Page 29 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue
I made my polite thanks, thrust my card in the trembling girl’s hand, reassured her that we could fit her in as soon as possible before Aidan deftly manoeuvred me away.
‘Does that happen often?’ he asked, clinging on to my arm.
‘Yes, all the time. Wasn’t it you who told me I should come to these dreadful events? Ideal for drumming up business?’
‘I’m so sorry to have done that to you.’ He bowed in mock contrition before taking my arm. ‘But onto more important matters. Any romances on the horizon?’ There was a wicked glint in his eye but before I could answer, we found ourselves face to face with Senator Smyth and his wife.
‘Miss McIntyre,’ said Mrs Monte Smyth more warmly than I ever remembered her being. ‘Mr Cruickshank.’ She appraised us. ‘What a perfect couple you make. Don’t you think so, darling?’ She turned to her husband.
and I had not met in public since that day of the fashion parade after-party. We made an effort never to be at the same event; if I had an inkling that he would be there, I’d avoid it, if I saw that he was there, I’d leave. I had no desire to create an awkward situation, I had no desire to be found out. I clung on to Aidan as if he was my most treasured possession, I gave Mrs Monte Smyth my best attention, I greeted Senator Smyth warmly but absently, I pawed at Aidan, laughed with him, drank with him until they finally left us.
He pulled back from me, appraising me through narrowed eyes, a twisted smile and an air of satisfaction.
‘You are having an affair with him, aren’t you?’
‘Is it that obvious?’ I trembled at the thought.
‘Not in the least, darling.’ He took my arm again and led me down to the swimming pool, all lit up from underneath, lights festooned around its edge. ‘There is no one else out there that would understand what effusiveness means when it’s coming from Maisie McIntyre. You’ve got it seriously, haven’t you?’
I sat on one of the sunbeds and lay down, crossing my legs and closing my eyes. ‘Yes, I do believe I have. I didn’t mean for that to happen, but somehow it did. We only see each other every six weeks or so, maybe less. I can get on with my work, uninterrupted, without having to think about what he wants, what he needs, I don’t have to worry about being home, about bringing him his pipe and slippers. And when he calls, I’m ready for a break, I’m ready for a few days of indulging in the selfishness of being with another. We shut ourselves away in my apartment and don’t speak to another soul for two days.’
‘That’s what some would call having their cake and eating it.’ He smirked, but then he put the back of his hand to his forehead. ‘Now, all my hopes are dashed. At no point will I ever be able to relinquish my Maisie because I don’t smoke cigars. Don’t you find them a little overpowering?’
‘No, I don’t. I find them rather endearing.’
‘Oh, now you really are in trouble. Nobody finds cigar smoke endearing.’ He fell back onto the sunbed he was sitting on, as if he’d been struck by a blow. ‘You know, I only ever wear these suits, these beautifully made shirts, just in case I bump into you. I know the effect they have on you.’
‘Now, I know that’s not true. You were wearing them on the SS Furnessia , in Jenners. Your attempts to flatter won’t work on me, Aidan Cruickshank.’ But I wanted to lean over to him and pull him into my arms, I wanted to feel that summer wool on my skin, breath in his subtle flavouring.
‘If I knew you weren’t out there, I’d slide into my old silk pyjamas. If it wasn’t so frowned upon, I’d never get out of them. Doing the foxtrot in a pair of silk, tie-waist pyjama bottoms would be the ultimate indulgence, the freedom of movement would make it so much more enjoyable. Dinner at the Ritz would be infinitely more bearable, tea with my uncle might even be tolerable. But I know that I could run into you at any minute and that Miss Maisie McIntyre cannot resist a well-dressed man. I’ve been on the lookout for you since the day you so carelessly tossed me aside at Delmonico’s.’
Tears began to prick at my eyes. I gave him a mournful smile. But that whisper of an idea began to return, gathering around my head, circling like a mini tornado, swirling to a point until I was able to catch it.
‘I have an idea. Why don’t you and your pyjamas come and work at Maison McIntyre.’
Aidan suddenly sat up, facing me, his face glowing in the poolside lights, those deep brown eyes glittering, the air of repression wiped away. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’
The twenties roared and the business soared, and by 1926 we were rapidly outgrowing the building on MacDougal Street.
‘There’s a building I know of that’s up for sale in the Garment District,’ dropped into the conversation one weekend. ‘It’s on West 38th Street. It would give you much more factory space, so you could look at a big expansion, maybe open a Fifth Avenue store.’
I looked at him with his sandy hair and confident wide shoulders, honed by rowing at Harvard. ‘Are you turning into my financial adviser?’
He stuck his chin out. ‘Amongst other things.’
Of course, it made sense, but it was a huge step. ‘I suppose I’d have to sell MacDougal Street to finance it.’
‘Oh, no. Don’t do that. You should be investing in property. Keep it and turn it into apartments. You’ll never regret that, especially with that top floor and those beautiful ceiling lanterns. One day that building will be worth a lot.’
Suddenly I was considering a world that was way beyond anything I’d imagined. Wanting to be a couturier was easy to envisage, when all I needed to worry about was designing something beautiful, consider shape and line, colour and fabric, a customer’s character, whether they’d be able to pay. But owning a large business, where I’d be responsible for possibly hundreds of employees, needing to distribute worldwide, find more investors, open shops in cities across the states. That took my breath away.
‘Now come on, Maisie.’ laughed. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never considered this kind of expansion. You’re a woman who looks to the future, I know that.’
What would Netta say? Her baby sister running a global company. I blushed at my shameless desire to boast. It seemed that I only thought of Netta when I wanted to tell her how well I was doing. How often did I consider how she was faring? I still wrote to her occasionally, sending her presents of shoes and hats and scarves that I thought she might like: nothing too showy, but something a little out of the ordinary. I still hadn’t heard from her, but I hoped that she wore them, that she thought of me when she did. Perhaps, if I expanded my business abroad I’d go and visit her.
I turned to . ‘Yes. I think we should look into it.’
Business was doing so well Joseph’s embroidery atelier was also expanding rapidly. His reputation for fine and detailed work was spreading throughout Manhattan and beyond. He, Oti, Audrey and little Laura moved to a bigger house in Harlem with the whole of the first floor given over to the business of embellishment. Now he employed ten men, all veterans of the Great War. But he was still wary of me, and would only see me on a professional basis.
‘I don’t have the energy to see you outside of our work. You’re too exhausting,’ he’d said to me after I’d once tried to persuade him to let me bring him dinner.
In 1927 we opened a store on Fifth Avenue, just as had suggested, with Aidan masterminding the whole process. Women of a different type began to frequent the store, we began to produce some ready-to-wear dresses to appeal to women with a little less money than our usual customer. But the appetite for exquisite gowns continued, the demand for heavy embellishment, requests for brighter and brighter colour wouldn’t abate and I began to tire of it.
‘I think your weariness is a symptom of the time,’ said seriously one evening. ‘You may be ahead of the game, but I believe that this ridiculous frenzy will be called to a halt in the not too distant future. You should start planning for it now.’
‘What do you mean? My customers are as confident as ever.’
He blew out a long breath of cigar smoke, high up into the air, watching it as it curled its way through the room. ‘I had a long meeting with my broker yesterday. We’re pulling out of most of our stocks. If I’m right, this crash is going to be bad. The things we should be investing in is commodities, the things that people need: food, fuel, manufacturing. We had a long, long argument about putting our money in the movie companies. He disagreed, but I firmly believe we’ll be in need of some escapism.
‘This is going to be bad, Maisie, and you may be among some of the worst affected. Most people aren’t going to be able to afford to use a couturier. You need to think about scaling back or doing more of the ready-to-wear.’
‘You really think it’s going to be that bad?’
He sighed. ‘I do.’ He ran his hand through his hair. ‘I think it’ll be like nothing we’ve seen before. I just want to make sure you’re protected from the worst of it.’
‘I’ve noticed that when a woman can’t afford the outfit she wants, she’ll buy an accessory, something to liven up what she already has. Maybe a belt or a scarf, perhaps a handbag. Now that cosmetics are becoming easier and cheaper to make, I’ve noticed that women are using lipstick and nail polish much more. I feel better when I’ve painted my nails and my lips, even if I’m wearing that old skirt I’ve had for years. If I can expand into these smaller things, then, if it gets as bad as you say it will, perhaps we can keep our customers even when they don’t have much money. Hopefully, when things have recovered, they’ll remember us.’
‘Just like that Chanel woman. You know, she has a good head for business on her.’
I gave a flat smile. I did not like be compared to, or accused of copying, Coco Chanel. Of course, he was right, she’d been in the business of perfumes and cosmetics for several years. I was late in coming to the party.
Just as had predicted, over the course of a few weeks in October and November 1929, the use of lavish embroidery, brilliants, diamanté and sequins became obsolete; a skirt made entirely from feathers or cuffs studded with jewels was now seen as bad taste. The Crash and following Depression ensured that the cocktail party was in limbo and life became more serious.
‘So many orders cancelled,’ Oti moaned as December loomed ahead of us. ‘We should be inundated with holiday season outfits just now. This is when everyone relies on the overtime to help pay for Christmas. Instead I’m wondering whether we should be sending people home.’ Her eyes were too bright, her usual tight bun just a little loose.
‘You’ve got to stop reading the newspapers, Oti,’ I said, trying to keep the conversation light. ‘It’s not good for you.’
‘Don’t you make light of this situation!’ she demanded. Oti rarely raised her voice. ‘Those women out there, they rely on you to give them a good wage each week, especially now, when most of their husbands are out of work.’
I held my hands up in surrender. ‘Hold on. You know we have a plan. We’ve discussed this and now is the time to get rolling with it. We need to up our production of accessories, and we need to do it fast. If we can catch some of the Christmas market, then it will help.’ But I was as scared as Oti looked. How easy it would be to lie down and be steamrollered by the disaster that surrounded us. How easy it would be to just walk away, perhaps jump on a ship and go home to Edinburgh, let all those women on the factory floor join the lines for the soup kitchens, put newspaper in their shoes to block up the holes.
No, nothing would let me admit I’d been defeated by the actions of those men in their board rooms on Wall Street, loaning money to people who couldn’t pay, encouraging the man on the street to buy stocks they couldn’t afford.
‘I’ve spoken to Aidan and we’re ready to do the changeover. But I’m worried about Joseph. How’s he faring?’
Oti flattened her lips. ‘He’s going to have to let several of his men go. Their work is drying up rapidly. I’m worried about how we’re going to keep paying for that house. Without the business, it’s much too big for us.’
‘What if he could help with some of the accessories? I know it’ll be boring work, but it could tide him over until the worst has passed.’
Dressmaking too had to change its direction and become more about discretion and immaculate tailoring. By 1932 the couture business was at its worst, just like the stock market, but our expansion into accessories had saved us, had now become our mainstay. Staff had been retrained in the making of the belts, bags, scarves and costume jewellery, we even had a small unit making cosmetics.
My office in our West 38th Street factory and workshop overlooked the main factory floor where the accessories and jewellery were now being made. Once the floor had been filled with tables for hand-sewing, cutting and machining. Now only a quarter of the floor space was taken up with the creation of couture.
The building was much more utilitarian, not as beautiful as my first studio. I’d worked hard to turn my office into some sort of replica of that first workroom. I’d put two large ceiling lights into the roof, letting in as much daylight as possible, painting the plastered section the same bright-pink paint from those first days of my studio. The room was decorated with Colour Emporium soft furnishings – sofa, two armchairs, bright cushions, colourful curtains, my old tailor’s dummy, a gilt floor-to-ceiling mirror, and two large oil paintings of a riot of colour. I loved those paintings; they made me feel as if I was a million miles from the Depression.
There was also a large table at one end of the room, for spreading out fabrics, cutting, drawing or, often, eating at. This room had become my second home. I even had a chaise longue for those days when I never made it home.
In the summer of that year, as the Depression seemed never-ending and the heat unbearable, Oti, Aidan and I were having our usual Monday morning meeting, going through the week’s schedule, sorting out staff issues, working on initial ideas for the next fashion show.
‘We’ll make sure there are doormen to keep out the uninvited customers, but by putting on the show in the store we can create a buzz. People on the street can look in, those on the inside can feel they are part of the elite, even if they can’t afford it anymore.’ Aidan was responsible for the organisation of our twice-yearly fashion shows and he never failed to bring something extra every time. ‘We’re going to have to work doubly hard to make many sales this year. I suggest we have a good amount of the accessories dotted around the store.’
‘Do you really think our usual customers will turn up? Things just keep on getting worse, I can’t imagine where they get the money from,’ Oti commented.
‘Yes, I do. Even if they can’t afford couture, they’ll want people to think they can still afford it, being seen in a Fifth Avenue store with a large glass frontage, where they can leave the place with a Maison McIntyre bag, even if it’s only containing a scarf. They’ll be back buying clothes, as soon as they’re able. I’ll bet my silk pyjamas on it. Oh, and can we ask if any of the women on the factory floor would like to earn some extra money by serving the drinks? I’d rather give them our money than bring in someone else.’
‘Yes, good idea,’ I said. ‘Since we’re on the subject of catering, I want to build a canteen here in the factory. We have the space now that the storage area is hardly used. I thought we could at least serve lunch, and if we thought we could afford it, I’d also like to have breakfast available too.’
Aidan raised an eyebrow. ‘I do believe you’re turning soft, Maisie McIntyre.’
A smile tugged at my mouth. ‘It makes good business sense. If everyone is well fed their productivity will be higher, their concentration will be better and their happiness seems to increase. I bet you the day we introduce the canteen will be the day you see bigger smiles and hear more laughter around here.’
‘Don’t try and disguise your apprehension about your workforce with the pretence of that old Maisie McIntyre ambition. It doesn’t wash with me.’ His eyes, though, were twinkling as he said this. ‘But either way, as much as I like your idea, we can’t afford it.’
‘Not a problem. I’ll pay for it. The money won’t come out of the business. Once we’re back in the black then Maison McIntyre can take on the expense of feeding our staff, but right now, that’s my responsibility.’
Both Oti and Aidan stared at me, neither able to speak.
‘Well, if you’ve had enough of catching flies with those open mouths, are we done? Aidan, perhaps we can meet up tomorrow to discuss the canteen.’ I stood up. ‘I have to go, it’s my turn to be at the shop this afternoon, I’ll be late if I don’t leave now.’
‘Sure would appreciate a few sales this week. It’s eerily quiet down in the sewing rooms.’ Oti walked over to the window overlooking the factory floor. ‘I hate to say this, but I could do with some drama around here.’ She stood watching the women at work. ‘That canteen’s a good idea,’ she said quietly, almost to herself before pulling herself up straight and turning to the door. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Aidan lingered, pulling at the edges of his shirt cuffs, straightening his tie.
‘You need to say something?’ I asked, recognising the signs of discomfort.
He sighed, putting his hands in his trouser pockets and looking down at his shoes before continuing. ‘Word on the street is that Senator Torridon Smyth is in the pocket of the Mafia, is involved in illegal bootlegging, amongst other things.’
‘I told you the subject of is out of bounds,’ I hissed. ‘But you know as well as I do that Smyth is a staunch upholder of the Prohibition Law.’
‘Maisie, listen to yourself. Smyth, a man who loves his single malt more than any I know, is the staunch upholder of the law of no liquor. Come on. I know how much the two of your put away during your little trysts.’
‘Drinking it is one thing, everyone does it. But it doesn’t mean they’re in with the Mafia. Hey, I drink the stuff, but I have nothing to do with them!’ My voice was getting louder, my colour rising.
‘Whoa, hold your horses.’ He took hold of both my shoulders, looking directly at me. ‘I’m only telling you what I’ve been hearing; I just want to warn you, make sure you’re not getting caught up in anything untoward.’ His voice was now gentler, more understanding. ‘None of us want anything to happen to you.’ He gave me a warped smile. ‘You’re in deeper than you think.’
I sat down at my desk, defeated by Aidan’s empathy. ‘The truth is, I’ve suspected it for some time. He’s so embroiled in the workings of this city; it would make sense if he’s in with them. And when I bought this building, it was all made just a little bit too easy. Mr Capriani was constantly surprised at how quickly permits went through. He even accused me of being in with the Mafia.’ I played with the ring on my left little finger. ‘Lately he’s been distracted. We talked about the Sam Seabury investigation into Tammany Hall. He may be the senator for New Jersey, but he seems nervous about the outcome.’ I shivered as if someone was walking over my grave. ‘How do you know this anyway?’
He searched my face, silently assessing me. Finally, he said, ‘Underground places that you never want to know about, that I never want to show you, places best kept hidden. Just take my word for it, Smyth keeps some unsavoury company.’
I almost ran to the Fifth Avenue shop, running from Aidan, from his unwelcome words, from having to think about . I wanted to be the good guy, the sheriff that came to the rescue, not the bad guy who caused all the trouble. But how was I to know for sure? We never stepped into the real world when we were together.
Arriving at the store breathless, I was quickly able to push to the back of my mind as I noticed one of our regular couture customers walking through the door.
‘Mrs Walker, how good to see you,’ I said. She was one of those pushy mothers I so despised and admired all at the same time, but she’d never been into the shop – several times during fittings she’d berated me for letting my standards slip by becoming ‘retail’. A tall, thin woman, who normally held her herself rigidly, she now had an air of fatigue about her, dark circles under her eyes, her usually bright skin seemed paper thin and devoid of colour. She gave me a relieved smile as she realised the shop was empty and sat down on one of our brightly coloured sofas.
‘My feet are a little sore today. I need to take the weight off.’ She sat bolt upright, still with that mother’s eye for first impressions, most likely aware she could be seen through the shop window.
‘How is your daughter, Rosalind? She must be coming up to twenty-one any minute. Will there be any kind of celebration?’ I asked carefully.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said quietly, her lips tightening almost imperceptibly. And then she seemed to sag, as if I’d cut an invisible cord, falling back into the sofa, her face drooping slightly.
‘What you need is one of Flavia’s famous hot chocolates,’ I said.
In the back of the shop we’d built a tiny kitchen, a place to boil a kettle of water or a saucepan of milk. Flavia had taught us how to make the best Italian coffee as well as the richest hot chocolate, no expense spared. She’d keep us well supplied with one of her famous polenta cakes used to bolster even the most dejected of our customers.
‘Here you go,’ I said, placing the cup and saucer and plate of cake on the table. This little ceremony would invariably have the effect of opening the sluice gates; out would come the upset, the confusion, the loss. These were women who had grown up with immense wealth, who suddenly found themselves in the position where they had to cook and clean for themselves, perhaps even try and find a job, unable to afford to buy new clothes, having to move from a Fifth Avenue mansion to a two-bedroom apartment, walk or use the subway instead of being chauffeured everywhere. Having to live off a meagre budget and consider whether food was more important than a delivery of coal was embarrassing and upsetting. Perhaps these women weren’t entirely destitute, but they were having to adjust to a life that they’d never had to consider before. A comforting drink in a bone china cup surrounded by the accoutrements of a lifestyle now only remembered was a moment of relief that they could appreciate, feeling that perhaps everything wasn’t as bad as they thought.
When we first opened the Fifth Avenue store, it was for selling couture, but now, several years into the Depression, our range majored heavily on the textile handbags, scarves, belts and cosmetics that were still affordable to our customers; they could still act the part of women of means with a Maison McIntyre bag or scarf. They’d match this season’s red lipstick to last season’s suit, something they’d never considered before. The accessories, initially created to bring in the aspirational woman with a little less money, were now helping us hold on to our original customers, letting us keep in touch with them, making them feel as if they were still being looked after by a couture house.
Two weeks later I was woken at five a.m. by a knock on my door. I’m an early riser, but even this was too early for me. It was the tentativeness of the knock that gave out the air of foreboding. No urgent banging, no shouting to open up, just the feeling that the intruder didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news.
‘Aidan, you look terrible.’ His shirt collar was undone, his black bow tie hanging around his neck, his eyes bloodshot and his beautiful hair ruffled and unkempt.
‘What’s happened? Is Oti okay? Has something happened to the workshop or the store?’ He shook his head and stepped through the door, sorrow in his eyes as he handed me the New York Times .
Senator it wasn’t me, it wasn’t the Maisie that knew. I put those pink buttons on there as a tribute to the man I’d loved. But in 1932 women still wore full mourning to funerals; they wore respectful black dresses or a jacket and skirt, with a hat and most likely a veil. Women didn’t wear trouser suits with bright pink buttons. In the haze of my grief, my anger at , at the Mafia, at the whole ludicrous situation, I didn’t consider how people would notice my suit, how it might have been interpreted as disrespectful; I was only thinking about wearing an outfit that would have meaning for , that he would have understood.
Nobody spoke to me at the funeral. I didn’t care, too caught up in my own sorrow. I was only there to say goodbye to . It was a funeral full of pomp and showy display, entirely suited to the character that was. He would have loved the attention, the fact that the president and all his entourage were there, that his political enemies came to pay their respects. I didn’t attend the reception afterwards, happy to slide away, thinking no one would make the connection between the two of us.
The next day the press had made the association. The picture newspapers had photographs of me looking like the forlorn mistress in my absurdly eye-catching outfit, the Daily News with one particularly close-up image, just one picture of ’s coffin and nothing of his wife. had not deserved that, nor had his wife. The story should have been of his life’s endeavours and achievements, instead, it was all about me and my fashion faux pas, it was about us, the secret lovers and all we had done to keep our affair hidden away.