“Out with it, dear brother.” She slid next to him, searching her evening bag for a cigarette as the driver closed the car door.
“Well, it’s all over the news. I don’t suppose you’ve heard yet?”
“Heard what? Enough of this suspense.”
“Her prince died.” There, he had said it.
“Who died? Which prince are you talking about? This island is filled with them, real and fake.”
“Orlove, the dreamy one. He was in Chicago for the launch of his perfume and he apparently died of a heart attack. It seems, from what I read, he had rheumatic fever as a child and he caught a strep or some such thing and then it turned into something more serious. And he just … well, expired.”
“That can’t be! We were just talking or joking about them this morning.” She was visibly stunned. It didn’t seem quite real and brought back thoughts of Marilyn.
“For shame, my dear sister. I hope you didn’t wish him ill.” He shook his head at her, knowing her sharp tongue.
“No, quite the opposite. I hope you don’t think I’m happy about this.”
“You’re not?”
“I know what it’s like to lose someone.…” She had been a bit more verbal with James than usual about Marilyn, since it was an open secret that they had been together.
“You mean someone you loved?” He surveyed a crack in the ice queen.
“You could say that, or quite liked. I can only imagine what she is going through.”
“You know what is truly crazy?” James rolled down the back window and blew the ghostly grey smoke into the humid air.
“What’s that?” she said, sitting straight forward in stony silence.
“The two of you always seem to do things in pairs.”
51
FACE-OFF
New York City, 1950
It was Josephine’s fiftieth birthday, and while she did not feel like celebrating this marker with a large party, or really celebrating at all, she decided to take Miles to Le Pavillon, Henri Soulé’s acclaimed French restaurant on East Fifty-fifth Street. Miles had been in town on Christmas break from the University of Pennsylvania. At twenty, he had grown into a nice-looking, fair-haired young man, but he had a certain weakness of character and ambition that reminded Josephine of his father and which she had tried hard to accept. Still, she loved her son and was excited to dine with him and catch up as Henri himself led Josephine and Miles to one of the best up-front and center tables, a strategically located banquette that highlighted the evening’s Who’s Who list as everyone else, i.e., the masses, were shepherded to the bar or main dining room. Henri’s seating philosophy was simple: the rich and famous were in first class, the general population in second, and the riffraff traveled steerage at the bar and Siberian hinterlands of the main dining room. Henri mentioned he was happy to see his “princess out again,” as Josephine had become something of a shut-in after Alexei’s death, going only to work and then home. There were no more festive Thursday evening salons or nights out on the town for dinner. The last two years had been something of a somber blur. It had all seemed so surreal, and she was still only just emerging from the fog. Loss wasn’t something Josephine was good at, but Alexei’s death had been so swift and so painful she felt as if a limb had been cut off, and she was now something of an emotional amputee. She often thought back to that day when Alexei had called her from his hotel room, chilled and coughing. Chicago had had a record low temperature, and he had worked so late into the evening meeting and accommodating the customers and the press. The launch at their North Michigan Avenue flagship salon had record amounts of people. He had gone outside in the cold in his tuxedo and medals, without his coat, to take a quick photo in front of the store for press purposes. The next day he had woken up with a sore throat and a cough, and Josephine had urged him to go to the doctor, which he had not done since he hadn’t wanted to cancel his early-morning press meetings with the Chicago Daily Tribune. The Midwest had gone mad for the handsome young prince, and women turned out in droves to buy Princess Orlove, cleaning out the entire stock in a matter of hours. He was so proud and happy and excited at the prospect of a commercial success and meeting his actual customers. And then within the next two days he was diagnosed with strep after a visit to the emergency room. He called Josephine from his room and reassured her he was fine and told her he loved her. Within twenty-four hours, he was pronounced dead since the strep infection affected his heart, which was already weakened from his childhood malady. Josephine was in the office when she received the phone call. She had screamed, a single, anguished, piercing scream with the word “No!” Everyone who heard knew. Josephine wept uncontrollably and took to her bed for three days without being able to rise. She was so overcome with grief, she was barely able to stand at the funeral and fainted a number of times. There was so much crying and hand-wringing at the funeral at the Russian Orthodox church on Ninety-seventh Street that the papers reported there hadn’t been this much hysteria since the death of the czar’s family. And then it was all a monotonous and horrendous blur, with the hours and days and weeks going by, rote and grey. Continuous yet unfulfilling.
Josephine would later write in her memoir that her business literally saved her. And with Miles off at school, she was even more alone. Tonight, she felt a tiny bit better sitting at the best table at the celebrated French restaurant in the city in black silk and diamonds, fussed over by the staff, who brought them each a glass of champagne before the menus. She was overcome that Miles had been so thoughtful as to buy her a diamond star pin from Tiffany’s. “Because you always shine,” he had written in neat script on the card. She was so touched and in a rare moment gave him a warm kiss. She reached out tenderly for his hand and looked into his beautiful blue eyes. How had he grown up so quickly? It seemed like only yesterday she had given birth to him in London. She surveyed him, trying to be objective. He was lovely, smart, handsome, and well mannered, and she did love him. Then she also saw the weakness, his lack of drive. He has a weak chin, like his father. The good-for-nothing. Yet, tonight she would try to minimize the negatives and accentuate the positives, as a woman did when making up her face. She would apply her own philosophy to her son. Across the room she nodded to a few captains of industry and society ladies, all of whom nodded back or spoke in hushed, reverent tones laced now with respect. And in the nether regions of Siberia in the main room and bar, tourists and the unknown whispered and pointed at the woman they had seen in magazine ads. “There’s Josephine Herz, Princess Orlove, poor thing.” They all nodded. Those in the know were also happy to see her out among the living.
Suddenly, heads turned and a tall blond woman in a chic navy, tailored Chanel suit entered the restaurant, blowing in on a gust of frozen air to fanfare among the staff, with a young man in his teens in tow. The hatcheck girl took her sable from her in a swift, singular movement that suggested she was an important regular. It took Josephine only seconds to realize the glamorous blonde was her. She hadn’t so much aged as ossified into a more handsome version of herself. “Mrs. Gardiner-Wyke, so wonderful to see you. And who is this handsome young man?” They fussed and scraped as they brought them to a burgundy banquette directly opposite Josephine’s table. Such perfect symmetry. Both front and center, seated in positions of power. How fitting, Josephine thought. She looked once briefly and noticed the reaction in her eyes, as well, when she saw her and knew she was in the room. The frozen look of disappointment and awkwardness and then the forced smile. Josephine knew that the blond boy was her son, her adopted son. She knew everything from CeeCee. They avoided eye contact, although each tensed at knowing the other was there. Sharing the same space, jealous at inhaling the same air. Being served by the same staff, wondering who had better service, the better table, the better soufflé. Whose was higher and laden with more fromage? Whose was more golden, more delicious? Then they noticed there were heads turning and subtle whispers, their feud having reached legendary status. Now that they were old
er, richer, their reputations secure, what would happen? Everything or nothing? The room let out a collective sigh after Constance and Van Jr. were seated. That was Henri’s genius. He knew how to make everyone feel special in the same room, even bitter rivals. Yet those who were dining that night knew they were witnessing something special. The two richest, most famous businesswomen in the world, who couldn’t, wouldn’t, publicly acknowledge each other. As the evening progressed, patrons started to leave; some went over to one table and then the other to bid them good night, others offered a slight smile and wave. The main room and bar emptied after the chocolate mousse and the coffee and tea. Neither would be the first to leave or make a move. Suddenly, Miles reached over and whispered something to his mother after checking his gold Patek twice. He had a train to catch to Philadelphia. He had an early-morning exam. “Go, darling. I understand you have an exam,” Josephine proclaimed for effect. She looked up and kissed him, thanking him for the star pin, which she had proudly affixed to her dress. He stood and kissed her and she tousled his silky hair.
“Happy birthday, Mother. I will see you next weekend.” He blew her a kiss as he left the main dining room. She now sat alone as the maître d’ brought over another complimentary glass of champagne. It had been a lovely evening despite her being in the room. Still, she was not giving in.
Suddenly, she noticed the young man across the room was also getting up. She felt a reprieve. He must have had a game, an exam, or a date. He gave his mother a somewhat frosty, perfunctory kiss on the cheek. She noticed he was also well mannered and looked the part of the perfect prep. And then after he departed, she saw her out of the corner of her eye in a blond haze. The maître d’ brought her over a glass of champagne as well. “Compliments of Monsieur Soulé, madame,” she overheard him say. They sat in the empty front room. Both withdrew their compacts: Josephine’s was round, slim, and gold, and Constance’s was square and platinum. They checked their makeup, first lipstick, then eye shadow, mascara, and rouge. Both were satisfied when they returned their artillery to their bags. They looked around at the details, at the gilded moldings and opulent flower arrangements being subtly refreshed. They were the only ones left now, after the attentions of the staff, the rich, the powerful, and the social. Both reached out to the glass of golden bubbly liquid before them. And as happened many times in their lives, each raised her glass at exactly the same time, and before taking a sip, each looked at the other, for the first time directly, squarely, in the eye. And then, with the most subtle and graceful gesture, each slightly raised her flute, Josephine’s cabochon emerald and Constance’s diamond ring glittering, and each … toasted the other.
EPILOGUE
Palm Beach, 1993
Palm Beach days can be lovely, languorous, yet also monotonous. Seeing perfection day after day can wear on one’s nerves: the waving royal palms, bright, glaring sun against the white, yellow, or salmon stucco, and perfectly manicured hedgerows can prove downright depressing. Not to mention the slowest traffic lights and drivers on the planet. Can anything be more maddening than following an eighty-five-year-old coiffed blonde in a dinged lemon Corniche on South Ocean Boulevard going ten miles an hour? Such things can drive one to drink, but I try to look at the glass half-full, as it only enhances my martini schedule. Three o’clock is the new five o’clock. Bien sûr.
There are worse places, though. Winter banishment has one escaping icy, slushy February mornings in New York, as Charlene constantly points out in her singsong voice. I, of course, have been on the family’s travel schedule for a few years now—New York, Southampton, Palm Beach, and in the summer … Cap d’Antibes. When all things are taken into consideration, it ain’t too shabby, as we used to say in the bayou.
After Madame’s unfortunate demise, I looked in the mirror and saw a drawn, weary, and empty face before me and right then and there decided on something I had never done before: to take a three-month vacation to Bali, Thailand, and Singapore. Accompanying me was a younger, sometime underwear model and trainer also named Bobby, whose body was a ten and IQ was a one. I must say that there is nothing more annoying than two “bachelors” with the same name traveling together. Bobby and Bobby. Or “the two Bobbies,” as we were referred to by a catty few in my set. Is anything more horrendous? I ask you. I put up with it, of course, because of his obvious charms, until Bobby found a younger and richer partner in Phuket (at the pool, where else) and left yours truly high and dry. The king without the “I.” I found myself listless, depressed, and bingeing on pad thai when I received a fax from Miles. It went something like this:
Dear Bobby and Bobby,
Greetings from Palm Beach. We all hope you are enjoying Thailand and having the vacation you needed and deserve. I have hesitated reaching out to you for some time, lest I disturb your idyll, but to quote Josephine, “A vacation is only WORKING (VORKING) in a nicer location.”
So in Mother’s spirit and knowing how much you loved her, we are pleading with you to return stateside, to help us and the legal team prepare for the upcoming trial. Our high-priced lawyers do not think that Constance has a case, but I don’t trust the wily old fox and don’t know what she has up her ermine sleeve. If you would consider cutting your trip short, the board is prepared to triple your salary and I would, personally, as a token of my appreciation for your service and dedication to our family, gift you the van Dongen portrait of Josephine, which is being returned from the exhibit at the Jewish Museum. You always told me you loved it as it exemplified her unique profile, and I know she would have wanted you to have it. Not to mention, helping us beat the evil Constance is something Josephine would have cared deeply about. But you know that better than anyone. Just say the word and there is a first-class ticket waiting for you.
Until then.
Yours truly,
Miles
Of course, my decision took less time than saying “Thea hir shrab kar nwd?” (How much for massage?) before I made my way to Thai Airways’ first-class lounge and sped home to New York.
Strangely, despite all the drama and fuss, Constance’s case never actually got to trial, as she herself expired from uterine cancer three months before the depositions. Her legal team all but admitted she had no case and was just doing it for show, her legacy, and, more important, spending her money to make everyone miserable. Her son, the dolt, Van Gardiner-Wyke Jr., was too busy chasing skirt in Saint-Tropez to care and the case was dropped before you could say “lawyers’ fees.” The legal system is clearly broken when crazy old dykes like Constance Gardiner can sue people just for sport. That said, before it fizzled out, I actually had a bit of a rollicking time. I had pressed Miles to let me fly to L.A. to visit with the now legendary CeeCee, who was living in a Pacific Palisades aerie with Layla, her daughter by Mickey, who was living close by. Her granddaughter Lonnie is now an up-and-coming model and actress.
CeeCee, who as she has aged resembled the actress Diahann Carroll, welcomed me into her sun-filled oasis and was more than happy to give us the gory details about her relationship with Constance.
“The woman was a mean wretch. She was still beautiful in her mid-thirties when she came after me. Today it would all be considered sexual harassment, but what was a poor, young mulatto girl like me to do back then? I just saw the attention as a way out of poverty and obscurity. I was also a bit of a wild thing and she couldn’t get enough of my cooch.” She laughed in a throaty way. “She had a custom-made dildo strap-on in pastel pink,” she revealed without any embarrassment.
“I do know that she was working on a mascara product around the same time as Josephine,” she offered.
“How did you know?” I pressed her.
“Because it was my idea. She stole it from me. That was Constance for you. And she actually thought it was hers or actually believed it was her idea. That said, those two old gals were always launching the same product. It’s like two movies coming out at the same time in Hollywood. Now if you really want to talk about crazy, being with Mickey
was like being with the Rat Pack. It was twenty-four hours of sex, martinis, and gambling. And all he would do was just sit back and rip off ‘what the old broads were doing.’ I would tell him what was in the pipeline when I could and he would just laugh and make it in Asia for half the price. It was all a rip-off shell game. Mickey is fun. And not many people knew for years that Layla was Mickey’s. How things have changed. Now my granddaughter Lonnie is an ‘It’ girl. Black, white, and Jewish, and she’s an actress and socialite! I just love it. Niles, her brother, is taking over the business. Queen CeeCee will never be as big as Herz Beauty, but we’re a solid top ten, own our market, and are preparing to go public! Look, we all have to kiss ass and more to get to the top.” She laughed huskily again. All in all, CeeCee had one thing Josephine and Constance never had—a fabulous sense of humor! As she walked me to my car she gave me a kiss and said, “I want you to be the first to know. After all these years, Mickey and I are getting married.”
“Married?” I was a bit shocked but congratulated her. “Good luck!”
“I’ll need it!” She laughed. I laughed. It was a wonderful present.
And it was all so juicy that it was worth the trip for that alone.
Once the case was dropped, Miles soon passed away from bladder cancer. Miles was always very nice, but to quote Josephine, he was “a bit of a nebbish.” She couldn’t abide weakness from anyone in any way, and their relationship was always strained, although he inherited.
The scene, of course, is classic Josephine and imprinted in my mind: her sitting on a Louis XIV settee in a ball gown, smoking her Larks and watching Lawrence Welk on the television.
“I just luff that Cissy and Bobby dance team.” She blew perfect blue smoke rings in the air. “So much talent for such people. I always vanted to dance but had two left feet,” she complained bitterly. And then she would become wistful, adjusting her diamond Riviera necklace. Was it my imagination or was she wearing her tiara? Perhaps.
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