Power & Beauty (24 page)
Beauty thought that she too wanted to do it all. What did it take to do it all? Her birth mother, Isabel Long, was a hardworking woman with whom the world had dealt cruelly. The man she loved had left her. Breaking all his promises, he had gone back to Tokyo to his wife and family. Isabel’s dreams were dashed. She died of ovarian cancer a week after turning thirty-one. Beauty’s guardian, Power’s mother, Charlotte Clay, was another hardworking, good-hearted woman. But look what happened to her. Life was cruel. Life was unpredictable. Life was cold. And in the light of this knowledge, what was a young lady to do?
Lady Gaga knew what to do.
Go for it!
Sitting next to Lee Kim, Beauty could see that he was not overwhelmed by the show. He liked the spectacle but didn’t get the audaciousness of this performer. Beauty wanted to be audacious. Beauty wanted to be bold. If Lee had made a sexual move that night, she might have respected him more. But she could feel that he had been intimidated by the sexual spell that Lady Gaga had cast over the evening. Afterward they went for drinks at an L.A. Live bar, jam-packed with an after-show crowd. Everyone was talking about Lady Gaga.
“She’s great,” said Lee, trying to convince Beauty that he was on her wavelength.
“Why do you think she’s great?” she asked, challenging him.
“She doesn’t care what people think.”
“I believe she does care,” said Beauty. “I believe she thinks about what people might think—and then she does whatever it takes to scandalize them.”
“Well, isn’t that the same thing?”
“No. If you don’t care what people think, you aren’t calculating. She is calculating. She’s calculating what it will take to make a scandal onstage.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Lee. “You know more about these things than I do.”
When they walked back to the Ritz-Carlton, the entry was filled with paparazzi and fans waiting for Lady Gaga. It was a mob scene.
“Let’s hang around for a while,” said Beauty, “and see if she shows up. I want to see what she looks like up close.”
“I better get going, Beauty,” said Lee. “Big exam tomorrow. I still have studying.”
“Thanks for taking me,” said Beauty.
“No problem,” said Lee as he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll call you soon.”
When he did call the next day, all he got was voice mail. A week later, Soo told Lee—who in turn told Noah—that Beauty had packed up and moved back to New York.
W
hen Beauty arrived in New York in August, she was greatly relieved that Primo was not there. Traveling in Australia, he would not be arriving for another three weeks. His absence meant that Beauty did not have to worry—at least for now—about what were or were not her obligations to him.
Directly across from Central Park, the Plaza was filled with restaurants and banquet halls decorated in the style of Louis XV. If L.A. Live was something like a dream of the future, the Plaza felt like a dream of the past. Compared to the Los Angeles apartment at the Ritz-Carlton, Primo’s residence at the Plaza Hotel was Old World. Soo had done up her place with tubular steel furniture sculpted in a modern mode. Primo had furnished his New York digs with antiques and tapestries, European still-life paintings of fruits, portraits of duchesses, and landscapes of softly lit cities built on the side of Italian hills. Beauty couldn’t help but be charmed. It was like living in a small museum. She liked the formality. It made her feel safe. There were two bedrooms—a large master suite and a smaller room that held a single bed. She chose the smaller room.
When she left Los Angeles, she did so in a hurry. Soo seemed relieved and asked few questions, presuming that Beauty was going back to live and work with Anita. Few words were spoken between Soo and Beauty. Beauty sensed that Soo just wanted her out of there. She also knew that Soo did not have the slightest idea that Beauty was living in Primo’s apartment. The intrigue of it all bothered Beauty, but not enough to keep her from going ahead with the plan. Meanwhile, Anita encouraged her every step of the way. She came to the Plaza the very night Beauty arrived, and over a great deal of wine at the hotel’s famous Oak Room, she kept saying how proud she was of her protégée.
“At first I wasn’t sure, my dear,” Anita was quick to say, “that you understood the uniqueness of this opportunity. I was afraid that your conventional background might hold you back.”
“I don’t think my background is at all conventional,” Beauty replied.
“Well, by ‘conventional’ I mean the provincial attitude that one acquires by growing up in the South. You were raised, after all, by two women who were products of the South.”
“I don’t think that’s bad,” said Beauty.
“Not bad, my dear, just restrictive. In life we must learn to go beyond the province in which we were born. We must expand. Your mother and adopted mother never left the borders of Georgia. You have. You understand what it means to explore and fulfill potential. You have courage.”
Beauty listened as Anita went on with her words of praise. The words felt good, but what had happened to Anita’s attitude of independence? Wasn’t she the woman who spoke proudly of using her brain—and not sex—to advance in the world of fashion?
“You
will
use your brain,” said Anita when Beauty questioned her. “No doubt about it. If Primo didn’t see you as a brilliant and talented woman, he’d have no interest.”
“But he’s interested in more than my intelligence.”
“That’s only natural.”
“I don’t say this to hurt you, Anita, but you also have interests here.”
“You don’t hurt me in the least, my dear. Of course I have interests of my own. We all do. We’re all practical people. And that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“It feels so messy.”
“On the contrary,” said Anita. “Primo is a man of discretion whose ability to compartmentalize his life is absolutely flawless. He will care for you; he will guide you; he will treat you like the precious jewel that you are.”
It was difficult for Beauty to challenge Anita, especially when her mentor was tipsy.
After dinner, when Beauty showed Anita the lavish apartment bought and furnished by Primo, the older woman exclaimed, “It’s the work of Dietrich Strom.”
“Who’s he?”
“A German interior decorator who lives in Milan. The greatest decorator of the day. He recently redid the Pope’s summer home. How’s that for a plum client? He does everyone who’s anyone.”
“It’s a bit much, isn’t it?” asked Beauty.
“It’s exquisite. If you note, you’ll see each piece—the bureaus, the end tables, the love seats—is from the eighteenth century. This place is a marvel of elegant opulence. You see how much Primo values you, my dear, by the attention he has spent on this apartment.”
“I thought you said Dietrich Strom spent the time doing this, not Primo.”
“But don’t you see, Primo spent the time making sure that Dietrich would take this assignment. If you’re working for the Pope, Prince Charles, and Queen Sofia of Spain, you’re not easy to get. Last year, for example, I was told that Dietrich personally told Sophie, the Countess of Wessex, that he couldn’t possibly redo her summer castle for another five years. You can imagine then the importance he gives to a man like Primo Dalla Torre.”
As they wandered through the apartment, Anita saw that Beauty had put her things in the small bedroom. Anita began to comment but instead stayed silent. In the white-and-black-tiled kitchen she saw there was a double-door forty-eight-bottle wine cooler stocked from top to bottom.
“Let’s see what sort of refreshment the good signor has provided for us,” said Anita. She opened the cooler and brought out a bottle of red. “By God, a 1985 Barolo. We simply must have a taste.” Expertly opening the wine, she poured herself a glass. Beauty declined. “Well, my dear, I drink alone but I do not drink in sadness. I drink to you, sweet Beauty, and all the good fortune that life has in store for you. Merely to witness that good fortune is, for me, both an honor and pleasure.”
An hour later, after her third glass, Anita fell asleep on the antique armchair in the living room. Beauty had to pick her up and help her out. She couldn’t let her go home alone, so she rode in the car with her. Inside the taxi, Anita passed out again. When they arrived at the Gramercy Park brownstone, Beauty carried Anita out of the cab, into the elevator, into the apartment, and placed her in her bed. For reasons she didn’t quite understand, Beauty went to her old bedroom and spent the night there. The next morning, Anita woke up early and, discovering Beauty asleep, made her breakfast, just as she had done on that first morning, two years earlier, when the young girl had arrived from Atlanta.
It was as though Beauty was waiting for Primo to claim her. At least that’s how she felt. It was September in the city and the days were long and warm. Her initial reaction to the apartment—that it made her feel safe—began to change as time went by. She saw herself as a bird trapped in a gilded cage. She stayed away from the place as much as possible. That was easy because Anita had arranged for her to work in the Seventh Avenue design studio of Lena Pearl, whose women’s-wear line had been a strong seller last season. Unlike Soo, Lena had no conservative instincts. Raised in an artists’ colony by her folk musician grandparents—her own parents were victims of the sixties’ drug abuse—Lena encouraged Beauty to go through books on Abstract Expressionism and Pop Art to get ideas for dresses, blouses, and trousers. She also told her it was important to see foreign films and read good novels. Lena herself had gone to college and majored not in design but in English literature.
“Where will you be going to college?” asked Lena.
“I’m not,” said Beauty. “I guess the plan is for me to work and learn in the real world.”
“The imaginary world feeds the real world,” said Lena, who dressed in all black to make her short chubby body look smaller than it was. She had prematurely white hair—she was only forty—wore lots of rouge, and radiated a warm smile. “Were it not for poetry and music, literature and art, the real world would be drab and gray. The best fashion designers are well-rounded people who look outside their field for inspiration. I really think you should go to college.”
“Not a good idea,” said Anita when Beauty mentioned it to her.
“Why not?”
“I didn’t go to college. I had the chance. I even took a course or two. But I realized—and rightly so—that my youthful energy was better applied in the world of reality, not theory. Besides, the things I wanted to learn—the same things, I presume, that you want to learn, my dear—I learned on my own. And so can you. You can learn the history of fashion by reading books. You can learn about the major figures in the industry today by reading magazines. You can learn by going to runway shows, by going to the library, by digging out whatever information you feel is necessary to your growth as a designer. College will set you back years. You can’t afford to get behind. In our field, the competition is ferocious. I’ve given you a head start. Now Primo is placing you in the very front of the pack. You’ve got an edge, dear Beauty. Get distracted by the world of academia and you’ll lose that edge.”
“But Lena Pearl says a great designer must be well-rounded. She talks about novels and art films. Her best friends are painters and sculptors and musicians.”
“Lena Pearl was hot last year and maybe, if I decide to buy her line again for next season, she’ll stay hot for another year. But I don’t see her going beyond that. What you have to learn from Lena is to read the moment. She understands what a certain kind of woman is looking for today. That woman thinks of herself as being trendy, and Lena has caught the trend. But the trendy woman is a fickle woman. Oh, yes, she is, my dear. And Lena has yet to prove if she’s good for more than one or two seasons. At the most, I’ll give her three. So when she starts to lose touch and her line languishes, what good will her intimate familiarity with the arts do her? Right now it’s easy for her to pontificate because she’s making money. But come back when she’s not and see if she’s still singing the same song.”
Beauty considered Anita’s point of view. She didn’t reject it out of hand, but she also knew that Lena had struck a chord within her. Beauty loved fashion and harbored all sorts of ambition. No doubt about it; she wanted to make it at all costs. At the same time, she was curious about the wider world. She wanted to learn more. She wanted to be around college kids, college teachers. She yearned to take college courses. And when Lena Pearl mentioned that her best friend taught at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, a noted institution of higher learning specializing in art, design, architecture, and the liberal arts and sciences, Beauty took the subway to Brooklyn to look over the school for herself. She decided to apply and, if accepted, would enroll next semester. She thought it best to mention none of this to Anita.
Meanwhile, the days went by as she waited for Primo’s arrival. He postponed his New York trip three different times because of pressing business somewhere else in the world. These postponements both relieved and agitated Beauty. Part of her never wanted Primo to arrive; another part of her just wanted to get it over with. She imagined what would happen. He’d show up at the apartment, see that she had chosen to sleep in the small bedroom, and immediately insist that she join him in his king-sized bed. She would refuse. He would insist. He would say, “Why in hell do you think I put you in this apartment?” She would say, “Because you want to help me.” He would say, “I am helping you. But this help comes with a price.” She would say, “I’m not willing to pay the price.” And he would say, “Then get the fuck out. And forget any ideas you might have about a design line of your own.”
Beauty would also imagine other scenarios: Before he arrived, she would move her things into his bedroom. The very first night, she would willingly submit to his advances. He would be gentle, kind, and tender. The lovemaking would be wonderful and satisfying. But then the scenario would turn sour when she thought of his age. He was old enough to be her father, even her grandfather. Sexually, older men had absolutely no appeal. In appearance and manner, they could not be any further from Power, the living symbol of her sexual desires.
After five weeks in New York, the phone call finally came on a Friday. Primo was in London.
“I’m finally getting there,” he said. “This has been such a hectic period, but I’ve cleared my schedule and will spend at least three weeks in New York. Monday I’m set to sign the papers that will give me ownership of Bloom’s. Monday afternoon I’ll hold a press conference and announce my new plans. Anita will be by my side. I haven’t wanted to come to New York until I knew that the deal was done. Now it is. So I can relax. I’m terribly eager to see you, Beauty. Anita tells me you’re doing great. Are you getting used to the apartment?”
“Oh, yes, the apartment is lovely.”
“Dietrich Strom did a marvelous job, didn’t he?”
“He did.”
“I hope it’s not too fussy for you.”
“Not at all.”
“I land tomorrow about seven in the evening and should be at the Plaza by eight thirty. We won’t go out, Beauty. For our first night together, I think it would be better if we dined in. I’ve asked Daniel Boulud, the best chef in the city, to prepare one of his five-course tasting menus. He and his waiter may get there a little before me, but go ahead and let them set up. I want this to be an evening you’ll never forget.”
When she put down the phone, Beauty’s heart was heavy. She wasn’t ready to sell her body for a fancy apartment and a five-course tasting menu. But she had to face facts: That’s what she was doing. Until this call, her life had been on an even keel. She had been meeting Anita once a week for dinner at Da Tato. Afterward, she’d help the old lady, more stooped over than ever, upstairs and then put her to bed. She wondered how someone could drink as much as Anita and still be able to work. Beauty’s own work, though, was being supervised by Lena, who had encouraged her to audit a night course at Pratt on nineteenth-century art. Beauty had a found a good rhythm to her work and study. She felt grounded—until this call. This call from Primo had her feeling afraid.
When she awoke Saturday morning, she felt like fleeing, leaving this emotional mess behind her. But to where? And with what money? She had no funds except her monthly allowance from Primo. He was her sole support. She had agreed to this. She had made the decision. She had made her bed and now it was time . . .