Shades of Fortune (65 page)

“I'll tell you what it's like. When I was a little girl, and we lived in the apartment on Ninety-seventh Street, there was a tree that grew in an air shaft outside my bedroom window—a locust tree. A locust is a junk tree, a weed tree. It will grow anywhere, in any climate. You can't kill it: you can cut it down to the stump, and it will grow up again. Someone told me once that if you cut a locust tree up into fence posts, you have too be sure to plant the fence posts upside down, or else instead of fence posts you'll have a row of locust trees. It's a messy tree. It has tiny, feathery leaves, and in the fall they all come down. I had to keep my window closed, or else my room would be full of falling locust leaves. But every winter, I noticed, there was always one little locust leaf that refused to fall. It was always in the same place, and it managed to cling to its stem all winter long. That's the way you make me feel—that you're my strong, tough stem, and I'm your determined little leaf, refusing to let go. Do you feel that way too, Brad? That we need to cling to each other, stick to each other, like a leaf fitted into its stem, refusing to be torn apart by any winter storm?”

She can't remember what his answer was as she lay in the sun, and he began covering her body with soft little mounds of warm sand.

And now, the picture of domesticity, she turns her back to him to let him raise the zipper on the back of her red dress.

“How do you feel about this evening?” he asks her. “Excited? Nervous?”

“Terrified,” she says. “Absolutely terrified. I had a dream last night, and it was all about Candied Apple. Oh, I almost forgot my superstition, Brad—a kiss on the left shoulder, please. For luck.”

He brushes her shoulder with his lips and touches her bare elbow. Then he looks up, and his eyes meet hers briefly in her mirror.

“Well, what do you think?” she asks him as she studies her reflection in the glass. Her crimson silk-and-cashmere dress falls in a series of little swirls about her upper body, and in more swirls down the slightly pegged, mid-calf skirt. For tonight, Howard Barr of Cloutier has taken her trademark simple pony-tail and plaited it into a single, silvery braid, and, since tonight's theme flowers are roses, he has woven dozens of tiny red tea-rose buds into the plait. With the flowers in her braid, she has decided on very little jewelry: just two small ruby earclips, and the ruby-and-diamond rings on her left hand.

“You are too beautiful,” he says.

As the guests begin to gather in the ballroom of the Hotel Pierre, I can't help noticing how easily Mimi conducts herself. If there is terror here, it certainly doesn't show. She manages, as she moves among her guests in her red dress, to hold the center of the stage and to find, as they say in the theatre, the key light. At the same time, she manages to draw the focus of attention to the guests themselves, making them seem to shine—as shine they must, for many of them are greater media stars than she is.

It is hard to believe, watching Mimi move easily among her arriving guests, that this evening's party is the culmination of two years' worth of work and planning. And now all that work has been done, and the fragrance—“Mireille”—is here in this room, tonight, its final formula a secret, its suggested retail price a hundred and eighty dollars the ounce.

All the members of the fashion press are here, the writers from
Vogue
and
Harper's Bazaar
, the reporters from
Women's Wear
, the
Post
, the
Times
, the
Daily News
, and
New York Newsday
, busily scribbling in their notebooks, noting who is here, and who is wearing what.

“Whose dress is that, Mrs. Astor?”

“This is Adolfo,” Brooke Astor says, touching her pale blue ruffled organza skirt. “I think it's awfully pretty.”

Guests have begun unstoppering their gift bottles of Mireille now and are dabbing it on their wrists. “There's something almost
feral
about the scent,” Diana Vreeland is saying to Mimi, “something a little
wild
and
primitive
. It makes me think of mountain
tarns
, and jungle
pools
, and swaying
liana
vines, and
sarongs
, and—yes—
volcanoes!
”

“Thank you, Diana, dear.”

All this is nonsense, of course, and Mimi knows it. No one can judge a perfume in a crowded room like this, filled as it is with other odors: the red roses on the tables, other women's scents, the smells of food as the red-coated waiters move among the guests with trays of canapés, the smells of liquor from the two bars, and cigarette smoke. The real judgment of the success of the fragrance will come later, but the success of the launching of the fragrance will depend only on the success of this evening, and how much the guests end up enjoying the party. Still, everyone ventures an opinion.

“Mmm. Sexy!”

“A bit too floral maybe? Of course I've personally never cared for floral scents, being from California.”

“California is all floral, isn't it.”

“Totally. That's why I moved to River House.”

The room is a sea of moving people now, and the waiters move in and out adroitly between little knots of groups, and groups within groups, with their laden trays.

“That's Alice Myerson over there—in the green. Mimi's mother.”

“I must say she looks better than she's looked in a long
time
. She used to be the most awful drunk, you know.”

Her friend taps her champagne glass significantly. “Betty Ford Center is what
I
heard.”

“They say she's into est.”

“Who is?”

“Annette Reed.”

There is suddenly a little flurry of activity at the entrance to the ballroom now, and a volley of flashbulbs explodes, as Jacqueline Onassis glides in, in a pouf of red and black. In an incidence of poor timing, Gloria Vanderbilt follows her through the door on the arm of Bobby Short—who will play later—and almost goes unnoticed as the reporters fire questions at Mrs. Onassis.

“What's your favorite scent, Mrs. Onassis?”

“Actually, I have several favorites.”

“What are you wearing now?”

“Actually, I don't remember.”

A whisper: “It's a Valentino. I've seen her wearing that dress before.”

The champagne flows, and the noise level in the room rises.

Seated at her table in a corner of the room with her friend Rose Perlman, Granny Flo Myerson says, “Is that Edwee over there? What's he doing?”

“Yes, that's him.” And then, startled, “Why, Flo! Is your eyesight improving?”

“Of course not. I can't see him. I can smell him. I know all my children by their smell.”

“He seems to be having some sort of discussion with the what-do-you-call-it. The man who's going to run the film. The projectionist.”

“Well, don't let Edwee get near me. I don't want to talk to him.”

In another part of the room, Blaine Trump is saying, “You don't spend fifteen thousand on a Christian Lacroix and expect to see another woman walk into the room wearing the same dress! As far as I'm concerned, he's already one of yesterday's designers. I'll never buy a dress from him again.”

Moving about the room, Mimi suddenly finds herself face to face with the woman she saw Brad lunching with at Le Cirque. She extends her hand. “Good evening, I'm Mimi Myerson.”

“I'm Rita Robinson.”

“Oh, yes. My husband's told me about you.”

The other woman eyes her narrowly. “You think you've won, don't you?”

“Won? I didn't know we were fighting over anything. But I will say this: you're very pretty. I can see why he was attracted to you.”

“Was? What if he still is?”

“And I must say you don't
look
pregnant, dear.”

The two women move apart.

“She's here,” Mimi whispers to Brad.

“I know,” he says grimly.

“Did you know she was coming?”

“Of course not. Does this upset you?”

“I told her she was very pretty. You have good taste, Brad.”

“How did you know that was her?”

But Lily Auchincloss has moved in to join them and wants to talk about Cancun. “It's an entire new
city!
” she exclaims.

Now there is another flurry of activity at the door, and more flashbulbs go off, as Elizabeth Taylor makes her entrance, looking radiant, a rope of diamonds plaited through her hair.

“It's something of a surprise to see you here, Miss Taylor,” a reporter says.

Elizabeth, well rehearsed as always, replies brightly, “I had to sniff out the competition, didn't I?”

There is polite laughter because everyone agrees that Elizabeth is a damned good sport to make an appearance at Mimi's party.

Now Edwee Myerson has joined his wife at their table, and as his sister, Nonie, passes, he reaches out and seizes her arm. “Where is the Goya?” he hisses.

“And where is my money?”

“I know you had something to do with this!”

“And speaking of that, how much do you know about the science of encausticology, Edwee?” she says.

“What's that?”

“Encaustics—ink analysis. It's something I picked up from my days as a magazine publisher. There are certain tests that have been developed by the FBI. There are X-ray fluorescence tests, and there's something called the Mossbauer Test, which is a test for moisture. Using these tests, the age of any mark in ink can be determined with great accuracy—even something as small as, say, a question mark.”

“Just tell me where it is and you'll get your money.”

“And when are you two leaving for Belize? I thought you'd be gone by now. Or is it Biafra? I never can keep those places straight.”

He glares at her.

“Excuse me,” she says. “I want to say hello to Elizabeth. I taught her to ride, you know, for
National Velvet
.”

“Are you that
old
, Nonie?” Gloria says.

His sister moves away, and Edwee grabs Gloria's wrist beneath the table and squeezes it hard in his fist.

“Ouch, Edwee,” she says. “What was she talking about, ink?”

“Did you tell her about Belize, you little slut?”

“Ouch!” she cries. “She knew already.
Ouch!
Edwee! You're hurting me!”

The conversation moves in swirls and eddies as new guests enter the room and old friends greet each other and as, with little gestures, the rich and famous recognize each other and congratulate each other on being rich and famous together.

“I've heard that some gay men make marvelous lovers,” someone is saying to Barbara Walters.

“I'd have to disagree,” Miss Walters says. “Most of the gay married men I know are very cruel to their wives.”

“I didn't say
husbands
, darling,” the other woman says.

Greeting Mimi with an upraised champagne glass, Michael Horowitz whispers just two words. “Palm Beach.”

Promptly at seven-thirty, Mark Segal gives Mimi the nod, and she mounts the steps to the small stage and moves to the microphone. The lights in the room dim slightly, and a pink spot falls on her. The voices hush.

“I promise you there aren't going to be any speeches,” she begins, “but I just want to tell you all how happy I am that you all could come. This evening is a happy occasion for me for several reasons: First, and most important, because we've been able to raise slightly over seven hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars for the public library tonight.” (There is a round of applause.) “This money will go to the library's Book Purchase Fund. I'm also happy because all of you people who did this will be the first to sample my new perfume—of which, understandably, I'm just a little bit proud.” (More applause, and calls of “Hear, hear!”) “But tonight I'm happiest of all for a very special, very personal reason. As some of you may know, this company was founded in nineteen twelve by my grandfather, Adolph Myerson, whose widow, Fleurette Myerson—Granny, will you please stand up?” (Granny Flo stands, and bows) “—is right over there, and his brother, Leopold Myerson. Years ago, as some of you may also know, the two brothers had a famous falling-out—though what it was all about nobody really remembers.” (Laughter.)

“It was about women!” Granny Flo says in a strong voice. (More laughter erupts all over the room over this.)

“Anyway,” Mimi continues, when the laughter finally subsides, “this falling-out created, sadly, a deep rift between the two branches of the family—the children and grandchildren of Leopold Myerson and what I guess you'd call my line.” (Laughter.) “But tonight, I'm happy to say, for the first time in almost fifty years, all my Myerson cousins and second cousins—all of whom I've gotten to know only recently—are here with us. We're a united family again.” (Strong applause.) “Now, as I call their names, I'd like each of my cousins to step forward and be introduced to all of you. First, my cousin Louise Myerson Bernhardt, and her husband, Dick …”

One by one, as she calls their names, the Leo cousins step forward until they form a small semi-circle in front of the stage.

“Thank you all for coming,” Mimi says.

“I never thought I'd live to see this,” Granny Flo says in her loud voice. “And I had to live to be eighty-nine to do it.” (Laughter.) “And now that it's happened, I can't even see it. Blind as a bat.” (Sympathetic, light laughter.)

“There are a few other, very special people that I'd like to thank,” she continues. “First, my advertising director, Mark Segal, who has prepared the short—very short, I promise you—presentation that you're about to see.” She gestures in Mark's direction. “Next, my son, Brad Moore, junior, our director of sales. And finally, my wonderful husband, Brad Moore, senior.” Both Brad and Badger step forward and take small bows, to applause. “We're all here,” Mimi says. “Together—one big happy family. Thank you all.” Mimi smiles, leaves the microphone, and moves quickly off the stage amid more applause.