Rouge

by Richard Kirshenbaum

  She pulled out her new Gardiner scented bath oils and drew herself a hot bubble bath. The lavender and rose fragrances had been particularly successful sellers and she decided to mix the two. Just as she slipped into the claw-foot tub, savoring the warm water and luxurious bubbles, she heard the familiar foosteps. Even his footsteps lacked oomph and vitality, she groaned silently.

  “May I come in?” Van knocked softly on the door and poked his bald head in. This was uncommon, as he usually knew not to disturb her.

  “Yes, of course.” She placed a terry washcloth over her luminous breasts. The bubbles in the water hid the rest.

  “Hello, Van, how have you been?” she said with a wilted sigh.

  “Fine,” he offered. “How was your trip?”

  “A whirlwind, but a success. We opened up the salons in record time. We had lines around the block. I despise Chicago, but the sales are leading. Clearly, they have nothing better to do in the Midwest. All those solid, farm types. Reminded me of Canada. I couldn’t wait to leave,” she griped. “You are looking well. The tan suits you,” she said. “How was Palm Beach?”

  “Very well, thank you. Lots of commotion with Topper and Lally divorcing. It’s all anyone is talking about.” He leaned against the marble-topped commode and lit a cigarette. She noticed his hands had a slight tremor to them.

  “Another typical Palm Beach scandal.” She yawned.

  “Listen, Constance, I have wanted to speak to you for a long time now.” He fumbled the words. “But since you are always traveling and working it never seems to be a good time. Especially now that Van Jr. is in boarding school.” He paused, trying to find the proper words. “It’s been quite lonely.” He looked lost and she did not know where he was going with his rambling lecture. “I still think he is far too young to be sent away.”

  “He’s lucky to be adopted and he will benefit from Milton and later Groton, just like you did.”

  “Yes, but I am now totally alone much of the time.”

  “I understand, but some of us have to work, you know.”

  “I know all too well.” He nervously rubbed his red, chapped hands together.

  “And what is on your mind, Van? You always seem to beat around the bush.”

  “We’re not all as direct as you are, Constance.”

  “Clearly—”

  “I’m leaving you,” he said in a whisper.

  Constance sat up in the bath and actually laughed out loud as she processed the shock of the news.

  “Leaving. You are leaving me?” She was incredulous.

  “Yes. This just doesn’t make sense. We hardly see each other.”

  “I am working to pay for our lifestyle, dear.” Her words dripped with malice.

  He sighed slightly. “I am well-to-do in my own right.”

  “There’s a difference between well-to-do and rich, Van, and you know it. The mansion in Palm Beach, the yacht, the horses, the clubs. It’s all Gardiner money.” Her eyes were poisoned darts.

  “Yes, but I have invested my trust and I have done quite well. I’ve made up my mind. I have to leave.”

  “Really. And where do you think you are going?” She laughed bitterly.

  “I’m … I’m going to marry Lally,” he blurted out.

  “Lally? This is a joke, right?” She was incredulous at the news.

  “No, Topper is divorcing her to marry Jaqueline de Cuevas, the tin heiress.” He tapped his cigarette into the heavy cut-crystal ashtray. “I spoke with him and he is all for it. Said it’s all very tidy and friendly and he won’t have to pay alimony.”

  “So it’s a game of musical chairs, is it. That’s so wholesome and convenient and just inbred of you all.”

  “Perhaps.” Van nodded.

  “And why is it that every time someone mentions that damn woman’s name they have to follow it up with the words ‘the tin heiress’?” Constance said angrily, furiously scrambling to light a cigarette from the pack on the white stool next to her.

  “Perhaps because she is. And don’t think they don’t say the same thing about you, dear. Constance Gardiner, ‘the cosmetics queen.’ ‘Aren’t you married to the cosmetics queen?’” He rolled his eyes. “Well, Lally and I have spent quite a lot of time together and we get along quite well. We’re actually very well matched. She doesn’t like to be alone either,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “But Lally is my closest—”

  “Lally told me some disturbing things.”

  “What are you saying, Van?” Constance raised herself from the bath totally naked, the suds floating down her glorious toned physique like liquid clouds. Here she was, famous, successful, and beautiful, and this mouse of a man was leaving her? And with her best friend and lover, no less. It whipped her into a quiet fury.

  “I know what’s been going on, Constance.”

  “What, what’s been going on?”

  “Lally told me you made passes at her.”

  “I do think it’s the other way around, Van,” she said, wide-eyed with fear that she was being exposed.

  “She said you’d say that. Do you really want me to verbalize your condition? Must run in the family.” He nervously lit up another cigarette. She could see his hand tremble a bit.

  “Oh please, it was all just a schoolgirl crush.” She looked away.

  “It’s illegal, Constance. And there have been whispers about you since we married. I think it’s far better if we finalize the divorce and let sleeping dogs … sleep. Don’t you agree?” He puffed and found his nerve. “I really don’t want to have to go public, I mean in the court papers, with your inclinations. You’re not a wife to me and I’ve lived with you despising me for too long. So you will settle five hundred thousand dollars on me and we’ll split custody of Van. This is going to be a very civil divorce.”

  “You signed a prenuptial agreement.” She reminded him.

  “That’s entirely up to you.”

  “So”—she put on her robe—“you and Lally seem to have thought about everything. Including blackmail.”

  “It’s not Lally, it’s because you deceived me.”

  “Now I truly know that most people would do anything for money.”

  “And you would do anything for your image.” He paused. “Look, Lally and I are just cut from the same cloth.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you weren’t brought up in our world. There’s a kind of code.”

  “You think you’re both better than me?”

  “I didn’t say that. But don’t think I don’t know you enjoyed being Mrs. Van Wyke.”

  “Fuck you and your old-money name.”

  “You know what, Constance? You’re just a climber. No better than Josephine Herz.”

  Constance walked over and slapped him in the face. Van hardly flinched.

  “At least she has sex appeal.” He was finally loud. “And do you know what? I hear she’s dating this Prince Orlove. She even found a better name than you did.”

  “Get out!” she shouted. “Go to your dyke.” She picked up her glass filled with Lillet and threw it at him. It grazed his head and hit the sink and shattered into a galaxy of pieces.

  “I have copies of James’s arrests to make the case it runs in the family. Just agree to the divorce settlement.”

  “You’d never do it.” She gave an unconvincing laugh.

  “You’ve made a fool out of me all these years. I doubted myself, thought it was me. Maybe I was too ugly, too stupid, too worthless. And I finally found out you just prefer women. Don’t think I’m not angry about it, and don’t think I won’t go straight to the press for a half a million dollars. You’ll never be able to step foot in Locust Valley or Palm Beach again. And as for the Gardiner Girls…” He gave his parting shot. “How would they feel?”

  Constance felt icy. She just stood there with nothing left to say. Finally, the man she thought so little of had beaten her at her own game. She was furious, and yet for the first time—she hated to admit it—s
he was impressed.

  42

  LAVENDER DOORS

  New York City, 1941

  The country was in collective shock at the invasion of Pearl Harbor. The surprise attack by the Japanese to destroy the Pacific fleet had caused so much loss of young life and unleashed a patriotic fervor that had immediately pulled the United States into what had been previously marketed as an unwanted war. Constance was dismayed, for she had been a proud, card-carrying member of the America First Committee, which was the largest noninterventionist group and whose most famous member, Charles Lindbergh, had been accused of fascist and anti-Semitic leanings. Like many of the members, she not only believed in the isolationist platform, but also knew it had been a convenient and not-so-subtle way for her to criticize outsiders—people like Josephine Herz—and to delegitimize them as warmongers and ungrateful immigrants. Just the way that Chanel, in the same year, would try to take advantage of the new anti-Semitic legislation in Paris and wrest control of her perfume business from her Jewish partners. After the surprise attack, when national pride and patriotism had galvanized, Constance and her friends had to revise their narrative. She was mortified that she had chosen the wrong side. She never liked to bet on the loser.

  Down on Fifth Avenue, in her sumptuous and feminine lavender bedroom, Josephine was in shock. Pearl Harbor had brought the world and the Axis powers home, and like most other Americans, she was now gearing up for the Second World War. It did not escape her that what was at stake was not only democracy but her future—and that of her eleven-year-old son. Only a week earlier Felix had presented her with the news that her avenue Montaigne Paris salon had been requisitioned by the Nazis and stripped of all its products, which had been sent back to Germany for the officers’ wives. They subsequently turned the limestone mansion into a French branch of the Luftwaffe. As an American citizen and a Jewess, she had no legal recourse now that the United States had entered the war. They had made much of it in Nazi propaganda PR that Jewish-owned Herz Beauty was now under their control. Would London be next? She actually felt sick to her stomach as she thought of how much time, money, and work had gone into the Paris salon. It was also ironic that the Nazi Party wives couldn’t get enough of Parfum Empress Josephine and her sought-after slim and chic gold compacts and lipstick cases. It was even more ironic that her top-selling Chinois Rouge was the color of choice for top Nazi wives. And then to add insult to injury, just a few days before Pearl Harbor, her nemesis, Constance Gardiner, had planned her own more subtle attack, opening three Lavender Door Salons in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles, lifting her color scheme the way Josephine had with Lashmatic. Checkmate. Josephine was angry but impressed nevertheless. All of it had thrown her into a depressing tailspin when she should have been on top of the world. Josephine knew that Gardiner had stolen her idea, but she had also created a low-cost, mass-market version of it … which she knew would be successful, especially in cash-strapped wartime. She predicted that her own high-end salons would suffer. Everything, it seemed, besides her young prince put her in a foul and sour mood.

  While the outside world was going mad, Josephine’s inner sanctum, her bedroom and boudoir, was a cloistered hideaway of silk, satin, and down. It was designed to reflect the ultimate in femininity, offering a tactile, relaxed, and intimate sensuality. Josephine knew a great deal about lighting, and the soft golden glow showed her to her best advantage. Usually she was relaxed after sex, but tonight she was on edge.

  “What is it, Josephine?” Alexei stroked her cascading hair.

  “I’ve had a difficult week. Here, let me massage your neck.” She reached over and kneaded his taut, sculpted shoulders.

  “No, let me do that for you. You’re the one who had a hard week.” He moved to the edge of the bed and started massaging her foot, and Josephine fell into a state of bliss. No one had ever connected with her this way before, knowing exactly which spots to touch. It was as if he had a psychic sense of what she needed. Alexei then curled up next to her in bed and kissed her neck, tasting her skin in a sensual way. Josephine looked intently at him and marveled at her gorgeous young boyfriend. He was an incredible specimen of manhood. A six-foot-four Adonis, he was perfectly muscled without an ounce of fat. Every appendage was beautiful, from his lovely, well-proportioned ears to his smooth, hairless feet. Not to mention the lush dark lashes that never ceased to amaze her. Although nudity had been offensive to her in the past, his was not: it was artful. He was a well-endowed version of the statue of David. That was it. She had the Florentine statue of David come to life in her bed. Not to mention he was sweet, and kind, and, best of all, made her feel beautiful.

  The chemistry and frisson between Josephine and Alexei had been both inevitable and volcanic. It had erupted after their first dinner at the Russian Tea Room, which had been founded by members of the Russian Imperial Ballet in 1927. It was the perfect first date, as Josephine’s Slavic features were highlighted by the opulent decor and Alexei proved to be a courtly gentleman. He held the door, took her sable coat and checked it, pulled out her chair, and ordered for her. He seemed to be able to read her mind.

  “We may be at opposite ends … but we meet in the middle at borscht,” Josephine joked of their commonalities. He laughed at all her jokes and mannerisms, and she could see as his eyes sparkled that he was thoroughly entranced by her. After he ordered for her—chicken Kiev (“Of course, how did you know that’s what I wanted?”)—he leaned over and gently kissed her by candlelight. She felt both an electricity and a comfort she had never felt with any man. It was almost as if they were twinned and separated and then brought back together again. At the end of the meal he had insisted on paying for dinner. He didn’t tell her it was more than he could afford. She knew it, though, and was touched, but he wouldn’t accept a sou from her. She would later find out he had borrowed money to take her out and had paid it back weekly with his earnings as a draftsman and illustrator. After dinner, when he dropped her off at her apartment, she invited him in, and in a most natural way they came together, as if destiny had split them and then brought them together when they needed each other most. They celebrated their spiritual reintroduction by making slow, passionate love. Usually in a rush and most always in control, for the first time in her life, Josephine allowed a man to take the lead, let herself slow down and enjoy real pleasure. True, she had participated in the sexual act many times, but she’d never actually made love before. It was a different experience to be touched with love and reverence. Afterward, Josephine would open up as she never had before about her issues, hopes, and dreams, and Alexei hung on every word, thrilled to be in her orbit.

  “This woman, my competitor…” Josephine pulled the silk sheets to her chin. “We are locked, have been locked, in a war, a competition. Sometimes I best her, and she just bested me.” Her pale skin flushed and grew dewy with a slight sheen of perspiration as she explained the situation. “She stole my idea and made it better and less expensive for her customer.”

  “And as you said, you’ve done the same to her?”

  “Of course, but I am not a good loser.”

  He shrugged. “I think you need each other.”

  “That’s so smart of you, I often say that.” She marveled and kissed him gently.

  “I think you should look at the situation differently.”

  “How so?”

  “View her less as an enemy and more as a friend … she is giving to you, making you better.”

  “You’re more mature than I am. It’s hard, but I understand.”

  He rose from the bed and stretched skyward. He could have been an Olympic athlete, a discus thrower. How did someone get so genetically lucky? Josephine thought.

  “Where are you going?” She didn’t want their reverie to end. To her dismay, he put on his robe, obscuring his magnificent body.

  “It’s Sunday. I have to get the drawings done for the new puff powder line,” he said earnestly. Alexei was a talented artist and illustrator, and Josephine ha
d introduced him to the head of the art department to help with packaging. At first the existing team had rolled their eyes at the thought, but within days they were all impressed by his incredible talent and work ethic. Josephine always knew how to pick a winner.

  “Don’t go yet.” She reached over.

  “I’m new on the job, Josephine, and I don’t want to be late with my drawings. Everyone is presenting ideas for the packaging and naming tomorrow. I want my ideas to win. It’s important to me.” His eyes had a pleading quality.

  “So what do you have? Show me and I will help you,” she said like an eager child at the hint of chocolate, raising herself on her elbow.

  “Absolutely not. I will do it on my own and then I will show you. After the meeting.”

  “I understand.” She nodded enthusiastically. “That’s one of the reasons I adore you. You have pride. You don’t take, you give, unlike the other men I have known.” She looked at him with astonishment.

  “I don’t want just to be your boyfriend. I am grateful for the work. I want you to be proud of me.” He looked at her, his eyes welling up.

  “But of course I am proud of you,” she said. “I will give you a raise to prove it.”

  “Please don’t.” He looked at her, his eyes silently pleading. “I don’t want a raise. Not from you.”

  Josephine couldn’t quite fathom a man who didn’t want an open checkbook from her.

  “The job introduction was more than enough. I want to work hard and succeed on my own merits,” he said matter-of-factly. “I want you to know your money is your money and my money is your money.”

  “What?” She looked at him wide-eyed. “Where did you hear that?”