The Rothman Scandal by Stephen Birmingham Read Free Book Online

that told women what they ought to be thinking and doing and talking about, because she hated women’s magazines—like Ms ., for instance, or even Cosmo —that so often seemed to be lecturing to their readers. She always assumed, she said, in planning each new issue, that her readers were at least as smart as she was, if not a good deal smarter.
    â€œWhat was the secret of your success?” a reporter from the Wall Street Journal asked her the other day.
    She thought a moment before answering. “Mainly, showing up.”
    â€œShowing up?”
    â€œIsn’t the basic secret of doing any job successfully: just showing up every day to do it?”
    â€œWould you describe yourself as a workaholic?”
    â€œNo—unless loving the work you do describes a workaholic.”
    â€œI’ve heard you described as a perfectionist.”
    â€œI think most people are perfectionists at heart. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if everything were perfect? But most people are smart enough to know that nothing ever really is.”
    â€œI’ve heard you described as a completely driven woman.”
    She had laughed. “Well, I was driven to the airport the other day,” she said. “But I guess you could say that I can be a little stubborn.”
    â€œThey say the magazine is your entire life.”
    â€œIt isn’t. It’s just the way I make my living.”
    She often wondered: What made reporters ask such silly questions?
    A reporter from Women’s Wear had cornered her. “Now that you’ve become a living myth, what next?” he asked her.
    â€œThe main thing is not to begin to believe in one’s mythiness,” she said. “Is that a word? Mythiness?”
    â€œIf you say it is, it is.”
    Coleman had appeared at her side. “The last important guests have arrived,” he said. “A few more of the working press on their way.”
    â€œForty-five minutes till the soup,” she said. “You know I hate a long cocktail hour.”
    â€œI guess he’s the perfectionist,” the Women’s Wear reporter said. “Knows the difference between ‘important’ and ‘working press.’”
    And now the full contingent of two hundred and fifty guests was gathered on Alex Rothman’s penthouse terrace—guests that swirled together into little groups, groups that quickly broke apart and re-formed into other groups. Alex’s terrace was a perfect setting for a party like tonight’s which, after all, was more of a theatrical production than a social gathering. It was show business, and the terrace was a prop. It covered nearly two thousand square feet, and faced north and east, paved with flagstone. It was a real roof garden, and solid stone planter boxes contained flowering cherry and crab apple trees, even dogwoods, which the people at Terrestris had assured Alex could not survive at this exposure in the city. There were even twin magnolia trees. The terrace was bounded by a four-foot-high stone parapet and, along the wide ledge of the parapet were more stone planters filled, for tonight’s party, with pink and white azaleas. For the party, the garden furniture had been removed, and the terrace had been set up with twenty-five round tables for ten, covered with alternating pink and white cloths, with centerpieces of English ivy and pink and white tulips. The white wrought-iron gazebo, at the elbow of the L, where, on good mornings, Alex liked to have breakfast, had been decorated with pink and white ribbons and balloons, and had been put to use tonight as the bar, from which pink-coated waiters radiated outward through the ever re-forming groups and the flashbulbs.
    Tonight’s production was all about publicity, everyone knew that. The socialites and celebrities were merely set-dressing, interchangeable extras in the performance. More important were the editors, writers, artists, photographers, members