“We're good friends.” It was all he could think of to say, and his mother stared at him.

“I hope it's more than that.” She looked horrified, as though she suddenly suspected him of being a homosexual, and all he could do was laugh at her.

“It is, okay? It's more than that…but nobody is getting married. All right? Satisfied? Now, what do you want for lunch?” He ordered steak and she ordered filet of sole and she pressed him about everything he was doing for the store. They were almost friends now, and he saw his parents less than he had when he first came back to New York. He didn't have much time, particularly with the arrival of Isabelle in his life.

He took her to Europe with him when he went on business that fall and they made a sensation everywhere they went. They were inseparable, and just before Christmas she moved in with him, and Bernie finally had to give in and take her to Scarsdale, much as he dreaded it. She was perfectly pleasant to his parents, although she didn't gush over them, and she made it clear to him that she wasn't interested in seeing a lot of them.

“We have so little time alone …” She pouted so perfectly, and he loved making love to her. She was the most exquisite woman he had ever seen, and sometimes he just stood staring at her as she put her makeup on or dried her hair or got out of the shower, or walked in the door carrying her portfolio. Somehow she made one want to freeze-frame and just stand there gazing at her.

His mother had even been subdued when they met. Isabelle had a way of making one feel very small, standing next to her, except Bernie, who had never felt more of a man with anyone. Her sexual prowess was remarkable, and their relationship was based on passion more than love. They made love almost everywhere, the bathtub, the shower, the floor, the back of his car one Sunday afternoon when they took a drive to Connecticut. They almost did it in the elevator once, and then came to their senses as they approached their floor and knew the doors were about to open. It was as though they couldn't stop, and he could never get quite enough of her. For that reason, he took her to France again in the spring, and then back out to East Hampton again, but this time they saw more people than they had before, and there was a movie producer who snagged her eye one night at a party on the beach at Quogue, and the next day Bernie couldn't find her anywhere. He found her on a yacht, moored nearby, making love to the producer from Hollywood on the deck, as Bernie stood for an instant staring at them, and then hurried away with tears in his eyes, realizing something he had hidden from for a long time. She wasn't just a great lay and a beautiful girl, she was the woman he loved, and losing her was going to hurt him.

She apologized when she got back to their house, but it wasn't for several hours. She and the producer had talked for a long time afterwards, about her goals, what she wanted out of her life, and what her relationship with Bernie meant, what he offered her. The producer had been fascinated by her and had told her as much. And when she got back, she tried to tell Bernie what she felt, much to his dismay.

“I can't live in a cage for the rest of my life, Bernard … I must be free to fly where I need to be.” He had heard it all before, in another life, with combat boots and a duffel bag, instead of a Pucci dress and Chanel shoes, and a Louis Vuitton suitcase standing open in the next room.

“I take it I represent a cage to you?” His eyes were cold as he looked at her. He wasn't going to tolerate her sleeping with someone else. It was as simple as that, and he wondered if she had done it before, and with whom.

“You are not a cage, rnon amour, but a very fine man. But this life of pretending to be married …one can only do this for so long …” For them it had been eight months since she had moved in with him, hardly an eternity.

“I think I've misunderstood our relationship, Isabelle.”

She nodded at him, looking even more beautiful, and for an instant he hated her. “I think you have, Bernard.” And then, the knife to his heart. “I want to go to California for a while.” She was totally candid with him. “Dick says he can arrange a screen test at a studio”—she spoke with an accent that melted his heart—“and I would like very much to do a film there with him.”

“I see.” He lit a cigarette although he seldom smoked. “You've never mentioned that before.” But it made sense. It was a shame not to put that face on film. Magazine covers weren't enough for her.

“I didn't think it was important to tell you that.”

“Or was it that you wanted what you could get out of Wolffs first?” It was the nastiest thing he had said and he was ashamed of himself. She didn't need him, and actually he was sorry about that. “I'm sorry, Isabelle …” He walked across the room and stood looking at her through the smoke. “Don't do anything hasty yet.” He wanted to beg but she was tougher than that. She had already made up her mind.

“I'm going to Los Angeles next week.”

He nodded and strode back across the room, looking out at the sea, and then he turned to smile at her bitterly. “There must be something magical about the place. They all seem to head west eventually.” He was thinking of Sheila again. He had told Isabelle about her a long time before. “Maybe I should go out there too sometime.”

Isabelle smiled. “You belong in New York, Bernard. You are everything vital and exciting and alive that is happening here.”

His voice was sad when he answered her. “But that doesn't seem to be enough for you.”

Her eyes met his with regret. “It is not that… it is not you … if I wanted someone serious … if I wanted to be married … I would want you very much.”

“I never suggested that.” But they both knew he would have in time. He was that kind of man, and he was almost sorry he was as he looked at her. He wanted to be racier, more decadent… to be able to put her in films himself.

“I just don't see myself staying here, Bernard.” She saw herself as a movie star and she left with the producer she had met exactly when she said she would. She left with him three days after she came home from East Hampton with Bernard. She packed all her things, more neatly than Sheila had, and she took all the gorgeous clothes Bernie had given her. She packed them in her Louis Vuitton bags and left him a note that afternoon. She even packed the four thousand dollars in cash he kept hidden in his desk drawer. She called it a “little loan,” and was sure he would “understand.” She had her screen test, and exactly a year later she appeared in a film. And by then, Bernie didn't give a damn. He was a hardened case. There were models and secretaries and executives. He met women in Rome, there was a very pretty stewardess in Milan, an artist, a socialite …but there was no one he gave a damn about, and he wondered if it would ever happen to him again. He still felt like a damn fool when someone mentioned her. She never sent the money back, of course, or the Piaget watch he'd discovered was gone long afterwards. She never even sent a Christmas card. She had used him and moved on to someone else, just as there had been others before him. And in Hollywood she did exactly the same, disposing of the producer who had gotten her her first film and turning him in for a bigger one, and a better part. Isabelle Martin would go far, there was no doubt of that, and his parents knew the subject was taboo with him. They never mentioned her to him again, after one inappropriate remark that sent him out of the house in Scarsdale in blind fury. He didn't come back for two months and his mother was frightened by what she had seen in him. The subject was closed permanently after that.

And a year and a half after she left, he was back in control of his life again. There were more women on his calendar than he could handle almost, business was booming, the store was in fine shape, and when he had woken up to see the blizzard that morning, he had decided to go in anyway. He had a lot of work to do, and he wanted to talk to Paul Berman about the store's summer plans. He had some exciting things in mind, and as he stepped off the bus at Lexington and Sixty-third, wearing a heavy English overcoat and a Russian fur cap, he walked into the store with his head bent against the wind, and then looked up at the store with pride. He was married to Wolffs, and he didn't mind a bit. She was a great old broad, and he was a success in every way. He had a lot to be thankful for, as he pressed the button for the eighth floor and shook the snow off his coat.

“Morning, Mr. Fine,” a voice said as the door closed, and he smiled. He closed his eyes for an instant before the doors opened again, thinking of all the work he had to do that day, and what he wanted to say to Paul. But he was in no way prepared for what Paul Berman was going to say to him later that morning.





Chapter 2

“Hell of a day.” Paul Berman glanced out his window at the snow still swirling outside, and knew he'd have to spend another night in town. There was no way he'd get back to Connecticut. He had spent the night before at the Pierre, and had promised his wife he wouldn't even attempt to come home in the snow. “Is there anyone in the store?” He was always amazed at the volume of their business in horrendous weather conditions. People always found a way to spend money.

Bernie nodded at him.

“Surprisingly, quite a few. And we set up two stations serving mugs of tea, coffee, and hot chocolate. It's a nice touch, whoever thought that one up. They deserve a reward for coming out in weather like this.”

“Actually, they're smart. It's a nice way to shop, with hardly anyone in the store. I prefer it myself.” The two men exchanged a smile. They had been friends for twelve years, and Bernard never lost sight of the fact that Paul had really given him his career. He had encouraged him to go to business school, and opened countless doors at Wolffs to him. More than that, he had trusted him, and given him a vote of confidence at times when no one else would have dared attempt some of Bernie's schemes, and it was no secret that, with no sons of his own, he had been grooming Bernie to be number one for years. He offered Bernie a cigar as the younger man waited to hear what he had to say. “How do you feel about the store these days?”