‘Look who’s complaining,’ said Poppy with a grin. ‘You can hire a fleet of servants if you like, Fleur, it’s entirely up to you.’
‘I know, but I feel bad about it,’ said Fleur. ‘They didn’t have maids in Sheepshead Bay.’
‘Well, that didn’t do either the maids or the people in Sheepshead Bay any good,’ said Poppy, who was a staunch democrat. ‘You do your bit for the economy, Fleur, and get your laundry done at the same time.’
The maid was called Tina, and she was black, extremely fat and extremely cheerful. She came to Fleur either early in the mornings, often arriving before Fleur had left, or late at night; she liked to work the same time as her man, who worked on the subway. ‘We get up together and we go to bed together,’ she said, grinning, her mountain of flesh shaking. ‘My man likes me with him. All the time.’ And she dug her large elbow into Fleur’s ribs, giggling loudly. She took a maternal interest in Fleur and worried about the hours she worked, and how little there always was in her fridge, and the fact that she seemed to be alone in the world, without a man.
‘You put on some weight, Miss Fitz, you’ll find some man to cuddle up to you for always,’ she said.
Fleur tried to tell her she didn’t want a man to cuddle up to her for always, but Tina clearly didn’t believe her.
Tina was there when she got home the night after her lunch with Morton, putting away the laundry.
‘They changed us to nights,’ she said by way of explanation. ‘I made you some soup. You don’t eat enough, Miss Fitz.’
‘I eat plenty,’ said Fleur, sitting down wearily to the soup which looked and smelt wonderful, ‘but I certainly like this. You mustn’t spoil me, Tina.’
‘Ain’t nobody else here to spoil you,’ said Tina pointedly. ‘And you look tired.’
‘I am tired,’ said Fleur. ‘Hard day. Heavy lunch. Dirty old man.’
‘Honey, lead me to him. My Rob, he hasn’t laid a finger on me now for four nights. I think he got another woman.’ The bulk heaved; Fleur smiled at her.
‘You wouldn’t like him, Tina. Not your type.’
‘I’m telling you, Miss Fitz, after four nights anyone’s my type. He going to be any good to you, now?’
‘I don’t think so. Not in the way you mean, anyway. Tina, did you ever go to Morton’s for clothes?’
‘Morton’s? The chain? No, I never did. Too small for me.’
‘I guess so. But if they weren’t, would you?’
‘I don’t think so, Miss FitzPatrick. They’re too pricey for me.’
‘You’re wrong, Tina, they are seriously cheap.’
‘You’re kidding me. They don’t look it.’
‘That’s interesting,’ said Fleur. ‘Thanks, Tina. See you in the morning.’
Her last waking thought was that Morton’s was reckoned tacky by the rich, and pricey by the poor.
‘Everyone’s got it wrong,’ she said to Chuck Laurence three days later, after two dozen more conversations on the subject.
‘Got what wrong?’
‘Morton’s. Or rather, nobody’s got it right. I mean, it says in the research that it has no image, that it’s just there; that’s nothing new. But no two people I talked to had remotely an idea what it was really like. Comments varied from sleazy to flash, cheap to expensive.’
‘Anecdotal evidence, Fleur. Beware of it. We’re very suspicious of it here.’
‘I know, I know. But, like I say, the research bears it out. The thing about Morton’s is that it’s so unexpected. I mean what are they, those shops? Boutiques? No. Department stores? No. Madam shops? No. They’re unique. They just – just . . .’ Her voice tailed away. She stared at Chuck and she could feel the colour draining away from her face. ‘I might go away and think for a while,’ she said. ‘I have a kind of an idea.’
‘I like it,’ said Sol Morton. ‘I like it very much. It’s clever. Needs more work, of course. But it certainly says a lot more than those shitty plastic bags. “Just Morton’s.” It has style. Real style.’
‘You must put that on the shitty bags,’ said Fleur. ‘In the corner, above the logo. The word “Just” I mean. And on the bills, everywhere. So that everyone will start thinking of it as Just Morton’s. Unique, not like anywhere else, not like any other shop in town.’
‘No,’ said Sol Morton. ‘Couldn’t do that. Too expensive. We have a million of those bags. Anyway, it seems to be overworking the point to me.’
‘Not at all,’ said Fleur, ‘and when this campaign gets going, those million bags will all be gone. You can put it on the next lot, although we’re talking corporate here; it ought to start right away, or when the campaign breaks.’
‘It’ll be great on the radio and on TV,’ said Sol. ‘I like that jingle. It’s cute.’
‘Everyone’ll be singing it,’ said Chuck.
He looked like he was about to start singing himself, thought Fleur.
With Bernard Stobbs she had a different problem altogether. They all did. He was white-haired, sweet-faced, charming, cultured and deeply appreciative, and he had absolutely no idea what he wanted to say; and if he did he changed his mind again the very next day.
‘Let’s go visual,’ he would say, and they would do a series of beautiful ads, showing his book jackets, or the houses featured in one of his latest books, and he would shake his head and say, no, no, they’re lovely, but I think copy is the way to sell books, just words, telling ’em what they’re going to get.
She finally cracked that one by just letting Bernard Stobbs talk, lovingly, charmingly about his books (as he would do all night, if allowed) and printing what he said. The type was quite large and interspersed with pictures from the books, and of their jackets. The campaign made wonderful posters, and people would stand stock still on the subway, and in the street, and even fail to move off at green lights because they were reading his charming amusing words. It won Fleur a raise and, just as importantly, it won her Bernard Stobbs’s intense gratitude: not because the sales of his books increased considerably (which they did) but because visits to the agency had become pleasurable occasions, rather than stressful ordeals.
She was too busy to think about anything else but her job: everything else was put on hold. She worked late, she worked early; she socialized almost entirely within the profession. There was a lot of that. It was a time of high visibility, when everyone was extremely busy being seen: eating the right things in the right places, wearing the right clothes. ‘It’s almost as if you couldn’t star in a Broadway play so you do this instead,’ said Fleur, collapsing in a chair in Mary Steinberg’s kitchen one Saturday afternoon near Christmas, after recounting a week of almost frenetic busyness. ‘It’s wearing me out, I tell you.’
‘It sounds wonderful to me,’ said Mary, reaching out and wiping noses on a couple of small faces with one hand, while spooning apple sauce into the mouth of a third with another. ‘You don’t have any vacancies for a once bright girl with an attention span of up to five seconds, do you?’
‘No, but all our ads are for people with attention spans of up to five seconds,’ said Fleur. She looked at Mary consideringly. ‘If you ever found yourself with more than five seconds to spare, we’re always looking for market researchers, you know, to ask people how they feel about some ad or some product. You could do that from this kitchen, Mary, wiping those very noses. How about it?’
‘Sounds wonderful,’ said Mary. ‘Just lead me to it.’
Then early in December Rose called.
‘Fleur. I’m so sorry. I’ve been in Mexico. Forgive me.’
‘Of course,’ said Fleur, trying not to sound cool. ‘It doesn’t matter at all. How was Mexico?’
‘Beautiful. You’d love it. Maybe we could go together one day.’
‘Maybe,’ said Fleur. ‘Er – Rose, nothing about Lindsay L
ancaster, I don’t suppose?’
‘Nothing. She is, as I thought, married. Moved away. Not in movies. Not a lot I can do really, Fleur. I did try. I’m so sorry.’
She sounded genuinely regretful; Fleur was touched for a minute, then she hardened her heart, remembered this was one of the greatest actresses of her generation. She could turn on regret, remorse, love, desire as the first millimetre of film began to move through the camera.
‘Oh well,’ she said, ‘never mind.’ And then, rashly, foolishly perhaps, she heard her voice saying, because she simply had to say it to someone, ‘Rose, does the name Zwirn mean anything to you? Michelle Zwirn? Or Gerard?’
There was a long silence. Then Rose said, ‘No, darling, I really don’t think so. I’ll rake my memory for you. And if it turns over any bright little embers, I’ll let you know. Why?’
‘Oh – nothing really,’ said Fleur, ‘just something somebody said.’
Piers sent her a very extravagant Christmas card of his country house which she studied with great interest; it looked to her like a real English stately home. God, he must be rich. A very large bouquet of roses also arrived from him, with a card that said, ‘I’ve missed you since May. Next year must be better.’ Fleur threw the card in the trash can and took the roses round to Mary.
She read in the New York Times that Piers Windsor’s Midsummer Night’s Dream was up for an Oscar, and that his wife was expecting her third baby.
Against every odd, she had hoped to hear from Joe Payton over Christmas, and did not; Caroline as always wrote and sent her a cheque (a very large one this year, five hundred dollars, which would mean she could carpet her apartment, great). She wrote a letter of thanks to Caroline rather earlier than usual, and told her she was welcome to visit any time. She knew Caroline never would. She saw an article Joe had written syndicated from the Sunday Telegraph about theatrical wives, and found the copy about Chloe offensively flattering.
Sol Morton took her out alone for a Christmas lunch at the Seafare of the Aegean, and told her he thought she wasn’t just gorgeous, but extremely talented, and that if she ever wanted to go into business on her own, he would be interested in backing her, and would certainly give her the Morton’s account. He also made it very plain that he would like to put their relationship on a more personal level.
Fleur told him she was flattered by both offers, that she thought the latter would upset the very good working arrangement they had, and that if ever she did go solo, she would certainly be looking to him for his custom.
Reuben asked her to spend Christmas at his mother’s home in Sagaponack; Poppy was to go to Gill’s parents in New Jersey, and Mrs Blake was feeling bereft. Fleur said she would adore it. The three of them had a wonderful time, eating and drinking a great deal, walking on the South Shore, playing backgammon and discussing Gill and what Poppy might see in him at great length.
Julia Miller announced at the beginning of January that she was moving to Greys. One of the applicants for the job as her replacement was Bella Buchanan. Fleur was forced to tell Chuck Laurence with great regret that she had worked with Bella before and she really didn’t consider her talent worth a row of beans.
Sol Morton had decided he wanted to do a new corporate design on his shops. Seven design shops pitched for the account, and it was won, with the help of some charmingly diffident recommendations from Fleur FitzPatrick, by a rather eccentric young man called Reuben Blake.
Poppy and Gill were married in March, at the Brotherhood Synagogue in Gramercy Park, and had a rather subdued lunch party afterwards at the Carlyle, just the families and a few friends. Fleur, who was Poppy’s attendant, and honorary family, sat between Reuben and Mrs Blake, who was alternately excited and weepy. Poppy looked charmingly original in a white lace mid-calf dress and a little lace bonnet; Gill looked a cliché in a dark grey suit and a brocade waistcoat. He made a long and pompous speech, which made Fleur doubt more than ever Poppy’s claim that he was shy and insecure. His parents were a surprise, rather modest, nervous people, and plainly not very well off; she had been expecting rather arrogant carbon copies of Gill. Gill and Poppy left around five for a honeymoon in the Bahamas, and Reuben and Fleur offered to take Mrs Blake out to dinner to cheer her up. She said she couldn’t eat a thing, and what she’d really like to do was go to the movies; they saw Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice and after it Reuben took Mrs Blake home after kissing Fleur tenderly and saying that Natalie Wood was beautiful, just like her.
Fleur lay awake half the night, wondering if what she felt for Reuben was indeed really love.
Then, later that month, just when she had begun to forget all about the mysterious Zwirns herself, a letter arrived from Rose.
‘My darling Fleur,
Forgive me (again) for being such an age. But I’m afraid that once again there is nothing to tell you. I have asked around, talked to old friends, gone through my old contact books, raked through my memory, really worked at it for you: but no records anywhere, of anyone called Zwirn. None even in the phone book. I’m so sorry, Fleur. I’m not much help to you, am I?
Come over and see me soon.
Best love,
Rose.
Fleur sighed and put the letter away in her desk. Rose was very sweet, very kind, but as a help in her quest, she was absolutely no use at all.
1970
‘Oh, Joe, really! I’m surprised at you, a journalist and all. Private Eye are very behind with their gossip.’
‘But, Chloe –’
‘Honestly, Joe, I can’t remember when people weren’t going on about all this,’ said Chloe. She sat back on the huge sofa in the drawing room at Montpelier Square, holding her new baby daughter tenderly in her arms, and smiled serenely at Joe. ‘It comes up every year with the daisies. Piers is homosexual, Piers is going to leave me, Piers has a boyfriend in Los Angeles. Damian Lutyens, Robin Leveret, old Uncle Tom Cobley. I didn’t know they had him and David Montague in bed together, I must say. Whoever told you that one?’
‘Oh – I got it at a Private Eye lunch,’ said Joe.
‘Don’t they realize he and Liza have been married for more than ten years?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Joe. He looked confused, more miserable than she could ever remember.
‘Oh, well, no doubt it will keep on surfacing for a bit. There are always nasty rumours circulating about Piers, about most actors; he warned me himself, they don’t mean anything, they keep people amused, and the public from getting bored. The only thing to do is ignore them, not even bother denying them.’
‘But, Chloe –’
‘Yes, Joe?’ She could hear her own voice growing sharper, feel her smile less sickly sweet. Christ, she thought, I should be in movies myself.
‘Oh – nothing.’
‘Look, Joe,’ said Chloe, leaning forward. ‘If Piers was a homosexual, I’d know. And I can tell you, I’d have left him. Taken the children and left. Now he has his faults, and he can be very difficult, but I’ – she heard herself hesitate almost imperceptibly, then went on – ‘I love him and we have a good marriage. You were all wrong, you see, and I was right. Now could you please just forget all about this, don’t repeat it to anyone and tell your friend Mr Ingrams that if a word of this reaches the pages of his horrible paper, Piers will sue. He’s always said so, and he would.’
‘Right,’ said Joe. ‘Well, I’m sorry, darling, and I wouldn’t have upset you for the world. I – we – just felt we should warn you. That there might be some mud flying about.’
‘Well – thank you. That was most kind,’ said Chloe politely, as if he had just asked her to go for a drive with him, or to have another helping of pudding, ‘but I – we – can look after ourselves.’
‘Yes, of course you can,’ said Joe.
Later, telling Caroline about the conversation, he was still very upset. ‘Eithe
r she’s been taking acting lessons herself, or she really believes what she says. I think possibly the latter. Maybe even it’s true.’
‘Let’s hope it is,’ said Caroline. She sounded uncertain.
Joe looked at her sharply. ‘You don’t sound very confident.’
‘Oh – I don’t know.’ She avoided his eyes. ‘You always said you thought he was queer, Joe. You know you did.’
‘Yes, I did. And I’ve heard the odd innuendo over the years. But Chloe’s quite right, there always are these rumours about actors. They can hardly be surprised. The way they carry on. I mean look at Piers, all those clothes of his, having his hair streaked, the way he hugs people. Men, I mean. I don’t give a toss what he does or is, except if it hurts Chloe, but he can hardly be surprised if people talk about him.’
‘Well, he obviously isn’t. Surprised, I mean. Anyway, let’s hope your friend Mr Ingrams is wrong. He often is.’
‘He often isn’t actually,’ said Joe. ‘He has this great gift for seeking out, boring out the truth. Nigel Dempster once said to me that he was completely unafraid of pursuing a story. “Just keep on going,” he says, “don’t let anyone stop you; if you think it’s true, keep after it.” It’s what makes him a great journalist.’
‘Great journalist,’ said Caroline with a shudder. ‘Putting all those terrible stories about.’
‘Well, Chloe seems to have it under control. Not too upset by it. Thank God. Mind you, if she found Piers putting arsenic in her tea, she’d say he thought it was sugar.’
‘That’s exactly what Magnus said,’ said Caroline and then met Joe’s eyes slightly confusedly. She was blushing.
AN Outrageous Affair Page 57
