Fine things (3 page)

He was living at home and his mother was driving him nuts, and everyone he knew was away. Either in the army or in school, or they had gotten jobs somewhere else. He felt like the only one left at home, and in desperation he applied for a job at Wolffs in the Christmas rush, and didn't even mind when they assigned him to the men's department and had him selling shoes. Anything would have been better than sitting home by then, and he had always liked the store. It was one of those large elegant halls that smelled good and where the people were well dressed, even the sales personnel had a certain amount of style, and the Christmas rush was a hair more polite than it was everywhere else. Wolffs had once been a store which set the styles for everyone, and to some extent it still did, although it lacked the pizzazz of a store like Bloomingdale's, only three blocks away.

But Bernie was fascinated by that, and he kept telling the buyer what he thought they could do to compete with Bloomingdale's, and the buyer only smiled. Wolffs didn't compete with anyone. At least that was what he thought. But Paul Berman, the head of the store, was intrigued when he read a memo from Bernard. The buyer apologized profusely to him when he heard about it, he promised that Bernie would be fired at once, but that wasn't what Berman wanted at all. He wanted to meet the kid with the interesting ideas, so they met, and Paul Berman saw the promise in him. He took him to lunch more than once, and he was amused at how brazen he was, but he was smart too, and Berman laughed when Bernie told him he wanted to teach Russian literature, and was going to night school at Columbia toward that end.

“That's a hell of a waste of time.”

Bernie was shocked, although he liked the man. He was quiet, elegant, a sharp businessman, and he was interested in what everyone said. He was the grandson of the original Mr. Wolff.

“Russian literature was my major, sir,” he said respectfully.

“You should have gone to business school.”

Bernie smiled. “You sound like my mother.”

“What does your father do?”

“He's a doctor. A throat surgeon, but I've always hated medicine. The thought of some of that stuff makes me sick.”

Berman nodded. He understood perfectly. “My brother-in-law was a doctor. I couldn't stand the thought of it either.” He frowned as he looked at Bernard Fine. “What about you? What are you really going to do with yourself?”

Bernie was honest with the man. He felt he owed him that, and he cared enough about the store to have written the memo that had brought him here. He liked Wolffs. He thought it was a terrific place. But it wasn't for him. Not permanently anyway. “I'll get my master's, apply for the same jobs again next year, and with luck, the year after that I'll be teaching at some boarding school.” He smiled hopefully and looked terribly young. His innocence was touching in a way, and Paul Berman liked him a great deal.

“What if the army grabs you first?” Bernie told him about being 4-F “You're damn lucky, young man. That little unpleasantness in Vietnam could get damn serious one of these days. Look what happened to the French over there. Lost their shirts. It'll happen to us if we don't watch out.” Bernie agreed with him. “Why don't you drop out of night school?”

“And do what?”

“I have a proposal for you. You stay with the store for the next year, and we'll train you in different areas, give you a taste of what's here, and if you want to stay with us, and if you can get in, we'll send you to business school. And in the meantime, you can do a sort of training on the job. How does that sound?” They had never offered anything like it to anyone, but he liked this kid with the wide honest green eyes, and the intelligent face. He wasn't a handsome boy, but he was a nice-looking man, and there was something bright and kind and decent in his face which Paul Berman liked a great deal and he said as much to Bernie before he left his office that day. Bernie had asked to think about his proposal for a day or two, but admitted to being very flattered and very touched. It was just a big decision to make. He wasn't sure he wanted to go to business school, and he hated to give up the dream of the country school in the sleepy little town, teaching eager ears about Dostoevski and Tolstoi. But maybe that was only a dream. Even now, it was growing dim.

He spoke to his parents that night, and even his father had been impressed. It was a marvelous opportunity, if that was what he wanted to do. And the year of training at the store beforehand would give him plenty of time to see if he liked Wolffs. It sounded as though he couldn't lose, and his father congratulated him, as his mother inquired how many children Berman had …how many sons …how much competition there was in other words … or daughters …imagine if he married one of them!

“Leave him alone, Ruth!” Lou had been firm when they were alone that night, and with great effort she had restrained herself, and Bernie had given Mr. Berman his answer the following day. He was delighted to accept, and Berman recommended that he apply to several business schools at once. He chose Columbia and New York University because they were in town, and Wharton and Harvard because of who they were. It would be a long time before he heard if he was accepted or not, but in the meantime he had lots to do.

And the year of training flew. He was accepted at three of the business schools where he had applied. Only Wharton turned him down, but said they might have room for him the following year, if he wished to wait, which he did not. And he chose Columbia, and began there while still working at the store a few hours a week. He wanted to keep his hand in, and he found he was particularly interested in the designer aspects of men's wear. He did a study on it for his first paper, and not only got high grades, but made some suggestions which actually worked in the store, when Berman let him try them on a small scale. His business school career was a considerable success, and when he finished, he wound up working for Berman for six months, and then moving back to men's wear after that, and then women's wear. He began to make changes which could be felt throughout the store, and within five years to the day he began at Wolffs, he was their rising star. So it came as a blow when Paul Berman announced on a sunny spring afternoon that they were moving him to the Chicago store for two years.

“But why?” It sounded like Siberia to him. He didn't want to go anywhere. He loved New York, and he was doing splendidly at the store.

“For one thing, you know most of the Midwest. For another”—Berman sighed and lit a cigar—“we need you out there. The store isn't doing as well as we'd like. It needs a shot in the arm, and you're it.” He smiled at his young friend. They shared enormous respect, but Bernie wanted to fight him on this. But he didn't win. Berman wouldn't relent, and two months later Bernie flew to Chicago and a year later he was made manager, which kept him there for another two years, even though he hated it. Chicago seemed like a depressing town to him, and the weather really got to him.

His parents came to visit him frequently, and it was obvious that his position carried with it considerable prestige. To be manager of Wolffs Chicago at thirty years of age was no small thing, but nonetheless he was dying to get back to New York, and his mother threw a huge party for him when he told her the good news. He was thirty-one years old when he came home, and Berman let him write his own ticket when he came back. Nonetheless when Bernie thought of upgrading the level of women's wear, Berman was not convinced. He wanted to introduce a dozen big couture lines, and put Wolffs back on the map as trendsetters for the whole United States.

“Do you realize how much those dresses sell for?” Berman looked genuinely distressed, as Bernie smiled at him.

“Yes. But they can pare them down a little for us. It won't actually be couture after all.”

“Damn close. Or the prices will be anyway. Who's going to buy those goods here?” It sounded too extreme to him, but at the same time he was intrigued.

“I think our customers will leap at what we'll offer them, Paul. Especially in cities like Chicago and Boston and Washington and even Los Angeles, where they don't have every store in New York spread out at their feet. We're going to bring Paris and Milan to them.”

“Or ourselves to the poorhouse trying, is that it?” But Berman didn't disagree. He looked at Paul thoughtfully. It was an interesting idea. He wanted to leap right into the highest-priced merchandise, selling dresses for as much as five or six or seven thousand dollars, which were after all only ready-to-wear technically, but the designs would be couture.

“We don't even have to buy the stock. We don't have to overload the inventory. We can have each designer put together a show, and the women can order directly through us, which makes even more sense economically.” Berman was thrilled with that idea. It took all the danger out of it for him.

“Now you've got it, Bernard.”

“I think we need to do some reconstruction first though. Our designer department isn't European enough.” They had gone on talking for hours as the idea was born, and when they had roughed out what they were going to do, Berman shook his hand. Bernard had grown up a lot in recent years. He was mature and self-confident, and his business decisions were sound. He even looked grown-up now, Berman teased, pointing at the beard he had grown before returning to New York. He was thirty-one years old and a very nice-looking man.

“I think you've done a fine job thinking this out.” The two men exchanged a smile. They were both pleased. It was going to be a very exciting time for Wolffs. “What are you going to do first?”

“I want to speak to some architects this week, and I'll have them do some plans up to show you, and then I want to leave for Paris. We have to see what the designers think about the idea.”

“Think they'll balk?”

He frowned pensively but shook his head. “They shouldn't. There's big money in it for them.”

And Bernie had been right. They hadn't balked. They had leapt at the idea, and he had signed contracts with twenty of them. He had gone to Paris fully prepared to close the deal, and he returned to New York three weeks later, victorious. The new program was to be launched in nine months, with a fabulous series of fashion shows in June, where the ladies could order their wardrobes for the fall. It was not unlike going to Paris and ordering from the couture lines. And Bernie was going to kick it all off with a party and one fabulous black-tie show which would combine a few pieces from each designer they would be working with. None of it could be bought, it would only be a teaser for the shows that would come next, and all of the models were coming from Paris, along with the designers. And three American designers had been added since the project began. It gave Bernie a huge amount of work to do in the next several months, but it also made him a senior vice president at thirty-two.

The opening-night fashion show was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever seen. The clothes were absolutely staggering and the audience oohed and aahed and applauded constantly. It was absolutely fabulous and one sensed easily that fashion history was being made. It was extraordinary the way he combined good business principles with strong merchandising, and somehow he had an innate sense for fashion. And it all combined to make Wolffs stronger than any other store in New York, or the country for that matter. And Bernie was on top of the world when he sat in the back row watching the first full designer show, as the women watched it avidly. He had seen Paul Berman pass by a short while before. Everyone was happy these days, and Bernie began to relax a little bit as he watched the models coming down the runway in evening gowns, and he particularly noticed one slender blonde, a beautiful catlike creature with chiseled features and enormous blue eyes. She almost seemed to glide above the ground, and he found himself waiting for her as each new series of gowns came out, and he was disappointed when the show finally came to an end and he knew he wouldn't see her again.

And instead of hurrying back to his office, as he had meant to do, he lingered for a moment, and then slipped backstage to congratulate the department manager, a Frenchwoman they had hired, who had worked for years for Dior.

“You did a great job, Marianne.” He smiled at her and she eyed him hungrily. She was in her late forties, impeccably turned out and tremendously chic, and she had had her eye on him since she'd come to the store.

“The clothes showed well, don't you think, Bernard?” She said it like a French name, and she was enormously cool and yet sexy at the same time. Like fire and ice. And he found himself looking over her shoulder as girls rushed past in blue jeans and their own simple street clothes with the fabulous gowns over their arms. Salesladies were dashing back and forth, grabbing armfuls of the exquisite clothes to take them to their customers to try on so they could order them. And it was all going extremely well, and then Bernard saw her, with the wedding dress from the finale over her arm.

“Who's that girl, Marianne? Is she one of ours, or did we hire her for the show?” Marianne followed his eyes, and was not taken in by the casual tone of his voice. She felt her heart sink as she looked at her. She couldn't have been a day over twenty-one and she was a beautiful girl.

“She free-lances for us from time to time. She's French.” But she didn't need to say more. The girl wandered right over to them, and held up the wedding dress as she glanced first at Bernard, and then at Marianne. She asked her in French what to do with it, as she was afraid to set it down, and Marianne told her who to give it to, as Bernie stood almost gaping at her. And then the department manager knew what her duty was.

She introduced Bernie to her, title and all, and even explained that the new concept was all his plan. She hated to put them together like that but she had no choice. She watched Bernie's eyes as he looked at the girl. It amused her somehow, he was always so aloof. It was obvious that he liked girls, but he never got deeply involved with anyone, from what people said. And unlike the merchandise he selected for Wolffs, in women he preferred quantity to quality every time …“volume” as they said in the trade …but maybe not this time….