A Ticket to the Circus (31 page)

Years and years went by, and we kept in touch. Robert left photography and opened a bed-and-breakfast in Florida called the Cypress. Recently, a remark dropped in a conversation with a mutual friend let me know that my nude pictures had graced the bar of the Cypress for many years. Actually, at this point, I don’t mind. It’s kind of flattering, being the nude girl above the bar. I told my daughter-in-law Sasha, Michael’s wife, who is a gorgeous singer, that she should get some done while she is still young enough. When you are old and wrinkled, you will always have those pictures to remind you that once upon a time, you were a hot naked babe in a red fox coat.)

I
think of that winter of ’76–’77 as our first real year together. We had become closer than ever, the family had accepted Matt and me, and our life was coalescing. After our big party for Dick and Doris Goodwin, where we more or less came out to society as a couple, we started being invited to a lot of dinner parties and social functions. I was beginning to learn about fashion—being in it all day, of course—but I still didn’t have much of a wardrobe. I had no evening dresses at all, and a lot of the functions we were invited to were black tie. I made do with a few things I’d gotten in my favorite vintage store called Fonda’s, on Lexington Avenue in the thirties, a long black Scott Barrie skirt with different tops, mostly, and I managed to kind of pull it off, chiefly because I was young and skinny, but it was catching up to me. We were in a social set that wore couture and designer, and while I couldn’t afford that, I didn’t want to look like some down-at-the-heels hick, and Norman didn’t want me to, either. One of his pleasures was to walk into a party with me looking glamorous in the coat, but I couldn’t wear the coat all the time.

Then one night we were invited to Oscar de la Renta’s house for a small dinner. He had also invited Sam Walton, of Walmart, which hadn’t yet become the behemoth it is today but was already getting well known, and I supposed they wanted us in part because I was from Arkansas. Oscar was my favorite designer in the world, and I was a wreck over what to wear. I went to Bloomingdale’s and searched through the evening dresses, but everything was way too expensive. Anything designed by Oscar himself was totally out of the question. Then, wandering through the lingerie section, I came across an ivory satin gown with a filmy silk jacket, like Jean Harlow might have worn, and it wasn’t too expensive, so I got it. I figured with a long strand of fake pearls and glitzy earrings and the red fox coat I could pull it off. My hair had grown back a bit by this time and was pretty glamorous. So off we went to Oscar de la Renta’s house for dinner. Oscar’s chic
French wife, Françoise, took my coat and said how beautiful it was, and then there I was, left in my nightgown. I hadn’t even worn a bra or pantyhose because of the lines.

They indeed had seated me next to Sam Walton, who was nice and so down-home. We liked each other immediately, and talked about how nobody in the North could understand us, and how stupid some of the people were. I told him of talking to the headmaster of a private school for fifteen minutes about my work as an art teacher, the problems of education and whatever, until finally the headmaster had asked me where I’d taught, and I’d said “Arkansas.” “They have
art
in Arkansas?” He’d been incredulous. Sam laughed. He could relate. People always underestimated him, which was sometimes to the good. In fact, he cultivated it. He drove the same old pickup truck he had driven for years, and could talk bird dog with the best of them. We had the best time talking about Arkansas, just like Oscar and Françoise knew we would. Norman, of course, was always the center of attention at any dinner party. He came alive at the table much like he did onstage, and for years we were invited everywhere just for the entertainment value.

The de la Renta house had lush velvet and gold and embroidered cushions and furniture everywhere, Oriental carpets, luminous paintings of Arab sheiks and desert tents full of pillows and carpets and couches, not unlike the ones in the room below the paintings. I felt like I was in Morocco or Zanzibar or somewhere hot and sandy and exotic, only without the heat and the sand. Oscar had a soft accent and brown eyes that melted every woman into a puddle. He and Françoise couldn’t have been more gracious to Norman and me.

At the end of the evening, Françoise took me aside and whispered into my ear, “My dahling, we have to get you some clothes. Call me tomorrow and we’ll go to Oscar’s showroom and pick out some things. You can fit the runway samples. It will not be expensive.” She did it in a way that didn’t humiliate me, and I always loved her for that. I did call and go with her the next day to the showroom, and it was a wonderland of the most beautiful clothing I could imagine. Norman had told me to get anything I wanted within reason. He knew I needed things for the life we were beginning to lead, and so I came back with a huge bag of runway samples. I still have a lot of them, and regret the
ones I gave away over time. Twice a year I would call Françoise, and then Boaz Mazor, Oscar’s assistant, and get a few new things for the coming season. I was still struggling to find my “look,” as Wilhelmina said, but I was getting closer. At least I knew better than to go out in a nightgown again.

I
did a go-see for a Mexican TV commercial for Raleigh cigarettes, and was astounded when I got it. I think Wilhelmina was, too, but it was good news for me, as I wasn’t making that much and it was a small windfall. I’d never been to Mexico, although Norman’s oldest daughter, Susan, lived there. I thought I’d get to see her, but unfortunately she was in New York while I was down there and we missed each other. Norman used to spend quite a bit of time in Mexico when Sue was small. He sometimes stayed for weeks, and told me lots of stories of his time down there.

One story I love is of when Sue was driving back with him and his second wife, Adele, to New York when she was about three or four, and for some reason she started talking about angels,
los ángeles.
Norman, who was then trying to be a staunch atheist, said there were no such things as angels. “Can you see angels, Sue? Do you hear them?” “No,” she had to admit. “Well, then, if you can’t see them or hear them, there aren’t any angels. They don’t exist. It’s like a fairy tale.” Sue was crestfallen. After a few minutes of deep thought, she said, “Papa, Grandma exists, doesn’t she? We can’t see her or hear her, but she lives in New York. So maybe
los ángeles
are real, but just live in heaven.” It gave him pause, and that may have been one of the first cracks in his atheistic beliefs. Another crack came from author James Jones, who believed in reincarnation. Jim said it was the only thing that made sense to him, and Norman finally had to agree. He certainly had done a complete turnaround and firmly believed in God when I met him.

   
MY PLANE CIRCLED
Mexico City, which was obliterated in soft gray fog. It lies in the bottom of a bowl, with mountains all around, and the pollution was bad. In fact, when Sue got pregnant with her first daughter, Valentina, she and her husband, Marco, moved to Chile to escape the smog. It was indeed a little hard to breathe sometimes, and if I
stood looking down the street, everything got hazy after a block or two and then became gray. But the excitement of being in a commercial outweighed anything else. Cigarette commercials were not done in the United States, but Mexico didn’t care. There was already so much pollution that smoking a cigarette was like taking a breath of ordinary air.

The first afternoon was devoted to getting fake fingernails. In those days, the way they did it was to mix up a powder and goop it over forms on each fingertip. The forms had to dry, then the nails were filed and shaped to the correct length. It took hours. In this case, the correct length was about two inches long. I had never had real nails in my life. I kept them clipped short, being a painter and working in clay and other art materials, so I wasn’t used to them at all. It was sort of glamorous at first, having these long red talons, but after I left the salon, I realized how helpless I was. I couldn’t push elevator buttons. I couldn’t dial the phone. I couldn’t button my blouse. I tried to pick my nose and nearly slit my nostril. Washing my hair was problematic, too, and by the time morning arrived I was going a little nuts with them. I had small nicks where I’d tried to scratch in my sleep, and it is a miracle I didn’t put my eye out.

Nevertheless, I arrived at the set dressed, with a clean face, like they’d asked me to do, and then the makeup man began to cover my entire body with dark body makeup. I looked like a redheaded Mexican, which was a little strange. If I put my arm down on a chair, or leaned against the wall, it left a dark print, so I had to be careful. I couldn’t touch my dress. I only half kiddingly told the producer, who was a dark, handsome young man, “You come all the way to New York to get a pale-skinned redheaded model, and then you turn her into a Mexican! Why did you go to the bother?” He laughed, but never did explain why they chose me for the role if they wanted someone Hispanic. I wasn’t going to argue, though.

The premise was that I wandered into this beautiful hacienda all alone, wearing an evening dress and lots of jewels. I looked around the room with great appreciation, touching a handsome leather-bound book, or running my finger around the rim of a crystal goblet here and there. (Now I could see why they wanted those long elegant nails.) Then I picked up a pack of Raleigh cigarettes, and took one. Holding it in my fingers, I turned, and in the doorway was an impossibly
handsome male Mexican model in a dinner jacket. Our eyes met and there was some voice-over in Spanish I couldn’t understand about the cigarettes or whatever.

It wasn’t difficult, but we did a lot of takes, different angles, and shot for the whole day. I was tired and most anxious to go out for real Mexican food that night, as I loved it, or at least I loved the Tex-Mex kind we had in Arkansas, but the producers said no. They took me to an English pub–type place that served boiled beef and Yorkshire pudding. It was dreadful. After the next day’s shoot, I asked again to go to a real Mexican restaurant, and again they said no. I might get the turista, they said, and we couldn’t afford to lose the time. So we went for Chinese, which was again awful. I was in Mexico, starving for Mexican food. I passed women making tortillas on the streets and my mouth watered. I panted after the drinks they made from melons and fruit in stands on the sidewalk, but my producer watched me like a hawk. Not one bite of Mexican food could I have. Then, the last night, we had finished. The commercial was in the can and everyone was happy with it. Nobody cared if I got diarrhea or not, so my producer said, “Okay, we’ll take you out to a good, real Mexican place.”

It was called something in Spanish that translated to the Peeing Dog, and on the sign outside was indeed a picture of a dog with its leg raised. I was a little dubious, but I ate and ate and ate, tacos and enchiladas and chicken with mole sauce. Then we all went dancing at a club. I think the name of the place was the Camino Real, and we were having so much fun that I didn’t notice the time. Oops. I was supposed to call Norman. It was now about three in the morning in New York, and I didn’t want to wake him and face his wrath, so I just slipped into bed and didn’t even check my messages, I was so worn out.

Bright and early, the phone rang. It was him. “Where were you last night?” he barked. “I tried to call you at two in the morning and they said you were out. Who were you with? That good-looking producer?” I was half-asleep, and tried to answer him, “No, I mean yes, but there were other people there. We went dancing and I forgot what time it was.” Oh, boy. The more I kept talking, the more in trouble I got. Well, in a way it was good for him to be jealous for a change. I was the one who was always fending off women who were trying to get to him, so a dose of his own medicine went down pretty well. He was so
glad to see me when I came back, and I think it made him appreciate me more, at least for a while. When the commercial started airing in Mexico, Sue’s fiancé, Marco, would say to her, “Susan! There’s your mother!” I think she was only half-amused.

I was beginning to make my own friends and enjoy our social life. My picture started appearing in
Women’s Wear Daily
, once I had the Oscar de la Renta wardrobe, and we went out several nights a week. One woman I met who became one of my best friends was Pat Lawford, President Kennedy’s sister, who was also a great friend of Dotson Rader’s. We were both tall and redheaded, and we made each other laugh. She and Norman were terribly fond of each other, too, and we saw her frequently.

During one memorable dinner at her house, I was seated between her brother Teddy and Oleg Cassini, a suave, handsome designer who used to design for Jackie when she was first lady. I was working double time at the charm. I would talk to one for a while, then turn and address the other. It was lively and funny, but both of them were acting a little peculiar. I would almost say they were giddily overflirtatious. One would lean in and whisper a joke, look at me meaningfully, and I’d laugh, then the other one would do the same thing. I was having a good time, but at a certain point, I needed to go to the ladies’ room. I scooted my chair back and said, “Excuse me, gentlemen. I’ll be right back.” As I stood up, I saw them look at each other in shock. Then I saw them, red-faced, fiddling with their shoes. It became apparent that they had been playing footsie with each other, both thinking the stockinged foot they’d been rubbing was mine. I had to giggle and tease them about it. They laughed, too, making a huge joke of it, not the least bit ashamed. Pat thought it was hilarious. “He’s my brother, kiddo, and I dearly love him, but you have to watch him.” I promised to do just that.

T
he summer of 1977 came quickly, and Norman and the kids decided they wanted to go back to Maine, to the house where they’d spent summers before I’d come into the picture. It would be a little weird, me going into the house where Carol had been with them before, but Norman was never sentimental about anything. He certainly didn’t mind, and if he didn’t, then neither did I, by golly, so we rented it for August. Then Beverly asked if we would stay in the Ptown house with the boys while she was in Hartford doing a play in July, so we packed up a rented van and all went to Provincetown.