Never Too Rich (62 page)

“
Fair enough,” Edwina
nodded.

“
. . . Subparagraph B,” Olympia
went on, “gives Hal an out should she ever wish to quit or change
agencies. As you can see, termination cannot be effected without
written notice, and will not become official until a year from the
date a certified letter to that effect is received. I take it you
find that acceptable?”

“
Sure!” Hallelujah piped up, her
tawny eyes sparkling. “Just gimme a pen, will ya?” She held out a
hand.

“
Not so fast,” Edwina advised,
pulling Hallelujah’s hand back. “Don’t be so anxious to rush into
things that you might later regret.” Looking at Olympia long and
hard, she shook her head. “No,” she said firmly, “I’m afraid I
don’t find that acceptable at all.”

“
Ma!”
Hallelujah hissed out
of the side of her mouth. “Like what are you tryin’ to
do?
Ruin everything for me?”

Edwina turned to her. “On the contrary,” she said,
“I’m merely keeping your best interests at heart.” Leaning back in
her chair, Edwina casually crossed one shapely leg over the other
and looked across the desk at Olympia. “So far,” she told her, “I
may be Hal’s sole client. But that,” she added shrewdly, “doesn’t
mean she won’t be modeling for anyone else as time goes by, does
it? Now, should that be the case, and should she decide she doesn’t
like it here, I don’t want to see her locked into an entire year of
representation. Right now, a year represents an entire thirteenth
of Hal’s young life. No way am I going to let her get trapped like
that.” She shook her head emphatically. “Sorry.”

Olympia reached for a celery stick and took a crisp
bite. “It’s this agency’s standard procedure,” she pointed out.

“
Perhaps. But we both know that
contracts are made to be changed. That’s why we’re here going over
it now.”

Olympia waited silently.

“
Taking into consideration the fact
that Hal’s a minor,” Edwina went on slowly, “I really don’t think
changing the year to a three month period is asking for too
much.”

Olympia sighed. “I really don’t like establishing
precedents. They can be dangerous. If word leaks out”—she gave
Edwina a knowing look—”half the girls under contract to me are
liable to break their agreements.”

“
Yes, but word doesn’t have to get
out,” Edwina said resourcefully. “And besides, look at what you’re
gaining—a model who’s already guaranteed a major client.” She
paused. “Me.”

Olympia exchanged her celery stick for a cigarette
and considered what Edwina had just said. “All right,” she sighed
at long last, clicking her lighter and exhaling a plume of smoke.
“Just this once I’ll make an exception.” She leaned forward, eyes
narrowed, and used her cigarette as a pointer. “Just remember. Not
a word about this to
anyone.”

“
Don’t worry,” Edwina said. “Mum’s
the word.”

“
Good. Now, is there anything
else?”

“
As a matter of fact,” Edwina said,
“yes. I also want an addendum to the effect that Hal has the final
say on all assignments she’s sent out to. And that includes any
work she might do for Edwina G.”

Olympia squinted against the swirling cigarette
smoke. “In other words, you want to give her full veto power. Is
that it?”

Edwina nodded. “That’s it exactly.”

Olympia ground out her cigarette and sighed heavily.
“There we go again.” She shook her head in exasperation.
“Establishing another dangerous precedent.”

“
Maybe. But due to Hal’s age, I
don’t want to see her exploited. For instance, what if, God forbid,
she models for someone else besides Edwina G., and some pervert
should put the make on her? Or she feels totally uncomfortable
someplace? Don’t forget, she’s still in her formative years. If she
isn’t happy working, then I prefer she doesn’t work at
all.”

“
All right.” Olympia leaned back in
her chair and steepled her fingers. “I don’t like it, but I can
understand the reasoning behind it.”

Edwina smiled. “Then we’re all set. As soon as you
make the changes, messenger the contracts with the addenda to my
office. I’ll see to it that they’re signed and returned to you at
once.”

Olympia smiled in return. Then she half-rose,
reached across the desk, and shook Hallelujah’s hand
enthusiastically. “Welcome aboard, young lady,” she said with mock
gruffness. “You’re about to hit the big time.”

“
D’ya really think so?” Hallelujah
was all goggle-eyed.

“
Do I think so? No, I don’t
think
so. I
know
so.” Olympia wagged a finger at her.
“You mark my words. If I’m not mistaken, and I rarely am, you’ll do
for today’s generation what Brooke Shields did for hers. You just
wait and see.”

“
You’re kiddin’!” Hallelujah’s
mouth dropped open. She turned excitedly to her mother. “Ma! Like
can’t you see me plastered like all
over?”
She sighed
happily. “I could die!”

“
Now that we’ve come to an
agreement,” Olympia said, “I think it’s only fair to mention that
Hal won’t come cheap.”

“
I should hope not,” Edwina
replied. “That’s why I brought her here. Like I said, I don’t want
to see her exploited.”

“
Oh, she won’t be,” Olympia assured
her. “Not in any way, shape, or form. You have my word on
that.”

“
I’m delighted to hear
it.”

“
Then I suppose you’ll also be
delighted to hear her going rate?”

“
Which will be?”

“
Oh, I was thinking of starting her
off in the neighborhood of one thousand dollars.”

“
Per day?”

“
Per
day!”
Olympia snorted.
“Per
hour”

“
What!”
Edwina’s voice
nearly failed her. “Tell me if I heard right. You
did
say a
thousand dollars? Per . . .
hour?”

“
That’s right,” Olympia replied
calmly, “I did. And that goes for
anyone
who wants to use
her. You were right earlier, you know. My gut instinct tells me
that everyone from Guess to Esprit will be fighting over using
Hallelujah as a model. She’ll be a sensation.”

“
You mean”—Edwina’s voice
cracked—”I’ll have to dish out a thousand per hour too? For my . .
. my own daughter’s services?”

Olympia nodded matter-of-factly. “That’s exactly
what I mean. Remember,” Olympia reminded her, “you yourself said
you didn’t want to see her exploited.”

“
A thousand smackers an hour!”
Edwina repeated weakly, shaking her head in disbelief. She turned
to Hallelujah. “On the way home, I’d say the least you could do is
to treat your poor fleeced mother to a drink. Or better yet,
several anesthetizing rounds.”

“
Ma! With what? My
looks?
I
mean, I didn’t earn anything
yet,
y’know.”

Chapter 65

From Riva Price’s
Gossip-at-Large:
SOUTHAMPTON GEARS UP FOR THE SHOWHOUSE

Hot off the Manhattan-Southampton society
burner:
Yes, boys and girls, once again it’s Showcase Showhouse
time out by the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea, where the
old rich, the nouveau riche, and the wish-I-were rich swill their
martinis. The house this year is that multizillion-dollar
oceanfront mansion which goes on forever. You know the one.

When the 600—at least—terminally chic guests turn up
at the showhouse Friday for the gala opening, their $500-a-head
tickets will go a long way. Besides seeing the beautiful rooms with
only 599 of their closest friends, they will also be treated to a
fashion show, where
Edwina G. Robinson,
who never decorated
a room, will unveil her very first collection of startlingly modern
clothes. If you haven’t gotten your tickets already, forget the
commute. They’ve long been sold out, so don’t say I didn’t warn
you.

Oh, and just in case anyone gets eye-weary, there’ll
also be a cocktail dance in a tent. And to satiate hungry
appetites,
Glorious Food
will truck out such goodies as
smoked-salmon flowers filled with truffles, lobster-and-artichoke
salad, and pheasant stuffed with leeks and pecans.
Renny
of
New York is going to do oodles of pink peonies, and the tables will
be draped in pink moire, and the chairs will be slipcovered in the
same. And thousands of tiny pink lights will twinkle, twinkle,
twinkle! Can’t you just see the Manhattan convoy already? Now you
know why there’ll be a traffic jam.

And speaking of food: there’s much ado about the
dessert. It’s a giant cake decorated to look like the house. My,
my. What won’t they think of next?

Anouk de Riscal of the
Antonio de Riscals
is
the general chairperson of the evening, which benefits Children
with AIDS. The cochairs, who also did up two of the most beautiful
rooms, are
Boo Boo Lippincott,
who will show up with her
husband,
Gideon,
and
Lydia Claussen Zehme,
who won’t
show up with hers. As she’s been telling anyone who listens, her
divorce battle with
Duke P. Zehme
is getting so ugly she
cries herself to sleep every night. All together now—boohoo!

The highs and mighties who are expected to turn out
en masse include such important types as
Virginia Norton
Rottenberg, Angie
Gordon, Doris Bucklin,
that ageless
sex kitten
Sonja Myrra, Dr. (Mr. Elena) Gregorietti
and his
lovely soprano wife, superphotog
Alfredo Toscani,
the
ubiquitous
Dafydd Cumberland,
the handsome
R. L.
Shacklebury, Klas Claussen,
and—oh, my goodness gracious—the
check-bouncing
Makoums.
Don’t you hope they paid for their
tickets with cash? I didn’t say that. Naaaah.

And before I forget, be on the lookout for dear
Billie Dawn,
the yummy supermodel—she’s the one staring out
at you from this month’s cover of
Harper’s Bazaar. Olympia
Arpel
of Olympia Models donated the services of all the models,
including
Billie,
for the fashion part of the evening’s
events. The beauties are already heading out to the Hamptons with
Edwina
because only practice makes perfect. I’ll let you
know if
Billie’s
handsome beau, plastic surgeon
Duncan
Cooper,
will be joining her. If he is, his presence is sure to
cause quite a stir—can’t you just see all his lifted ex-patients
trying to avoid him? Oh, my my my. Half the women in town are
praying he won’t remember them. Do you suppose that’s why they call
them stretched grins.

Ah, those Hamptons.

Tomorrow, read all about the behind-the-scenes
battles that took place among the various decorators. And you
thought walls couldn’t talk! Well, they can. Oh,
hahahahhahahaha.

Chapter 66

The showcase house was finished. It had taken half a
year of planning and months of labor, but inside and out, miracles
had been wrought.

The mansion sparkled with new paint, and all around
it, the sandy site among the dunes had been tamed by the landscape
designer. A circular drive had been laid. Flagstone walks and
exterior lights installed. A blanket of sod trucked in and fitted
seamlessly. Full-grown shrubbery, trees, and flowers planted.

Everything looked as if it had been there
forever.

Out back, three terraces overlooking the ocean were
the product of three different decorators, each of whom treated the
spaces as though they were rooms, thereby blurring the distinction
between indoors and out.

One terrace had become a lush green solarium with a
geometric marble floor, slatted white roof, statuary, and marble
garden seats and tables.

The second had a boldly stenciled plank floor, a
white canvas canopy that was whipped by the breeze, and dark
Victorian wicker furniture brightened with flowered chintz.

The third was open to the sun, a riot of potted
petunias, geraniums, and miniature roses. Turn-of-the-century
wrought-iron tables and chairs, antique lace pillows and
tablecloths, and paintings on easels created the ambience of an
artist’s picnic—right down to the squeezed tubes of oil paint and
color-smudged palette and brushes.

Down by the beach, a pitch-roofed
yellow-and-white-striped tent had been done up to look like a
maharaja’s exquisite changing room by the sea. Pennants waved from
atop, and the inside was lined in sumptuous silks and spread with
Persian rugs. It even had a rock-crystal chandelier, an antique
stand-up steamer trunk opened to show exotic clothes on hangers,
and, behind a carved screen, a metamorphic ivory-inlaid chair that
turned into a traveling toilet.

That was the outside of the mansion.

Inside it, eye-popping elegance had been whipped up
by the decorator-magicians.

The grand entrance foyer had a celestial theme. The
swirling marquetry floor was inset with bronze medallions depicting
the signs of the zodiac, and the center table held a bronze statue
of Hercules with an astrolabe on his shoulders. The domed blue
ceiling far above had gold-leaf stars connected by silver-leaf
lines showing the heavens on a midsummer night’s eve. And the
sweeping staircase, with its wrought-iron art-deco banister, was
decorated with stylized flaming bronze suns and various
configurations of the moon. Joyce Jillson would have felt right at
home.

Room after room, hall after hall, landing after
landing—the various decorators, for once unhampered by the wants
and needs and restrictions of flesh-and-blood clients, had let
their imaginations and budgets run wild.