by Nyna Giles
With Alex on her arm, Grace’s social life was transformed. She wanted Carolyn to join her. Although she had failed to pair Carolyn with her brother, Kell, she had a new idea. Grace had first run into Malcolm Reybold on Long Island, playing tennis on Sherman Fairchild’s courts. Sherman was famous for his extravagant parties, which usually lasted the entire weekend. Malcolm was one of Sherman’s closest friends. He was older and divorced, but charming and an excellent tennis player. He and Grace had seen each other around town a few times since Long Island.
If Carolyn was interested, Grace would invite Malcolm on a double date.
The four met at the Hawaiian Room, the basement supper club at the Lexington Hotel. The hostess immediately gave Carolyn a string of paper flowers to wear around her neck, which made Carolyn feel less shy, as if she were at a costume party. Malcolm was courteous from the minute they arrived—helping Carolyn with her coat, ushering her ahead of him, holding the door, pulling out her chair. Yes, he was older, but he was also handsome, tall, and broad shouldered, with reddish blond hair. And he was confident.
A band was playing hula music as dancers sashayed in grass skirts. There were beach scenes painted on the walls and tropical palms in giant planters. Carolyn had never eaten Hawaiian food before. She was dazzled by all the unfamiliar names on the menu. Malcolm took matters into his own hands, ordering her “the best thing in the house.” Over dinner, he told her stories about his family in Georgia, about his job on Madison Avenue, working for an advertising agency. He laughed easily and often—and made her laugh, too.
Once dinner was over, he led her out onto the dance floor, spinning her away from him, then pulling her back again with perfect ease, as if to let her know that, with him, she was in capable hands.
* * *
NOW THAT CAROLYN and Grace had dates to squire them around town, their evenings were transformed. By the time the sun went down, they had pinched their tiny waists into satin cocktail dresses, thrown little fur stoles around their shoulders, and taken the elevator down to the lobby to meet their men. Stepping out onto Sixty-third Street—heels clacking smartly on the sidewalk—they were no longer two girls alone in the city but young women of the world. Where should they go? The answer was anywhere now. In 1948, as a woman without a date, it was impossible to gain entry to the best nightclubs—the club owners didn’t want angry wives sneaking in, surprising cheating husbands out on the town with mistresses. But now that Grace and Carolyn had men on their arms, there was no limit to where they might go. Maybe they’d have dinner at the Stork Club, where the owner always invited them back to lunch the next day, plying them with gifts of Chanel No. 5 and little golden cigarette cases. After dinner they might head over to El Morocco for dancing. Copacabana was best for nightclub shows—and Chinese food. You never knew who you might see there: Frank Sinatra, Ava Gardner, Cary Grant.
Carolyn kept her eyes trained on Grace, who seemed to have a sixth sense for knowing exactly what to do in any situation. She seemed to understand the codes of New York nightlife instinctively, always wearing the right dress, picking up the right fork at the table setting, turning to say the right thing at the right moment. By watching Grace and following her lead, Carolyn learned to maneuver in a world that was completely foreign to her and as far from Steubenville as she could imagine. A little before eleven, Grace and Carolyn would make their excuses, racing outside, two Cinderellas with curfews, arms waving to find a cab to take them back to the Barbizon before the clock struck the hour, always arriving back at the hotel as late as possible but just early enough to avoid a lecture from Mrs. Sibley. They were working models, after all; they knew they had to look fresh in the morning. Besides, there was always the next date, the next evening.
Before long, Alex left for an acting job in Paris, at which point Grace’s relationship with him came to its natural conclusion. They had never been serious, after all. But Malcolm and Carolyn were another matter. It didn’t matter to Carolyn that Malcolm had already been married, that he had a daughter from that marriage, that he was twelve years older. Malcolm was old-fashioned; he was a gentleman. He didn’t rush Carolyn. He simply wanted to spend time with her. And Carolyn found that if she looked in her heart, she wanted to spend more time with him.
Before 1948 was over, Carolyn found herself packing her bags and leaving town. Eileen Ford had booked her for a six-week shoot for the Sears, Roebuck catalog at the Bill Becker studio in Tucson, Arizona. Although Carolyn would miss the Barbizon, Grace, and, of course, Malcolm, the money was good, and the job would mean excellent visibility: there was hardly a household in America that didn’t receive a Sears, Roebuck catalog in the mail. Almost a year after she’d left Ohio to move to New York, Carolyn arrived at the new Idlewild airport in Queens, suitcase in hand, ready to board her first flight. Ten other girls from the Ford agency were going with her.
Eileen had briefed all the girls about Bill Becker, the owner of the largest photographic studio in the country. Eileen had worked for Becker in New York before she founded her agency, coordinating his shoots, packing and shipping the clothes that were going to be photographed out west, and booking the models to be flown there. She knew him well.
“He’s a bear,” Eileen warned her girls. “He’ll try to insult you and embarrass you. Stand your ground.”
Becker had his headquarters in Manhattan, but when winter came around, he defected to Tucson, a town with more hours of sunshine than any other city in the United States and where he could shoot for fifteen hours a day.
After Eileen’s girls arrived in Tucson, they made straight for the Pioneer Hotel, where they would be staying for the next six weeks. Becker’s studio was just outside the city in Tanque Verde. The studio was vast, with a special stage built on a turntable, like a giant lazy Susan, with a white background behind and a large skylight overhead. As the sun moved in the sky, Bill’s assistants would spin the stage to catch the optimal light. It was so hot under the skylight that most of the time the girls were close to fainting. They were all wearing black suede heels, which would get so hot that they would take turns holding a piece of white cardboard over the shoes in an effort to cool them down.
Days were long. Becker had them working from early morning until sundown. Boxes filled with fashions for next spring had been shipped from New York, and the girls dutifully worked their way through every blouse and skirt, jacket and hat, as Becker barked his orders.
At night, after work was done, the girls went back to their hotel and got dressed again, this time for dinner. In their silk and satin cocktail dresses and long gloves, they made their way downstairs to the hotel dining room. Not long after they arrived in Tucson, Carolyn noticed a new guest at the hotel. He was leaning on his elbows against the main fireplace in the lobby, watching her come down the stairs via her reflection in the mirror above the mantel. She recognized him right away—he was Howard Hughes, the film director. Hughes was unmistakable from the magazines, tall and gangling, his black hair slicked back on his head. Carolyn caught his eye in the mirror. Hughes gestured to her to come over, and over she went.
He looked her up and down.
“Are you one of the models?” he wanted to know.
Carolyn nodded.
“Where you from?”
She told him.
It turned out Hughes was in Tucson scouting for talent. He’d just paid close to 9 million dollars for RKO Studios, and he was looking to sign new starlets to his books.
“What would you say if I told you I wanted you to come to Hollywood for a screen test?” he asked.
Carolyn paused.
She warned Hughes that she didn’t have any training as an actress.
He told her that if she wanted to take a screen test, he’d arrange for acting classes as part of the deal.
Carolyn thought, Why not?
The next day, after shooting was over, she found herself at the Tucson airfield, clutching her overnight bag, the sole passenger aboard one of Hughes’s private airplanes en
route to Los Angeles. Hughes had a reputation for scheduling meetings at unconventional hours, and by the time Carolyn landed in L.A. and the driver dropped her at the RKO lot, it was very late at night. The driver told her to walk to the back of the building ahead; tentatively, she stepped into what looked like an aircraft hangar. Ahead of her, she could see a series of storage areas, with sets and props leaning against the walls. Her chest was tight with nerves, and it occurred to her to go back and get in the car again. Instead, she kept walking until she reached a door at the very back of the hanger.
Carolyn took a breath, knocked on the door, and waited. She heard a voice telling her to come in. She cracked the door. On the other side, there was Hughes, sitting with his feet up on a giant desk. He was wearing a striped knit sailor top and long duck pants, with scuffed boat shoes, as if he’d just come in from sailing. Carolyn stood quietly in the middle of the room while Hughes looked her up and down again, appraising her silently with stealthy eyes. Behind him, there was a life-sized picture of the actress Jane Russell, in the movie The Outlaw, directed by Hughes during the war. Russell’s breasts were barely covered in a peasant blouse that had fallen seductively from her shoulder.
Finally, Hughes spoke up.
“Pull your bangs over to one side,” he told Carolyn. “I want to see your forehead.”
Carolyn did as she was told.
“We will do the screen test tomorrow,” Hughes said.
Carolyn thought for a moment. Then she took a deep breath and told Hughes that no, she didn’t think she wanted to do the test after all. She turned around and ran back out the door, through the maze of sets and props, until finally she was out on the lot again and free, her heart pounding in her ears. Carolyn knew the signs. She had grown up with a stepfather who leered at her that way. She knew a threat when she saw one.
In the future, she decided, she would leave the acting to Grace.
* * *
WHEN THE SHOOT in Tucson was finally over, Carolyn returned to New York with relief. It was blessedly cold in New York and comforting to be back at the hotel, with Mrs. Sibley behind her usual counter and Oscar ready to tip his hat whenever she came and went. Although Carolyn had been given a new room, on another floor, the green bedspread on her twin bed was the same, the curtains identical to the ones in the room she had left behind. In its own way, the hotel felt like home. She also returned to Malcolm. In a short period of time, it had become hard for Carolyn to imagine New York without her new beau, as if Manhattan had suddenly switched to Technicolor and there was no going back to black-and-white. Malcolm was so attentive, so kind. He always knew exactly where to go and what to order once they got there. He loved good food and wine, friendship, conversation. “Never stop laughing or loving” was his motto, and he lived by it.
What’s more, Malcolm took care of her—and this made Carolyn feel safe. Ever since childhood she had known that her looks had singled her out for male attention, and while the way she looked might have been her salvation, it also put her at risk. When she worked at the department store in Steubenville, there had been an older man who used to come in and buy clothing for his daughter. Everyone called him “Jimmy the Greek,” and even though Carolyn had given him no encouragement, Jimmy had fallen in love with her. Each day he came into the store, watching her from a distance, following her back home to Pennsylvania Avenue once her shift was over. For a while, it seemed there was no way to get away from Jimmy. Even now, a year after she’d left Ohio, Jimmy had tracked her down, driving to New York and leaving gifts for her at the desk at the Barbizon. Jimmy was a gambler, and he had clearly gotten lucky, because the gifts included some very expensive jewelry. When Malcolm learned about Jimmy the Greek, he helped Carolyn rewrap the gifts, and together they delivered them back to Jimmy’s hotel. Whenever Malcolm told the story at parties, Carolyn laughed along—it was all a great joke. But what made her happiest was the message behind the story: she belonged to Malcolm now.
CHAPTER 8
Nina
I never met Grace as a child, although I’m told she did visit when I was a baby. What I do remember are the letters to my mother, which arrived every month or so, in thick creamy envelopes, stamped with the red-and-gold royal seal of Monaco. My mother would write back right away, long letters that she mailed from the post office when she went into town to buy groceries. Somewhere along the way, the letters were lost—along with so many of my mother’s possessions.
Then there were Grace’s movies. Whenever one was showing on TV, my mother and I made sure we watched it together. To Catch a Thief gave me my first glimpses of Monaco, the place where I knew Grace lived, and where my mother had been the bridesmaid, with its hot blue skies, red roofs, and roads looping up into the hillsides. I loved all the Hitchcock films, but especially Rear Window, the way Grace first swept into the frame, her beautiful features blurred but coming into focus as Jimmy Stewart opens his eyes, her clothes, each dress more beautiful than the next. My favorite of all Grace’s films was High Society, where she played Tracy Lord, the society girl about to be married. My mother always told me that the ring Grace wore in the film was her actual engagement ring, given to her by Prince Rainier, and that High Society was Grace’s last film. After shooting was over, Grace moved to Monaco and gave up acting forever.
Apart from the films and the letters, though, it was very hard for me to connect Grace with my mother. Growing up, my mother hardly ever spoke of the past, so it’s only in retrospect that I’ve been able to understand that she did show me glimpses of her former life with Grace; she just didn’t tell me she was doing it.
* * *
AT LEAST TWO or three times a year, I would go with my mother into the city to the ballet, never realizing how important dance had been to her and to Grace when they were younger.
We always drove into the city. I think my mother felt like she couldn’t risk rousing suspicions by taking the train; she didn’t want people wondering why a young girl of my age wasn’t in school in the middle of a weekday. I can picture her behind the wheel, the window just open, smoke from her cigarette trailing out behind us, me wearing one of my party dresses handed down to me from my sisters. In the city, we saw matinees of Les Sylphides, Sleeping Beauty, Petrushka, Giselle, and Coppélia. We went to Swan Lake more than once. My mother loved these ballets, their spellbound heroines: Odette in Swan Lake, trapped and unable to escape, or Giselle, driven to death by a broken heart, who rises to save her lover from evil spirits before returning to her grave. Usually we’d have seats in the orchestra, close to the stage, about six rows back, and when I looked over at my mother, her face would be lit by the glow from the stage lights, tears running down her cheeks.
The Nutcracker was my favorite. Balanchine’s new production of the ballet had just moved to the new State Theater at Lincoln Center, and my mother made sure we had tickets each November, right after Thanksgiving. My favorite part came at the end of act 1, when Marie and the Little Prince turn their backs to the audience and walk together toward the forest of fir trees as the snow drifts magically from the sky.
After the performance was over, my mother would take me by the hand and we’d walk together along Broadway until we reached the Automat at Fifty-seventh Street. I loved the Automat, the way the food was kept in little gleaming glass boxes along the walls. We’d go straight to the cashier and change dollar bills for nickels; then I’d walk up and down the length of the restaurant, making my selections. If I couldn’t reach the box I wanted, my mother would lift me up at the waist, and I’d drop my coins in the slot, winding the knob until the sandwich or slice of pie appeared behind the glass door, like a prize waiting to be claimed. We ate slowly, making each mouthful last, never in any hurry to leave and return home.
My mother never told me that the Automat was the place where the photographer had discovered her back in her Barbizon days. She never told me she took dance classes as a young woman or that she had gone to see Balanchine’s dancers with Grace. Instead, she shared wit
h me these things that she had always enjoyed, and was happy when I enjoyed them, too.
When I was nine, we made a special trip to see The Nutcracker with Suzanne Farrell dancing the Sugar Plum Fairy. Somehow, my mother had a connection to Suzanne: it may have been that they’d met at a dance event, or through Grace, who was a patron of the ballet in Monaco. After the performance was over, my mother and I waited at the stage door until Suzanne and her husband, the dancer Paul Mejia, came out to meet us. Suzanne invited us back to their apartment, in a high-rise building not far from the theater. I was so starstruck. Suzanne was beautiful, gracious, and kind. She was originally from Ohio, like my mother. I remember sitting on her bed as she looked through her closet for something to give to me. “Would you like this?” she asked, showing me a navy woolen coat she no longer needed. I was only nine, but I was tall for my age, and Suzanne was so petite that the coat fit me perfectly. I wore that coat for as long as I could, until the sleeves reached to my elbows. The year following our meeting, Suzanne left the New York City Ballet after a falling-out with Balanchine.
We never saw Suzanne again, but there were more trips to the ballet, and I loved every one of them. When we got back to the house on Long Island, my mother always put one of her Tchaikovsky records on the sound system in the living room, and I’d whirl around, impersonating the ballerinas I’d seen at the theater, the gorgeous sounds of the orchestra filling the room up to the rafters.
