Meanwhile, in the wings and invisible from the audience, but able to observe everything, the designer himself would be tensely watching the show, groaning inaudibly at the occasional miscues—the girl whose panty hose were supposed to be taupe, but who stepped out on the runway wearing black—and hoping that the audience wouldn’t notice. Scaasi would not make his appearance, and take his bow, until the show was over. At which point—he dared to hope—the room would burst into applause and cheers and blown kisses.
Suzette continued with her commentary:
“Yards and yards of shirred organza … perfect for a Palm Beach moonlit night … youthfully cut, with a peekaboo cutout at the base of the spine … the little black dress that every woman needs, whether for cocktails in the city, or on a terrace in the Hamptons, this time with a saucy little flared skirt … notice the embroidered detailing at the hemline … sheer, sexy silk pants, for a tropical evening … a jeweled belt … skinny little spaghetti shoulder straps, almost invisible, so young-looking.…”
Youthfulness was clearly a theme of today’s collection, and there was a certain irony here, Alex thought, since most of the women who could afford Scaasi—and most of his audience here today—were no longer young. They were her age, at least.
When she came to Mode seventeen years ago yesterday, Alexandra was young.…
Across the table, a woman whose face she recognized, but whose name she didn’t immediately recall, blew Alex an air kiss and mouthed the words, “My dear, I had no idea you’d been with Mode so long!”
Alex’s answering smile was automatic.
… inexperienced … but with a boundless supply of fresh ideas … enthusiasm … zest … energy that only the young can have. All at once she was certain that Fiona had written that ad.
“A fresh idea for ripply moiré … slinky … youthful … sexy … blue, palest blue, the youngest color of the season … the youthful energy of crispy pleated cotton … golden tulle, reflecting Arnold’s newest enthusiasm and energy when it comes to bold colors … new … young … vibrant … exciting … new … youthful … young … daisy-fresh … a new idea … forever young.…”
Beside her, Gregory touched Alex’s shoulder, and looked at his boss questioningly. “That one?” he whispered. It was an evening gown of white tiered chiffon, slashed to the knee, with a heart-shaped bodice sewn with mirrored paillettes and tiny seed pearls.
Alex nodded, and Gregory made a note on his steno pad. From the wings where he was hidden, Arnold Scaasi saw this exchange and grinned with pleasure, for now he could see this dress not only in the pages of Mode, but also in Bergdorf-Goodman’s window … in Neiman-Marcus’s window … in I. Magnin’s window. And he made a mental note to ask young Gregory Kittredge to lunch. And somehow Alex knew that all this was happening and, with a little shiver, she realized that, listening to Suzette’s commentary, she had been paying no attention to the clothes at all, though it was supposed to be the other way around.
She asked herself: Was it possible that Herbert Rothman was winning his war of nerves?
Back at her office that afternoon, she found a stack of layouts for the October issue on her desk, awaiting her approval. But on top of the stack of layouts was something else, a folded card on which someone in the art department had drawn a single long-stemmed red rose. She unfolded the card and read:
Dear Alex,
This is just to tell you that, whatever happens, we love you, and always will.
Many signatures followed, and as she ran a fingertip down the list she saw that the card had been signed by all the one hundred and twenty-four members of her staff.
Her eyes blurred. “Gregory,” she said, “was this your idea?”
He covered his heart with his right hand. “Swear to God it wasn’t,” he said. “It was Billy Greenfield’s.”
“Billy Greenfield? I don’t think I know a Billy Greenfield.”
“He’s one of the mail-room boys,” he said.
27
There was a dream Alex sometimes had. It was a dream of a nightmare experience that actually happened, and it always began the same, with the sound of angry fists pounding on the door, and shouts of “Open up! Police!” With that, she inevitably awoke, and had trouble getting to sleep again, remembering how it happened.…
“Open up! Police!” There was a loud banging on the door. It was early in the morning of their second week at the motel in Wichita. Skipper leaped out of bed and pulled on his trousers without putting on his underpants. Alex sat up in bed and covered her bare shoulders with the bedclothes.
“Open up! Police!”
She watched him as he moved, shirtless, across the darkened room toward the door, and undid the chain latch. She reached out and turned on one of the two lamps. Two burly Kansas state troopers pushed into the room, their service revolvers drawn. “Okay, Johnson, this is it,” one of them said. “You’re under arrest.” The other said, “Get your shirt and shoes on, Johnson. You’re coming with us.” Outside, in the early-morning light, she could see the yellow lights of their squad cars spinning and flashing.
“Stop!” she cried. “What are you doing? You’re making a terrible mistake! His name’s not Johnson!”
“You hear me?” the second officer said, ignoring her and waving his revolver at Skipper. “I said get your shoes and shirt on, Johnson. Fast!”
“Stop!” she cried again. “He hasn’t done anything!” And she watched as he meekly put on and buttoned his shirt and tucked it into his trousers, then sat on the corner of the bed and pulled on his cowboy boots. He stood up, and the first officer seized his arms and quickly snapped handcuffs on his wrists from behind.
“But what’s he done?” Alex sobbed.
“The charge is murder two,” the first officer said.
Alex leaned forward across the bed, the bedsheet pulled around her. “But his name isn’t Johnson!” she wept. “His name is Skipper Purdy!”
“Is that the name he’s using now? Sorry, little lady.”
“But he’s my husband! I’m his wife! This is my husband, Skipper Purdy!”
The second officer threw a sideways glance at Skipper. “Another one?” he said. “Listen, little lady, this guy’s got almost as many wives as he’s got aliases. He’s got wives from here to Pueblo, Colorado. Come on, Johnson, let’s go.”
“Wait … wait …!” she sobbed.
Standing tall and straight, and with as much dignity as possible, Skipper said, “Officer, may I please say goodbye to my wife?”
The two troopers exchanged questioning looks, and then briefly nodded.
Skipper stepped toward her, and kissed her awkwardly on the lips, not easy to do with his wrists manacled behind him. “It’s all a mistake,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll explain it all later. You go home to your folks now. I’ll be in touch with you there. I love you.” Then, bending close to her ear, he whispered, “Under the mattress!”
“Oh, Skipper … Skipper …”
But then he was gone, marched out of their motel room between the two troopers, one at each elbow, and it was all over before she even knew what had happened.
She jumped out of bed and threw on her clothes, still weeping with fear and anger. Then she remembered: Under the mattress. She lifted one mattress, then the other. Under the second lay his money belt. She lifted it, and it was surprisingly heavy. She unzipped it, and emptied its contents on the bed. There were a great many tightly folded bills, most of them hundreds. She sat on the bed and began counting the money, soon realizing that it would be easiest to stack the bills in piles of a thousand dollars each. When she finally finished, she had counted a total of $34,974. This was even more than he had told her he had. She would need the money, of course, to use for his defense. Meanwhile, the motel bill had to be paid.
Outside, in the parking lot, the yellow Corvette was still parked, and the keys, she knew, were hidden under the floor mat. She found them there. In the glove compartment, she found the car’s registration. It
was registered in the name of William J. Cassidy, 314 Elm Street, Lafayette, Indiana. But the car, she noticed for the first time, bore Wisconsin license plates. None of it made any sense. I will hear from him soon, she thought. He will write or call me soon.
All sorts of guilty thoughts raced through her brain: Why hadn’t I at least asked where they were taking him? Why didn’t I find out under what name they were holding him? At the same time, even if I knew where he was, and were able to find him, would the fact that I’m a minor cause him even more trouble? In the end, there seemed to be nothing to do but what he had told her to do: Go home. And wait for some sort of word from him.
Alex knew how to drive a car, more or less. She had practiced driving her mother’s car up and down the driveway at home, though the Corvette’s stick shift would take some getting used to. But she had never driven on an open road, and she had no driver’s license.
She drove home to Paradise that day very slowly and carefully. It was nearly dark when she reached the house with the ruined zoysia lawn, and, all the way, she had been thinking, I will hear from him soon.
Her father’s car was in the driveway.
“Where the hell have you been?” he wanted to know. “Do you realize I’ve had the police in three states looking for you?”
So that may have been how the police located Skipper at the motel—looking for her. “I was spending a few days with a friend,” she said.
“Whose car is that out front?”
“My friend’s. He asked me to keep it for him for a while.”
“You were off with some man?”
She nodded.
She heard him mutter, “Like mother, like daughter.” Then he disappeared into the kitchen.
I will hear from him soon.
Her mother returned from the clinic in Topeka, and now there was no more talk of playwriting. Her mother had been placed on medication, and these pills were called “mood elevators.” But they did not seem to elevate her mother’s mood, exactly. Instead, they seemed to make her drowsy and forgetful, though she would occasionally burst into loud laughter, even when no one had said or done anything particularly funny. Her mother and father hardly spoke to one another.
I will hear from him today, she began assuring herself as each new day dawned. Today I will hear from him. There will be a letter or a telephone call. Today.
The days went by.
“How long is your friend’s car going to be parked in our driveway, anyway?”
“He had to go out of town. He asked if he could park it there till he gets back.”
“Where has he gone—to the moon?”
It began to seem that way.
“I tried to start it this morning. The battery’s dead.”
I will hear from him today. She told herself that on the day that the letter she had written to William J. Cassidy, 314 Elm Street, Lafayette, Indiana, was returned to her with a livid purple stamp in the shape of an accusatory, finger-pointing hand on the face of the envelope, and the message: “Addressee unknown. Return to sender.”
“I must hear something from him soon!” she began telling herself aloud in the darkness of her bedroom.
But the days continued to go by. She went back to school, and she heard nothing.
At Clay County Regional High, a tall, thin woman named Lucille Withers, who ran the Lucille Withers Modeling Agency in Kansas City, came to talk to the girls about careers in modeling. After her lecture, Miss Withers stepped over to Alex. “I noticed you in the audience,” she said. “I might be able to do something for you. You have a certain look.”
“I’ve always thought my chin was too small.”
“Mm—maybe. But a good model needs a good flaw. And I like the way you dress. That’s a very smart-looking two-piece—clever, mixing checks and stripes. You have a sense of style. Here’s my card. Look me up the next time you’re in the city.” And she handed Alex her business card.
“Any messages for me, Mother?”
“No, dear.”
“No letter for me today?”
“No, dear.”
I will never hear from him again, she decided. And, gradually, she felt that blindingly bright crimson light that had been beamed into her life that summer, and the great billow of hot wind that had seemed to fill her with its force and to give her head the airy lightness of an untethered balloon, beginning to fade. And in its place began to grow that thin, hard, cold and bitter sliver of ice in her heart.
To hell with him, she thought.
But it wasn’t that easy. It was one thing to say to hell with him, but quite another to forget him. Does one ever really forget that first, great agonizing love? By October, she had the battery of the yellow Corvette recharged, and had begun practicing her driving seriously, spending an hour or so each day driving up and down country roads. By the end of the month, she decided she was ready to apply for her learner’s permit. This allowed her to drive during daylight hours. She had driven to Kansas City and placed Skipper’s money in a savings account where, she reasoned, it would at least earn interest. But, because he had promised her she could have one, she withheld enough money to buy herself a portable sewing machine, and she returned to designing and making her own clothes.
She drove to Topeka, the Kansas state capital, and found the state police headquarters. But no one there had any record of an arrest, the previous August, of anyone named James R. Purdy, or William J. Cassidy, or anyone named Johnson. The state police suggested that it might have been a matter involving the Wichita City Police Department. She drove to Wichita, where it was suggested that pertinent records might be found in Topeka; a sympathetic desk sergeant offered her two tickets to the Wichita Police Department’s Annual Thanksgiving Turkey Dinner for the Poor. The rodeo had long since left the Wichita Fairgrounds, and she telephoned Omaha, their next stop. But the rodeo had left Omaha as well, and no one had any idea where it might have been headed after that.
At the beginning of Christmas vacation, she drove to Kansas City again, and presented herself at the offices of the Lucille Withers Modeling Agency, and was pleased to find that Miss Withers remembered her.
“Stand up,” said Miss Withers, who wore a pince-nez on a long silk cord and placed this instrument across the bridge of her thin, hawklike nose. “Now walk around, walk back and forth—that’s right. Now turn. Try turning your toes outward just a little when you walk. Yes, like that, not too much.” Lucille Withers was making notes on a long yellow pad as she talked. “Now turn again. Shoulders back a little. Chin up. That’s it. Swing your hair—that’s it. Try swinging your shoulders a little as you walk. Now take smaller steps. Turn on your heel. Let me see your hands. Good. Now put your hands in the pockets of your skirt. Try jutting out your hips a bit as you walk—tuck the fanny in. That’s it. That’s a pretty girl. Sexy Lexy.”
No one had ever called her Lexy before, and she rather liked it.
“We’re going to be partners, and we’re going to be pals,” Miss Withers said. “You’re to call me Lulu. Only certain very special pals get to call me that. Now let me see you sit. Sit down slowly. Cross your legs. Age?… Weight?… Dress size?… Height?… Waist?… Bust?… Hips?… Shoe size?… Glove size?” Lulu Withers wrote all these numbers down. “Yes,” she said at last, surveying Alex again from head to toe through the pince-nez. “You do have a certain style. And, as I said before, I like the way you dress. That skirt-and-sweater outfit—mixing plum with orange. Very smart, very snappy. Where do you buy your clothes, anyway? Certainly not in that hellhole called Paradise.”
“Actually, I made the skirt myself.”
“Really? Where do you get the patterns?”
“From my own designs.”
“Really?” she said again, looking impressed. “That means you not only have a sense of style, you have a sense of fashion. And that’s rather rare, you know. Most of my girls don’t have that, I’m sorry to say. It’s rare to find a fashion model with a real sense of fashion. Most girls are simpl
y thinking in terms of what their precious bodies are doing for the clothes they’re wearing. They think from the inside out. They don’t think of what the clothes they’re wearing are doing for them, from the outside in. Fashion is cosmetics in cloth. Your feeling for clothes can help your modeling career, and I’m pretty sure I can use you. There’s a catalogue job coming up at Stix’s, and I’m going to push Lexy Baby for the teen pages. But first I’m going to send you around to a photographer pal of mine”—she jotted a name and address on a slip of paper—“and have him do some shots of you. Then we’ll make up a composite for you, and take it from there.”
“How much do models make?” Alex asked.
“In this town, twenty-five an hour max for photography. For runway work, less. We’re not New York or L.A. or even Chicago, I’m sorry to say. I might be able to start you off for fifteen or twenty an hour. We’ll see. But tell me something, Sexy Lexy. What do you really want to be?”
“Be?”
“Uh-huh. Say, ten years from now. What do you want to be?”
Alex looked at her new friend steadily. “I just want to be the most famous, most successful woman in the world,” she said. “That’s all.”
Lucille Withers clapped her hands. “Good!” she said. “Yes, Lexy honey, I really like your style.”
Yes, to hell with him, she told herself again. May he roast on a spit in hell, the way his preacher father said he would. And at that exact moment she made a second solemn promise to herself. Dear God, she told herself—dear God, if there is a God, I swear to You, dear God, that from this moment onward, and for the rest of my life, the only person I will ever trust to take care of me is me.
She was remembering that vow now as she stepped out into the evening sunlight of Fifth Avenue. She had decided to walk the few blocks to the Lombardy for her meeting with Rodney McCulloch and his wife. Had she been so intent, over the years, on taking care of herself that she had neglected to care for others who had been entrusted to her care? Steven, for instance? Would he have done what he had done if she had been able to show him that she cared about him? Years ago, she had gone to see a famous Swiss psychiatrist, Dr. Richard—pronounced Reekard—Lenhardt, to try to find out what was troubling her marriage to Steven. “Why do you want so much control?” he had asked her. “You want to control your magazine. You also seem to want to control your husband. You even want to control the way he feels about you.”
The Rothman Scandal Page 41
