The Rothman Scandal

by Stephen Birmingham

  “Of course,” she said.

  She had given him her address and telephone number. And before she knew it, he was telephoning her nearly every day. There was something about this sad and complicated young man who claimed to hate his job, and yet felt chained to it and imprisoned by it, that made her pity him, and want to help him. Somehow, she felt he needed mothering. She already had a vision of his cold, hard, brittle, and unloving parents—a vision that would turn out to be remarkably accurate.

  He telephoned her from New York the very next night, and soon he was phoning her every night. The thing she remembered most about those calls was that, for the most part, he talked and she listened to him. But there was nothing self-centered about this. Instead, she got the impression that no one had ever listened to Steven Rothman, and that, for all his family’s wealth, he had never really had anyone to talk to. He told her about his family’s estate, called “Rothmere,” up on the Hudson River, where his parents, grandparents, and uncle and aunt all lived together—“One big happy family, except it isn’t,” he said.

  “Why isn’t it?” she asked him.

  “You’ll see,” he said. “I’ll bring you up here someday. Happy families are all alike. Each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

  “Anna Karenina,” she said. “Of course in the translation I read, it was ‘Every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way’—small difference.”

  She could almost hear the surprise in the momentary silence from his end of the line, that a Missouri girl knew Tolstoy, and she wondered briefly whether he was perhaps one of those men who disliked smart women. She added, “My mother had sort of an obsession about Russian pre-Revolutionary history. We even had a dog named Anna Karenina, believe it or not.”

  He laughed, and the next day, by Special Delivery, came a copy of a new biography of Count Leo Tolstoy, inscribed, “Every Missouri girl is different in her own way.”

  So he did listen to the things she said, and he did like smart women.

  He called to tell her about the opening night of a new musical he had attended. It was called Cabaret, and was based on Christopher Isherwood’s stories of Berlin between the wars. He had loved it, but didn’t think the New York Times had done it justice in its review.

  She mentioned that she did not see the New York Times in Kansas City, and the next morning a subscription to the Times was on her doorstep. Shortly thereafter, he sent her the original cast album of the show. Then he called to ask her what she thought of it.

  “I loved it,” she said.

  He loved music, both classical and popular. Sometimes he would play Beatles songs for her, on the telephone, on his guitar. He had once wanted to be a musician, but his family had put a stop to that idea.

  He began sending her flowers. The first was a nosegay of violets. When she thanked him, he asked, “Did they match?”

  “Match what?”

  “Your eyes. I told them I wanted bluish-green flowers.”

  She laughed. “I have funny-colored eyes.”

  “Blue-green in some lights, hazel in others.”

  “You noticed that?”

  “Oh yes …”

  “Now what would have made you notice that?”

  “I consider you my best friend,” he said.

  “But we’ve only met once.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I’ve never really had a best friend, you know.” There was a note of elegant, sweet sadness in his voice. And of course she was flattered that this lovely, polished young man from such a powerful background should have been attracted to her. She found herself looking forward eagerly to his nightly calls.

  He came back to Kansas City in November to shoot the Bill Blass story, along with the art director, the photographer, the photographer’s assistants, the lighting crew, the hair and makeup stylists, the designer himself, and the great wardrobe bags filled with clothes, shoes, and accessories—the entire, expensive crew for the weeklong shoot. She noticed that he began asking her opinions about the poses.

  “Would you feel more comfortable holding your hand this way—or that way?” he would ask her.

  She suspected that this annoyed the photographer, and she was certain that it annoyed Sigourney Frye, the art director.

  “Who’s art director on this shoot, anyway—me or her?” she heard Sigourney Frye ask him crossly.

  “I just want Alex to look and feel comfortable in her poses,” he said.

  “And I’d just like Alice to pose according to the layout,” Sigourney Frye snapped back. Sigourney Frye repeatedly called her “Alice,” and Alex decided that she could never really like anyone whose name was Sigourney Frye. And, when she learned later that Sigourney Frye’s name had originally been Rose Freiberg, she decided that she liked her even less.

  “I don’t want to seem to be undermining Sigourney’s authority,” she said to him later.

  “Don’t worry. I’m still editor-in-chief,” he said. “This job is an important step in your career. I want to be sure you look your best.”

  After one particularly long photo session, which had involved Alex, in sequined coveralls, standing on a stepladder with a can of red paint in one hand and a paintbrush in the other, painting a ceiling—and, like so many too-archly clever picture ideas, this one ended up not being used—Alex had collapsed on the sofa in the trailer that they used as a dressing room. “Poor girl, you must be exhausted,” he said to her. “Here, let me give you a back-rub.” He knelt on the floor beside her, and began gently kneading and massaging the sore muscles of her shoulders, neck, upper arms, and lower back. “I’m famous for my back-rubs,” he said.

  “Mm, that feels good,” she murmured. “How did you get to be famous for your back-rubs?”

  “My mother has bad nerves,” he said. “Whenever she has one of her attacks of nerves, she has me give her a back-rub.”

  Dreamily, under the smooth caressing touch of his expert fingers, she began to wonder whether his hands might begin to move to the front of her body, and what might happen then. She waited. But it did not happen.

  They had dinner together every night in the dining room of the Alameda Plaza, where he was staying. On the last night of the shooting session, to celebrate, he ordered champagne. He touched his glass to hers. “To us,” he said. She noticed that he was gazing at her intently, and had not touched his food. “You are so beautiful,” he said, and she realized that Skipper had never told her she was beautiful. But then, Skipper had never told her that he loved her, either. Then Steven Rothman did that, too, almost whispered it: “I love you, Alex.”

  Then he reached into his jacket pocket, and produced a small blue box. In it was a Kashmiri sapphire ring with a girdle of diamonds. “To match your eyes,” he said. That was when he asked her to marry him. He had fallen in love with her, he said, over the telephone.

  “But do you love him, Lexy?” Lucille Withers asked her when Alex showed her the ring.

  “It’s called a Kashmiri sapphire,” she said. “Sapphires are among the heaviest of all precious stones. Emeralds are among the lightest. Did you know that, Lulu? Steven told me that. He knows all sorts of strange and wonderful little things.”

  “You’re not answering my question, Lexy,” she said. “I asked you if you loved him. Or are you just in love with his money?”

  “He’s terribly sweet,” Alex said. “He’s one of the kindest, gentlest, most considerate men I’ve ever met. I like him very, very much.”

  “You’re still not answering me.”

  Alex frowned. She knew what Lulu meant. She meant, did she love Steven enough? Well, how much was enough, anyway? Maybe it was not the same as with Skipper, but did it have to be? Perhaps that part would come later? Certainly that part would come later, after they were married, as it usually did in any marriage.

  “So tell me. Is it him—or is it the Rothman money? They say his grandfather is worth two hundred million bucks.” (Remember that this was in 1967, when two hundred million still seemed lik
e a lot of money.)

  “I’ve thought about that,” she said carefully. “The trouble is, the Rothman money is a part of what Steven is. How can I separate the money from what Steven is? His money is just one aspect of the man I’ve grown terribly fond of. I’ve decided that the man I want to marry just happens to be rich, and there’s not much I can do about that, is there? I mean, I think I’d still feel the same way about him if he happened to be poor. How can I separate my feelings from the facts that happen to go along with him?”

  Lucille Withers shook her head. “I don’t like this, Lexy,” she said. “I don’t like this one little bit. Of course I wouldn’t give bullets who you married, if I didn’t care a lot about you.…”

  “She’s totally unsuitable, totally unacceptable,” Herbert Rothman said to his wife, Pegeen, as they sat in the living room of the apartment at River House that afternoon. “No, she won’t do at all—some little adventuress fashion model from a little town in Missouri that nobody’s ever heard of. She obviously thinks he’s got a lot of money, even though he doesn’t—yet. I’ve done a little checking on her, which Steven, in his haste to marry the first girl who’ll say yes to him, clearly hasn’t bothered to do. Her father is a small-time accountant who was passed over for a promotion in favor of a younger man in the firm. The family is not popular in the little town of Paradise, Missouri. Her parents are considered left-wing shirttail intellectuals—radicals, even Communists—by their neighbors. Her father drinks. Her mother is in and out of mental hospitals. The girl herself is considered fast. When she was in her teens, she was often seen hitchhiking out on the interstates around Kansas City, being picked up by God knows who. Imagine! A hitchhiker. She has no breeding, no education—nothing more than a diploma from a public high school. There are also rumors that the girl is illegitimate.”

  Pegeen Rothman was working on a needlepoint canvas of elaborate design, a butterfly landing in a field of brightly colored zinnias. She pulled a golden thread through the corner of her butterfly’s wing. “Still, she’s pretty,” she said.

  “My God,” he roared, “is that all we want for our son’s wife? Any little tramp, just so long as she’s pretty?”

  Pegeen Rothman drew another thread through the butterfly’s wing, secured it, and knotted it. Then she spread the canvas on her lap, and studied it. “There’s an old expression that might apply here,” she said at last. “‘Any port in a storm.’”

  30

  THE FASHION SCENE

  by

  Mona

  What’s black and white and gold all over? A “golden parachute” in the form of a two-page ad in the New York Times, that’s what! That’s just what longtime fashion maven Alex Rothman got from big boss publisher Herbert Rothman yesterday—an ad kissing her a sweet goodbye with thanks for all those long years of service, and making way for that adorable young newcomer from Merrie Olde Englande, Lady Fiona Hesketh-Fenton, who’s expected to take over the reins of Mode most any day now, insiders say.

  Alexandra Rothman is the li’l ole gal who, years ’n years ago, came down practically barefoot from the mountains of Iowa (or was it Indiana?) and married Herb Rothman’s handsome son Steve—then quickly clawed her way to the top of Mode’s masthead. But you knew all that. And now it’s all ancient history. Boo-hoo.

  Meanwhile, it’s been no secret that Herb Rothman’s been on the lookout for a younger editor-in-chief, someone who can inject that old-time mag with fresh ideas and new approaches. And Fab Fiona is the gal he’s settled on. Hooray! (Fiona, by the bye, is a very democratic gal, who doesn’t like to be called Her Ladyship, even though she is one, and Mother Mona only mentions this to show that Herb’s dealing with the Top Drawers.)

  But wait. The plot thickens. Maybe it’s a case of “Don’t Cry For Me, Alexandra!” Just this past Monday, one of Mother Mona’s most reliable little tattletales glimpsed the Ageless Alex having lunch at Le Barnardin with none other than Billionaire Bumpkin Rodney McCulloch, the crafty Canadian who, insiders say, would like nothing better than to make mincemeat out of the Rothman publishing pie. Mother’s informants tell her that the Crafty One’s and the Ageless One’s heads were ever-so-close-together, and that the subject under discussion was Big Bucks. What are Alex and Rodney cooking up? Sounds like a Big Deal, Mother’s informants say. Could be a counterattack, because Alex’s well-worn claws are bared.… So stay tuned to Mona.

  Meanwhile, ’member my story of the cat burglar who ransacked the purses of all the gals at Maggie Van Zuylen’s beach party not long ago? Well, the bills are starting to come in from all the purr-r-r-r-loined credit cards, and they’re all from shops like Martha, Hermès, Vuitton, and Sara Fredericks. Breakfast food heiress Pussy McCutcheon had a dozen Hermès scarves charged to her Amex Gold Card. Begins to sound as though the cat burglar was a cat burglaress, doesn’t it? At least Pussy thinks so. Thanks for the tip, Pussy … Meow, meow! P.S. Alex Rothman was at the Van Zuylen bash, natch.

  “I’d like to charge age discrimination in the complaint, as well as breach of contract,” Henry Coker was saying. “In light of Mona’s column this morning, with the repeated references to your age, and the fact that the Fenton woman is younger. I think a charge of ageism would add teeth to our complaint.”

  “Oh, Henry, do you really think so?” Alex said. “Age discrimination sounds so—defensive.”

  “But we have to take a strong defensive stand in this, Alex. Unfortunately, the other side is taking a very combative stance. We’re forced to be defensive if we’re going to fight back. We also have evidence that Mrs. Potter is being fed a lot of this material directly from Herbert Rothman. He’s using her as his mouthpiece.”

  “That’s more than likely,” Alex said.

  “Which brings me to another point about her column this morning. The repeated references to cats and claws and cat burglars. I come away with the distinct impression that Mona Potter is suggesting that you might be the cat burglar. That is definitely defamatory, and actionable, since you were at the Van Zuylen party. What would you think of a libel action against Mona Potter and the News?”

  “I hate the idea of getting down and fighting on Mona Potter’s level, Henry.”

  “I’d like to fight this on every level possible, Alex. And I’d like to neutralize Mona Potter, at least until this is settled. She’s no help to us at all, and I’d like to see her neutralized. They’re fighting dirty now, and I think we should fight just as dirty back.” He paused. “Unless, of course, you decide to simply resign, and save yourself some legal bills,” he said.

  She replaced the phone. Gregory was standing at her office doorway. “Mr. Herbert Rothman would like to see you in his office,” he said. “He says it’s extremely urgent.” She rose to go. “Incidentally, he’s moved to room three thousand,” Gregory said.

  Room three thousand, of course, was Ho Rothman’s old office.

  It was a bit of a shock to see him sitting behind Ho’s desk, in the huge office with the map of the United States, and its gold-starred Rothman cities, across one wall. He did not rise when she entered the room. The News was opened to Mona Potter’s column and, without looking up at her, he tapped the newspaper with a fingertip and said, “This won’t take a minute, Alex. Your lawyer has been talking to mine in terms of an alleged breach of contract. I would like to say just one thing on the subject of your contract. Your contract contains something called a loyalty clause. I gather from this story that you have lunched with Rodney McCulloch. Rodney McCulloch is my competitor. He is also my enemy. If, as Mona says, you are cooking up something with Rodney McCulloch, I shall consider that an act of extreme disloyalty to my company. If you enter into any sort of deal with McCulloch, you will have effectively breached your own contract. That would be grounds for dismissal, without accrued benefits, including profit sharing, et cetera, et cetera. That is all I have to say.”

  “The whole town knows you’re trying to get rid of me, Herbert,” she said. “Including Rodney McCulloch. Rodney McCulloch o
ffered me a deal—a deal I have not accepted.”

  “Nor rejected?”

  “Nor rejected.”

  “Then I’m warning you. Any further negotiations with my enemy I shall consider acts of extreme disloyalty, and grounds for your immediate dismissal from my company. Without benefits. I have discussed this with our own attorneys. They assure me that I will be acting within my legal rights, as specified in my contract with you. Good day.” He turned his attention to other papers on the big desk, ruffling through them with his fingers.

  Back in her office, Gregory Kittredge said, “Why not take the rest of the day off, Alex? Everyone on the staff would understand.”

  “Nonsense, darlin’. I’ve got work to do.” She seated herself at her desk, and picked up a fashion layout that lay on top of a small pile. Pinned to the layout was the copy for the story, typed on yellow cap, indicating a first draft. She read the headline.

  MINISKIRTS—YOU CAN’T PUT ’EM DOWN

  She made a face, and quickly rewrote the head.

  LET THEM EAT CHEESECAKE!

  Then, just as quickly, she rewrote the lead.

  We don’t mean the eggy kind you get at Zabar’s. We mean the leggy kind they keep sending us from Paris.

  Then she penciled a quick note to Bob Shaw, her art director.

  Bob—let’s have some fun with this miniskirts-with-tights look. Only 5% of our readers can wear ’em, for God’s sake! How about a small piece of artwork here? Marie Antoinette in a miniskirt & tights? Corny or cute?

  A.L.R.

  She pinned this note to the layout and revised copy sheets. Then she initialed the traffic-routing slip, and placed it all in her Out box.