Chapter Five
MARTY HUNG up the telephone, snapping her fingers as she wriggled her hips.
“Are you ready for this? We’re going nightclubbing—the Byoirs are taking us out . . . tonight!”
“How in the—”
“It’s true! We’re meeting them at their Park Avenue apartment!” she sang.
“Holy Toledo!” I leaned against the refrigerator, feeling light-headed. Park Avenue, nightclubs, celebrities, photographers!
We already considered ourselves intimately familiar with life behind the velvet drapes, thanks to Life magazine, which delivered almost as much news about “Café society” as it did about the war. And who didn’t listen to Walter Winchell’s latest Manhattan society gossip on the radio? Even Pepsi ads were set in the booths of El Morocco. Now those black-and-white photos and radio recordings would be replaced with the real thing. We would see for ourselves what really happened in Café society.
Within minutes, our apartment had the aroma of Bonwit’s cosmetic counter. The bathroom clouded over as we shampooed with Kreml (“Glamour-bathe your hair in Kreml,” the ads in Life urged), lotioned with Jergens, and powdered with Max Factor.
In went the bobby pins to make sure we had plenty of curls in our straight hair. Out came the ironing board, because my black short-sleeved linen blouse and matching skirt were fresh off the clothesline in the basement. As I worked through every wrinkle, using a damp tea towel under the iron to provide the steam, Marty and I kept up a steady banter.
I was so lost in anticipation, I almost scorched my black blouse with the iron as I yelled to Marty, “Hey, remember that debutante, Brenda Frazier—all those snazzy pictures of her in the Cub Room at the Stork Club?”
“And wearing that slinky, strapless, black taffeta gown—who can forget?” She laughed.
“Well, my outfit will be a far cry from that.” I looked like a waif from the orphan train in my simple black blouse and skirt.
THE MINUTE THE New York apartment was confirmed I had known that I had to do something to update my wardrobe—even if I could only afford one new piece.
At Towner’s, the campus shop where I worked, I was always on the lookout for double markdowns, and that’s how I got the classic short-sleeved black crepe dress. Fitted at the waist, with a narrow belt and a pencil skirt, it was sleek and simple, appropriate for almost any occasion—and with my employee discount on top of the markdowns, the price was right!
But nothing in my suitcase rivaled my Jantzen halter neck “date dress” that I’d been wearing since high school. Oh, that dress! Fine, light blue-and-white-striped cotton fell from a fitted waist into a huge full skirt that made me want to twirl around—it was the flashiest dress that I’d ever owned.
But I couldn’t wear my sundress everywhere, and the contents of the single suitcase I had brought to New York were unremarkable. I’d tossed in my summer favorites: Bermuda shorts, teal culottes, and my one-piece Esther Williams–style bathing suit, a couple of white cotton blouses, old sandals, and three swing skirts—dirndl, print, and accordion pleated. (The cello had a fatal effect on my fashion life: always full skirts, nails filed to the nub, and calluses.)
I wore my best outfit on the train: a black three-piece linen-like suit, sling-back pumps, and my all-time favorite, a broad-brimmed cartwheel hat. Everything was black (what was I thinking?), and I carried my white gloves and a herring-bone coat, which doubled as a raincoat, with a blue scarf stashed in the pocket. I must say I felt very Harpers Bazaar-ish when that train came down the tracks.
When Marty opened her suitcase, I jumped up. “Ooooh—that navy blue shantung!” That wasn’t all; she had an aqua silk jersey, a pink sharkskin, and white linen to die for. Four new dresses, no doubt from Younkers’ special floor where you didn’t dare look at the price. Marty, the best-dressed Kappa, could wear clothes like a Vogue model—the pencil skirts, chic fabrics, and always the classic, elegant style.
As for Marty, her only problem was trying to decide which dress to wear. She finally settled on the aqua silk jersey with thin black vertical stripes, kimono sleeves, and mother-of-pearl buttons.
At such moments, I didn’t feel envy, just good fortune at having such a generous and outgoing friend. We would have a good time no matter what we were wearing, and my understated outfit would be a nice counterpoint to Marty’s more glamorous style.
Still, we were nervous about our choices. At the last moment we decided to ask Mrs. Shuttleworth for her opinion.
“You girls look darling—and don’t you worry,” she said, wiping her floury hands on an apron, “you look better than those debutantes flouncing around in formals who’ve forgotten there’s a war going on.” She was right. The patriotic thing to do was to make do with what we already had in our closets. Resources were depleted, and production of servicemen’s uniforms was one of the highest priorities.
Just before we walked out the door, we added the final touch: a spritz of Evening in Paris on our hair.
WHEN MARTY AND I caught sight of the blue-striped canopy in front of the Byoirs’ Park Avenue apartment building, we nudged each other excitedly. The brass-buttoned doorman led us through the lobby, and a white-gloved elevator operator took us to the top floor in the paneled elevator. When we emerged from the elevator, Carl Byoir greeted us warmly and brought us into the foyer to meet his wife.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” she exclaimed, reaching out to hold our hands.
“Carl’s right—you are the prettiest girls in Iowa. I’ll bet Tiffany’s thrilled to have you!”
Her effusive welcome made my cheeks turn red. She was dazzling, from head to toe. Taller than Mr. Byoir, she had a model’s figure. Her dress was a shimmering white lamé, and her brilliant necklace was so stunning, it was difficult not to stare. Even Marty was wide-eyed. Beyond their foyer, I caught a glimpse of French provincial furniture, ivory cushions, fresh flowers in crystal vases, and a door leading to an outdoor patio. What would it be like to cool off in the evening on a terrace, under the stars?
“Are we going to the Stork Club, dear?” Mrs. Byoir asked, reaching for her beaded bag.
“We’ll see,” he said with a sly smile. “The taxi’s waiting.”
The attentive doorman ushered us into the waiting cab. “Good evening, sir, have a pleasant night.” I felt giddy as we slid into our seats. My first taxi ride.
Mr. Byoir leaned forward to the driver. “The Stork Club, please.” I wanted to shriek with glee. Marty and I knew the Stork Club’s rich history and famous guests, having stared at hundreds of photographs of movie stars and politicians and rich young socialites. Just ask us about the club’s signature perfume or The Snowball—ice cream rolled in shredded coconut, then drizzled with chocolate sauce! Everyone knew about the Stork Club.
Now we were sitting in the middle of it all, craning our necks in search of someone famous, and Mr. Byoir decided he needed to call Iowa. One of the waiters, dressed as they all were in a white double-breasted jacket, was asked to bring a telephone to our table, just like in the movies, and soon we had one, a long cord trailing across the room. Mr. Byoir wanted to call “Stub” Stewart, his old college friend in Des Moines, but Stub wasn’t at home, and that was just fine with Marty and me. We stayed for only one glass of champagne, and then we were off.
“LA MARTINIQUE, PLEASE,” Mr. Byoir said to the driver.
We entered under a sparkling marquee, and were met at the door by the maître d’ in a tuxedo.
“We have a special table for you this evening, Mr. Byoir,” he said, leading the way. Following Mrs. Byoir’s trail of perfume, I noticed couples in velvet-cushioned booths, waiters carrying trays of tinkling glasses over their heads, and servicemen and their dates on the dance floor. It was the sound of the band and the sultry beat of “Begin the Beguine” that started my heart in the rhumba rhythm.
The maître d’ led us to a table by the stage. Everybody was smiling: Marty, Mr. and Mrs. Byoir, and, most of all, the maître d’, w
ho bowed. Waiters suddenly appeared to seat us, fluffing napkins across our laps and pouring ice water. I was amazed by the attention. No wonder Life idolized Café society.
On the dance floor, an army general, weighted down with ribbons and medals, was sweating as he tried to rhumba with a matronly lady dangling her charm bracelet over his shoulder. She was wearing nylons—black market nylons. Obviously, it didn’t hurt to know the big brass.
The smell of cigar smoke and Chanel No. 5 drifted to our table, when a waiter suddenly appeared. “A cocktail for you, Miss?”
Startled, I caught my breath. As nonchalantly as possible, I said, “A vodka daiquiri with a twist, please.”
It paid to listen—and listen carefully. On our train trip from Iowa, Marty and I were playing cards in the club car when the bar opened and I overheard a lady order that cocktail. “It’s a ladies’ drink,” she had said. Not knowing a daiquiri from a dandelion, I thought I’d better write that one down.
Marty shot me a funny look and ordered a Manhattan. I smiled to myself, knowing that I’d surprised her. The Byoirs requested a bottle of champagne. When we were served, Mr. Byoir toasted our new job, “To Tiffany!”
How could you not love this high-society life? La Martinique was filled with high-ranking officers, women dressed to the nines, waiters at the elbow, and a twenty-five-piece band playing one hit song after another. When they began “Moonlight Serenade,” I remembered the time I had danced to that Glenn Miller favorite, my hair damp against my date’s shoulder, the rough feel of his air corps uniform, and the smell of my gardenia.
But I knew what my father would think of this decadent nightclub scene. If he’d caught sight of that general dancing the rhumba he’d never get over it! There were ration stamps to save, victory gardens to spade, and blood to donate for the soldiers. For a moment, I felt a pang of guilt, but as soon as the band swung into “S’Wonderful,” I was as thrilled as a Sinatra bobby-soxer. My foot was tapping.
Mr. Byoir asked Marty to dance. I could see she was unsure, but did not want to decline.
Once on the floor, she was easily two inches taller than he, thanks to her high heels, but they were graceful dancing together. And Marty’s dress stood out, even in this crowd.
Suddenly, they stopped dancing, pausing at a floor-side table to chat with other guests. Did Mr. Byoir know everybody in this city?
And later, when the band started to play “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore,” Mrs. Byoir began to hum along. She turned to her husband and reached for his hand, and he winked at her. Can you still be romantic when you’re that old? I felt tingly all over as I took another sip of my icy daiquiri.
Suddenly there was a spotlight on the stage and a drumroll. A man stepped out. “Ladies and gentleman, our master of ceremonies—Mr. Harry Richman!” The band struck up “On the Sunny Side of the Street” to a burst of applause and whistles.
“That’s Harry’s theme song,” Mr. Byoir said. “He’s the one who made it famous.” Needless to say, he’d made most of those Jazz Age songs famous.
Harry Richman had dark, wavy hair and a deep tan. “A Florida tan,” Mrs. Byoir whispered. “And you know he’s broken records as a transatlantic aviator—flying is his hobby.” His hobby! As if being a Broadway star wasn’t enough!
After a few jokes, he began introducing the celebrities in the audience. First, it was the general, the rhumba-inspired one, and then a popular Broadway star. As soon as the spotlight found her, she beamed, leaped up with a hand on her hip, and blew a kiss. Next, the spotlight hit our table. I jumped. Marty drew in her breath. Harry Richman approached and placed his hand on Mr. Byoir’s shoulder.
“This gentleman was President Roosevelt’s public relations expert. He created the Committee on Public Information and organized the Birthday Balls to fight infantile paralysis. We know the name he made famous—the March of Dimes. I present Mr. Carl Byoir!”
The audience broke into applause as Mr. Byoir stood up and a photographer rushed to our table. Marty and I stared at each other. So that’s who he was. Now it made sense: the photographs with President Roosevelt, the picture of the gigantic birthday cake, the office on the top floor with his name on the building. I could scarcely wait to write home about it.
After the photographer left, Mr. Byoir was in a talkative mood. He and his wife had attended the dinner for General Eisenhower at the Waldorf-Astoria. After Mrs. Byoir described the lavish five-course meal, he laughed. “We were only two of the sixteen hundred guests!”
When Marty asked Mr. Byoir about his work with President Roosevelt, he poured another glass of champagne and leaned forward.
“My most difficult assignment was to change the country’s opinion about Russia. Roosevelt knew we needed Russia for an ally, but first it had to be acceptable. So I began first on college campuses”—he stopped to light a cigar—“and I planned debates for radio broadcasts. Finding professors to debate communism was never difficult—and the newspapers were only too glad to cooperate. Then—the cultural emphasis—music, ballet, and so forth.”
How true. I thought of the touring Don Cossack Chorus, the Prokoviev recordings my sister and I had collected, and the sudden popularity of Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony. For my father it was a different story. When the newspaper mentioned “Papa Stalin,” he’d slap the paper on the table and rant against the evils of communism. Some of this stuff I’d better not write home about.
When a waiter asked about a refill, I shook my head—my lips were numb. Harry Richman walked over to join our table. Our table? I felt dizzy as the Byoirs greeted him like an old friend.
Mrs. Byoir introduced us. “These girls are from Iowa, where Carl went to school. And you’ll never guess—they’re working at Tiffany!”
“Tiffany, by God!” he said, looking up. “Let’s drink to that! You know how long I’ve been working for them.” They all laughed. All but me. Those were Mr. Byoir’s words, the day we met. My smile faltered, realizing what he’d meant. One glance at Mrs. Byoir’s priceless diamond necklace said it all. I felt like slinking under the table. What a laughingstock I must have been at my interview with President Moore. I polished off my daiquiri, feeling light-headed.
Before the evening was over, Mr. Byoir gave us prudent advice.
“Don’t you girls believe everything you read or hear. You’re smart enough to form your own opinions.”
I’ve never forgotten those words. Advice my father already knew.
106 Morningside Dr.
Dear Family,
We saw General Eisenhower! He rode down Fifth Avenue with his son in a convertible. And the crowd—the paper said 4 million! We were lucky—leaving early for the New York City Library, we found space on the top steps—some boys were perched on the lion statues. When the cavalcade of cars came down the street, General Eisenhower stood up and held his arms in a V for Victory sign. We went wild! We cheered so loud, I thought I’d go deaf. Confetti and paper streamed out of the windows like snow—the streets were knee-deep in litter all the way to City Hall.
That’s not all. Remember Mr. Byoir—Marty’s connection? The Byoirs took us to a ritzy nightclub and Harry Richman—that famous showman—introduced Mr. Byoir, spotlight and all. At last we found out what Mr. Byoir does. He was President Roosevelt’s public relations expert. The Byoirs went to a dinner in honor of Eisenhower at the Waldorf-Astoria that cost $18 a plate!
Tell Katherine—Happy Birthday on the Fourth! I’m thrilled they’re going to have a baby! How will you like being an uncle on New Year’s Eve, Phil?
Well, that’s the excitement here.
Love, Marjorie
And there was plenty of excitement! Marty was stirring her chocolate milk, still rehashing that night. “When I saw Mrs. Byoir’s diamond necklace I couldn’t believe it—like that incredible one we saw in the window!”
“Think what a fortune it must have cost,” I added. “No wonder Mr. Byoir said he was working for Tiffany—it would take a lifetime. Honestly, Marty, when I
think of that interview! You should have heard me that day—‘He’s working for youuuu—’ ” I sang in a falsetto.
“So we took him literally? I’ll bet they thought it was cute—how terrible is that?” she said, finishing her drink—and almost choked as she started to laugh.
“But when you ordered that vodka daiquiri with a twist—that was funny!”
Funny? What was she talking about? I was thrilled to come up with that drink on the spur of the moment.
“It’s a ladies’ cocktail, in case you don’t know—and I loved it,” I said, a bit miffed.
“Okay.” She was still laughing. “Okeydokey—just kind of a shock—as if you’re a regular at the bar.” And she laughed again.
“So the girls don’t have to hear about that.”
“Don’t worry. But I’ll tell you what they’re going to hear. It’s time they started chipping in on our electric bill.”
“You’re kidding! They think we’re rolling in dough,” I said, wiping away the toast crumbs. “They’ll never understand—”
“Hey, if we were rolling in dough—we’d be at the Plaza in the Terrace Room wearing one of those black tulle dresses from Bonwit’s and silver ankle straps from Delman’s.”
“Or Louis Philippe makeup from Saks,” I chimed in.
“How about a gown with Anna Karenina–ish ruffles from Mainbocher!”
“And a Bergdorf turban—” I giggled.
“With a diamond clip in a fleur-de-lis design!” Marty said in a low husky voice. “Please—wrap it up in the little blue box!” She dissolved in giggles before she clapped her hand over her mouth and said, “And can you believe Mr. Byoir asked me to dance?”
“I know how you must have felt, but I certainly wouldn’t mind dancing with someone that famous. But who were those people at the table where you stopped to talk? Were they friends of his?”
Marty smiled. “He didn’t know them. They kept pointing to me as we were dancing, so he just went up and said, ‘Hi.’ And this woman said, ‘Did you get your dress at Henri Bendel?’ ”
Summer at Tiffany Page 5
