?” one of the women demanded.

Horace motioned to Sienna, who went to a notebook, found a sheet of paper, handed it to him and he then handed it to them.

It was the list of conditions for the shoot.

The first item read, “Closed Shoot. No ad agency personnel. No one except the photographer, his immediate team and Cyndi's immediate team, including one security guard and a matron, to be named by Cartier, for the safeguarding of the jewels.”

One of the agency men grabbed the rider, crumpled it and tossed it back rudely at Horace. “You can shove this up your ass. It's worthless. We're staying.”

Horace looked down at the crumpled paper on the floor, then up at the man who'd thrown it at him.

“Had you bothered to read it,” he said with a touch of arrogance deliberately put on because he knew it would annoy the hell out of these people, “you would have seen that, if all of the demands in the rider are not met, Miss Benson is still entitled to her fee and expenses, and you are entitled to nothing more than a copy of that rider, suitable for framing.”

“We'll see about this,” another man said, taking his cell phone out. “Anyone know the lawyers' number?”

“Call my office,” one of the women said, “Alice has it.”

Horace now turned to the security guard nearby and the Cartier guard standing next to Karen. “Would you two gentlemen please show our guests out, as they may need some privacy for their many phone calls.”

The first guard pushed the button for the elevator and the doors opened. “Ladies and gentlemen . . . this way please.” There was a lot of moaning and groaning, and one man even challenged the guard, “You'll have to carry me out.”

When the guard glared at him, “If that's what you want, sir,” the defiant man backed down.

One by one they got into the elevator and, still cursing and threatening Horace, left the building accompanied by the first guard.

A few minutes later, that guard returned. “Our two men downstairs will stay on the street with them. They're angry, but I don't think they'll last long out there. One of them is already looking for a taxi.”

“Thank you,” Horace said.

Seeing a small key above the elevator's call button, Horace turned it, then pushed the call button. Nothing happened.

“It seems this locks the lift.” And he left it locked at the top floor.

Sienna announced, “I think we're ready.”

Gennaro agreed and turned on the lights. “Cyndi, where are you?”