The Rothman Scandal (61 page)

Pegeen Rothman was working on a needlepoint canvas of elaborate design, a butterfly landing in a field of brightly colored zinnias. She pulled a golden thread through the corner of her butterfly's wing. “Still, she's pretty,” she said.

“My God,” he roared, “is that all we want for our son's wife? Any little tramp, just so long as she's
pretty?
”

Pegeen Rothman drew another thread through the butterfly's wing, secured it, and knotted it. Then she spread the canvas on her lap, and studied it. “There's an old expression that might apply here,” she said at last. “‘Any port in a storm.'”

30

THE FASHION SCENE

by

Mona

What's black and white and gold all over? A “golden parachute” in the form of a two-page ad in the
New York Times
, that's what! That's just what longtime fashion maven Alex Rothman got from big boss publisher Herbert Rothman yesterday—an ad kissing her a sweet goodbye with thanks for all those long years of service, and making way for that adorable young newcomer from Merrie Olde Englande, Lady Fiona Hesketh-Fenton, who's expected to take over the reins of
Mode
most any day now, insiders say.

Alexandra Rothman is the li'l ole gal who, years 'n years ago, came down practically barefoot from the mountains of Iowa (or was it Indiana?) and married Herb Rothman's handsome son Steve—then quickly clawed her way to the top of
Mode
's masthead. But you knew all that. And now it's all ancient history. Boo-hoo.

Meanwhile, it's been no secret that Herb Rothman's been on the lookout for a younger editor-in-chief, someone who can inject that old-time mag with fresh ideas and new approaches. And Fab Fiona is the gal he's settled on. Hooray! (Fiona, by the bye, is a very democratic gal, who doesn't like to be called Her Ladyship, even though she is one, and Mother Mona only mentions this to show that Herb's dealing with the Top Drawers.)

But wait. The plot thickens. Maybe it's a case of “Don't Cry For Me, Alexandra!” Just this past Monday, one of Mother Mona's most reliable little tattletales glimpsed the Ageless Alex having lunch at Le Barnardin with none other than Billionaire Bumpkin Rodney McCulloch, the crafty Canadian who, insiders say, would like nothing better than to make mincemeat out of the Rothman publishing pie. Mother's informants tell her that the Crafty One's and the Ageless One's heads were ever-so-close-together, and that the subject under discussion was Big Bucks. What are Alex and Rodney cooking up? Sounds like a Big Deal, Mother's informants say. Could be a counterattack, because Alex's well-worn claws are bared.… So stay tuned to Mona.

Meanwhile, 'member my story of the cat burglar who ransacked the purses of all the gals at Maggie Van Zuylen's beach party not long ago? Well, the bills are starting to come in from all the purr-r-r-r-loined credit cards, and they're all from shops like Martha, Hermès, Vuitton, and Sara Fredericks. Breakfast food heiress Pussy McCutcheon had a dozen Hermès scarves charged to her Amex Gold Card. Begins to sound as though the cat burglar was a cat burglaress, doesn't it? At least Pussy thinks so. Thanks for the tip, Pussy … Meow, meow! P.S. Alex Rothman was at the Van Zuylen bash, natch.

“I'd like to charge age discrimination in the complaint, as well as breach of contract,” Henry Coker was saying. “In light of Mona's column this morning, with the repeated references to your age, and the fact that the Fenton woman is younger. I think a charge of ageism would add teeth to our complaint.”

“Oh, Henry, do you really think so?” Alex said. “Age discrimination sounds so—defensive.”

“But we have to take a strong defensive stand in this, Alex. Unfortunately, the other side is taking a very combative stance. We're forced to be defensive if we're going to fight back. We also have evidence that Mrs. Potter is being fed a lot of this material directly from Herbert Rothman. He's using her as his mouthpiece.”

“That's more than likely,” Alex said.

“Which brings me to another point about her column this morning. The repeated references to cats and claws and cat burglars. I come away with the distinct impression that Mona Potter is suggesting that
you
might be the cat burglar. That is definitely defamatory, and actionable, since you were at the Van Zuylen party. What would you think of a libel action against Mona Potter and the
News?
”

“I hate the idea of getting down and fighting on Mona Potter's level, Henry.”

“I'd like to fight this on every level possible, Alex. And I'd like to neutralize Mona Potter, at least until this is settled. She's no help to us at all, and I'd like to see her neutralized. They're fighting dirty now, and I think we should fight just as dirty back.” He paused. “Unless, of course, you decide to simply resign, and save yourself some legal bills,” he said.

She replaced the phone. Gregory was standing at her office doorway. “Mr. Herbert Rothman would like to see you in his office,” he said. “He says it's extremely urgent.” She rose to go. “Incidentally, he's moved to room three thousand,” Gregory said.

Room three thousand, of course, was Ho Rothman's old office.

It was a bit of a shock to see him sitting behind Ho's desk, in the huge office with the map of the United States, and its gold-starred Rothman cities, across one wall. He did not rise when she entered the room. The
News
was opened to Mona Potter's column and, without looking up at her, he tapped the newspaper with a fingertip and said, “This won't take a minute, Alex. Your lawyer has been talking to mine in terms of an alleged breach of contract. I would like to say just one thing on the subject of your contract. Your contract contains something called a loyalty clause. I gather from this story that you have lunched with Rodney McCulloch. Rodney McCulloch is my competitor. He is also my enemy. If, as Mona says, you are cooking up something with Rodney McCulloch, I shall consider that an act of extreme disloyalty to my company. If you enter into any sort of deal with McCulloch, you will have effectively breached your own contract. That would be grounds for dismissal, without accrued benefits, including profit sharing, et cetera, et cetera. That is all I have to say.”

“The whole town knows you're trying to get rid of me, Herbert,” she said. “Including Rodney McCulloch. Rodney McCulloch offered me a deal—a deal I have not accepted.”

“Nor rejected?”

“Nor rejected.”

“Then I'm warning you. Any further negotiations with my enemy I shall consider acts of extreme disloyalty, and grounds for your immediate dismissal from my company. Without benefits. I have discussed this with our own attorneys. They assure me that I will be acting within my legal rights, as specified in my contract with you. Good day.” He turned his attention to other papers on the big desk, ruffling through them with his fingers.

Back in her office, Gregory Kittredge said, “Why not take the rest of the day off, Alex? Everyone on the staff would understand.”

“Nonsense, darlin'. I've got work to do.” She seated herself at her desk, and picked up a fashion layout that lay on top of a small pile. Pinned to the layout was the copy for the story, typed on yellow cap, indicating a first draft. She read the headline.

MINISKIRTS—YOU CAN'T PUT 'EM DOWN

She made a face, and quickly rewrote the head.

LET THEM EAT CHEESECAKE!

Then, just as quickly, she rewrote the lead.

We don't mean the eggy kind you get at Zabar's. We mean the leggy kind they keep sending us from Paris.

Then she penciled a quick note to Bob Shaw, her art director.

Bob—let's have some fun with this miniskirts-with-tights look. Only 5% of our readers can wear 'em, for God's sake! How about a small piece of artwork here? Marie Antoinette in a miniskirt & tights? Corny or cute?

A.L.R
.

She pinned this note to the layout and revised copy sheets. Then she initialed the traffic-routing slip, and placed it all in her Out box.

Then she picked up the next layout.

Upstairs, in Suite 3000, Herbert Joseph Rothman was trying to reach Lenny Liebling.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Rothman, but Mr. Liebling is out of town this week,” Lenny's secretary, who was new that week, was saying.

“Where the hell is he?”

“I believe he is at our printing plant in Paramus, New Jersey, Mr. Rothman,” Lenny's secretary said.

“The
printing
plant? What the hell's he doing there?”

“Mr. Liebling is our special projects editor,” the secretary said. “I expect he is there working on a special project.”

“Well, get in touch with him and tell him I want to see him.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Rothman, but Mr. Liebling left instructions that he was not to be disturbed.”

“Now listen, you,” he said. “You get ahold of Mr. Liebling, and tell him that Herbert J. Rothman wants to see him—right away!”

“I'll do what I can, Mr. Rothman,” she said.

“Damn right you will!”

She did not add that, at the Rothmans' main printing plant in Paramus, which covered two hundred acres and employed twenty-five hundred people in twenty-six separate departments, she had no idea how to locate Lenny Liebling, whose presence there was unknown to all but one other Rothman employee.

“Joel, darling!” she cried, throwing her arms around him and suffusing him in the odor of her gardenia perfume. “It's so marvelous to see you, and I can just tell by the expression on your face that you're the bearer of good news for me.”

He looked briefly confused. “I am?”

“You've spoken to your mother. She's called off her lawyers.”

“Actually, I haven't done that yet,” he said.

She moved away from him. “Then you've not kept your promise,” she said.

“I'm going to do it, Fiona, but Mom's been awfully busy, and—”

“Yes, I daresay,” she said in a chilly voice. “Busy plotting to get me shipped back to England, without a job, with no money—with nothing. And if I get shipped back to England, you know what that means. That's the end of you and me.”

“I'm going to speak to her, Fiona. I really am.”

“All I ask is that she call off her bloody lawyers. And let me try to explain my side of things. And end this bloody mess.”

“I will. I promise you.”

“Promise? You already promised once. You know what happens if you break a promise twice.”

“No. What?”

“You'll see,” she said darkly. Then, turning to him brightly again, she said, “But if that's a
real
promise, then I have a very special little treat for you tonight. Just for my darling Joel.”

“Is it—?”

“You'll see,” she said again with a wink. “But first let's get out of these silly clothes.” She took him by the hand and led him toward her bedroom, and he could feel his erection swelling against the front of his doeskin pants. “I've missed you, Joel,” she said.

“And … I … you …,” he muttered.

He sat naked on the edge of her bed, his swollen cock pulsating between his legs, while she removed her bra and panties. “I deliberately didn't offer you a drink,” she said. “Because I think that's what made you sick the last time. The whiskey, plus the amyl nitrate. But this—this is going to make you feel quite different. Quite—heavenly, I promise you.”

From her top dresser drawer, she removed a small round silver box and unscrewed the lid. Inside was a white powder.

“What is it?”

“Cocaine. I call it snow. It's very good, very pure. A chum of mine sent it to me from Bolivia. Have you not tried it, Joel?”

“No,” he said, feeling ashamed.

“Well, you should. It will make you feel just dreamy. And don't worry. It's not the least bit dangerous, and, contrary to what they say, it's not the least bit habit-forming. Now here's the way we do it for the first time.…”

She dipped her forefinger into the powder, and then placed her finger in her vagina, rubbing it around. “Now it's your turn,” she said, and with the same moist fingertip she spread more of the powder around the swollen head of his cock. “Feel it?” she said. “A tiny tingle?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Now we're each going to take just a tiny sniff. Not a big snort, mind you—just a tiny sniff. Later, you're going to want a little more, but you just want a tiny sniff to start.” She lifted her finger to one nostril, inhaled briefly, then offered the fingertip to him. He inhaled and, in a moment, he felt a swimming feeling in his head, behind his eyeballs, and his vision blurred. Then he sneezed.

“Now, silly, you've sneezed it all out,” she said. “Try one more time. Just a sniff.”

She offered him her fingertip once more, and he sniffed the powder again. “I love you, Fiona,” he said in a sleepy voice.

“That's more like it,” she said. “Now first I'm going to sit on you. Then I'm going to sit on your face.”

But he was looking with dismay at the limp cock that now lay across his leg.

“What's the matter with you?” she asked sharply.

“I don't know … I'm sorry,” he said groggily.

“What's wrong? It's supposed to make a man feel randy.”

“I don't know … I just … maybe I just can't …”

“Oh, for mercy's sake!” she said, jumping to her feet. “You didn't sniff enough to turn on a canary.”

“What's wrong with me, Fiona?” he asked miserably. “I really love you, but—”

“God knows what's wrong with you!” She was pacing up and down the room, a small, pale exclamation point of a woman in a helmet of dark hair. “All I know is that a girl expects more than that from a man—a real man, anyway.”

“Please, Fiona. I'm sorry. Maybe I just can't handle—”