Susan Phillips - Glitter Baby

The first book in the American's Lady series, 1987

The Glitter Baby was back. She paused inside the arched entrance to the Orlani Gallery so the opening night guests would have time to recognize her. The low buzz of polite party conversation mixed with the street noises outside as the patrons pretended to view the African primitives hanging on the walls. The air carried the scent of Joy, imported pt de foie gras, and money. Six years had passed since hers was one of the most famous faces in America. The Glitter Baby wondered if theyd still rememberand what she would do if they didnt.

She gazed straight ahead with studied ennui, her lips slightly parted and her hands, bare of rings, relaxed at her sides. In ankle-strap stilettos she stood more than six feet tall, a beautiful Amazon with a thick mane of hair that fell past her shoulders. It used to be a game among New Yorks one-name hairdressers to try to identify the color with only a single word. They offered up champagne, butterscotch, taffy, but never got it quite right because her hair was all those colors, interwoven threads of every shade of blond that changed hue with the light.

It wasnt just her hair that inspired the poetic. Everything about the Glitter Baby encouraged superlatives. Years earlier, a temperamental fashion editor had famously fired an assistant editor who made the mistake of referring to the celebrated eyes as hazel. The editor herself rewrote the copy, describing the irises of Fleur Savagars eyes as being marbled with gold, tortoise, and startling sluices of emerald-green.

On this September evening in 1982, the Glitter Baby looked more beautiful than ever as she gazed at the crowd. A trace of hauteur shone in her not-quite-hazel eyes, and her sculpted chin held an almost arrogant tilt, but inside, Fleur Savagar was terrified. She took a deep, steadying breath and reminded herself that the Glitter Baby had grown up, and she wouldnt ever let them hurt her again.

She watched the crowd. Diana Vreeland, impeccably dressed in an Yves Saint Laurent evening cape and black silk pants, studied a bronze Benin head, while Mikhail Baryshnikov, all cheeks and dimples, stood at the center of a group of women more interested in Russian charm than African primitives. In one corner a television anchorman and his socialite wife chatted with a fortyish French actress making her first public appearance since a not so hush-hush face-lift, while across from them, the pretty showpiece wife of a notoriously homosexual Broadway producer stood alone in a Mollie Parnis she had foolishly left unbuttoned to the waist.

Fleurs dress was different from everyone elses. Her designer had seen to that. You must be elegant, Fleur. Elegance, elegance, elegance in the Era of the Tacky. Hed cut bronze stretch satin on the bias and constructed a cleanly sculpted gown with a high neck and bare arms. At mid-thigh, hed slashed the skirt in a long diagonal to the opposite ankle, then filled in the space with a waterfall flounce of the thinnest black point desprit. Hed teased her about the flounce, saying hed been forced to design it as camouflage for her size-ten feet.

Heads began to turn, and she saw the exact instant when the crowds curiosity changed to recognition. She slowly let out her breath. A hush fell over the gallery. A bearded photographer turned his Hasselblad from the French actress to Fleur and caught the picture that would take up the entire front page of the next mornings Womens Wear Daily.

Across the room, Adelaide Abrams, New Yorks most widely read gossip columnist, squinted toward the arched doorway. It couldnt be! Had the real Fleur Savagar finally been flushed out? Adelaide took a quick step forward and bumped into a multimillionaire real estate developer. She glanced wildly about for her own photographer, only to see that nafka from Harpers Bazaar already bearing down. Adelaide plunged past two startled socialites, and, like Secretariat going for the Triple Crown, made the final dash to Fleur Savagars side.

Fleur had been watching the race between Harpers and Adelaide Abrams, and she didnt know whether she was relieved or not to see Adelaide winning. The columnist was a shrewd old bird, and it wouldnt be easy to put her off with half-truths and vague answers. On the other hand, Fleur needed her.

Fleur my God it really is you I cant believe what I see with my very own eyes my God you look wonderful!

So do you, Adelaide. Fleur had a vaguely Midwestern accent, pleasant and slightly musical. No one listening would have guessed that English wasnt her first language. The bottom of her chin met the top of Adelaides hennaed hair, and she had to lean down for their air kiss. Adelaide pulled her toward the back corner of the room, effectively cutting her off from the other members of the press.

Nineteen seventy-six was a bad year for me, Fleur, she said. I went through menopause. God forbid you should ever go through the hell I did. It would have lifted my spirits if youd given me the story. But I guess you had too much on your mind to spare me a thought. Then, when you finally show up again in New York She shook her finger at Fleurs chin. Lets just say youve disappointed me.

Everything in its proper time.

Thats all you have to say?

Fleur gave what she hoped was an inscrutable smile and took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

Adelaide grabbed a glass of her own. Ill never forget your first Vogue cover if I live to be a hundred. Those bones of yoursand those great, big hands. No rings, no nail polish. They shot you in furs and a Harry Winston diamond choker that had to cost a quarter of a million.

I remember.

No one could believe it when you disappeared. Then Belinda A calculating expression crossed her face. Have you seen her lately?

Fleur wouldnt talk about Belinda. I was in Europe most of the time. I needed to sort out some things.

Sorting out I can understand. You were a young girl. It was your first movie, and youd hardly had a normal childhood. Hollywood people arent always sensitive, not like us New Yorkers. Six years, then you come back, and youre not yourself. What kind of sorting takes six years?

Things got complicated. She gazed across the room to signal the subject was closed.

Adelaide switched direction. So tell me, mystery lady, whats your secret? Hard to believe, but you look even better now than you did at nineteen.

The compliment interested Fleur. Sometimes when she looked at her photographs, she could glimpse the beauty others saw in her, but only in a detached way, as if the image belonged to someone else. Although she wanted to believe the years had brought greater strength and maturity to her face, she hadnt known how others would view the changes.

Fleur had no personal vanity, simply because shed never been able to see what all the fuss was about. She found her face too strong. The bones that photographers and fashion editors raved about looked masculine to her. As for her height, her large hands, her long feetThey were simply impossible.

Youre the one with secrets, she said. Your skin is amazing.

Adelaide allowed herself to be flattered for only a moment before she waved off the compliment. Tell me about that gown. Nobodys worn anything like it in years. It reminds me of what fashion used to be about She tilted her head toward the unzipped producers wife. before vulgarity replaced style.

The man who designed it will be here later tonight. Hes extraordinary. You have to meet him. Fleur smiled. Id better go talk to