“As a matter of fact, I do.” Constance puffed on her cigarette. “I don’t like liars.”
“And you? Miss Palm Beach with your marriage blanche and your adopted Aryan son whom you never see. You think you’re truthful?”
“I’ll have a whiskey, too,” she called out to the passing bartender.
“Trouble with the truth?”
“We don’t have conversations like this”—she gulped—“in Canada.”
“And you think you’re really that much different? Miss dyed-blond, the carpet doesn’t match the drapes, Miss Gardiner with an i and not an e. Give me a break. You wanted Palm Beach and Locust Valley and you got it. All with the cleverly inserted and aristocratic i. And I wanted to be taken seriously and work in L.A. Do you think I would have been nominated for an Academy Award for The Gentle Path if it was written by Miriam Goldstein and not M. Rollins? Do you?” She raised her voice.
“How did you know?” Constance nursed her drink.
“Well, it’s not too hard to see you’re a brunette when I’m down there, lovie.…”
“No. My name.”
“Oh, everyone knows and talks. It’s all your brother James’s boyfriend can talk about to the chorus boys.… It’s a small world, Constance. And just because your transformation was, let’s just say … ‘more subtle’ doesn’t mean you didn’t do it for the same reasons I had a nose job and a name change. Right? G-a-r-d-i-n-e-r?”
Constance was silent.
“Right?” Marilyn pressed her.
“Right. Touché. You won. Does that make you feel better, Miss Goldstone?”
“Goldstein.” She laughed out loud. They both did.
They both sat silent in their revelations and raw truth.
“Look,” Marilyn started as she ordered another Jameson, “despite our differences … I wanted you to know I love your mind and your body. It’s very endearing, dearie.” She dragged on her ciggie. “But you can’t handle the truth.”
“Maybe I can’t.” Constance took a puff of her own cigarette. “I’ll have you know … I have feelings too!”
Marilyn burst out laughing and blocked out the word with her hands again. “News flash … the great Constance Gardiner has”—she imitated the dramatic Tallulah Bankhead and spread her arms in a grand Broadway gesture—“feelings!”
“Of course you would laugh, but I do.”
“Well, feelings seem to be in short supply between Park and Fifth Avenue these days.”
“That’s because you hate it and have never lived there. Look—” Constance reached into her purse and withdrew an envelope that was thick with cash.
“What is this, hush money?” Marilyn laughed again.
“It’s money to help my friend Miriam Goldstein through a difficult period. Take it, you’re going to need it.”
“It’s also a goodbye, isn’t it.”
Constance just looked down.
“Isn’t it? Just say the truth out loud for once, you damned cunt.”
“Yes—” She raised her voice. “It’s goodbye because you are stubborn and brilliant and would never, could never, change.”
“Change my stripes?… Reds, Communists, Jews, Marxists, leftists, lesbians, the media elite,” she hissed, and threw the envelope back at her. “I understand. It’s a witch hunt and they are coming after the coven.”
“It’s not my world. I have to leave.” Her eyes welled up with tears.
“Oh. A new product meeting. Under-eye cover-up, perhaps?”
“I have to go.” Constance stood. “Here, take this.” She threw the envelope at her.
“Keep it! I’ll only donate it to the … Bolsheviks!” she said, cackling. Constance just stood there and shook her head.
“Before you go … I have just have one question.” Marilyn downed her third whiskey.
“Yes, go on.”
“Go on? I’m not an employee … will you for once in your perfectly arranged life be truthful? Just once? Can you manage that?”
“Yes. Yes, I can.” She tried to rise to the occasion.
“Did the cool, blond goddess Constance Gardiner with the i ever have feelings for Miriam Goldstein, real feelings for the caustic, the cutting, the red Marilyn Rollins? When we were in bed together, was it just sex or did you ever have real feelings for me? Real intimate, intense feelings for me the way I had them for you? Loving and passionate feelings. The kind that don’t happen often but are based in the physical and the intellectual. Like when we made love and laughed together and you told me all about your stupid product launches and I pretended to be interested in rouge—” She suddenly emitted a lone sob and crushed her cigarette into the ashtray. “I … I just need to know. If it was … real like I thought it was, or was I just a damn stupid fool about everything in my life?”
Constance hesitated and then said with a slow gait, “You may find this hard to believe, Miriam Goldstein, but I love you. I loved you. I will always love you.” She looked down and stood up. “I just don’t like you … who you are.”
And then among the abstract expressionists, they kissed in the most tender fashion. When they broke apart, Marilyn handed back the envelope as Constance shook her head and in her organized fashion put it back in her shiny black crocodile Hermès purse. Constance and her mink fled the bar reeling, trying to process it all; the pieces were clear, but none of it made sense to her. Over the next two weeks, she picked up the phone during the day or in the middle of the night to call Marilyn a dozen times, wanting to hear her voice, her acerbic remarks, and tell her everything was going to be okay, to reassure her, but each time fear stood in her way and she couldn’t bring herself to dial the numbers. She didn’t want to be, couldn’t be, publicly associated with a lefty lesbian, she kept telling herself. There was no place for her despite her feelings.
It was a clear Tuesday morning and she arrived earlier than usual to prepare for an architects’ meeting for the new Lavender Door Salon she was planning in Detroit. She always read the business section of The New York Times first and then read the first section as she sipped her tea. She liked and felt comforted by her morning routine, always the same. Today would be different. She picked up the Times and something searing caught her eye: NOTED SCREENWRITER DEAD DAY OF UN-AMERICAN HEARING. Her mind could not process what she was reading: “Marilyn Rollins, the distinguished Academy Award–nominated screenwriter of eighteen movies and five Broadway plays, born Miriam Goldstein from the Bronx, was found dead the day of her scheduled appearance in Washington before the House Un-American Activities Committee. She committed suicide by throwing herself in front of an oncoming subway train.” The color drained from her face, and for the first time in years, Constance Gardiner wept.
Weeks later, she heard from the chorus boys who heard it from the gay coroner that when they found her on the tracks, she looked like an angel. She was wearing a lovely chiffon dress and was perfectly made up, with lipstick, eyeliner, and rouge. The perfect lady.
50
OUR LOVE
New York City/Palm Beach, 1948
The weather was as clear and brisk as her business decisions. Josephine was like a general approving a battle plan, firm and resolute. She was going to launch “Our Love by Princess Orlove” and Alexei was going to receive all the profits from the sales. She woke up one morning in her new mauve satin-sheathed bedroom and had had a dream where Alexei was spritzing the new fragrance on a white-veined marble statue of Aphrodite and vivid green dollar bills were falling from trees. That sign was enough for her. Since meeting him, she had always wanted him to become wealthy and secure in his own right, and since he wouldn’t take any money from her directly, this appeared to be the perfect solution. Especially since it was his family name. He actually quite liked the concept when she initially floated the idea but was a bit hesitant at first at using his title for commercial purposes. He also felt it would open them up to criticism as a couple that she had married him for the title. Josephine’s eyes instantly became grey and stormy
, and she wagged her finger at him. “If I cared about what people thought about me, I’d still be in Melbourne working for my uncle, the bastard.” She paused. “And I will make it very clear in the press that you, my dear husband, you own the brand, not me.” And to cement the idea, Josephine cleverly invited an old friend to one of her Thursday evening salons at the apartment: Norina Matchabelli, the Georgian princess who, with her ex-husband, had founded the successful Prince Matchabelli perfume brand in the late 1920s. Alexei was convinced after meeting the elegant and regal princess and realizing that the commercial venture had only enhanced her life and reputation. He also knew that once she made up her mind, Josephine would not take no for an answer. She soon had Felix draft a legal document establishing that Alexei would own the brand and the trademark, and only in the event of his demise, and if they did not have children, would it revert to the Herz parent company. It would be his brand to design, market, and profit from and Herz would fund, manufacture, and distribute the line.
On the morning of their anniversary, Alexei woke up early and made Josephine breakfast in bed—pancakes in the shape of hearts—which he brought up on a silver tray after they had made passionate love. Josephine was giddy as she insisted on blindfolding him to give him her surprise gift.
“It’s my present to you, my handsome prince,” she said as the elevator man took them both down to the lobby and she led him out to the curb. She gingerly removed the blindfold and he literally fell to the sidewalk, speechless. She knew he would be reluctant to accept the Maserati A6 1500 Pininfarina she had shipped over from Europe and made it clear to him that “I can’t take it back … there are no returns on this one … so enjoy.” It sat parked in front of the building like a silver UFO with a huge red bow. He couldn’t get over the triumph of form and design; it was like nothing he could ever have imagined owning. He accepted it graciously and then, since he was so overcome with emotion, he kissed and hugged her and presented her with her own gift, which he had hidden in his pocket. He beamed at his beautiful and successful wife as she teared up at the sight of the navy velvet jewel box. He had had his friend Fulco di Verdura fashion a special ring that featured his own design for the forthcoming perfume. The Duke of Verdura had successfully translated the rendering he created—of a crown from the Orlove family crest over a ruby heart—and the design would soon appear on all the perfume bottles and be an embossed feature on the thick cream paper box that housed it.
Our Love by Princess Orlove would start with a line of color cosmetics. Beautiful shades inspired by Russian and European royal portraits in the Met Gallery. “Czarina” would be the name of their leading seller, featuring a royal red taken from a portrait of Catherine the Great. Alexei enjoyed the design process the most and spent weeks at his drawing table perfecting the right bottle for their fragrance called “Princess Orlove.” Josephine was stunned by his gift and how beautiful and commercial the perfume would be. She even knew deep down that Princess Orlove would be a far greater success than Parfum Empress Josephine. The actual fragrance—a mix of iris, vanilla, sandalwood, jasmine, and orange blossom—was also unique and modern. It had a clean, fresh finish and was so delicious it prompted someone to kiss and “taste” the person wearing it. It was exactly how Josephine felt about her handsome young husband.
They both worked feverishly over the next few months, and Our Love by Princess Orlove cosmetics was presented to the public on the Sunday before Christmas at the Herz Beauty flagship salon on Fifth Avenue. The Russian imperial–themed opening was a huge press event with a Who’s Who guest list filled with celebrities and visiting socialites. The pièce de résistance occurred when Josephine and Alexei were dropped off in front of the red carpet by an imperial horse-drawn carriage. Prince Orlove sported his great-grandfather’s medals on his notched grosgrain tuxedo lapel and Josephine was in a gold lace Empire-style gown and the former empress Josephine’s old mine diamond tiara, which she had acquired in a feverish bidding war at auction after the first profits of Lashmatic had come rolling in. A thousand people gathered outside the salon to watch the procession and the celebrities and socialites on the red carpet. That month, Town & Country wrote, “Princess Orlove is the crowning achievement for Herz Beauty,” and The New York Times wrote that “Princess Orlove herself, the cosmetics titan Josephine Herz, is the P. T. Barnum of the cosmetics business. Every launch has unique interest and commercial fanfare.” The perfume was sold out within hours, and a waiting list was created for her most important vendors. The only thorn in Josephine’s side was that she could accompany Alexei on only five of the ten-city PR tours. They had never been apart from the early days of their meeting, but she had three other important appearances scheduled by her advertising and public relations firm related to the launch of the newly developed waterproof Lashmatic mascara made from ingredients including beeswax. Before he left for the airport, they kissed and made passionate love and then parted for their individual and highly scheduled travel appointments.
Farther down south during Christmas vacation in Palm Beach, Constance was keeping tabs on the Princess Orlove launch over lunch in the loggia overlooking the pool.
“That woman would turn her dead mother into a perfume if she thought she could sell it.… I have it!” She paused dramatically to the group of socialites and old-money heirs who had come for an alfresco lunch. “The name of her next perfume launch is”—she hand-blocked the word—“Babushka!” The crowd roared.
Princess Paley spoke up. “Well, dahling, I have to disagree. Alexei, whom I know quite well, told me she gifted the perfume to him. So he owns it entirely,” she said, defending her friend.
“I must agree.” August Wheeler, the rubber-tire heir, inhaled his cigarette. “You know, broke princes still need to make a living apart from their … services,” he said gleefully.
“Who even knows if it’s a real title? From what I hear, if you own three sheep in Georgia, you’re a prince.”
Another socialite added, “Although he is quite attractive.”
“Now, now, my dear friends. I am married to a White Russian,” Princess Paley stated. “And Prince Orlove’s grandmother was a cousin of the czar. It’s not a phony title. And one cannot overlook the fact that Alexei Orlove is one of the handsomest men of his generation.”
“Traitor!” Constance laughed. “You know I’m just having some fun at that woman’s expense. She is quite clever; you know how they are.” She suddenly caught herself, thinking her words a bit too tart. “Although you know it is quite terrible what happened during the war,” she added to make herself appear more sympathetic. Public sentiment was now changing because of the horrors of the death camp reports that appeared in newspapers daily.
“Oh, look”—she changed the subject quickly—“the boys!” She was trying to play the part of the involved and doting mother and pointed out the group of boys coming in from an afternoon swim. She was hosting Van Jr. for a few days from boarding school with his friends and they were all tall, lean, and tan, all sporting the nonchalance and confidence of the rich and privileged. Since the divorce and Marilyn’s death, Constance had mellowed slightly. She knew she was tightly wound and sensed she needed to embrace a more tolerant approach. She even tried a bit harder to be closer to Van Jr.; they both knew it was a bit forced, but he appreciated the effort. He was also grateful she now allowed him to bring friends to the Palm Beach mansion during Christmas and spring break without complaining too much about the disorder and the mess. Indeed, there was more of a sense of normalcy and less loneliness when she awoke to a group of youngsters having breakfast or lunch on the terrace. She sat and had coffee with the group but left promptly to have her hair done. She had accepted a dinner invitation from the Winston Milfords at their storied oceanfront mansion Villa Lysis for the Duke and Duchess of Windsor before they left for France. Although she always found the conversation as dull as the bland lemon sole and baked Alaska, she was honored to be invited, especially as a single woman. She knew it would be the sam
e talk over and over with the duchess—all pugs, couture, and nonsense—and everyone was expected to hang on every word and make a fuss as if she possessed the wit of Oscar Wilde. However, such was the pull of the former king and the woman he abdicated for that it cemented her social status, and she reveled in the fact that she had been invited and not Lally and Van. She relished besting the Seward Oil heiress and the nondescript Wyke. She had something they never had: success and glamour! It was her own social vindication, as she knew the guest list would be published in the Shiny Sheet. The ever-dapper James would accompany her that evening and would pick her up, as he was staying at the newly opened Colony with Gregg in a separate single. There would be no homosexual uncle or his friend on the premises when Van Jr. was in residence for his holiday!
She had chosen her outfit for the dinner with great care: a one-shouldered white chiffon Mainbocher with a cinched waist. She always liked the combination of aquamarine and diamonds, as it set off her blue eyes and blond chignon to best advantage, and with her long white gloves she looked like a Grecian goddess come to life. Herve, her hairdresser, convinced her to be a bit daring and add a fresh gardenia in her hair. She waited in the grand coquina-stone entrance foyer until she heard the crunch of tires on gravel as James’s driver pulled in, and then Gerta, her maid, handed her the mink stole with her usual German efficiency. She knew she looked fabulous and was happy to be among the chosen few who were now part of the Windsor set when they vacationed in Palm Beach. The fascist-friendly royal couple were a social triumph for their island hosts, who were expected to house, feed, and entertain them for the privilege of their company.
“Well…” James looked a bit torpid after five days of nonstop “bachelor” cocktail parties. He rolled his eyes at her. “You look very movie star–ish, my dear sister. I have some news for you, though. I feel terrible saying this, because I do feel a bit awful about it, although you might be doing the Irish jig.”
Rouge Page 27
