The Rothman Scandal by Stephen Birmingham Read Free Book Online Page A

of the fashion press, designers, models, the agency people, the retailers from Fifth and Madison avenues, the wholesalers from Seventh, the advertisers and their reps. And as her guests glided by, they blew their breathless kisses in her direction, and murmured their congratulations: “Fabulous, darling … so exciting … what a thrill … it had to happen … darling, just think, five million .…” And so on. It was all meaningless and meaningful at the same time—these elegant, splendidly coiffed carnivores, predators, sycophants, and parasites.
    Because it would be naïve to suppose that all these people showering Alex with air kisses and affectionate greetings actually loved and admired Alex Rothman, and no one knew this better than Alex herself—surely she knew it. This was New York, after all, and this was the fashion industry. Some of these people were more than Alex’s competitors. They were her arch-rivals, would-be usurpers of her special throne. There was fierce jealousy here on this terrace—bitterness, anger, disappointment, rage, and all-consuming, outrageous, mindless envy. Because this was a party for Mode , every woman here tonight had arrived with but a single goal in mind—to outdress all the others—and, in terms of the designers represented here, and the amounts of money spent, it was almost possible to conclude that they had all succeeded. And yet, with her apparent instinct that the woman who dressed most simply was also the most chic, Alex—in her white Bill Blass, with the turquoise and silver Old Pawn belt cinched at her waist—had managed to outdress them all, and this fact did not go unnoticed, nor did Alex go unhated for it.
    Turquoise was the color of her eyes and, as the astute could not have failed to notice, it was also the exact blue-green of the English ivy leaves in her centerpieces—no accident, of course, all planned with devilish cleverness to show the hostess off, and many women silently vowed never to use Renny the florist again. The evening breeze was rising, flipping up the corners of the pink and white tablecloths, while some women prayed for a hurricane, a tornado, a full-fledged monsoon to descend and ruin everything. Meanwhile, the waiters moved efficiently about, securing the tablecloths with clothespins. Alex had prepared for this contingency, and even the clothespins were pink and white. The women, especially, noticed this and made a mental note. Who else but Alex? they thought, hatefully.
    Because there were some women on this terrace—and some men, too—who actively hated Alex Rothman, and hate was not too strong a word, who ardently wished that her June issue, with its daring cover, had fallen flat on its face, who cringed at the news that the press run of Mode had sold out in Nebraska. The fashion business was symbiotic, parasitic. Relationships here were like those between orchids in a rain forest and the trees to whose bark these exotic plants affixed themselves, and whose sap they sucked. These people all preyed on one another, yet they needed each other. The magazine could not live without the designers, nor could the designers survive without the magazine, yet they all despised each other unreservedly. Where would the fashion models be without photographers and the art directors, or the art directors without the photographers and models and designers? Yet they constantly derided each other’s talents, each other’s singular powers. Still, in the evening light high above the East River, they blew their air kisses at one another, told each other how marvelous they looked—beautiful, deadly moths in the jungle, scavenging for vulnerable quarry.
    Tonight, their quarry of choice was clearly Alex Rothman. The person at the top, in this world, seemed to be asking to be toppled—her position was so exposed. Tonight, Alex was the brightest star in the fashion firmament, and she had managed to