Rouge

by Richard Kirshenbaum

  19

  PALM BEACHES

  Palm Beach, 1935

  The pink coquina-stone Mizner mansion stood at attention, the palms waving. And it was for sale. Constance’s heart raced as she entered the monumental foyer with the glamorous curved staircase and pecky cypress beams leading the way up to the formidable bell tower that could be seen in the distance over the bridges. She immediately knew she had to have it but kept her frozen business smile in place so as not to betray her excitement.

  “Interesting,” she said as Topper’s wife, Lally Stanton, the strawberry-blond heiress and part-time real estate broker, took her through the massive property. Topper and Lally had moved to Palm Beach after they had married. Topper’s diminished fortune was revealed only after the wedding, and it was an open secret in Palm Beach that Lally now worked to bring in extra income to supplement the dividends from her small trust. Luckily, the pair lived in Lally’s parents’ guesthouse on their property on Middle Road, as it was rent-free and Topper was trying to get his wealth management company off the ground. Most days saw him playing polo and drinking at the club, to Lally’s chagrin.

  “It’s been in the same family for years, but no one visits since La Comptesse moved to France to live out her remaining days in Bordeaux.”

  Constance surveyed Lally’s blond confidence with admiration. “No children or heirs forcing the sale?” She threw down her first card, trying to assess the urgency of the situation. Or, hopefully, lack of.

  “Tragedy. Her only son died in an auto accident. The house is in trust for the Metropolitan,” Lally opined.

  “I see.” Constance processed the seemingly casual information and went in for the kill. “Truly a white elephant”—she exhaled—“but someone with an eye…”

  “Well, no one has a better eye than you do,” Lally offered. “After all, not many women make the cover of Time magazine.” Lally beamed at her friend and now famous client. It was interesting and satisfying to Constance that someone of Lally Stanton’s social stature had finally accepted her and was even proud of her. A few years earlier, before her marriage to Van and her public success, she was very well aware that Lally Stanton, the Seward Oil heiress, hardly had given her the time of day.

  “Oh, that…” Constance glowed proudly but played off her major win as a minor event. Her recent profile on the Gardiner Girls and her English Garden Collection, which had taken America by storm, had “unleashed the power of the female workforce” and was on every newsstand, making her a celebrity in her own right. Her ready-made kits allowed the average girl and wife next door to become her own full-time or part-time businesswoman, earning up to 40 percent of the profits. It was ingenious, and Constance’s beauty armed forces had swept Middle America. The kit fees alone made her rich enough to afford the best Palm Beach had to offer. Even Van had put aside his skepticism with the Time cover and the fact that he was now married to one of America’s most high-profile and richest women. It also afforded him more time at Piping Rock and less time on Wall Street, not to mention the slew of polo ponies and racing horses he and Constance were amassing. It was the one thing they had in common, and it kept them on civil, if not friendly, terms.

  “The ocean-to-lake vista affords breezes and the coral stone keeps it cool, even on the most humid days,” Lally offered without trying to oversell.

  “It’s way too big and impractical. Isn’t there anything smaller, Lally? What does one need with so many rooms?” Constance pulled on her rope of lustrous pearls, playing off the positive as a negative.

  “Well, you asked for something that had presence. I’m not sure I see you and Van on the lake, but there is a Venetian palazzo coming on the market. But it’s ghastly dark.”

  “How much are they asking for this … pile?” she said with shrewd disdain.

  “One hundred and twenty thousand. Mizner brought over so much of it from Europe.”

  “Well, that’s not in my budget.”

  “One can always make an offer.” Lally lit up a cigarette in a nonchalant and somewhat sexy fashion.

  “Make a low offer and see if they’ll bite. I’m not sure I even want it, but for sixty thousand it might be worth my time.”

  “And if you get it, we can start talking about which of the clubs you and Van should join. As you know, the season is very social and it’s a lovely tight-knit community. Van and you are shoo-ins at the Bath and Tennis,” she said, dangling the ultimate carrot.

  “Oh, that’s so lovely of you, Lally.” Constance flashed her best door-to-door saleswoman smile, knowing the invitation to the storied club was anything but an everyday experience. In fact, one didn’t “ask” to join the B&T but had to be invited, and Constance was quite aware of the importance. While hiring Lally as her broker had been a given, thanks to Topper and Van’s relationship, now that she was Mrs. Van Wyke the very closed iron gates of Palm Beach society had slowly started to open for her.

  “Of course, everyone will be very welcoming since you and Van have so many friends here already. And remember, it’s not only about who’s here, but who’s not.” She laughed. “You know what they say, if the infidels are at the gates, in Palm Beach we just pull up the bridges.” She gave a knowing smile.

  “Well, that’s music to my ears.” Constance bristled at the thought of that parvenu Josephine and her Trojan horse to New York society. She would just go where Josephine would never be accepted, and Palm Beach was perfect. There was nothing more white bread, conservative, and restricted. Of course, she knew there was a smattering of old-money German Jews, such as the Schiffs, the Seligmans, and the Warburgs, and even a leading Jewish member of the Everglades Club, but those were exceptions and the club system was increasingly anti-Semitic. Even hotels were known to have selective quotas. And Constance knew many of the “our crowd” Jews who had places here would be the first to shun a new-money immigrant such as Josephine Herz.

  Even though she knew deep down that she was new money, and Lally and Topper knew it, too, the Wyke name and her own tall blond persona had cleverly given her the old-money patina. Not to mention her ingenious respelling of Gardiner. Deep down she felt like a parvenu herself but was buffered by her looks, Van’s family cachet, and her religion. She breathed a sigh of relief that she was able to pass on all levels. Suddenly she thought of CeeCee, then immediately banished the thought.

  “Yes, I think I might want it after all.” She looked out on the emerald-green lawn toward the sea and also realized that owning an imposing and storied mansion would give her more social cachet. “I have an office in Atlanta and one opening in Miami, so I might be down here a bit more.”

  “Fine, I’ll put in the offer. I have a feeling you just might get it. There hasn’t been an offer in over a year.” Lally hooked her arm happily, calculating her commission with the knowledge that Topper was broke and her trust was dwindling. Constance immediately felt the electricity when the handsome strawberry blonde locked arms and wondered if she had the same proclivities. No, she couldn’t. Constance banished the thought and put it down to a budding friendship.

  “I’ll have Van take care of the clubs. That’s his thing. After all, I am working.” She laughed.

  “Well, that’s what we love about you, Constance. You really are a thoroughly modern woman.”

  “You are, too, Lally. You’re a working woman now, too.” She smiled at her.

  “You’re right, but grudgingly.” She shrugged.

  “Well, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Constance looked at the aqua waves, which suddenly calmed her, and thought of a place where she would never run into that woman.

  “Put in the offer,” Constance said softly, and then with fervor: “Today.”

  20

  THE LAUNCH FIZZLES

  New York City, 1935

  It was a clear lesson that seared: one success does not always follow in the footsteps of another. The winter was charmed. The spring had seemingly thawed her luck. The next planned launch of Gardiner’s “Moulin R
ouge Lipstick Collection” was not the success Constance had planned. Met with lukewarm reviews and reception, it landed with more of a fizzle than a sparkle.

  Constance steadied herself against her sturdy blond-wood desk at the reports. Numbers did not lie and she viewed the information as if anticipating a doctor’s report, with nervous anxiety at the results. Word was the colors were too bright, too bold, and too brazen for her core customers. A meeting with her morose accountant did not brighten the mood. Projections had been overly optimistic, and production and marketing costs had been higher. She had been overconfident and overspent to compete given the success of the Time cover and had taken her eye off the ball with the purchase of the Palm Beach estate. She had misread her “woman” and what she was looking for in only a few months. In short, her customer wanted the sophisticated elegance of Claudette Colbert and not the brash look of Jean Harlow. The women shook their permanents; the colors were tinny, brassy, and bold. Their husbands, boyfriends, and children thought the look was too young, too exotic, that it made them look foolish.

  “What are you wearing on your lips?” they would grumble. Instead of the compliments they were used to getting from her products, they were getting criticism. They may have bought once, but there were no reorders. From this, Constance learned one of the great lessons of her business career: her woman, her customer, wanted quality products that enhanced, made her feel and look younger—but not “too” young, which translated to foolish to her friends and family. While Harlow was hot and women and men admired her insouciance, not every woman could pull off the look of a “brazen hussy” and wisecracking platinum blonde.

  In short, the launch was an expensive bust. Still, Constance was never one to give in quickly, much less reveal her consternation on her perfectly creamed face. With a simmering smile, she dismissed her accountant and took in the clean lines of the city buildings visible from her window. Damned if she would be dwarfed by these statuesque shapes. She was one of them. A deep inhale fortified her, but reality was heavy right now. Deflating, Constance slid down into her chair.

  Why did every blow feel like a step back? Had she put too much on the line for this product? The advertisements alone cost more than double the last campaign, as she was trying to keep up with that whirling dervish Josephine Herz, who seemed to have invaded and conquered New York. Her New York.

  She flipped the pages of Ladies’ Home Journal and studied Josephine’s new campaign and tagline—“Yours for beauty, Herz for Beauty”—with rage. The single-page glossy ads featuring women of means seemed to be omnipresent, at every turn of the page. All her midwestern door-to-door sales meant revenue, but no one gave her the accolades or saw her ads or temple of beauty on Fifth Avenue, because she did not have one. She hadn’t wanted to promote the rouge and lipstick in the press but felt she had to compete for her ego. She had hired an expensive ad agency and spent heavily on the Moulin Rouge Lipstick Collection, featuring the line “You Can, Can” and the tag “Choose from the Colors of Your Garden,” which seemed to fall flat and appear banal next to Josephine’s new and sophisticated ad campaigns. Herz’s regal ads for her pretentious Parfum Empress Josephine broke at the same time, featuring a much younger photo of Josephine in a diamond tiara that had actually belonged to the empress and now belonged to Herz. Constance thought it vulgar and pretentious, but sophisticated women seemed to eat it up. Regardless, Constance punished herself for her own campaign’s lack of sophistication, not to mention the fact that wherever she went, she seemed to smell the distinctive Empress Josephine fragrance: from powder rooms to the changing rooms in Lord & Taylor. She became nauseated at the scent and it seemed to be everywhere, enraging her and causing her to feel faint at the same time. She had to admit that every time she faltered, Josephine seemed to make an advance. She was like a vampire, feeding on Constance’s lifeblood. Furious and renewed in her resolve, Constance turned to her fail-proof source of inspiration, her bar.

  Now that Prohibition had thankfully ended, a bottle of Christmas gin peeked out of the amber mass, as though bedecked in a silver wrapper just to win Constance’s attention. The office was empty, halls dark, the only sound the occasional rattle of the cleaning cart. It was, of course, time to head home. She imagined the vignette there: Constance sitting next to her doting husband, Van, the bore, whom she had deigned to marry solely because of his name. Van Wyke. She was now Constance Gardiner-Wyke, often described in the social columns as the new Beauty Queen of New York and Palm Beach society, married to the affable banking heir Van Wyke. Yet she had little patience for the balding and boring Van and his Ivy League friends, who placed squash and polo ahead of their finance jobs and who all stayed within a small fenced-in area of the Gold Coast of Locust Valley. It was all a bore, but at least she had an escape. Lit by a roaring fire, framed by the mantel she had found in Paris and shipped back to New York, she took a hearty swig of gin and became more angry. She imagined the way his head would nod as he listened to her recount her day, detail the latest market travail, the failure of her vaunted product. He always gave her his full attention, and yet he was so passive. How could a man be so patrician and yet so completely devoid of spark? Constance gave little thought to a generous refill. She had no desire to see her husband tonight.

  * * *

  The elevator stopped on the fifteenth floor and CeeCee stepped into the hallway, dark and silent but for the distant squeak of a cleaning cart’s wheels. She hoped to find some silence and solitude to work on her pomade. She was close to having a presentable idea to show Constance, but she knew it had to be worthy of bearing the Gardiner name. Constance’s approval was hard-earned and CeeCee had worked herself to the bone for her respect. She was not going to squander her boss’s time on an incomplete or less than perfect idea. Her keys at the ready, she grasped the doorknob to the reception area and was surprised to find that the door was already unlocked. She entered slowly. The only light shone from Constance’s office.

  She was aware that these feelings were childish, but the anxiety and excitement of breaking a rule sent a sharp electrical current from her toes up her spine. Her reverence for her boss was not unlike a crush: sincere respect, admiration, and, of course, that something else. That something about Constance that made her feel on the alert when she was in the same room. She set her books down quietly and sat very still. Suddenly, the sound of rustling papers was like a whisper in her ear and she gathered up her books, walking slowly down the hall to inspect the subtle interruption. She paused in a corner and then peered into Constance’s office to see Constance riffling through a movie magazine.

  Constance remained poised, despite the nearly empty gin bottle beside her. She gazed at an image in a magazine of Carole Lombard. Now, she had the looks and the talent. What was it about her face that appeared both girlish and womanly, both fresh and flirtatious? The outmoded hoop skirt had been replaced by a sleeker, tighter line, a pencil skirt that both elongated the leg and accentuated the hip as Carole posed for the press against a Ford, a new blond icon: gorgeous, irreverent, and funny. There must be a way to tailor her cosmetics to this emerging shape, this emerging identity. This was the image she should have aimed for. Not Harlow. This was a look all American women could embrace!

  From the hallway, CeeCee found herself staring inadvertently, admiring the way Constance’s hands fell on the picture on the page. Instinctively, CeeCee leaned forward, craning her neck to catch a better glimpse of the image, and as she did, the floorboard creaked. Constance froze.

  An uneasy silence circled the two women like a belt. CeeCee stepped back quickly and switched on a light to make her presence known. The metallic hum of the hallway’s fluorescent lights struggled to fill the silence.

  “Hello?” CeeCee called out. She felt like a child caught holding a stolen toy. Grinning with embarrassment. Busted with evidence in hand. A cheery disposition would surely hide her guilt.

  “Hello, Constance. It’s me, CeeCee,” said CeeCee. She stepped into the light.


  “CeeCee? Come in, dear,” Constance chimed, her saccharine tone just barely saturating the gin. CeeCee did as she was told.

  “How did it go?” CeeCee asked, pretending she didn’t already know.

  “I’m sure you could guess.” Constance looked at CeeCee. Rather, she stared at CeeCee, stilled by the smooth, creamy color of her complexion. “You forgot something?”