Still, Herbert’s changed more than most. He drinks his coffee with an unsteady hand and contrives to light another cigarette while the wheels spin in his head, manufacturing advice to his unruly protégée.
At last he speaks in his slow, halting voice.
“Do as you think best, doll. That’s why I hired you.”
I keep myself busy as best I can. I order the prints for Barbara’s portfolio and make at least two dozen calls on her behalf. By lunchtime, I’ve found my stride. I prop my feet on the desk and call up Barbara herself to deliver the good news. I feel like Santa Claus.
“That’s nice, sugar,” she says, “but I’ll wait to celebrate once I see my face on something bigger than an Aunt Jemima advertisement.”
“Now, Barbara. That’s the wrong way to look at things. Sunny side up, I always say. In the first place, that’s a big account, Aunt Jemima. In the second place, we’ve got the ball rolling, haven’t we?”
“Sure we do. Just like that Sisyphus fellow.”
“Say, I’ll tell you what. I’ll take you out tonight, champagne and everything, some nice club where we can listen to good music and get our picture in the paper.”
“Have you got rocks for brains, sister? Just what club do you think is going to let the pair of us in, like one of those black-and-white cookies?”
I stub out my cigarette. “I see what you mean.”
“Think you can just snap your white fingers and say abracadabra?”
I swing my feet to the floor and lean into the receiver. “You think I can’t? Is that some kind of challenge, Miss Kingsley?”
“I got five bucks says we end up uptown at Smalls where they aren’t so particular about pedigree.”
“You’re on. Meet me outside the Palmetto at eight thirty on the nose in your best dress. Some number that looks good in photographs, say.”
“Oh, you think you got a plan, boss lady?”
“Miss Kingsley,” I say, “we can’t miss.”
All right, so I like to manage things. I like to take charge of people’s affairs—it’s one of my many talents. Boss lady, Barbara called me, and what’s the matter with that? Someone has to be the boss, or nothing would get done. I’ve managed the careers of dozens of women—a few men, too—and nobody’s complained about the results, at least not to my face. The fact is, most people are too softhearted, or they lack a certain clarity of vision, or they don’t want to make mistakes, or—this is the big one—they’re afraid of what others will think of them. They don’t want to take that kind of responsibility. It’s hard work and requires you to make decisions people won’t like. But I’ll tell you what, there’s nothing like the satisfaction of a plan brought off to perfection, of knowing you’ve led your flock to greener pastures.
It would make a nice, neat story to say that I became this way because of my father dying when I was eleven years old, and my mother sort of absolving herself of any further parental responsibilities because she had her grief to contend with. But I’m afraid I’ve always been a managing person, the kind of girl who brings home animals and organizes the canned vegetables according to the alphabet and puts together the neighborhood stickball teams.
And there’s Iris. I was always protective of her, when we were growing up. There was the time we started at Chapin, a school far above our social standing as it then was, and while nobody dared to snub me they had no trouble snubbing Iris, so I spent that entire first year blackmailing girls to play with my sister and invite her to parties and that kind of thing. Iris never knew. Or when we used to summer with my grandparents in Glen Cove, Long Island, and Iris was afraid of every little thing, sailing and swimming—in the Sound, that is, instead of a nice safe swimming pool—and especially strangers.
Anyway, her tender heart was staggered when Daddy killed himself. Mother had discovered the body first thing in the morning, so there was a terrifying fuss of screaming and telephones and ambulance men. Harry was off prepping at Hotchkiss by then, so it was just the two of us kids, Iris and me. She started having these strange shivering fits, so I took her into our room and crawled into bed with her to keep her warm. In those days nobody told you what to do with news like that—grief like that. Maybe a doctor would give you a sleeping pill or something, but otherwise you were just supposed to swallow it whole and not bother anybody else with the awkwardness of your sorrow. Fine for somebody like me, but for Iris? So I just held her and stroked her hair—didn’t say a thing. In the morning she came to and drank a little milk that I fetched for her, and a week later she marched bravely into St. James Episcopal Church on Madison Avenue for the funeral, holding my hand. She wore the navy blue dress and coat I picked out for her at Bergdorf’s. I was so proud of her. On our backs, I felt the prurient gazes of all the assembled so-called mourners, and I just thought to myself, You will never understand what a wreck she was, only a week ago.
You know, I met a shrink at a party once who said I had a God complex, whatever that meant, and for a long time afterward our entire conversation made me indignant, whenever I thought about it. For the record, I don’t think I’m God, or even one of His archangels. Just a mortal woman doing her best with what’s entrusted to her care.
But I do understand the frustration God feels when He shows us the right way forward, time and again, and what do we poor mortals do? We go the opposite direction, almost to spite Him, and sure enough we come to grief.
Anyway, you can’t say Barbara Kingsley doesn’t follow my instructions to the letter. When the taxi screeches to a halt outside the Palmetto at eight thirty-two, out pops the most ravishing woman you’ve ever seen in your life, wearing a coat of white fox and a sequined dress that could bring sight to a blind man. I step forward and pay the driver myself, and he scoots right off. I turn back to gather my bevy of sirens and there stands Barbara, hands on hips, laughing her head off.
“All right, boss lady,” she says. “I think I see your plan. Where do I fit in?”
“Right at the front, Miss Kingsley.”
I won’t lie, it took me all afternoon and a couple of years’ worth of favors to round up a cast like that one. I won’t name any names, but you’ve heard of them. I take Barbara’s arm and proceed straight up to the ma?tre d’ at his elegant mahogany podium. “Reservation for eight, front row. Macallister party.”
The ma?tre d’ looks at me and at Barbara and at me again. He leans forward and says, under his breath, “There seems to have been some mistake.”
“No mistake. A celebration dinner, a case of your best champagne at least.”
“Miss Macallister, I don’t think you understand.”
“What’s to understand? Are we not dressed in the approved style?”
“No, your dress—your dress”—he’s trying to avert his eyes from Barbara—“your dress is—well enough—but we have other rules, madam, for the comfort of our customers—”
“Oh. Oh, dear. I see what you mean. How careless of me.” I turn to the group behind me. “My darlings, there seems to be some trouble. Apparently somebody in our party isn’t quite up to snuff when it comes to the strict moral standards of the Palmetto Club. I expect it’s you, M—.”
Everybody laughs. I spin back to the ma?tre d’, who’s caught a glimpse of the faces assembled behind me and turned a fine shade of strawberry pink.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Billings. We quite understand your predicament. In fact, I feel certain that none of us will trouble you for entry into this”—I cast a supercilious glance around the lobby—“this fine old establishment, ever again. Will we, ladies?”
“Certainly not,” says M—.
“And we’ll pass the word to our friends, as well. God forbid the Palmetto should be forced to admit just anyone.”
At that instant, the telephone rings atop Mr. Billings’s fine mahogany podium. He lifts the receiver and says Palmetto Club, quavering voice. Then—Yes, sir. Then—No, sir. Then—Right away, sir.