The Rothman Scandal (11 page)

Meanwhile, there was indeed a great difference between the important guests and the members of the working press. It was not just that the general-assignment reporters and photographers were not, for the most part, wearing dinner jackets, and instead wore blue or gray pinstripe suits, white shirts, and neckties. They also wore furtive, hunted looks, expressions of discomfiture that revealed that these were men and women who were unaccustomed to appearing in such perfumed, opulent surroundings. Had they been wearing creased fedoras with “PRESS” cards tucked in their hatbands, they could not have looked more conspicuously out of place. These were not just people from the large metropolitan dailies, the weekly news magazines, and from
Spy
and
Vanity Fair
. There were also reporters and photographers from suburban papers on Long Island, Westchester, Connecticut, and New Jersey, as well as stringers from other cities—Boston, Washington, Baltimore, and Philadelphia. These people knew that they had been invited to—or in some cases merely assigned to attend—the party simply because their hostess wanted to generate as much publicity for her magazine as possible. The evening, after all, was all about ink for
Mode
.

The
grandes dames
of the press—women like Bernadine Morris, Enid Nemy, Aileen Mehle, Mona Potter, and Liz Smith, who, for some reason, had come dressed in a cowgirl outfit—comported themselves like the giant celebrities they knew themselves to be, letting Dr. Kissinger envelop them in his bear hugs, blowing kisses to Brooke Astor, calling each other darling. But the others, whose names no one really knew, or would probably ever know, or would ever really care to know, had spent most of the evening trying to be inconspicuous, hovering mousily in the background, scribbling in their notebooks the names of famous guests that were attachable to famous faces, noting designer dresses, and guessing at the caratage of large gems, knowing (at least they knew that much) that the question, “How many carats in that ruby?” would be answered with a frosty stare. Instead, they tended to interview each other. Those not bold enough to ask Jackie Onassis who had designed her dress asked others from the little fraternity. A reporter from a South Norwalk paper who had missed Brooke Astor's entrance kept trying to find out, from his fellows, where the great lady was. And when dinner was served, all these press people gravitated toward a few tables at the east-facing end of Alex's L-shaped terrace so they could be close to one another.

But the moment Herbert J. Rothman stepped away from the microphone, these members of the so-called working press knew at once they were on to something they understood, something they had never expected to come away from this evening with—
a story
. All at once they were on their feet, pushing, shoving, elbowing their way toward the publisher and the new editor. All at once they were transformed from little gray wrens, pecking quietly at the sidelines for little scraps of this and that, into a braying pack of newshounds on the scent of a Major Development, even a front-page by-line. Pencils poised and cameras at the ready, they pushed their way forward toward the pair in the center of the circle of the television cameras' floodlights, shouting questions, all at once on a first-name basis with the principals in the drama.

“Hey, Herbie! Look over here, Herbie! Does this mean Alex Rothman will be retiring?”

“No comment.”

“Hey, Fiona—over here, Fiona! Smile, Fiona—
big
smile! Take off those damn shades, Fiona, so we can see you!”

“How old are you, Fiona? How much do you weigh? Who designed your dress, Fiona? Are you married? Any boyfriend? What's your love life?”

“Herb, does this mean you are finally taking over the reins of Rothman Communications?” the reporter from
Women's Wear Daily
asked him.

The question clearly annoyed him. It was the word
finally
, which reminded him that close to seven decades of his life had passed before he had been given any control, or any real power, at all. “Mr. H. O. Rothman is a very old man, and very ill,” he replied stiffly.

“How about the IRS lawsuit against Rothman Communications?” the same reporter wanted to know. “How has your father responded to that?”

“I doubt my father is even aware of it,” Herb said. “Besides, I'm not at liberty to discuss the lawsuit at this point in time.”

“We've heard the figure eight hundred million dollars. With penalties and interest, that could amount to—”

“I'm not at liberty to—”

“Herb, you said you had consulted experts who have foreseen the future of the magazine. Specifically, could you give us the names of these experts, and explain a bit more fully why they have some sort of crystal ball?”

“Herb, why did you choose not to promote someone from within the organization to this new post? Why an outsider? Why an unknown?”

“Yes, why a Brit, Herb? Why not an American?”

“Fiona, what's the name of that Brit fashion magazine you worked for?
Lady Fair?
Never heard of it. Who publishes it? Who owns it?
Who?
Never heard of 'em!”

“Fiona, what was the name of your shop in Sloane Street?”

“Who does your hair, Fiona?”

“Fiona, does this mean you're being groomed as Alex Rothman's successor? What makes you think you can fill her shoes?”

“Fiona, do you have a particular fashion philosophy?”

“Take off the shades, Fiona, so we can get a shot of you.”

“How do you spell ‘Fiona'?” Mona Potter called from the periphery of the crowd, and then, more loudly, “What's she look like? Is she pretty? I can't see her from here.”

“Skinny. No tits,” someone yelled back.

Meanwhile, when Herb Rothman stepped away from the microphone, the bandleader, as instructed, struck up the opening chords of “Happy Days.” No one, not even Alex, heard him, of course, except Coleman, inside the apartment, who was waiting for his cue. “Ladies and gentlemen … ladies and gentlemen,” the bandleader shouted into the microphone, “if you'll all please rise and face Riker's Island, we have a very special little show …”

And Coleman pressed the button that was the signal to the fireworks barge in the river.

“Oh, my God, the fireworks,” Alex said, jumping to her feet.

Lenny also sprang to his feet. “Fireworks!” he shouted. “Fireworks! Look this way, everybody!”

But still only a handful of Alex's guests saw the first flare that shot up, burst, and cascaded down through the night sky in a fountain of colored light, exploding and popping.

“Fireworks! Fireworks!” Lenny shouted, as Alex gazed in dismay at the shambles of her party.

“How old did you say you were, Fiona? What's your cup size? Is that your real hair or a wig?”

The second flare shot upward from the barge, exploded, and hung in the air as the sparkling lights gathered and coalesced to form the word
MODE
, before the letters tumbled apart and fell to the river.

A third flare went up, and the words
THAR SHE BLOWS!
were spelled out.

A fourth and final flare then went up with an almost ear-splitting bang, and the figures 5,000,000 arranged themselves across the sky.

This last explosive blast drew a few more onlookers to the edge of the terrace, but the questions to Fiona Fenton continued, and her whispery, all-but-unintelligible replies seemed to make the reporters' questions even more hostile and intrusive.

“Hey, Fiona—who's your favorite designer?”

“Who's your favorite
Limey
designer, Fiona?”

“How much is Rothman payin' ya, Fiona?”

“Fiona, will you take those Goddamned glasses
off?
”

“Do you sleep in the nude, Fiona baby? Look this way, Fiona.”

Suddenly a television cameraman roughly shoved a news reporter out of his way. “Move, fuck-face! You're blockin' my frame!”

“Fuck your frame!” And now fists were flying. The reporter's body was flung against the side of the gazebo bar, and there was the sound of shattering glass as a waiter's serving table was overturned. There were screams as women, seated close to the fray, tried to duck under tables to protect themselves, and one tall gentleman, resplendent in evening dress, rose to his feet and lifted a gilded caterer's chair over his head, in a Statue of Liberty pose, as though to defend himself from all attackers, while a young woman in a scarlet Scaasi evening suit was trying to crawl, on her hands and knees, among flying fists and kicking feet, across the terrace toward the French doors that led into the apartment. Meanwhile, the orchestra, doing its best to prevent Alex's party from turning into a well-dressed riot, had launched into a noisy, upbeat version of “Ain't She Sweet?”

Fiona Fenton had managed to make her way through the jostling, pushing, shouting crowd to where Alex stood watching it all with helpless horror. Alex saw that there were tears streaming down the young woman's face, and suddenly she was filled with a great wave of pity for this poor, benighted girl—surely no more than twenty-three or twenty-four—who had certainly not meant to cause all this. It was Herbert—Herbert alone—who had done it, and now he was nowhere to be seen.

“Please, Mrs. Rothman,” the girl sobbed. “I begged Mr. Rothman not to announce it like this—not here, at your party. He insisted that it would come as a nice surprise for you, but it didn't, did it? It didn't come as a nice surprise at all!”

Alex started to say that nothing Herbert Rothman did would ever surprise her, but instead she said, “Don't worry about that. The first thing we've got to do is get this crowd under control.”

“He says he thinks you and I can work well together. He says you and I can be a team, but I can't be a part of a team unless you want me too! He says it can work, and I want to believe it will work, because I admire your work so much. Please tell me you believe we can at least try to work together. I'll try—I'll try so hard—to learn—”

Once again Alex started to say something angry. She could have said that there were three things in life she had learned never to believe in: the tooth fairy, no-run panty hose, and Herbert Rothman. But the girl was so clearly distraught that she simply said, “If we're going to be a team, help me think of a way to stop this fighting! This party's being televised, for God's sake.” Because it was getting worse. One of the principal reporter combatants had managed to step on Carolyne Roehm's foot. She had screamed in pain, and already her diminutive husband, Henry, was shedding his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, preparing to join the fray. Now there was another crash, as one of the round pink-draped tables was overturned, sending crockery, glassware, hurricane lamps, a pair of Chelseaware porcelain birds, and one of Renny's floral centerpieces shattering across the flagstones.

“Oh,
please!
” Alex cried, stooping to pick up a white dove's broken wing. “
Please stop all this!
”

But all at once help, as if by divine intervention, came from an unexpected direction.

The guests who were seated on the north-facing arm of the L-shaped terrace were largely unaware of the free-for-all that was developing around the corner of the building, on the east-facing arm, and around the gazebo bar. Beyond wondering why the music had become suddenly so loud and spirited, these guests had found another diversion. Just before the fireworks began, a small pleasure boat had appeared on the river, moving briskly downstream. It was a snappy little cruiser, and as it zipped along, slapping the waves with its fiberglass hull, it sent up twin white feathers of spume, and left a wide trail of foam in its wake. As the little boat approached the northern tip of Roosevelt Island, the fireworks started, and the boat paused to watch the display from the barge. Then, apparently sensing that there was a connection between the fireworks they had just seen and the music and noise from the terrace high above Gracie Square, the skipper of the boat had steered his (or her—it was never clear who was at the wheel) craft closer to the Manhattan side of the river, for a better look at the party.

One didn't often see pleasure speedboats on the East River; in fact, they were discouraged, and often challenged, though not banned, by the Coast Guard, since they tended to interfere with the commercial barge traffic on the river. So the appearance of the little speedboat was an unusual, and cheering, sight. It seemed to be all about innocence and love and youth and fun and irresponsibility, and to the celebrated guests on Alex's terrace it was a reminder of the days when they, too, had been young and foolish, and as it approached the towers of 10 Gracie Square, one of Alex's guests at the parapet identified it as a Regal Runabout, about eighteen feet long, and someone else later claimed to have made out the red-white-and-blue burgee of the American Yacht Club in Rye, which meant it was about twenty-five nautical miles from home, though it was difficult to make out much else in the dark, and from twenty floors above. As the little boat slapped and spanked its way through the water below, its passengers—who appeared to be three, or possibly four, young people because, later, accounts would differ—seemed to be lifting toasts with cans of beer to the people leaning on the parapet, and the people at the parapet waved back and returned the toasts with their champagne glasses.

But then, all at once, something was terribly wrong. The small boat suddenly listed sharply to one side, then instantly to the other. Its passengers gripped their seats and handrails, and their cries could be heard twenty floors above, as the skipper struggled with the wheel to bring his craft under control. Now the prow of the runabout made a violent swing to the right, and the boat was spinning, spinning in circles, faster and faster circles, as though caught in a maelstrom. There were screams from the terrace now, and cries of “Oh, my God! Somebody help them! They're sinking! Call nine-one-one! Call the Coast Guard!” And all were straining over the parapet, pointing toward the dark river below, while the television crew, aware of some new calamity, rushed to the scene.