I stayed long enough for a round of introductions before hustling home through the Upper East Side canyon to my empty, post war sanctuary.
Early afternoon Sunday, under the glare of my fluorescent kitchen lights, I ate leftover pork fried rice out of the takeout container and studied the Schuman handiwork laid out on my kitchen counters. Julian Petrenko, in one of his bespoke blazers, and Marsha Johnson, de rigueur French twist and Armani jacket, shared an intimate glance and gesture. Behind them I’m sporting Prada, my Diana, Princess of Wales, haircut, and a file folder. The Claridge’s shot was eight years old.
For the umpteenth time I ran the magnifying glass over the 1996 Charade launch contact sheets. Thomas’ proofs of Marsha shoulder-to-shoulder with Anna Wintour and Carolina Herrera, segued to her air kissing Muriel Beausoleil and introducing us. Thomas had starred a few, obviously intended for his assignment. Exclamation points sat next to a few more, probably shot within thirty or forty seconds of each other. In every one, including the original that had become my cropped and framed Beausoleil classic, Julian Petrenko stood to the side studying us. Julian and Marsha. A serious precursor to Julian and Wilma Nash? So what? Their relationship was unknown to me then, and none of my business now. Regardless, I expected it to keep me up all night. Instead I dreamed I left the Guggenheim Museum after the Charade launch and found Ethan in his baseball uniform waiting to drive us home to Ludlow.
After a good cry over my morning coffee, I plunged into Monday as if I were in the midst of Ethan’s incommunicado spring training days. No contact, so be it. My UK-C launch fortnight had arrived. He was right. For the next two weeks I’d barely have time to breathe, let alone grieve or try to sort out our marriage. I packed and chose board meeting agenda paperwork. I stared at my framed photo of Muriel Beausoleil and me two dozen times while wrestling anxiety over Julian, and smothering anxiety over Ethan. Teeth gritted, I exuded confidence to my support staff right until I left for the airport.
“As you can imagine, I’m so grateful you’re aboard,” I said to Thomas while walking the Teterboro taxiway. We kept conversation to small talk until the Gulfstream took off, then inevitably returned to Marsha and Julian. “My guess, business deal with side benefits,” I said. “She has a bunch of years on him, but they wanted what each had to offer, business to bedroom. Maybe the affair gave him an insider’s look at the business and kicked off this recent hands-on interest in his fragrance investments. It’s natural he’d attend the launch, either via her personal invite or the massive industry buzz.”
“I hear you. Just don’t discount how he’s studying you in those shots. Yes, you’re a total babe and you looked like a million bucks. Even if that’s what caught his eye in the first place, he’d have known who you were for quite a while by Guggenheim Night.”
“If that was a compliment, thanks. If Julian was making plans to swoop me away from Marsha, he was late to that party. He could have saved me the unemployed, frozen slush, nightmare pavement pounding, not to mention the Carmine fiasco I fell into. He was probably too busy settling Wilma Nash into her executive position, speaking of combining business and bedroom.”
Thomas studied me. “Assignment Two has turned up a Carmine nugget.”
“No kidding!”
“I thought about waiting till we’ve returned, but there’s nothing to be done with this info. I trust it won’t derail your London demeanour in ways Julian could pick up.” He handed me a five by seven, face down and tapped the stamp.
ESD Studios
316 Cranebook Rd. Ryde, Isle of Wight PO33 2EE
“I found it in the Fragrance International archives, too, filed under Kinetic, Inc.”
I turned it over. Julian Petrenko waved while steering a golf cart bearing the circular PBH Priory Bay Hotel logo. His passenger, the popped collar, white gloved, Bermuda shorts clad Carmine F.X. Isgro, looked triumphant. “Holy mother of Chanel Number Five. I know this photo. Carmine had a copy in his office.”
“According to the code sheets, it also ran in the Ryde Daily Register. May, nineteen ninety-nine.”
“Look at the two of them chumming it up,” I replied. “Taken in May? The following November Mr Christopoulos announced Carmine’s arrival and internship. Bingo, the worm was in the Ciao!Beauty apple. I know it was ninety-nine. Mr C and our CFO were panicking over the looming Y2K computer meltdown.”
“Julian would have known all this.”
“Thomas, I appreciate your concern. and obviously Julian’s lied about a Carmine social connection, but he has mentioned Imperial’s accounts with Kinetic. At some point Carmine and his scumbags were important clients, or more likely the reverse. Julian was important to Carmine. His panache and success would make him the total icon, a god to Carmine. So Carmine tries getting personal. Maybe Julian flies him over for a weekend to show off and hammer home that wannabe Isgro would never make the cut. Show him what real class is.” I scoffed. “As if.”
“As if?”
“Never mind. My point is, I’ll bet Carmine placed the PR photo himself. Julian went to the mat over the sleazy smear tactics Carmine’s PR firm put out about him.” I sighed and leaned back. “This could be no more relevant than the Marsha relationship. Or it could be the tip of a very ragged iceberg. Either way, I’ve got way bigger fish to fry this week and next. You were right to show me.” I opened my satchel and looked at him. “Are you up to speed on London?”
We freshened up on the plane. Alistair delivered us to Claridge’s hampered by a classic spring downpour. I’d booked our rooms nearly across from each other, and at ten past three Julian greeted us at his sixth-floor penthouse in his full-on Hail fellow, well met routine. He offered Thomas a bourbon and use of his office for equipment or set-up during the party.
Thomas’s small talk lead to the Sunday Met exhibit and Julian commented that he’d seen Struth’s work in Zurich. For the first time I suspected fabrication.
Thomas departed and midway through Julian’s and my review of the upcoming board meeting details, Alistair appeared with our routine martinis and finger food. An hour later Julian raised his glass. “To Mesmerise, the band, and Mayfair. You’re as prepared as I ever seen you. And here’s to tomorrow as well.” We toasted to the noon Savoy Hotel press event; early evening Roundhouse mini-concert; and his apartment VIP reception. “I’ve long suspected you’re the asset Imperial’s needed,” he added.
Suspected for how long? A concierge’s call for Julian to meet someone in the lobby was all that kept me from dropping a Marsha reference in hopes he’d divulge something.
As Julian left I returned the tray to Alistair and the chef, busy reviewing their own agendas, and perused the penthouse areas I’d instructed the hotel staff to prepare. My light bulb moment occurred as I used the office bathroom. If Julian had a private file on his dealings with Carmine, it might very well be here in his no-doubt bespoke mahogany desk, rather than Zurich.
I gave myself twenty seconds, slid the drawer open and fingered through the alphabet. One, one thousand, two one thousand, No Carmine, Ciao!Beauty, Christopoulos; three one thousand, Jacoby, but no Isgro or Kinetic on either side. Nine seconds in, between Oksana and Priory Bay, I hit Paige, Emma. By the time I counted to twenty, I’d stretched it open and skimmed loose photos: me on my slushy job hunt in Chinatown; me with Mr Christopoulos outside the Empire State Building; me air kissing Pierre Meysselle in Cannes. And then: me sitting at Carmine’s desk looking at his Coney Island ashtray. My heart slammed into overdrive. Thirty minutes later the knock on my hotel room door got me off my bed but Thomas’ expression confirmed I looked as pale and clammy as I felt.
“Emma? I thought you might want to grab some dinner.”
“But I’m just this side of hysteria?” I held back the floodgates with enough cursing to bring him into my suite. “I was looking for a file on Carmine…one with my name on it. Photos of me…before I even knew Julian existed.” I sank into a chair and, with my head between my knees, described Carmine’s desk shot.
“Panic attack?”
“Not my first.”
Thomas knelt and kept his hand on my shoulder. “What the fuck were you doing alone at his desk?”
“Snooping. Rightly so, as it turned out. That’s not the issue. About two weeks ago I learned Julian had our Rockefeller Plaza boardroom wired to keep tabs on Carmine when he came to Mayfair meetings.” My shallow breathing steadied my pulse. I shook out my hands. “That fact is absolutely between us.”
“Okay, fine. But it’s one thing to order surveillance in your own offices, quite another for Julian to somehow cover Ciao!Beauty’s headquarters, too.”
“And accidentally discover me playing detective. Which he has never, ever mentioned.” I rubbed goose bumps. “What if he’s wired his penthouse and knows I rifled his files an hour ago? I need a Xanax, but I’m too full of gin.”
He handed me the empty trash can liner. “Breathe into this and don’t cry. You’ll get gaspy again and hyperventilate.” Anger, my trusted antidote to fear, kept me swearing like a sailor while he ordered room service. My head cleared as I nibbled on smoked salmon on toasted rye. “We agree the photo of me in Carmine’s office is accidentally coincidental, but why the hell does he have those others? Why the stalking before I even met him? This creeps me out. What the holy hell is going on?”
“More than we realised.”
“If I bring it up, he’ll fabricate some believable explanation. I’m beginning to realise how often he does that. ‘Bugger all, Emma, at my level one can’t be too careful. Kidnapping threats, extortion—’ Oh, Thomas, why couldn’t we have stumbled over all this two weeks from now? I don’t have time to lie around in a fetal position.”
He laughed. Without laying out my life story, I assured him I had the grit to make it through the next sixty hours. We agreed to keep tabs on each other.
Even as we click-clacked across the polished marble Savoy lobby the next morning, celebrity agents jammed my cell phone asking if I could get their clients’ daughters into the press extravaganza. It kept me focused.
Hoopla worthy of the UK Connection’s global popularity kicked our Mesmerise debut into high gear. My fear of raising suspicion in Julian outweighed anxiety over the launch. Unlike New York, I had no responsibility for crowd control or press set-up. Still, it was easy enough to convince Julian I needed to wander the room and study logistics in anticipation of our own press event.
