The Rothman Scandal (23 page)

The editor of a monthly magazine like
Mode
enjoyed a much more relaxed and leisurely lead time. In fact, Alex Rothman liked to begin planning each issue of her magazine, in a general sort of way, at least six months in advance. And so, over the years, the twice-monthly meetings with her editorial staff had evolved into a certain pattern. The first meeting to discuss an upcoming issue was called a “What-If” meeting. In format, the “What-If” meetings were loosely based on the custom of “brain-storming” that had enjoyed a certain vogue in businesses in the 1960s. At brainstorming meetings, all sorts of wild and woolly ideas were tossed onto the table, on the theory that somebody's harebrained notion might spark someone else's brilliant idea. That, at least, was the theory. In practice, it rarely worked out that way, and Alex Rothman considered brainstorming a waste of time and talent, since the crazy ideas nearly always outnumbered the useful ones. And so Alex's “What-If” meetings always started out with what she called “a track,” or theme. If the theme of the issue was to be, say, Paris, then Paris would immediately become the focus of the meeting. (“What if we put the Eiffel Tower on the cover?” someone might say. Audible groans from around the conference room.)

Then, two weeks after the “What-If” meeting, when the proposals brought forth at the meeting had been sorted out, explored, and at least partway developed, there was what was called a “Let's-Go” meeting, when the general shape and format of the issue would be roughed out, and the preliminary table of contents would be drawn up, with editors assigned to specific projects, to which the Production moles would give job numbers.

This morning's meeting was to be a “What-If” meeting for the January issue of the coming year.

Meanwhile, Alex had already spent a busy morning. Coleman, as usual, brought the morning papers in to her with her breakfast tray, and she had scanned them. The freakish boating accident on the river last night had made the front page of the
Times
but, she was pleased to see, her father-in-law's announcement at the party had been relegated to a small item in the Advertising column of the Business section.

In a surprise move Thursday,
Mode
publisher Herbert J. Rothman announced that Alexandra Rothman, 46, will be joined at the top of
Mode
's editorial masthead by the relatively unknown Ms. Fiona Fenton, 28, a London fashion figure. Mr. Rothman left the impression that Ms. Rothman, who has been editor-in-chief of the fashion publication since 1973, will be relieved of some of her editorial responsibilities, possibly in preparation for her retirement. Ms. Rothman could not be reached for comment, and Ms. Fenton did not return messages left on her answering machine.

Ms. Rothman is Mr. Rothman's daughter-in-law, the widow of Mr. Rothman's son, Steven.…

“Joel isn't up yet, Alex,” Coleman said. “Should I wake him? “No, let him sleep, darlin',” she said, sipping her coffee. “He had to get up early enough at that school of his. Let him catch up on his sleep.”

Mona Potter's column in the
News
, “The Fashion Scene by Mona,” was predictably more fulsome and chatty.

Well, ya coulda knocked over Mother Mona with a feather, kiddies, when
Mode
's Big Boss, handsome Herb Rothman, took to the microphone at Alexandra Rothman's fashionable East Side digs, and told a slew of fashion VIPs that the venerable editor will now share the top rung of
Mode
's ladder with petite and glamorous Lady Fiona Hesketh-Fenton, the London fashion biggie. Though teensy in size, Fiona has big fashion clout in Merrie Olde Englande, Mother's informants tell her.

What's up? Is Ageless Alex being e-e-e-eased out of
Mode
? That's Mother Mona's best guess, 'cause they say Handsome Herb's been scouting for younger blood, and Old Man Ho Rothman, who's 90-something, is now too sick to call the shots. So make way for Herb, kiddies. And if you've been reading Mother as you oughta, kiddies, you knew that Herb and Alex never really gotta long all these long, long years while Old Man Ho let her do whatever diddlysquat she wanted.

And—buzz, buzz, buzz—they say that Handsome Herb literally foamed at the mouth when he saw Alex's oh-so-naughty June cover. Alex's cute sidekick, Gregory Kittredge, confirmed all this to Mother.…

Reading this, Alex was certain that Gregory had done no such thing.

… Meanwhile, the reason for the bash at Alex's digs was that
Mode
has just made some big circulation breakthrough. Don't ask Mother Mona what the figures are. If you know Mother, she's a dummy at numbers—and too busy keeping track of the scuttlebutt on the Fashion Scene for her kiddies! The party featured fireworks, which caused a boat to sink, and a coupla people drowned, don't ask me how. Kinda put a “damper” on the party, huh? Oh, well, say la vee!

Stay tuned for more developments at
Mode
. Ta-ta.

COMING SOON: AN “EXCLUSIVE” INTERVIEW
WITH LADY FIONA HESKETH-FENTON

Alex Rothman tossed the newspaper aside with disgust. She should never have invited Mona to the party. On the other hand, if Mona hadn't been invited she would have written something even worse.

Now she picked up the telephone beside her bed, and called her lawyer, Henry Coker; she made an appointment with him for the following morning. Then she placed a call to her friend Mark Rinsky.

She and Mark were telephone friends, since they had never actually met. Mark ran a private investigative agency, and Alex had used his services over the years—mostly to do background checks on models she was considering using in the magazine, and whose resumes sounded questionable. It had all started with a memorable cover girl in 1982 who, it turned out, had a second career as an Eighth Avenue hooker, and had a criminal record. The supermarket tabloids had had a field day with that one:

MODE
COVER GIRL CHARGES $100 A THROW,
$1,000 FOR ALL NIGHT!

After that episode, Alex had been much more careful.

“Mark,” she said now, “her name is Fiona Fenton. She's English, and she also calls herself Lady Fiona Hesketh-Fenton. I'd like you to find out everything you can about her, as well as about this magazine she claims to have worked for, called
Lady Fair
.”

“Yes, I was just reading about her,” he said.

“Oh. Then you saw the item in the
Times
.”

“No, I saw it in Mona's column,” he said.

“Mark,” she said, “do you mean to say that private detectives read Mona's column? Big, macho private eyes read
her?
”

He chuckled. “It's kinda like junk food,” he said. “You get addicted. And I'm not a big, macho private eye. I'm a nebbishy little Jewish guy from the Bronx.”

“Another illusion shattered,” she said. “Well, see what you can find out about Her Ladyship.”

Smiling contentedly, feeling that she was once more on top of the situation, she set her breakfast tray aside and rose to bathe and dress for the office.

On her way out of the apartment, she peeked briefly into Joel's room. He lay sprawled across the bed, sleeping soundly, covered only by the top sheet, and for a moment she was tempted to step inside and kiss the top of his tousled blond head, but she decided not to disturb him and continued toward the elevator.

In the elevator foyer, Otto sat, stiffly, in one of the straight-backed Chippendale chairs that flanked the elevator door, waiting for Joel.

“Oh, Otto,” she said. “I've been meaning to speak to you. After this weekend, we won't be needing you anymore.”

Otto sprang to his feet. “It's because of last night, isn't it? It's because of what happened last night!”

“No, it has nothing to do with last night. It's just—”

“They tricked me!” he said. “Him and she, they both tricked me!”

“I really don't know what you're talking about, Otto, but—”

“It was her—that woman. She said there was a man on the roof, but there wasn't no man on the roof!”

“I'm sorry, Otto, it has nothing to do with you. You've done a wonderful job, and I'm prepared to—”

“I went up to the roof! There was no man! It was a lie!”

“—prepared to give you excellent references. It's just that I feel Joel doesn't need you any longer. And he really doesn't. And I think you know that too, Otto.” With her finger, she pressed the button to call the elevator.

He looked at her narrowly. “Does Mr. Herbert J. Rothman know about this?” he asked.

“This is my decision, Otto.”

“I was hired by Mr. Herbert J. Rothman,” he said. “Only Mr. Herbert J. Rothman can fire me. Not you! I ain't takin' no orders from no woman!”

She stared at him coolly. “Your arrangements with Herbert Rothman are between you and him,” she said. “If he wishes to employ you in some other capacity, that will be up to him. But meanwhile Joel is my son, and this is my house. In fact, I would like you to be out of here before I get home tonight.”

“It's because of what happened last night. Well, you won't get away with this!”

“We'll see,” she said.

The elevator door slid open.

“Frank,” she said to the elevator operator, “please be of any assistance you can to Mr.—” and for a moment she could not for the life of her think of Otto's last name—“to Mr. Otto, and help him gather whatever belongings he has here and see that he is out of here by five o'clock tonight.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She stepped into the car, the door closed, and the car began its descent.

There was a loud thud from above, as Otto apparently kicked at the door.

“He'd better not have left a mark on my mahogany door,” Frank said. “Them's solid mahogany, solid Philippine mahogany, all these doors. Germans. I was in the war, ma'am, and they're all alike, those Germans. Except maybe Mr. Kissinger. I brought Mr. Kissinger and his wife up to your party last night, and he struck me as a gentleman, not like the others. But don't worry, ma'am. I'll see that that one is out of here by five
P.M.
, ma'am.”

“If he gives you any trouble, call Security.”

“And that thing in this morning's paper, ma'am, does that mean you'll be retiring from the magazine, like Miss Mona said?”

“No.”

“It's a wonderful thing, retirement. Sure wish I could do it. Fort Myers, Florida, is where I'd go. That's God's country, Fort Myers, Florida. Needlefishing. Well, here we are, ma'am. Now you have a nice day, you hear?”

“Thank you, Frank.” And Alex Rothman stepped out of the elevator into the glory and brilliance of a whole new day.

Immediately, she noticed that the company limousine, which always waited for her at the curb, was not there.

Charlie, the doorman, looked anxious. “Your car didn't show up today, Mrs. Rothman,” he said.

“That's all right, Charlie. I'll take a taxi,” she said, and he stepped into the street with his whistle.

She had decided to treat this day like any other. There was no other way to treat it. She was certain that her staff would be full of nervous questions but, since she didn't have the answers to any of them, she decided not to address them. She would go through this day—and yes, thank God, it was a Friday—as though precisely nothing at all had happened. It would take some doing, it would take some stagecraft, but she knew she could pull it off. “Walk tall, Lexy,” her friend Lucille Withers had told her when she was training her to model clothes on the runway. “Walk tall, think tall and straight. Remember the chin line. Chin up, toes pointed slightly outward when you walk. No, don't wiggle your ass as though you had a fifty-cent piece pressed between your cheeks—it's
not
sexy, Lexy. Just remember that the shoulders and the hips should be on the same plane, like a skier's. Think of yourself as a skier. Take slightly longer steps. Pleasant expression on your face, not a big smile. This is
acting
, honey, and the clothes you're wearing are your lines.…
There
, that's
better
.… In that black dress, you're not a woman now. You're a panther stalking its prey.…”

She was wearing a black silk suit by Ungaro today, this panther.

She also knew that Herb Rothman would be expecting a call from her, demanding an explanation, or clarification, of what he was trying to do. Well, if that was what he was expecting, she was not going to give him the satisfaction of having his expectations fulfilled. If he wanted a confrontation scene, he would have to set the stage himself and write the script—for the time being, at least. He had said that Fiona would join the staff on the first of July, and that left some time for plans to be made and strategies laid. In the meantime, she would treat this day, and the next, and the next, and the next, exactly like any other. It was called playing it cool.

From the moment she stepped off the elevator on the fourteenth floor—from the receptionist onward through the long corridor of offices—the tension in the air was palpable. Everyone here, of course, had read Mona Potter's column. The responses to Alex's customary, cheery “Good morning” were lowered eyelids and nervous smiles.
Click, click, click
went the sounds of the heels of Alex's Susan Bennis pumps on the vinyl tile as she made her way down the corridor toward her office, chin up.

The greeting smile of Gregory Kittredge, her assistant, was also nervous. “Good morning, Gregory!” she said brightly.

There was a stack of pink telephone-message slips on her desk, taller than usual. She flipped through them. The
New York Times
had called.
Women's Wear
had called. The
Washington Post
had called.

“Most of those calls are from Mr. Rodney McCulloch,” Gregory said. “He's been calling every ten minutes since before nine o'clock, leaving a different number where he could be reached every time.” He consulted his watch. “Right now, we should be able to reach him at five-five-five-oh-two-oh-two, until ten fifteen. Want me to get him for you? He says it's extremely urgent.”