An Inconvenient Woman (11 page)

“No, no, Pauline,” her sisters had said to her, both separately and together, “I don’t care how much money Mr. Mendelson has. He won’t do. He won’t do at all.”

Her father, whom she revered, and who doted on her in return, said only this as a point of dissuasion to his daughter’s proposed marriage: “Jules is very nice, Pauline, and certainly very rich, but he’s not eligible for any of the clubs.” She knew what that meant. It was a phrase she had heard all her life to distinguish people like themselves, the McAdoos, from the others. For their kind of life, clubs were very important. An early McAdoo had founded a dynasty that produced fortunes in shipping, trade, iron, railroads, land, and textiles, but those fortunes had evaporated over the century, and the present McAdoo fortune was minimal by the current financial standards, although there was no lessening of McAdoo social standards.

“That would not bother me, Poppy,” said Pauline.

“It will, in time,” her father had answered.

Such familial disapproval had only increased her determination to go ahead with the marriage to Jules. What she felt most was that he would be an ideal stepfather to Kippie, who was then only three years old, and, as described by everyone, adorable, but badly in need of male supervision.

That night, following the incident with Marcus Stromm, Pauline left Los Angeles for New York. In her life there was still another man, whom she loved more than she loved Jules Mendelson, although his prospects were less, and it was to his side that she flew. Jules, fascinated by her independence and intimidated by her pedigree, followed, and placed on her finger a diamond ring larger by far than the diamond he would have placed on her finger a week earlier.

“My word,” said Pauline, astonished by its size, wondering if it was perhaps too big, like the one owned by the actress Faye Converse. She knew that her sisters would scoff at it, but she also knew that they would say, finally, “Oh, Pauline, you’re so tall you can get away with it.”

“It’s the de Lamballe,” Jules said, as proud as he was the day before, when he had purchased van Gogh’s
White Roses
, which was to be his wedding present to her.

“My word,” said Pauline again, for she had heard of the de Lamballe diamond. He sketched its provenance: a French princess, a daughter of a German munitions maker, an American heiress, twenty years of oblivion before it resurfaced at an auction in Geneva. “It’s too lovely,” she said.

The following week Pauline and Jules were married in Paris, with only Sims Lord, who had replaced Marcus
Stromm as Jules’s lawyer, present. Although Jules could never stand to be away from the business of finance for more than a few days at a time, they went for their honeymoon to the Mamounia Hotel in Marrakech. One evening, sitting on the balcony of their suite at sunset, he said to her, “There’s something I must tell you.”

“What is that?”

“I got into a jam once when I was young. Please don’t ask me about it. It happened. I can’t undo it.”

“Then why did you bring it up if you won’t tell me?” asked Pauline.

“Please bear with me, Pauline.”

“Do you have a police record?”

“No. One of the advantages of having rich parents,” said Jules.

He looked so pained at that moment that Pauline did not pursue the subject. She felt that he would tell her in time.

“Oh, yes, I know all about that,” she said, to cheer him up. “I had an uncle Harry. Harry Curtis. My mother’s sister’s husband. He was found dead in a seedy hotel on the West Side, and not a single one of the New York papers reported that he was in women’s clothing. Poppy handled the whole thing.”

“Harry Curtis? In women’s clothes? I’ve heard a lot of things about Harry Curtis, but I never heard that,” said Jules.

“Poor Aunt Maud. She’s never been the same.”

“Well, I wasn’t in women’s clothes,” said Jules. “You can be sure of that.”

Pauline laughed. The subject, whatever the subject was, was never mentioned again.

Jules would have lived anywhere Pauline wished. It was her idea to settle in Los Angeles and buy the old von Stern mansion on the top of a mountain and rebuild it into the famous estate that would become known as Clouds. The asking price was five million dollars, a sum considered outrageous and exorbitant at the time, but Jules Mendelson never quibbled over money when he wanted something, and he knew that his new wife wanted that particular property. He and Pauline arrived at the house for a final look, and then he handed a check for the full amount to the dumbfounded Helmut von Stern.

“I have been thinking, Mr. Mendelson,” said von Stern, staring greedily at the check in his hand.

“Thinking what, Mr. von Stern?” asked Jules.

“Second thoughts.”

“On selling your house, you mean?”

“On the price, actually. More like five point five million, I was thinking.”

“I see,” said Jules. He reached out, removed the check from von Stern’s hand, and tore it in half. “Are you ready, darling?” he said to Pauline. “Good-bye, Mr. von Stern.”

Jules took Pauline’s arm, and they headed for the front door and the dilapidated courtyard.

Von Stern, aghast, saw the mistake he had made. The house had been on the market for three years and was in a deplorable state of repair. As the Mendelsons got into their car, von Stern called after them. “Come back, we must talk.” There was an element of panic in his voice as he envisioned five million dollars driving out of his courtyard.

Jules, with Pauline behind him, followed von Stern back into the front hall of the house. “I have had second thoughts myself,” he said.

“About what?”

“The price. My top price is now four point five. Take it or leave it,” said Jules.

Pauline, fascinated, watched her new husband in a business transaction. That afternoon the Mendelsons purchased von Stern’s estate and renamed it Clouds.

The clubs, which mattered so much to people like them in Southampton and Palm Beach and Northeast Harbor and Newport, did not matter so much in Los Angeles, and the problem of Jules’s ineligibility to join them was less pressing. Both Rose Cliveden and Sims Lord had made an effort on Jules’s behalf, but Freddie Galavant, who later became a friend, said to the admissions committee, “Look at it this way. If he weren’t so rich, would you still want him to be a member?” No one answered, and the matter was never brought up again.

In the years since their marriage, Jules and Pauline had become a renowned couple in the world of wealth and power, and all earlier misgivings on the part of Pauline’s family had long been forgotten. Pauline’s sisters even took pride in their fascinating brother-in-law and entertained the Mendelsons in grand style several times each year. Jules had been a prominent background figure at all of the economic conferences under two Presidents, and, on at least two occasions, in Paris
and in Toronto, had been photographed in the Presidential motorcade, in deep conversation with the Chief of State himself.

“Ask Jules,” people would say, when matters of finance were under discussion. When Jules spoke, Pauline gave him her full attention, not only at parties when people asked him questions about the economy or the elections, but also at home, alone, with no one watching. Her ability to listen so intently to the man she loved was considered one of her most attractive traits. Only she, and not a single soul else, knew that she was sometimes able to plan the seating of a dinner party in her head at the same time. Their marriage was considered perfect. And it was, in its own way.

Jules had not wished to go to Rose Cliveden’s lunch at the Los Angeles Country Club after Hector’s funeral. Although there would be denials if such a claim were made in print, the club, a bastion of the old wealth of the city, had never taken more than a token member from the film industry or from certain religious and racial groups. In the case of the Mendelsons, it was felt that they were “perhaps too well known,” an excuse delivered by Rose to Pauline that amused both Jules and Pauline. But it was not that he was ineligible to join the club that kept Jules from wishing to enter its white colonnaded portal after the funeral. He would have been quite welcome as a luncheon guest of Rose Cliveden. He knew, however, that there would be gossiping in every corner of the rooms, all to do with the prevalent excitement over the mysterious death of Hector Paradiso, and he did not wish to be questioned about the circumstances of the death, which, he knew for a fact, was about to be officially declared a suicide. He was abetted in his decision not to go by Pauline, who was truly grieving for her friend Hector and was afraid that the lunch, meant to be solemn, would take on a party atmosphere, as did all the events in Rose Cliveden’s life.

Philip Quennell, accompanying Camilla, was pleased to be asked to lunch quietly with the Mendelsons at Clouds rather than attend Rose’s lunch at the club, where there would be a lot of people he did not know and endless speculation about the demise of their beloved Hector, about which he knew a great deal more than they. He was pleased to be given a tour of the art in the house by Jules himself, while they were waiting for lunch to be served. It interested Philip to watch
Jules gaze on each of his pictures as if he were looking at it for the first time. For every one he had a story about its provenance, or the state of mind of the painter at the time, or the subject matter, or even the price. They stopped beneath a Bonnard of Misia Sert sitting on a sofa in a drawing room. “That’s only one of several pictures Bonnard painted of the old girl,” he said. “Baron Thyssen has one in Lugano, and one of the Annenberg sisters has one in Palm Beach, but mine is the best by far. Look at her expression. I paid eight hundred thousand dollars for that picture only three, maybe four years ago, bought it at Boothby’s at the Elias Renthal auction when he went to the slammer, and just last week I was offered fourteen million for it. Pauline hates it when I talk money in relation to the art, but you can’t help not talking about it, when the prices are continuing to skyrocket the way they are. Of course, I wouldn’t dream of selling it, or any of the other pictures for that matter, except to upgrade the collection, because I want to keep the collection together.”

Philip nodded.

“This conversation is, of course, off the record,” Jules continued.

“Of course,” answered Philip.

“You are here as a guest of my wife, and with Camilla, who is an old family friend,” Jules said, as if reminding Philip of the obligations of being a guest in such a grand household.

“Of course,” repeated Philip, knowing that Jules was thinking of the book that he had written about Reza Bulbenkian.

“What kind of money do you earn?” asked Jules.

“Not enough to become seriously involved with a girl like Camilla Ebury, if that’s what your train of thought is,” replied Philip.

Jules chuckled at having been read through. He liked Philip’s answer. Since Pauline had pointed out to him that Philip had written the book that so enraged Reza Bulbenkian, Jules had, surprisingly, taken a liking to him, even though Reza was a friend, or, at least, a business friend.

They passed through the open doors of the library out onto an awninged terrace. A Rodin sculpture of a naked woman stood at the top of the stone steps leading down to the lawn. Beyond, on the lawn and beneath the trees, was Jules Mendelson’s sculpture garden.

“Good God,” said Philip, looking out at the sight.

Jules, pleased by Philip’s reaction, chuckled again. “It’s amazing how many people don’t notice this, you know, just think it’s statues in a garden. Over there is my latest, the Miró. One of the few he ever made. Exquisite, isn’t it? I’m not sure I have it placed correctly yet. I have them moved around several times until I finally decide. The Rodin here was my first piece of sculpture. Years ago it belonged to my grandfather, and then it went out of the family, and when I saw it in an auction catalog, I bought it back and started the sculpture garden with it. Then came the Henry Moores. If you’re interested, walk over behind the orange tree and look at the rear of the Maillol. It’s my favorite.”

Philip walked behind the round and sensuous lady, amused that Jules had asked him to view the rear of her. From nearby came the sound of dogs barking and jumping against a fence.

“That’s a fierce sound,” said Philip.

“The watchdogs. Nothing to worry about. They’re in the kennels. They’re only let out at night to patrol the grounds,” said Jules.

“They sound as if they would tear you apart,” said Philip.

“They would, if you were the wrong person,” said Jules, very matter-of-factly.

Behind them, Pauline came out onto the terrace. She had removed the hat she wore in church. “Jules, I want to borrow Philip, and Camilla wants to talk to you about Hector’s will before lunch,” she said. “She’s in the library.”

“That means Pauline wants to show you her garden,” said Jules, smiling. As he went back up the steps to the terrace, he affectionately put his arm around Pauline’s waist. “Did you like Freddie’s eulogy?” he asked.

“Most of it,” replied Pauline. “I could have done without flights of angels singing Hector to his rest. I didn’t believe that for a minute.”

Both Jules and Philip laughed.

“Scratch my back, will you, darling. I have an itch,” said Jules, pointing over his shoulder to a spot on his upper back.

Pauline moved over to him and rubbed the area where he had pointed. “Here?” she asked.

“No, higher. A little to the left. That’s it. Harder.”

“Who was that girl you were talking to at the funeral, Jules?” Pauline asked, as she continued to rub.

“What girl?” asked Jules.

Philip, who was watching them in their marital moment, almost answered, “Flo. Flo M.” But he didn’t. He understood when to listen.

“When you were looking for the chauffeur,” Pauline continued.

“I don’t know, which one? I talked to a lot of people at the funeral,” answered Jules.

“Quite pretty. Red hair. Rather vivacious, I thought,” said Pauline. “I wondered who she was.” She said “vivacious” in a way that only a very acute ear might have taken as a synonym for “common.”

“Oh, yes, her. Some friend of Hector’s, she said she was,” said Jules. There was a vagueness about his answer, as if the person was not of sufficient consequence to spend time discussing.