The Fame Game (14 page)

“Didn’t Nelson do your hair?” Libra asked when she returned upstairs.

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t look like he did anything,” Libra said.

“It’s the Gilda Look,” Gerry lied beautifully, letting a wave of hair slide over one eye.

“So it is. It’s very nice.”

“Thank you,” she said, and returned to work.

She was allowed to leave at six, and hurried home to fix herself up. Dick was coming for her at seven fifteen. The party wasn’t black tie, so she decided to wear the best thing she had: a pink and gold brocade Chanel suit—or copy, rather, from the same little boutique where she bought her other things. It was a hand-made copy, and she figured she would see two or three of the originals in the same room that night, but since nobody was taking off their jackets to show labels it wouldn’t matter. Besides, she was a Girl Friday, not the wife of some millionaire, and if she’d owned diamonds to wear everybody would probably assume they were glass.

Dick picked her up and she made martinis, which he liked, to fortify them for the ordeal ahead. He wandered into the bedroom to inspect the new headboard his carpenter had installed for her, and very casually looked at everything as if he were taking inventory so he wouldn’t fall over anything on a dark night. He was the kind of man who made her feel glad she had made the bed and cleaned up the place. She had a porcelain hand on the dresser, and the love beads he had given her were entwined around one of the fingers. He noticed that, too. She hated martinis so she gave him hers to finish, and then he put both glasses into the sink. You could certainly take
him
home to mother—the problem would be getting him to go.

The B.P.’s lived in a duplex apartment on Fifth Avenue. There was a doorman, of course, an elevator man, of course, and a line of limousines, both rented and privately owned, along the curb—of course. There was no coat rack in the hall outside the apartment, nor was there a pile of coats on anybody’s bed. A uniformed maid whisked Gerry’s coat away almost before she could get out of it, and a butler with a silver tray asked her what she wanted to drink.

One room was the bar, decorated exactly like a Third Avenue bar, complete to Tiffany lamps and dark, mirrored walls. A bartender in a red jacket was busily in attendance. Gerry figured there must be almost a hundred people at the party, all of them either Beautiful or rich or famous, or all three. She saw her suit going by on two other ladies, both of whom gave her a smile and then avoided her for the rest of the night. Libra was already there, in the corner of the bar, with Lizzie and the comic Arnie Gurney, who had flown in for this party between engagements, and a woman in silver with badly dyed black hair, who must have been Arnie Gurney’s wife.

Libra introduced Gerry and Dick to Arnie Gurney, who said hello and told them five jokes, exactly as Libra had said he would. Lizzie and Arnie Gurney’s wife laughed merrily at all the jokes, none of which Gerry could remember two minutes after he finished telling them. Then Gerry and Dick wandered off to inspect the rest of the party.

The living room was huge and done all in pale silks and English antiques. There were many oil paintings, all fairly famous and obviously real, elaborately framed in curly goldish frames and lit from below. There was a big needlepoint thing on a stand in front of the working fireplace, and the fireplace looked as if it had either never been used or had been scrubbed from top to bottom by a maid. Four butlers and four uniformed maids circulated through the crowd, passing drinks and hot hors d’oeuvres. There was no place to put your drink down, however, because every table was covered with
objects:
a collection of alabaster, porcelain, gold and silver eggs; a collection of vermeil flowers; and a collection of photographs of famous people and relatives (some were both) in identical sterling-silver frames.

“All that stuff is real,” Dick said, gesturing at the furniture.

“I figured.”

Penny Potter stood in the middle of a circle of admirers, small and frail, wearing a mauvy-colored watered-silk dress that was cut on top like a Nehru jacket, and love beads made of real rubies, diamonds, and pearls. She had at least three falls on; Nelson’s famous Dynel, judging from the hair’s abnormal straightaess. Next to her, dressed in a real Nehru jacket of identical mauvy watered silk, and real love beads, was her husband, Peter Potter. They made a very pretty papier-mâché couple.

Mr. Nelson was there, in his white suede suit, and when he saw Gerry he gave a strangled scream and rushed over to her.

“What did you do to yourself?” he cried in horror.

Her hand went up to her hair. “Me?”

“Where is your coiffeur?” She thought he might take a fit and collapse right there, frothing at the mouth. “What’s the
matter
with you?”

“Mr. Libra thought the Gilda Look you gave me was divine,” Gerry said innocently. “I just adore it.”

“Don’t give
me
credit for that
mess
,” Nelson said indignantly. “You look like you’re going to the beach!”

“I think she looks very sexy,” Dick said. “I compliment you, Nelson. Very simple hair does wonderful things for Gerry’s eyes.”

“The only reason it hangs right is because she had it braided all afternoon,” Nelson said malevolently. “Gerry has hair like straw. You can’t do anything with it. I think she should give up and get a decent
wig
.”

A tall, beautiful-looking young man wearing a thin coat of makeup came in accompanied by a short, middle-aged man who was wearing a thin coat of make-up carefully disguised as a suntan. Nelson rushed over to them, waving greetings.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Gerry said to Dick. She started to laugh. “I thought he would die when you pretended you thought he’d done my hair the way it is now.”

“Well, I’m peculiar,” Dick said. “I like hair that doesn’t cut my fingers.”

“I’d better go over and introduce myself to the hostess.”

Dick led her through the crowd to where the B.P.’s were standing with their admirers. He already knew the B.P.’s and he introduced Gerry to them. Peter B.P. looked rather pleased to see Gerry, his eyes acknowledging that she was an attractive girl, but Penny B.P. looked bored.

“So glad you could come,” Penny said, looking over Gerry’s shoulder.

“Do you have everything you need?” Peter asked.

“Yes, thank you,” Gerry said.

“After dinner the King James Version will play for dancing, and Silky and the Satins are coming to sing,” Peter said.

“Oh, good!” She looked at Dick, but he was smiling politely and she couldn’t read him.

“Honey, where’s the Senator?” Peter said to Penny. “Has anybody seen the Senator?”

“They’re coming,” Penny said. She turned to resume her conversation with the couple at her left, whom she had introduced to Gerry as Mr. and Mrs. Mumble. Obviously she thought they were so well known that to enunciate their names would be insulting to them. Gerry glanced at Dick and he led her away.

A butler gave them more drinks, and they went into the next room, which was all done in Chinese style, complete to the last detail. Elaine Fellin and Mad Daddy were standing in the corner with some people. Elaine was wearing a twenty-five-hundred-dollar beaded number by Franco, and she looked slightly drunk already. Mad Daddy, in a tuxedo, looked as uncomfortable as a man could get. He didn’t seem to have anyone he wanted to talk to. He glanced around the room furtively at all the people, like a child at a grown-ups’ party who is afraid he will be caught peeking from the stairs. Elaine waved at Gerry.

“Oh, hello,” Elaine said gaily. “Isn’t this a lovely party? I was just telling the Ambassador here about Nina’s French school. They don’t speak a word of English all day. They even do their little arithmetic in French. She’s going to be completely bilingual. Isn’t this room divine? I love
Chinoiserie
.”

Mad Daddy sighed.

“You should see the other room!” Elaine went on. “It’s all done in
Turquerie
, just like Lee Bouvier’s apartment, or is it Lee Radziwill?”

“I work for Mr. Libra,” Gerry told Mad Daddy.

“Oh, yeah?” he said, obviously delighted. “Come on, I’ll show you two the Turkey Room.”

They made their excuses to the Ambassador and his wife and left them with Elaine chattering on. Mad Daddy took them directly to the bar. “I’m starving,” he said morosely.

“There’s some caviar,” Dick said, pointing at a tray one of the butlers was carrying. The tray held an impressive ice mold which cupped a large dish of real Beluga Malossol caviar. Dick motioned to the butler to come over.

“I hate caviar,” Mad Daddy said. “I wish they’d have some of those little hamburgers on toothpicks.”

Gerry and Dick helped themselves to caviar. Mad Daddy shook his head.

“I love caviar,” Dick said.

“Me too,” said Gerry.

“I wish I had some pizza,” said Mad Daddy sadly. “What do you think they’re having for dinner?”

“Not pizza,” Gerry said. There was something about this man that she liked enormously. He was like a big kid. “My name is Gerry Thompson,” she said. “And this is Dick Devere, who’s a client of Mr. Libra’s too.”

Mad Daddy’s face lighted up and he shook Dick’s hand. “I don’t know why they invited us to this thing,” Mad Daddy said. “I guess because Libra helped with the guest list. I don’t know anybody here. There’s nobody I even feel like talking to. I wish I was at the movies.”

“Yeah,” Dick agreed with a charming smile.

“Do you know any of these people?”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” Dick said, “I do know a few.”

I bet you do
, Gerry thought without rancor. You
would
.

Suddenly everybody in the room was applauding. She looked toward the door and saw Franco making his grand entrance as guest of honor. He was bald again, not brave enough to wear the wig of his dreams except as a joke, and he was in black tie and ruffles, topped by a splendid Count Dracula cape of black velvet lined in red. He bowed his head slightly in appreciation of the applause, and solemnly smiled greetings at the people he knew. A step behind Franco, evidently his date, was a tall, thin girl in a tiny little dress that looked like a doily. She had luxuriant tawny hair and a classically beautiful face. Gerry recognized her from the picture in
Time
as the model who had worn the transparent bride’s dress in Franco’s collection.

Franco and the girl accepted drinks from one of the traveling butlers, and made their way to where Gerry and the others were standing. Mad Daddy looked at the girl with obvious pleasure and no lust. Dick just looked cool. Gerry noticed that most of the women were looking jealous and insecure. The girl really was a knockout, if you liked models.

“This is Fred,” Franco said.

The girl, Fred, smiled at all of them. “How do you do,” she said in a thin squeak which immediately dispelled the illusion of an inaccessible princess and turned her right into a kid from the Bronx with good bones.

“How do you like my party?” Franco asked, pleased.

“Very impressive,” Dick said.

“What do you do, Fred?” Mad Daddy asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Fred squeaked. “I’m an heiress.”

“She’s my favorite model,” Franco said. “Did you see her picture in
Time
with me?”

“Yes,” Gerry said. “You looked very lovely,” she said to the girl. The girl shrugged, bored.

“What do you do?” Fred asked Mad Daddy.

“I have a television show.”

“Oh? I never watch television.”

“You should watch him,” Gerry said. “He’s marvelous. The Mad Daddy Show.”

“Oh, all right,” Fred said pleasantly, as if she was doing them all a favor. Mad Daddy seemed to be cringing. The girl obviously frightened him as much as the socialites at the party.

Libra came plowing his way through the crowd, alone. He patted Franco on the shoulder and gave Fred a look of pure, slavering lust. “Glad you could come,” he said to her.

“Mmm,” Fred said.

Gerry figured that Fred was window dressing for Franco and had really been brought for Libra. She wondered if Libra was considering replacing the deceased Douglas Henry with a model-turned-starlet, but figured with her voice the girl didn’t have a chance. If she could be in a silent movie she could capture the world.

“A very good turn-out of clients,” Libra said approvingly to Franco. “You’re here, Nelson and the B.P.’s are here, of course, Arnie Gurney, Dick, Daddy, the King James Version and Silky and the Satins are coming, and Zak Maynard’s in the other room. You know him,” he said to Gerry. “The super-beauty new male star, a male Fred.” He winked at Fred. “The only ones who aren’t here are Shadrach Bascombe, who’s at training camp getting ready for his next fight, and Sylvia Polydor, who wouldn’t go across the street to go to a party, especially fly from California. Do you know that Sylvia won’t fly? She still hires an entire car of the damn train, just to come here. An entire car! She’s wonderful.”

“Zak Maynard isn’t a male me,” Fred said. “I went out with him once. He’s a moron.”

“Mrs. Einstein ought to know,” Libra said sarcastically. “Come on, Gerry, I want to borrow you and introduce you to Zak.”

Gerry hoped Dick would follow them, and he did. She was flattered. He had evidently gone out with enough Freds not to be impressed any more. She followed Libra into the living room, which was more mobbed than ever, and was pleased when Dick casually took her hand in preparation for her exposure to Zak the super-beauty.

Zak was in the corner talking to Lizzie Libra. He had thick, sexy, golden-brown hair, broad shoulders, slumberous golden eyes, and a young, sensual mouth. He towered over Lizzie by about a foot He looked just like his pictures: cinemascope and pure technicolor.

“Zak Maynard, my new assistant, Gerry Thompson. And Dick Devere, who, if you’re very lucky, might direct you in a show one day.”

Zak enveloped Gerry’s hand in his and threw her a few sparks from the golden eyes. “Hell-o,” he said, looking her up and down. Finally he released her hand and shook hands with Dick.

“I think he’s wonderful,” Lizzie said to her husband. “Why haven’t you ever brought him around to the office?”