Power & Beauty (25 page)

She was due to meet Anita for lunch but decided to cancel. She didn’t want to face the old lady, not today. She called her and said, “I’ve got a lot to do today. Primo arrives tonight.”

“Oh, don’t you worry your pretty head about me,” said Anita. “I completely understand. This is a big day for you. And Monday will be a big day for us all. You will be at the press conference, won’t you?”

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“It will be something to see. The international business press will be in attendance. The coverage will be extensive. I’m certain we’ll make page one of the
New York Times
. After all, Bloom’s is a national institution. I can’t tell you how excited I am to see ownership shift from the Bloom family—those bastards have underappreciated me for decades—to a man of vision and guts. My life is changing, my dear, and so is yours.”

“Well, I must run,” said Beauty. “I have all these errands.”

That was a lie. She had no errands. She had nothing to do except think about what she would wear tonight. And even that problem was solved when, at two
P.M
, there was a knock on her door. A package was hand-delivered from Francoise Coteau, the most exclusive designer in Paris. It had been flown in from France. Inside were two articles of clothing. The first came with a card that said, “For dinner.” It was a long black evening dress, elegant and simple. The second came with a card that said, “For after dinner.” It was white silk lingerie, revealing and elaborate. Beauty examined them carefully. She waited an hour before she tried them on. The evening dress made her feel like a movie star. It fit perfectly. It was an extraordinary garment. The lingerie, which also fit perfectly, made her feel like a prostitute. She wanted to rip it to shreds, but she didn’t.

At four
P.M
., another delivery, this one from Tiffany. She opened the small blue box and found a pendant of petite round diamonds set in eighteen-karat white gold. There was no note.

At five
P.M
., the house phone rang. She was told that her hairdresser had arrived. A few minutes later Beauty opened the door and met Sheila.

“I’m from Elizabeth Arden,” she said. “I’ve come to do your makeup and hair.”

“You have?”

“Yes, weren’t you told?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re a lucky woman. Now where shall we work?”

Beauty wanted to send her away. She wanted to tell her that she wasn’t needed, but Beauty understood that she was needed. The woman had come to remake Beauty in whatever image Primo required.

They went into the master bathroom, where Beauty sat at a vanity table set in front of a large antique mirror. The woman trimmed her hair somewhat radically. “He wants a pixie look,” said Sheila. “And your makeup is not to be heavy. He doesn’t like heavy makeup. He also specified a certain rose-petal-pink shade of lipstick.”

Beauty was relieved that the haircut was becoming and the makeup light. She herself disliked heavy makeup and could derive some satisfaction from the fact that Primo did not want to paint her face to look like a whore. At the same time, he had not asked her whether she wanted this special treatment. But then again, the treatment was not for Beauty’s satisfaction—it was for Primo’s.

By six thirty, the woman was gone and Beauty decided to draw a bath. She did so in the master bathroom. The marble tub was enormous. She was careful not to disturb her makeup. She stayed in the warm bubbly water for a long while, her eyes closed, her mind heavy with thoughts of what the evening would bring. She tried to convince herself that she was the luckiest woman in the world. She had everything she could possibly want. Comfort. Luxury. A promising future. What was there to complain about? Why did she need to fill her head with doubts and regret, fear and self-condemnation? Forget those thoughts. Just enjoy the feeling of the warm water. Just enjoy the bath.

At seven thirty Daniel Boulud and a waiter, both dressed in white, arrived. They went directly to the kitchen to start preparations. Candles were lit in the dining room, where the place settings—antique sterling silver and Rosenthal bone china and crystal—were meticulously arranged. Meanwhile, Beauty put on the black evening dress and the diamond necklace. Inspecting herself in the mirror, she felt more glamorous than at any moment in her life—and more apprehensive. She felt both very expensive and very cheap.

At seven forty-five, Claude Browning, a violinist from the New York Philharmonic, arrived in a black tux. He explained that he would be providing the evening’s music. Beauty showed him to the living room, where he began to play classical selections. He played beautifully.

At eight, the phone rang. It was Primo. “I’m in the car and should be there within a half hour. Has Daniel arrived?”

“Yes.”

“Ask him to serve the pâté de foie gras. You must be starved.”

“I’m fine.”

“Did the clothes arrive from France?”

“Oh, yes, thank you.”

“And you like them?”

“I do.”

“And the necklace?”

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“And did Elizabeth Arden send someone over?”

“Yes.”

“And the violinist?”

“He’s in the living room.”

“Good, so we’re all set.”

“Yes.”

“Just relax. Have a glass of Dom Perignon. See you in a few minutes.”

She sat in the living room while the waiter served champagne. The fragrance of the food cooking in the kitchen was enchanting. The pâté de foie gras was heavenly. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Then thirty. Any second now she would hear a knock at the door. Any second now Primo would be arriving. Forty minutes passed. He must have gotten stuck in traffic. She had another glass of champagne. It was good to drink champagne. Good to get tipsy. Good to feel light-headed and lose her inhibitions. Tonight would be okay. Maybe even fun. And, if she could only wrap her mind around the fact that she was consorting with an older married man, maybe even romantic. The champagne would help. But now an hour had passed since he had called and she sensed something was wrong. She waited another fifteen minutes and decided to call him on his cell number. It went directly to voice mail. What could have happened?

Daniel Boulud, a most charming man, came out of the kitchen and began to worry with her. “I’ve known Signor Dalla Torre for many years and have never known him to be late. I am hoping that nothing is wrong.”

Beauty felt foolish—sipping champagne, nibbling on pâté de foie gras, dressed in a fabulous evening dress, waiting for a man whom she barely knew. Maybe there had been an accident. Maybe he had changed his mind and remembered another kept woman whom he preferred. Maybe he had been kidnapped and was being held for ransom. Whatever it was, by ten o’clock, Monsieur Boulud, a world-renowned chef who had only agreed to cook this meal himself because of his close friendship with Primo, began making calls. Beauty had stopped drinking champagne. The violinist had stopped playing Schubert. The mood, sublimely romantic, had turned stone-cold. Fear was in the air.

Boulud was in the kitchen, speaking in a hushed voice. When he came to the living room, he was pale. He looked at her and spoke plainly. “I’ve just spoken to Primo’s assistant. In the car over here, he had a massive heart attack and was rushed to the hospital.”

“Is he all right?” Beauty asked.

“He’s dead.”

Her eyes went wide. She had no idea what to say or feel. She went numb. All she could think of was Anita. She would call Anita and Anita would know what to do. But no one responded at Anita’s apartment. She called Da Tato and asked if Anita was there, but she wasn’t.

By ten forty-five, Daniel Boulud, along with the waiter and violinist, had left. Beauty was alone in the apartment. She had never felt more alone in her life. She tried watching TV, listening to the radio, reading the newspaper, but nothing worked. Nothing could remove the confusion from her mind. After the falling-out with Nina, she had made no friends in New York. Solomon and Amir were in Chicago. She thought of calling them, but it was the middle of the night. She thought of calling Wanda Washington in Atlanta, but Wanda didn’t even know that Primo was supporting her. She felt frantic. She felt helpless. She realized that she was still wearing the black evening gown. She went to the small bedroom where she had kept the white lingerie in its box. She opened the box and touched the silky garment. Then she put on a pair of plain cotton pajamas and tossed and turned until sheer exhaustion pulled her into sleep.

It wasn’t until late the next evening when she learned that, the day after Primo’s heart attack, Anita Ward had suffered a stroke in her Gramercy Park apartment and died instantly.

Emmanuel Baptist Church

B
eauty couldn’t remember another day like this. There was no weather. It was early October, and it was neither hot nor cold. The sky was a grayish blue. There was no breeze, no clouds. As she and Wanda Washington walked into the Gothic-revival-style church, built in 1882 in the Clinton Hill section of Brooklyn, Beauty felt empty inside. Her heart was heavy and her mind dark with confusion and uncertainty. They had arrived for the funeral of Anita Ward.

Wanda had flown up from Atlanta the day before and made the arrangements. Aside from a few distant aunts and uncles, Anita had no family. Her only tie to her past was Wanda—and it was Wanda who decided that there should be a church service.

“Don’t care if she hadn’t been to church in thirty years. Through my preacher back home, I found this real nice church up here. She gonna be sent off from church. Ain’t gonna have it no other way. Me and Anita, we went to church together as kids and no one’s gonna tell me she didn’t believe in Jesus. I remember her praying to Jesus.”

Beauty remembered Anita saying that she had no use for organized religion and was not a believer, but Beauty wasn’t about to argue with Wanda. She was glad to see Wanda and glad that Wanda was in charge.

The day after Primo died, Beauty had moved out of the Plaza, taking all her belongings while leaving behind the black evening gown, the diamond pendant, and the white silk lingerie. She asked Lena Pearl if she could move in with her for a day or two. Late that evening, Lena, having just learned the news about Anita, informed Beauty that her mentor had died. Lena knew nothing about Beauty’s connection with Primo. In fact, aside from those who came to set up the Saturday evening dinner, Anita was the only one who had known. Beauty prayed that Soo would never find out, although there was nothing to discover other than the fact that Primo had allowed her to live in his apartment.

The ornate church was filled with many people from the fashion world. Members of the Bloom family were in attendance. Several spoke about Anita with admiration. Her taste, tenacity, and keen business sense were lauded. Wanda went last. She was the only one who spoke with real love. “I came up to testify and say good-bye to someone who, as y’all know, was a highly unusual individual. I knew that way back when me and Anita were nappy-headed little girls running ’round Fair Street and Ashby in Atlanta. She was the only one in our class who could draw. She learned to read and spell and write correctly before any of us. While we were out there playing hopscotch, she was sewing up a storm on her mama’s broken-down Singer. After high school, when none of us had ever been outside the city limits, she said, ‘Wanda, I’m taking that Trailways bus to New York City and get me a job.’ ‘Anita,’ I said, ‘you stone crazy. What you gonna do up there in New York City? How you gonna get a job? You don’t know nobody up there.’ ‘You watch me, Wanda,’ she says. ‘You just watch.’ Well, I sure enough did watch. Watched this girl go from nothing to something. Watched her make something of herself. She was alone—no husband, no brothers or sisters to help her, no welfare, no charity. Even her health problems—and she had plenty—didn’t stop her. Nothing could stop Miss Anita Ward from Atlanta, Georgia, because the good Lord had given her the will to succeed and the courage to go all out against the odds. God gave her talent and God gave her a good life. I say thank you, Jesus, for the good life of Anita Ward. A hard life, yes. But a good life. A good woman. A good friend. A good soul who’s gone on to glory, where she’s resting in the bosom of the Lord who loves us with a love we can’t even understand but can sure feel. I feel you, Anita. I feel you inspiring us to keep on keeping on, and I say, ‘Girl, we gonna miss you, but you in a better place.’ Praise the Lord!”

After the funeral, Wanda remained in New York for several days. She closed down Anita’s apartment and located Anita’s will. The money she had accumulated was substantial. She gave it all to a foundation that supported research for osteoporosis.

“She had a generous soul,” Wanda told Beauty. “She wanted to help people who were stooped over like her. The poor lady suffered, but you never heard her complain about it, did you? You never heard her play the victim.”

“Never,” Beauty agreed.

“While it’s true that she liked her wine, my personal belief is that the wine relieved her pain. If drinking wine helped her cope, I got no arguments with the wine. Besides, the wine never got in the way of her work, did it?”

“Not that I saw.”

“She didn’t have no men. She didn’t have no family. So she was entitled to a li’l ol’ wine. And now we see she gave all her money away to charity, just like she was charitable with you, wasn’t she?”

“She was,” said Beauty, who remained silent about Anita’s role in encouraging her to move into Primo’s apartment in the Plaza. When Wanda asked Beauty about her current living arrangements, Beauty was evasive. She didn’t want to go into it. She didn’t want to explain the fact that, following Anita’s advice, she was being kept by an older man who had been on the verge of buying Bloom’s.

Meanwhile, the newspaper was filled with stories about the death of Primo Dalla Torre. Soo Kim had flown to New York to claim his body, but so had a twenty-six-year-old woman from Beijing who declared that she had five-year-old twin sons by him. The lady furthermore claimed that, in accordance with Chinese statutes, she was his common-law wife. She hired a battery of lawyers. So did Soo Kim. And complicating matters further, another group of top-flight lawyers, working for Primo’s family back in Italy—his two brothers and a sister—fought Soo’s claim and pointed to a prenuptial contract that left her only his interest in Calm and Cool Clothing. Meanwhile, there was nothing calm or cool about the state of Primo’s buyout of Bloom’s. Given the contentious claims against his estate and holdings, chaos prevailed and the deal fell through. Moreover, the man who replaced Anita as chief merchandise buyer had no interest in Beauty or Beauty’s new mentor, Lena Pearl. In rejecting Lena’s new line, he virtually closed the door on her operation. In short, Beauty was out in the cold.

“Come back to Atlanta,” said Wanda. “Come back home. I’ll find something for you to do.”

“I can’t work in the wig shop.”

“Wasn’t thinking of the wig shop. There are designers setting up shop back home.”

“I can’t go back home, Wanda.”

“Power’s not there. He hasn’t been there for a while.”

Beauty wanted to ask Wanda where he was, but she stopped herself.

“He keeps asking for your number,” said Wanda, “but I won’t give it to him. I figured you don’t want him to have it.”

“Thank you. You’re right. I just need to be left alone for a little while.”

“And what will you do? Where will you go?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You know that Slim will always help you.”

“I don’t want to hear about Slim,” said Beauty.

“He’s helped Power. He’s helped him a lot. All you got to do, baby, is give me the word and—”

“I’m fine. I’m strong.”

“I know you’re strong, Beauty, but even strong people need help. I think you need help right now. What are you going to do?”

“I’ll figure it out. I love you, Wanda. You’re a wonderful woman and you’ve done nothing but help me. I appreciate everything you’ve done. I truly do. Now, though, I need time to decide what to do.”

“When you figure it out, let me know?”

“Of course.”

“And you’re sure you don’t wanna come home with me, sweetheart?”

“I’m sure, Wanda.”

“And will you be staying in New York?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’ve got to figure out.”