Summer at Tiffany

by Marjorie Hart

  106 Morningside Dr.

  Dear Family,

  Thrilled to pieces! We have the job at Tiffany’s!!! Can you believe it? We’ll be the first girls they’ve ever hired to be pages. Biggest surprise—the secretary bought us lovely Tiffany blue dresses for uniforms from a very expensive store—Marty and I feel like models!

  At the Shuttleworths’, we heard about the terrible battle over Okinawa on the radio—it’s headlines in the papers here. I’ll bet Aunt Olive and Uncle Peter are worried to death about the boys. Please give them my love. More later.

  Love, Marjorie

  P.S. We’ll be paid every week—you don’t have to worry anymore!

  Worry? With our friends screaming with envy, Mrs. Shuttleworth’s eyes as big as dinner plates, and our parents thinking we’d landed the ritziest jobs in Manhattan, you’d think we were on easy street. Good heavens—how will we exist on that next-to-nothing salary?

  The rent would swallow most of our pay, and we’d conveniently forgotten about an electric bill. Then Mrs. Shuttleworth reminded us to save for the elevator operator’s Xmas fund! Ohmygosh.

  Marty drummed her pencil on the desk. “Personally, I could live on Nestlé’s chocolate milk.”

  “Or we could try baking our own bread—it only takes flour and water,” I offered.

  “Make bread? Is that when you dip your elbow in the water to check the temperature? For heaven’s sake! It’s hot enough in here without turning on the oven!”

  “What about that Wheaties and celery diet?” I suddenly remembered.

  “Good land!” Marty said. She sharpened her pencil, and began adding up the numbers. We’d agreed before we left for New York that we’d never write home for money. We’d make do.

  “Don’t forget the Broadway shows,” I reminded her.

  “Are you crazy? The midshipmen get theater passes!”

  THE BUDGET—RENT AND ELECTRICITY—$65.00 A MONTH

  DAILY

  1. Two nickels for subway (daily)

  2. Sandwich and drink at the Automat: 15 cents

  3. Nestlé’s chocolate milk & toast (deli egg bread)—breakfast & dinner: 9 cents

  4. Penny postcards—no 3-cent stamps

  5. Weekly elevator operator’s Christmas Fund—25 cents

  DISCRETIONARY FUND (IF THERE IS ONE!)

  Select one for the week:

  Oxydol laundry soap, Woodbury hand soap, bronze stocking stick, Pond’s hand cream, Jergen’s lotion, Dubarry nail polish, Kreml shampoo, Max Factor powder, Colgate toothpaste, Tangee lipstick, Coca-Cola, Lucky Strike cigarettes, Schrafft sundae, drink at Sardi’s

  Tickets: Staten Island Ferry (5 cents); Empire State Tower ($1.10); Lewissohn concerts (25 cents); Paramount Theatre; Radio City Music Hall

  A girl can dream, can’t she?

  Chapter Four

  IT WAS morning. Sunlight filtered in with the smell of burnt toast. Hurriedly, I stirred my Nestlé’s as we talked nonstop, fueled by adrenaline and chocolate. I brushed my hair and filed my nails as we took turns with our lipstick in front of the tiny mirror above our dresser. I tried to think of cover girl Jinx Falkenburg’s fashion model tips, but only remembered one: Lift your chin above the horizon. I could practice that on the way to the subway.

  Joining the working crowd and rushing to the subway station was exciting, though not as romantic as the leisurely Riverside bus ride along the tree-lined parkway with its luxury penthouses and terraces. But there was still a thrill to catching the train, hurtling like a rocket down the tracks, and making the curves as if we were on a roller coaster.

  We emerged with a throng of people, and made our way to Fifty-seventh Street and Fifth Avenue. Near the employees’ entrance I stopped dead. On the door of the building next to Tiffany’s was a discreet sign: MAINBOCHER.

  “Ohmygosh, isn’t that—”

  Marty moved closer to look. “It is!”

  Mainbocher was a leading fashion designer, and the designer for the Duchess of Windsor—or her couturier, as Vogue would have it. Anyone old enough to turn a page in Life magazine knew the duchess’s style: the fitted suit with the matching off-the-face hat, the satiny tea gown with the beaded bag, the classic tailored dress with the thin-strapped heels. From her filmy lingerie to her lush sable coat, Wallis Simpson wore the famed Mainbocher label.

  I had been surprised when I found out that Main Rousseau Bocher was an American from Chicago, and that he had moved his “house of couture” from France to New York just before the war broke out in Europe, but I was even more impressed with his contribution to the war effort. He’d designed the smart, tailored suits for the Women Accepted for Voluntary Emergency Service (WAVES), and their recruitment brochures had even touted his work with the slogan “It’s a proud moment when you first step out in brand-new Navy blues! . . . Designed by the famous stylist Mainbocher to flatter every figure and to make you look—and feel—your best!”

  Now here we were, but unlike Tiffany or the many exclusive stores at which we’d filled out applications, Mainbocher certainly wasn’t a place where you were invited in to browse—either in person or through big streetside windows. There were no windows whatsoever, and I wasn’t sure if the door was even unlocked.

  Marty took it in stride, but I stopped to stare. In sixth grade my girlfriends and I were infatuated by the dapper, eligible Prince of Wales. When we heard his suave British voice over a worldwide broadcast announce that he was throwing over the crown of England for “the woman I love,” we were “besotted” (we dropped that word whenever we could as we imagined that being besotted by a prince put us into a far different league than the boy passing us notes across the aisle). We kept the flame flickering even after he married Wallis Simpson, and followed their exotic life all the way to the Bahamas, their safe haven during the war.

  AFTER WE CLOCKED in, the elevator operator smiled and took us to the floor of the locker room. The room was narrow with a row of gray metal lockers, a green bench, and a floor-length mirror at the far end. We changed into our Bonwit’s dresses, preening by the mirror. I felt like a movie star and Marty looked every inch the runway goddess—never mind that one size smaller would have been perfect. At Mr. Wilson’s office, I smiled at the secretary, who waited for the superintendent’s approval. Did he like our new uniforms? He didn’t say—I was disappointed, especially for the secretary, to whom we were so grateful—instead, he gave us each a sleek black shoulder bag with the smell of fine leather.

  “You’ll need these for delivering the packages,” he said, aiming his instructions at the rear wall (I no longer looked over my shoulder). “The important thing for the page is to recognize the signal. When a salesman needs a delivery, he’ll rap his ring sharply on the counter—that’s your sign.”

  Already I had my first question. “Will the rap be loud enough to hear across the floor?”

  “Yes, of course. Each salesman wears a diamond ring, and as we say—a diamond sings against glass.” I loved the new expression and couldn’t wait to hear our first rap, imagining how it would sound. I had only been in one other jewelry store in my life, in Story City, and the jeweler, Magne Idse, sold far more watches than diamonds—and he certainly didn’t wear a diamond ring!

  “What do we say to the salesman?” Marty wanted to know.

  “For now, just address him as ‘sir.’ As soon as you can, learn the salesman’s name and number. We’re as discreet as possible at Tiffany,” he said.

  When Mr. Wilson ushered us to the main floor, he indicated the place for us to stand. Our “station” was against the paneled wall, between the mirrors that were framed in marble.

  “If you need me, I’ll be in the far corner,” he said, pointing to a spot near the cashier’s window, maybe twenty steps away. Then he was gone.

  Marty and I stood as straight as two beanpoles, gazing at the nearest counters. To our left was the watch counter, near the Fifth Avenue entrance, where Tiffany offered its customers exactly one brand—the legendary Patek Philippe, m
en’s and women’s, with or without diamonds. I had never heard of this brand, and was surprised Tiffany didn’t carry Elgin.

  To our right was the stationery counter, with chairs where customers could sit as they selected their engraved cards and stationery. Directly in front, two salesmen handled glittering ladies’ accessories and evening bags. They welcomed us with a nod and a smile.

  Marty whispered, “They look like Mutt and Jeff.” The likeness, one tall with bushy hair, the other small and bald, was so remarkable, I began to giggle. Mr. Wilson shot us a dour look, and I clamped my mouth shut.

  Looking across the room, I nudged Marty and whispered.

  “The Tiffany Diamond.”

  Dominating the first floor was the famous Tiffany Diamond, set in a glass case behind the diamond counter. It was so dazzling, I blinked. Mr. Wilson had explained, “People come from as far as China to view the diamond. It has a hundred and twenty-eight carats, the largest canary diamond in the world.” We wondered what it was worth, but Marty didn’t ask.

  I watched for the first rush of customers, but it was only a trickle: an elderly lady headed for the customers’ elevator, a stooped man with a cane approached the watch counter, and a navy commander, accompanied by a redhead wearing a John Frederic’s hat with a half-veil, stopped by the stationery. The nurse had warned us, “You won’t find the store busy in the summer—the Four Hundred are vacationing at their homes near the ocean.”

  The Four Hundred? I had no idea what or who she was talking about, so I had asked Mrs. Shuttleworth, and now I was prepared. If someone looked like they owned half of Manhattan and had a box at the opera, and happened to mention an invitation to the Astors’, they were most likely one of the Four Hundred. Mrs. Shuttleworth had another, shorter definition: The Old Money of New York.

  WHEN A SHARP, percussive ping rang out, I was startled. Was that the signal? It came from the watch counter, and Marty took off. I carefully watched the routine. A white-haired salesman with glasses chatted with his customer, and then handed Marty a package with instructions. She placed it in her shoulder bag and sailed off, poised and self-assured. Easy. I felt important waiting for my turn.

  I didn’t wait long. The next “rap” was barely perceptible. I couldn’t pinpoint the location, but knew it was from the opposite side of the floor.

  Confidently, I marched past the cashier with the bushy eyebrows, who smiled, and past the navy commander with his stylish friend at the stationery counter. I noticed they were looking at wedding invitations—how romantic. I turned the corner at the next aisle, looking for the salesman who had rapped. As I passed several salesmen, I felt their eyes boring a hole in my back. None of them gave any indication I was needed.

  My heart pounded as I altered my course, trying to look as if I knew where I was going. I’d better keep moving—I can’t stand still looking like a nitwit.

  I kept my chin in the air, not daring to look at the gleaming array of jewelry or the salesmen. I clenched my teeth. Where was Mr. Wilson, for crying out loud, now that I needed him? Couldn’t this diamond rapper wave, whistle, or holler? I had sailed past most of the counters and found myself by the Fifty-seventh Street revolving door—a dead end. The doorman was watching, studying my circuitous route. I hyperventilated and clutched the black bag for support. I didn’t know where to turn next—maybe out the door—when I caught the aroma of an exotic perfume radiating from a stunning customer, a brunette engrossed in a conversation with a salesman.

  I took a chance.

  “May I help you?” I squeaked, my voice in an upper register.

  The salesman looked up. “Oh, yes, Miss,” he said, finally noticing me. “Please take this bracelet to the repair room.”

  Oh, was he good-looking!

  While he wrapped the bracelet, I tried to steady my heartbeat. I was elated—my first errand a success. I noticed he was younger than the others, with wavy dark hair and a devastating smile.

  He handed me the package, which had the number 15 written on top. “Our customer will be taking the bracelet with her—we’ll wait for the repair.”

  “Yes, sir.” I almost bowed.

  He smiled in a way that made me blush. But his beaming expression was for the glamorous brunette. She looked like a fashion model with her ostrich leather heels, straight out of Vogue.

  As I turned to leave, confident and poised, I proceeded in the nonharried, composed saunter of a runway model. I headed for the service exit, smiling at the cashier as I passed. Look at me now.

  The second I left the main floor, I tore down the hall to the employees’ elevator.

  “The repair department, please,” I said breathlessly. It was the same ruddy-faced operator we’d met before. I felt sorry for him, standing in an elevator all day with swollen ankles spilling over the rims of his shoes. When we reached the second floor, I thanked him. “Yes, Miss,” he said, nodding.

  Along the corridor, a clerk was waiting at a counter in front of an enclosed room. Through a bank of windows, I could see men hunched over desks, peering through loupes at their work. Mr. Wilson had described them: “They’re master craftsmen in the repair department—and spend days, sometimes weeks on one item of jewelry.”

  “Sir,” I said to the clerk, “this is for number fifteen. The customer is waiting for the repair.”

  Please, hurry, I wanted to add.

  He opened the package. “It’s only a broken clasp—it won’t take long,” he assured me, and left for the repair room inside.

  I was relieved. I’d be back in minutes to prove to the salesman (was it Cary Grant or Gregory Peck that he resembled?) how efficient I could be. While I waited, I watched the men absorbed in their meticulous work, fascinated by their array of delicate tools. Then I followed the second hand on the large clock across the room. As I began to fidget, I counted the number of squares on the parquet floor. What was taking so long? I feared the salesman would think I’d left the building.

  Suddenly there was my man, picking up the package. He closed the door and handed it to me. I thanked him and flew down the corridor for the same elevator.

  “Main floor?” the friendly operator asked.

  “Yes, please.” I caught my breath.

  I had an inspiration.

  “Would you happen to know this salesman’s name—he’s number fifteen?”

  “Fifteen? Dat’s Mistah Hoydman.”

  “Hoydman?”

  “Dat’s right.”

  Wonderful. It wouldn’t take long to master their names—I could just ask that operator. “Thank you so much,” I said, feeling I had conquered a page’s job.

  Back on the main floor, I approached the salesman, who was still chatting with the lovely brunette with the flirtatious giggle. They hadn’t missed me at all.

  “Here’s the package, Mr. Hoydman,” I spoke clearly.

  He stared at me, frowning. He murmured, “Thank you,” and turned abruptly to Miss Ostrich Heels. As he rewrapped the bracelet for her, he motioned me to leave. He had been so curt; something was wrong. Definitely wrong. Had I made them wait too long?

  When I heard her leather heels clickity-clack out of the Fifty-seventh Street exit, the saleman rapped again. I hurried back to his counter.

  “Yes, Mr. Hoydman?” I said as cheerfully as possible.

  His narrowing eyes would have cracked an iceberg, and his words were daggers. “What. Is. Your. Name. Miss?”

  “Miss Jacobson,” I said as my voice trailed away.

  “Miss Jacobson, I understand you’re from Iowa. How did you pronounce ‘bird’ over there?”

  Huh? “Bird.”

  “And herd?”

  “Herd.” Ohmygosh. I knew where this was going.

  “Good,” he said sharply. “My last name is Herdman—Mr. Herdman!”

  My face burned! Nice going, Miss Iowa Hick. And this was only my first day.

  106 Morningside Dr.

  Dear Family,

  I just received your letter—can’t believe that
Tiffany’s called you long distance, Dad! What did you say—what did they say? What that must have cost! I’ll bet the Holm sisters at the phone company will have it spread all over town!

  The news here is the upcoming parade for General Eisenhower. We’ll see him in person! Mayor La Guardia is calling a holiday—they expect millions to turn out. Mrs. Shuttleworth told us we could find seats on the steps of the NYC Public Library. We’re leaving early tomorrow. Everything is great here.

  More later.

  Love, Marjorie

  P.S. Remember that radio program that’s so funny—the way they say “goils” for girls? Guess what—some people really do talk like that!

  If I’d only known how to recognize a Bronx accent! Gnawing on a piece of dry toast, I sat staring through our window at the bare brick wall. Marty was trying to cheer me up, saying, “Old Mr. Herdman looks like a sourpuss to me!” She stretched out on the studio couch to light a cigarette when the phone rang. I answered.

  Me: Hello—Oh, hi, Sheila . . . (Marty looked up)

  Sheila: Hey—seen any midshipmen yet?

  Me: Not yet—we’ve been too busy working. Are you going to the parade?

  Sheila: That’s why we’re calling. They’re expecting millions—with that crowd we’d never get home. How ’bout spending the night?

  I covered the mouthpiece to tell Marty—she shrugged.

  Me: Sure, but bring your own drinks—just in case we’re out. (Marty rolled her eyes.)

  Sheila: How do you like work—and that snazzy neighborhood?

  Me: We love it—and guess what? Mainbocher is next to Tiffany’s.

  Sheila: Hold on a minute. How’d you say that? Anita’s laughing— Lordy—wait a second—Ohmygod, I can’t stop laughing. Can you hear her?

  Me: Oh—okay—right . . . right. That does sound better—tell her thanks.

  I signed off and hung up the phone.

  “So?” Marty jumped up, crushing her cigarette.

  “Well”—I started to laugh—“it’s pronounced ‘Man-bou-shay.’ not ‘Main-bockers.’ ”

  “Swell. Remind me to tell them we’re not pages, either—we’re couriers, m’dear!