Scruples Two

by Judith Krantz

  “You’re working today, kiddo, not playing,” Billy said severely, sitting down next to the hairdresser’s chair.

  Sara looked at her sideways and ground her teeth. Billy’s grim policewoman’s expression reminded her of her own mum’s when she started to practice cutting on her younger sisters. The only thing worse was a mother with a handsome little boy. For the next half hour she put her scissors aside and combed and brushed Gigi’s hair into dozens of different styles. Gigi and Billy watched, mesmerized. Nothing worked.

  “Mrs. Orsini, I’m going to have to cut quite a bit to get anywhere,” Sara said finally. “Cut and thin.”

  “A half-inch at a time, Sara. Just don’t surprise me.”

  “Rightio.” She set to work, as cautiously as a sculptor cutting directly into a precious piece of marble. Gradually Gigi’s neck was revealed, a very white neck that, for all its extreme delicacy of shape, was exactly as strong as it needed to be to form the perfect base for her head. More and more hair fell to the floor and was swept up by an assistant almost as soon as it fell. Repeatedly, Sara partially wet Gigi’s hair and blew it dry to estimate her progress. Basically it was ever-so-slightly wavy hair, she thought, and it wanted urgently to flip upward at the sides. She couldn’t think of anybody who had emerged from Sassoon’s with a flip since the day he went into business for himself and produced the straight, severe, geometric, face-hugging cuts that made his fortune. On the other hand, Vidal was six thousand miles away and horrible, scary Billy Orsini was almost sitting on top of her feet.

  “Mrs. Orsini, the only way to keep this hair out of the young lady’s eyes is to give her bangs. There’s just too much of it to hold back off her face any other way. And it wants to turn up a bit at the sides and back.”

  “That’s what I had in mind,” Billy said, smiling for the first time. “The flapper look. Louise Brooks with a flip.”

  “Louise Brooks?”

  “Before our time. An early movie star who disappeared after a few films. Her hairstyle was famous all over the world.”

  “You don’t say,” Sara mumbled in relief, bending over Gigi now that she had Billy Orsini’s accord. Talk about your control freaks! Her rival, Dusty Fleming, was welcome to her.

  Ten minutes later the haircut was finished. Gigi’s green eyes, under their pointed eyebrows, looked out at the world from a frame of wispy, multilayered bangs that revealed the shape of her oval forehead. When she moved her head quickly her hair moved too, with an enchanting, swaying freedom, and her pointed ears appeared and disappeared. When she held her head still, her hair still looked vitally alive down to the tips of each upward-flipping strand, each hair a tiny, independent arrow that seemed a lighter brown where it caught the light.

  “Wow,” said Gigi in awe. “I look … Wow! There’s no word for it, is there? But better … so much better that I can’t believe it. Oh, thank you, Sara!”

  “It’s my personal best,” said Sara proudly. “Mind if I take a Polaroid? I want to send it to Vidal. Wish I’d thought to do a ‘before’ shot.”

  “Of course not,” Billy said, giving her a fifty-dollar tip. Gigi looked perfect. Her elfin quality was clearly visible now. She wasn’t pretty in any usual, ordinary, average way, but she was deeply intriguing to look at. Or was she just deliciously impish? Elfin, impish? Impen? Elfish? In any case, she was astonishing and undeniably chic, which was something Billy simply hadn’t had the imagination to foresee. Chic at sixteen, chic, by God and by golly, the last thing Gigi had been at breakfast, chic, one of the great, good, miraculously permanent things you could never buy with any amount of money. That neck and head could go out to lunch in any great restaurant in the world for the next seventy years, if you wrapped the rest of Gigi in a cape down to the floor. Lunch.

  “What time is it?” Billy asked, incredulous at her sudden hunger.

  “Almost two,” said Sara.

  “Oh Lord, sorry, kiddo,” Billy said and gave her another fifty dollars for not complaining as she had been entitled to do. “ ’Bye, Sara. And thanks. Maybe I’ll come in next week and let you do your damnedest on me.”

  Billy and Gigi left the shop and a hairdresser who was both gratified—she never ate lunch anyway—and determined never to be trapped into a personal booking with Billy Orsini. But she’d do that kid again any time.

  “I feel like somebody else, as if an alien has taken over my head,” Gigi said to Billy after they had wordlessly gulped two small sandwiches each at the little lunch place hidden away in the gift department on the third floor of Saks Fifth Avenue. “I wish my mother could have seen me like this.” Her voice was full of sadness.

  “I do too, Gigi.” And it could have so easily happened, Billy thought regretfully, if only her blindly self-centered husband had brought his daughter out to visit while her mother was alive. But she mustn’t let the girl start looking backward or she might begin to ask some pointed questions about her father, and Billy knew that, try as she would, she might not be able to lie about Vito as effectively as Gigi’s mother had over the years. She was still far, far too angry.

  “You know, Gigi, you actually are somebody else,” Billy said, handing her the menu for dessert, “or starting to be. Imagine Marilyn Monroe as a brunette with a bun and a center part. Well, you’re twice as different as she would have been. Hair … is … destiny.” Billy produced the last three words solemnly.

  Gigi giggled, her expression changing. “Look, I’m just a kid, but I know you didn’t really mean that.”

  “No, but it’s the sort of thing ninety-nine percent of the people I know would let me get away with,” Billy said thoughtfully. She realized that she hadn’t brooded about her wrenching fight with Vito—their first fight—since Gigi had awakened. Nor had she been fixated on telling Vito about the baby. All her attention had been focused on Gigi. She’d even forgotten to limit herself to one sandwich. This girl was addictive. And honest and smart.

  “Listen, Gigi, let’s just sit here for a while and sort things out.”

  “What things?”

  “Your future plans. I know that when you got on that plane yesterday you were obeying a blind instinct to be with your father because he was all you had left. I doubt that you were thinking any farther ahead than that. Am I right?”

  “I just knew I had to tell him. I don’t even remember what I thought about during the flight except getting here.”

  “But now you are here, and he does know. Have you thought about a next step?”

  “Not really.” Gigi shook her head in surprise at how easily she’d forgotten the future in the tumble of new impressions. “I’ve just been going on automatic pilot. Maybe I could spend a few more days here, if it’s all right with you, before I go back. I can make up the homework I’m missing in a few hours … it’s not exactly a school for major brains. And I think I’d like to live with the Himmels. She’s an ex-gypsy and he’s a stage manager. They have daughters almost my age and we’re all pretty tight. My child support would cover my expenses until I’m eighteen, but I’ll be out of high school and working somewhere as a sous chef by that time anyway. I can even take summer school, add a few classes next year and graduate by the time I’m seventeen and a half.”

  “What if you didn’t go back to New York?”

  “Huh?”

  “What if you stayed with us, lived with us, went to school out here?”

  Gigi was without words. Everything she’d seen and done since she’d arrived at Billy’s had been part of a dream that had nothing to do with life as she knew it. Alice hadn’t gone to live in Wonderland, she’d visited. Dorothy had returned from Oz.

  “Gigi, it makes perfect sense!” Billy cried. “You have a father, you can’t just go off and live with strangers when you have a perfectly good father. I’m sure he won’t even consider letting you do it.” When she saw that Gigi’s expression hadn’t changed, Billy summoned her most authoritative voice. “And you’re going to have a brother or a sister. Last night you said you’d a
lways wanted one. And you’d get to love California even if it isn’t New York and you can learn French cooking from my chef and …”

  “But—” How could she tell Billy, Gigi wondered, that she didn’t want to be a sponge, a taker? She guessed that Vito would make a lot of money from Mirrors, and maybe someday he’d send for her, but right now he and Billy obviously lived on Billy’s money. Her mother had speculated out loud on the subject of Dad’s rich new wife many times, but she couldn’t have imagined what the reality of those newspaper and magazine digits translated into. Nobody could.

  “But what?”

  “It’s all so.… you’re so, well, incredibly generous—but it’s so much … you probably don’t realize how … much, that’s the only word I can think of.” Gigi stumbled, but she knew she had to say what she thought. “Your life is so.… your gardens, your beds, your sheets! Even the way you talk to hairdressers, I mean, I’m just not a part of all of that, am I? I’m a New York kid, I’m a worker bee, and this place is a foreign country.”

  “Generous!” Billy picked up the key word, the only word that mattered in Gigi’s speech. She hadn’t been a poor relation for twenty-one years without learning every painful lesson about the hated feelings of obligation and not belonging. “Nonsense! Generosity has nothing to do with it. It’s normal, Gigi, absolutely normal for you to come and live with us! And I promise you’d get used to living here, it’s just a sort of super suburb, and all the kids go to public school just like in New York …” Billy fell silent, thinking nervously of the notoriously spoiled youth of Beverly Hills High. She brightened, realizing that she didn’t live in Beverly Hills, so Gigi couldn’t go there anyway.

  “Billy, this idea of yours—it’s so …” Gigi thought of another way to protest. “I’d be completely changing my life. How can I make that kind of decision?”

  “Your life changed when your mother died,” Billy answered gently. “She was your family. Now your father is your family, and I’m.… well, listen, I have some rights here too, I’m your wicked stepmother.”

  “How corny can you get?” Gigi couldn’t suppress a spurt of laughter.

  “I know, but it’s legally true. You can’t deny that your father’s wife is your stepmother.”

  “You don’t feel like a stepmother.”

  “What do I feel like?”

  “A friend.”

  Billy’s eyes filled with tears and she turned her head so that Gigi wouldn’t see them. They sat silently for a moment until Billy reached out and grasped Gigi’s hand.

  “Please stay, Gigi. Stay for me. I don’t want you to go away. I want a friend. I need a friend.”

  “Oh.” Her voice was small and strange.

  “ ‘Oh’?” Billy repeated the word in confusion.

  “That makes it different. Completely different. I didn’t know if you wanted me or if you felt it was something you ought to ask.”

  “There’s no ‘ought’ about it. I never do anything because I ought to.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Gigi, stop teasing me. Yes or no?”

  Gigi turned quickly and her lips pressed firmly on Billy’s cheek. “Yes! I must be crazy, but how could I possibly say no?”

  After an intense hour and a half in the Saks teen department, Billy had arranged for Gigi’s old clothes to be disposed of and all the new ones delivered to the house. Gigi was now clad in severely faded jeans that looked as if they had belonged to her for years of sailing and riding with Ralph Lauren, Calvin Klein, Gloria Vanderbilt and dear old Mr. Levi of Levi Strauss. Her baggy cardigan, an unnameable green between sage and emerald, had obviously been hand-knit for her great-grandmother, the young duchess, by a crofter in an Irish cottage. Her open-necked white lawn shirt had almost certainly been found in a flea market off Portobello Road and her slightly shabby, faintly tattered black velvet vest, with a jet bead or two still hanging by a thread, had been left to her by an eccentric transvestite uncle. Everything but the jeans was just a bit too big, and the jeans were the essential bit too small. The general impression was of a girl who not only hadn’t the faintest idea how she’d chosen her becoming clothes, but didn’t care, had never cared, couldn’t be forced to care, a girl who had simply put on the first things that came to hand from a pile of stuff she kept on her floor, since she was too busy on the phone to put anything away neatly. Billy decided that Gigi should keep her canvas shoulder bag and dirty sneakers. They had an authentically cheap and utilitarian throwaway quality that couldn’t be duplicated. Just as good shoes and a good bag were essential for a woman, they could be a sign of overcalculation on a teenager. New sneakers could ruin everything.

  “You’re sure?” Gigi asked, thrilled but still looking at herself suspiciously in the mirror.

  “Positive.” After the first ten minutes of browsing in the teen department, Billy had caught the wave. Her years of dedicated devotion to clothes had been focused on the stock of the department, and as she looked she mentally discarded everything that wouldn’t do justice to Gigi, as well as everything that was over the top, too much of a costume. Gigi was wearing the most original of their purchases; most of the others were more standard teen gear, although Billy hadn’t been able to resist some deeply funky bits and pieces.

  Billy looked at her watch. It wasn’t even half past four yet. She’d just phoned Dolly at the hospital and had been told that she had a “do not disturb” on her phone and regular visiting hours weren’t till after dinner. She’d planned to take Gigi to see Dolly and her new baby girl as soon as possible and now, frustrated, she decided that she couldn’t go tamely home after all this excitement, she had to show Gigi off to somebody who could properly appreciate her. Clearly that left only Valentine and Spider. What’s more, they hadn’t been in yesterday when she went looking for them, they hadn’t even called to congratulate Vito, and she wanted to know exactly what they thought they were up to, neglecting the store and ordinary politeness as well. It was time for a little trip to Scruples, the one thing she had promised herself this morning that she absolutely wouldn’t do because the store would just be too much for Gigi to absorb.

  But that was then and this was now and Gigi had already absorbed so much new experience without being the worse for it, that a touch of Scruples couldn’t hurt, Billy decided in an adrenaline high.

  “I really should stop by Scruples,” she said to Gigi. “You’re not tired, are you?”

  “Tired? I’m so excited I won’t sleep all night, maybe not all week.” Gigi thrust her thumbs in the pockets of her jeans and slumped. Yeah!

  They walked the two blocks to Scruples, the tall, magnificent woman and the small, graceful, distinctive teenager who obviously belonged on Rodeo Drive, drawing appreciative and curious glances from dozens of passersby. As they walked, Billy told Gigi about Spider and Paris-bred Valentine, explaining briefly that they had been good friends for six years, meeting in New York in 1972 and working there, Valentine as a fashion designer and Spider as a photographer, until, two years ago, she’d hired them to help her at Scruples.

  “Spider’s a born-and-bred Californian,” she told Gigi. “He has that typical California hair, streaky gold, like a lifeguard, and those outrageous beach blanket eyes, so blue you simply can’t take them seriously, his taste is sublime but in some ways he’s still a big rambunctious kid even though we’re about the same age. Still, all my best Scruples customers refuse to buy a single dress if he hasn’t approved of what it does for them. Valentine’s something else entirely, a very passionate, serious kind of person, and very private. For reasons they haven’t shared with me, they’ve been barely talking to each other lately, some sort of misunderstanding between co-workers, I guess, but normally they’re pretty good pals and totally professional.” There was no need, she decided, to confuse Gigi by any mention of Spider’s underground but well-established reputation as a seducer, a charmer who knew—and kept—the sensuous secrets of a hundred women.

  As they arrived at the store, Billy hu
stled a foot-dragging Gigi through the temptations of the first floor, heading directly up to the executive offices.

  “Did they ever get back from shopping?” Billy asked Spider’s secretary.

  “Yes, Mrs. Orsini, they’re both in their office.”

  Billy turned and hesitated before going in. As she’d warned Gigi, Spider and Valentine had been visibly on the outs for weeks. She didn’t want their glum humor to affect the girl, but on the other hand, who else could appreciate Gigi as much as they could? And didn’t they need cheering up? Didn’t Gigi, far more than they? Didn’t she herself, come to think of it? It would be a kindness all around. Without knocking, Billy opened the door to the office where Spider and Valentine shared an antique, leather-topped partners’ desk. Billy took two long steps into the room and stopped dead, Gigi bumping into her heels.

  “Oh. Sorry,” she mumbled automatically and turned to flee, grabbing Gigi by the hand. Jesus Christ Almighty! Valentine was sitting on Spider’s lap and he was kissing her on the lips, his arms wrapped so tightly around her that he was actually cupping her breasts. Jesus Christ Almighty! She’d seen it with her own eyes, and so had Gigi. An impressionable child. Jesus Christ Almighty!

  “Billy, come back here, you idiot,” Spider commanded, laughing so hard that he almost made Valentine fall off his lap.

  “Not right now, I don’t want to interrupt you,” Billy said in desperate confusion, trying to sound as if this were something that happened every day. “I’ll be back later, I’ll knock next time.”

  “Will you get your ass in here, or do I have to come and make you?” Spider shouted while Valentine shook with laughter.

  “I thought you’d gone shopping,” Billy said, turning reluctantly. Oh God, Valentine was still cuddled up on Spider’s lap. Billy had never seen such a look of blissed-out contentment on Valentine’s alert face, such a flashing of joy in her mermaid’s eyes. Had they no shame?