by Judith Gould
Sales strategies, ad campaigns, financial projections, budgets.
Coast-to-coast travel to push the upcoming collection and set up fashion shows—often she left in the morning, did her sales pitch at a certain store, and returned on the red-eye.
Fashion editors to woo over lunches, department-store executives to win orders from, and battles to be fought over the installation of the in-store Edwina G. boutiques—the most difficult hurdle of them all. Everyone in the fashion field clamored for the little allotted store space that was available, and the competition was cutthroat.
All uphill battles.
Amazingly, though, it turned out that the single best thing she had going for her was Edwina G.’s fresh approach. Her gimmicky “fast-fashions” idea—with the computerized number of items sold changing with each sale—generally clinched the deals.
It began with Macy’s. Always the leader in new marketing approaches, they snapped up the very first boutique—and for their Manhattan flagship store. And they ordered one for each of their satellite stores as well.
It was Macy’s, also, that would officially launch Edwina G. at a gala party at the store the day after the collection was unveiled at the Southampton Decorator Showhouse.
It would be typical Macy’s merchandising: in other words, their launching of Edwina G. would be a New York City event.
For Edwina, the Memorial Day weekend was equally something to look forward to and something to dread. But thanks to Macy’s, the campaign started to get easier. Other department stores, reasoning that if Macy’s was confident enough to lavish attention, then Edwina G. must stand a reasonably good chance of succeeding, charged ahead and ordered their boutiques.
So, slowly but surely, the Edwina G. network took shape. To keep track of the various boutique locations, Edwina had a map of the United States installed on the wall in her office. Each time a store opted for an Edwina G. boutique, she stuck a color-coded pushpin into the city where that store was located. As the months passed, the map began to look like it had been littered with confetti.
Gold pins stood for Macy’s.
Red for Neiman-Marcus.
Green for Shacklebury-Prince.
Yellow for Bloomingdale’s.
Silver for Nordstrom.
And blue for Marshall Field.
The dream was becoming a reality.
But there were always problems.
Chauvinism, for instance.
Despite the growing numbers of women who owned or controlled a good number of fashion firms, the stores that sold their wares were basically solidly entrenched enclaves of male executives. Women, especially unpardonably attractive ones, were fair game. Edwina was constantly hit on, and the trick was to reject advances without jeopardizing potential orders.
She was fast becoming an expert at turning men down without damaging their masculine egos in the process.
But that was the least of her worries.
The biggest was the finished products, and that was closely followed by distribution.
Shoddy workmanship, a fire in a warehouse, a teamsters’ strike— the problems came at her from all sides and without warning, and seemed insurmountable.
Somehow, she always managed to fight her way out of them.
She insisted that the slipshod products be redone at the manufacturer’s expense—”and tout de suite, buster, or you’ll be hit by so many lawsuits your balls will shrivel and fall off.”
The smoke-damaged clothes that had been stored in the warehouse had to be replaced—and quickly—the cost borne by Edwina G. until the insurance money would come in.
The teamsters’ strike made her look into alternate methods of transportation—and the boutiques (and the racks of clothes that were to follow) were sent out via more expensive air freight.
Sometimes it seemed that her whole life was devoted to nothing more than problem solving—and the only ones she couldn’t solve were her own.
Her personal life was suffering. There just wasn’t time for one.
Work. All her energies and drive were directed at work work work.
“Soon,” she would promise herself. “Once Edwina G. gets officially off the ground, I’ll be able to start leading a normal life.”
That became Edwina’s pie-in-the-sky: a normal life.
Soon. It was always “soon.”
One evening when she came home so late that Hallelujah was already sound asleep, she made up her mind. At breakfast the next morning she popped the idea on her. “Hal, my sweet, what do you think of Hawaii?”
“You mean, like Diamond Head? Mauna Loa, surf-and-sun, Hawaii-Five-0 Hawaii Hawaii?”
Edwina smiled. “That’s the only one I’ve ever heard of. Well? What do you say we plan a vacation?”
“Oh, Ma,” Hallelujah sighed. “Forget it. You’re dreamin’.”
Edwina blinked. “No, I’m not,” she assured her daughter. “I’m serious.”
“Then why don’tcha wait an’ lay it on me when the time comes? Okay?”
Edwina nodded. Did her daughter know something she didn’t know? Or was it such an obvious pipe dream that even a thirteen-year-old could see through it?
One thing was for certain. She had to start leading a more normal life—and the sooner that happened, the better.
“All work and no play,” she told herself miserably, “makes you a very dull old girl.”
She sighed to herself. In no facet of her life was this more true than in her sex life—or rather, the meager amount of sex she allocated for herself.
Sex meant R. L. Shacklebury. Every two weeks or so, she juggled her schedule so they could enjoy a quick dinner and a roll in the hay. R.L. was a wonderful lover, and the time they spent apart left an empty ache in her heart.
On alternate weeks she juggled her schedule to make room for Leo Flood. Invariably, he was the perfect date—a charming gentleman through and through. He never approached her physically—something she sorely yearned for.
Each time she saw him, Leo would invariably bring up marriage. “I’m still waiting for you to say yes,” he would tell her.
And she would utter her excuses about not being ready yet, and assure him that, yes, she was still seriously considering it.
In truth, she just couldn’t make up her mind, but she knew that, sooner or later she would have to. She couldn’t play Ping-Pong and bounce between R.L. and Leo forever. Two half-lives did not one whole life make.
But who would it be? Leo? Or R.L.?
She really didn’t know.
Chapter 62
“It’s been nearly three months now, boss,” Carmen Toledo said. “None of the surveillance units have reported anything. You think he knows we’re guarding her?” She looked at Fred Koscina sideways with her dark, shiny Latin eyes.
He grunted and shrugged his big rumpled shoulders. “Damned if I know, Carm. Our people are pretty well hidden.” He grabbed the thick Reuben deli sandwich from the paper on his lap and took a huge bite, a string of sauerkraut dangling out the corner of his mouth. “Some people can smell cops a mile away,” he said, talking while he chewed.
“Yeah, but how can he tell?” Carmen pressed. “We’ve got our undercover cops going into the clinic like customers. That lady cop pretending she’s a maid in the town house next door. An undercover cop instead of Billie Dawn’s regular limo driver. It isn’t like we’re using only Con Ed trucks or telephone vans or unmarked police cars.”
He sucked the dangling thread of sauerkraut into his mouth. “It’s like I said. Maybe he can smell us.” He swallowed the mouthful of Reuben and pulled the tab on a cold can of soda. He held it out to her, but she shook her head. “Did you talk to them earlier?” he asked before taking a swig.
She nodded. “To Billie Dawn, yes. Not to the doctor, though. He was busy.”
“How’s she holding up?”
“All right,” she said, nodding. “She’s a pretty brave girl. But she’s scared shitless, boss. She wants this creep caught pretty b
adly.”
He laughed mirthlessly. “She’s not the only one.” He took another bite of his sandwich, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and peered out the tinted windshield of the delivery van. Down the street, all looked normal at the clinic. All looked quiet at the town house.
“Boss?” Her voice had a funny edge to it.
He looked at her questioningly.
“What happens if he doesn’t come around soon? I mean, what if he waits until we’re no longer guarding her?”
“We’ll guard her,” Koscina growled. “I gave her my word, didn’t I?”
“Yeah,” she said dubiously, “but you heard the chief yesterday. Three shifts of six people costs the taxpayers a lot of money. You know how he is about that.”
Koscina took another swig of soda. “Don’t worry about it. The chiefs getting so much flak over this creep that he’d assign us his grandmother if he thought it’d do us any good. And if I have to, I’ll guard her on my own goddamn time. I’m entitled to two and a half months of vacation.”
She smiled suddenly. “And I’ve got three weeks coming,” she said. The walkie-talkie crackled. She reached for it, listened, and turned to her partner. “It’s Stu, boss. He says they’re going to be coming out and going to lunch soon. The Cherbourg Restaurant on Fifty-seventh.”
He grunted. “All right. Have Rosenthal and Jefferson haul ass. I want them at that restaurant before they get there.”
“Okay, boss.” She started to speak into the mouthpiece.
“And tell ‘em not to fuck it up,” he growled, tearing into another mouthful of Reuben. “We can’t afford any fuckups.”
“You’re sure they’re still with us?” Billie Dawn asked when they were seated in the restaurant. “I couldn’t see anyone following us.”
“That’s because they’re undercover cops,” Duncan said with a faint smile. “We’re not supposed to see them. But they’re around here somewhere.”
“I suppose you’re right. The thing is, my nerves are getting frayed. I feel all fidgety outside and all jumpy inside.” She stopped talking as the waiter approached with their drinks.
She picked up her white wine and took a quick sip.
Duncan reached across the table and took her hand. “You can’t keep letting it eat at you,” he told her gently. “You’ve got to believe they’re out there covering you. And above all, you’ve got to try to forget everything that’s happened.”
“How can I, after what he did to Obi and Ermine?” Tears threatened her eyes. “Doc, Ermine was the second time he’s invaded the place I live! First it was the apartment I shared with Obi, and then your house!”
“Our house,” he corrected gently.
She nodded absently. “It makes me feel so violated, Doc! Even after all these months. If he could get in twice—”
“He won’t get in again!” Duncan said forcefully.
She gave him a sickly smile. “I’m wondering if I could stand it if he did.”
The waiter returned to the table, telephone in hand. “There’s a call for Miss Billie Dawn,” he said.
Duncan looked at her questioningly.
“It must be Olympia.” Billie sighed. “She’s the only one I told where we were going.” She forced a friendly smile for the waiter. “I’ll take it,” she said with a nod, and watched him plug the phone into a tableside jack. “Yes?” she said when she picked up the receiver. She frowned. “Hello? Hello?” She looked over at Duncan and they exchanged looks.
“Hello?” she said again, a little louder. “Is anybody there?”
Then the whisper reached across the wires and exploded in her ear.
“I know you’re being watched, my pretty, so I’ll have to be patient awhile longer! But they can’t guard you forever, now, can they? In the meantime, just take good care of that hair! Don’t you dare cut it! It’s mine!”
“H-how did you know where to find me?” she whispered.
“I know where you are all the time! Just remember, you can run and you can hide, but I’ll still be there! I’ll still know!”
Then the connection was abruptly broken.
She let the receiver drop to the table. Her face was ashen.
“Billie?” Duncan was leaning across the table. “Billie? What is it?”
“It was him!” she whispered, clutching his hands and digging her nails into his wrists. “Him! Oh, God, Doc! Doc, I am frightened! He’s waiting until I don’t have police protection. Oh, Doc, what am I going to do?”
Chapter 63
Edwina looked around her office. Rolling clothes racks were pushed against all the walls, even in front of the windows. There was hardly enough room for the crowd in there.
She sat in the middle of the couch, with Leo Flood at her right, and R. L. Shacklebury, who had charmed his way into seeing the entire Edwina G. collection for the very first time, on her left. In the two facing tub chairs were Jack Petrone, the director of the Carlisle/Petrone ad agency, and William Peters, her press agent. Behind a folding screen angled across a corner, Billie Dawn was changing clothes with the help of a dresser. And behind Edwina, Liz was on hand, pen poised and notepad at the ready.
At a nod from Edwina, Liz punched the portable cassette recorder and Basia’s updated bossa nova blared. All eyes turned to the screen as Billie Dawn strutted out from behind it. She was wearing black stockings with a pattern of tiny red dots, black shoes, and a black micro dress affixed with big wet-looking red hearts. For accessories she wore red gloves and red heart-shaped plastic earrings. In one hand she held a glittery red cardboard cutout made to look like a heart-shaped lollipop. Expertly negotiating her way between the couch and chairs, she twirled around twice to show off the outfit from all sides, and then started back toward the screen.
“Shut off the music,” Edwina abruptly called out.
Liz switched off the recorder and Billie Dawn stopped strutting. She stood there awaiting further instructions.
“What’s the matter?” Jack Petrone asked.
“The clothes are terrific, even if I say so myself,” Edwina said, “and Billie Dawn’s a dynamite model. Anything looks good on her. She could be wearing toilet paper and women would run out and buy it to wear. The same goes for the other models we’ve got lined up.”
“But?” Jack sighed.
“But like Billie Dawn, they’re all high-fashion girls,” she said. “Don’t you see? They’d look just as at home in Givenchy or de Riscal as they would in Edwina G.”
“Yes, they would.” Jack’s frown deepened. “But I’m still lost.”
“The point I’m making is this. My clothes cross over traditional age barriers. They could just as easily be worn by New Wave fourteen-year-olds as by their with-it mothers.”
“That’s right,” he agreed, nodding. “That’s what I’ve always liked about them.”
She leaned toward him. “So why,” she inquired quietly, “aren’t we using any models that today’s kids can identify with? Granted, Billie Dawn appeals to a great number of women, but she sure as hell won’t appeal to East Village dropouts.”
“East Village dropouts?” Leo Flood coughed. “Since when do they buy expensive clothes?”
“Maybe they don’t,” Edwina explained shrewdly, “but their well-to-do middle-class counterparts sure do. Remember all those kids who were emulating Madonna with bustiers and torn lace a while back?”
“Yes?” Leo said cautiously.
“Well, by leaving them out, we’re bypassing an entire segment of today’s spend-happy consumers. Like it or not, this is the video generation, guys. God only knows where all the money’s coming from, but do you have any idea of the sheer spending power of today’s teens? Look what they did for Reebok. Oh, and another thing. Children who were yea-high when MTV first made its debut? Well, guess what? They are now coming of age as adults, and I don’t have to tell you what that means. Spending adults! With cash and credit cards. Talk about mastering the possibilities—you ain’t seen nothin’ yet! Anyway,
those are things to bear in mind, especially if we want Edwina G. to appeal to the broadest possible spectrum of the population.”
Leo said, “Now, why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because your orbit is confined to the Upper East Side and Wall Street,” Edwina said. “Not that what I’m proposing is earth-shattering, by any means. It’s simply a matter of being in tune with what’s happening on the street.”
Jack was nodding. “You know, Leo,” he said with barely subdued excitement, “maybe . . . just maybe Eds is onto something big. Big as in b-i-g big. And the best thing is, at least as far as Edwina G. is concerned, this does away with traditional demographics. Hot damn!” he whispered in awe, and stared at Edwina with amazement as the full scope of it all sank in. “When you consider the implications, the financial returns could be staggering.”
“And I firmly believe they will be,” Edwina said, a nonchalant wave of her hand indicating that she’d long ago figured that out and that her mind was already leap-frogging ahead. “But the person we need in order to reach those girls out there,” she continued, “has got to be very young and ‘with it’ herself. And when I say ‘with it,’ I mean with it! Totally authentic. Today’s kids are much too smart to fall for somebody who’s just playing the part. We need someone who’s got the latest trendy look down pat and loves it. You know. Wild and New Wavy and sassy enough to offset Billie Dawn’s natural elegance.”
Despite herself, her voice had grown more and more animated, and now she jumped up and started pacing excitedly.
“Don’t you see, guys? We’ll be able to hit everyone between the ages of fourteen and forty! Can’t you practically hear the cash registers jingling already? I sure can. And,” she added with a smug smile, “the beauty of it is that we can reach them all with only one collection! Just think of what that means!” She paused and looked around. “Well? What do you all think? Come on, speak up! Talk to me! It’s input time.”
“Wild and New Wavy,” Leo murmured, deep in thought. “Sassy.” He tapped his lips with a forefinger. Then he smiled up at her. “I like it!”
