Authors: Judith Krantz
“Yeah, that would do it.”
Frederick Gordon North was known simply as North because he wouldn’t permit the use of his first two names, foisted on him by family-proud parents from old and comfortable Connecticut families, and Fred, Freddy, Rick, Ricky, and Gordy had all been ruled out as well. A timid movement at Yale to dub him Flash—which would have suited him best—had only lasted one day. His parents still called him Frederick, but he was North even to his brothers and sisters, who, in any case, only had occasion to use the name at Christmas and Thanksgiving since they were an unclannish family, of which he was the most unclannish member.
He had been a loner almost from birth, and throughout Andover and Yale he had been persuaded to perform only a minimum of the obligatory extracurricular activities. The first thing he ever set his solitary heart on belonging to was the Yale Graduate School of Drama. His goal was clear to him—he wanted to direct: Shakespeare, O’Neill, Ibsen, maybe even a little Tennessee Williams. But he had set his course without understanding his own inner pace. The mounting of a theatrical production takes many months, and North’s viciously concentrated attention span demanded quicker results.
Soon after graduation he met a third-rate veteran commercial cameraman who was willing to try him out as director on a commercial with a budget so low that any profit that could be wrung out of it would have to come from using a nonunion crew and director, all at bargain-basement rates.
That first commercial, a thirty-second local spot for a chain of discount clothing stores, caught North as firmly as if it had been a chance to work with Lord Olivier at the Old Vic. He had found his métier, a medium that throbbed with a beat that matched his pulse, his heart and his inner eye. Now that he knew what he really wanted to do, remorselessly North jettisoned his baggage of the world’s greatest playwrights and headed straight for Madison Avenue where he spent four years learning all the technical ropes at the knee of Steve Elliot, the dean of commercial directors, a violin-playing, bulldozer-driving, Renaissance man who, with his brother Mike, had been among the first commercial directors to get their cherished cameraman’s cards back in the early 1950s. The Elliot brothers had founded Elliot, Unger and Elliot, a firm which later
became EUE/Screen Gems, then and now the giant of the commercial-making industry.
At twenty-five, North went out on his own, living for the first six months on money he’d saved, hustling every contact he’d made at EUE, until a few small accounts came his way. By the time he reached the top he was only thirty. When Daisy went to work for him, she was barely nineteen and he was thirty-two, a scratchy, cantankerous, impatient perfectionist of extraordinary talent and equally astonishing charm, which he saved for the rare times he had unavoidable social contact with his most important clients, and the frequent times he had deliberate carnal contact with a long and lovely parade of women, two of whom he had had the bad judgment to marry. He was no more of a joiner in a marriage than he had been when his father had tried to get him to become a Boy Scout, but, fortunately, he had avoided having children, as Arnie Greene frequently reminded him when it came time to sign the alimony checks. “At least there’s no child support, you should knock on wood.”
Daisy, once she was assured that there would be no further problems with Mr. Jones, supervisor of the Deck of the Empire State Building, headed downtown to the SoHo apartment she shared with Kiki.
Something about the arrival of spring had put her in a reminiscent mood that even the subway ride couldn’t modulate. She found it hard to believe that four years had passed since she had left Santa Cruz.
Bootsie Jacobs had answered her letter immediately. They not only needed another production assistant, they were desperate for one. When Daisy found out what the job entailed she realized that their desperation was permanent and well-deserved, since few people lasted more than two months in the incredibly demanding and underpaid job. However, she had had no choice. She was paid one hundred seventy-five dollars a week for the nonunion job at which she worked at least twelve hours a day, but it was enough to live on and still save money for Danielle’s bills, provided that she lived on next to nothing, a style of life she had perfected until it had almost become an art form. Of course, without the thirty thousand dollars that she had received for the lapis lazuli Fabergé egg she could never have met the bills until she developed another source of
income aside from her job. Thank God, thought Daisy, for kids on ponies.
She remembered how it had started. Jock Middleton, who had played polo with her father, had received a letter from Anabel asking him to keep an eye on Daisy in New York. He’d invited her out for a weekend with his family in Far Hills, a horse-crazed part of New Jersey which rightfully belongs in the Bluegrass country. Daisy had packed her riding clothes, just in case they had a mount for her, and spent a happy Saturday riding with a flock of Middleton grandchildren. At an elaborate dinner party that night, Mrs. Middleton had introduced her to everyone as Princess Daisy Valensky. On Sunday, when Daisy had made a sketch of the oldest Middleton grandson on his pony, as a thank-you present, she signed it as she had always signed her work, with a simple “Daisy.”
A few weeks later she’d had a letter from Mrs. Middleton. The sketch had been so much admired that she wondered if Princess Daisy would consider doing one of a neighbor’s ten-year-old-daughter, Penny Davis? Mrs. Davis was willing to pay five hundred dollars for a sketch, or six hundred and fifty for a watercolor. Mrs. Middleton made it plain that she was embarrassed to mention money to Prince Stash Valensky’s daughter, but Mrs. Davis had insisted. Mrs. Middleton blushed to make such a commercial proposition, but her neighbor had just not given her a second’s peace. Daisy had only to say no and she wouldn’t be bothered again.
Daisy rushed to the phone to accept, wishing she could suggest doing it in oil and charging another hundred dollars. No, better not—she didn’t have the money to buy oils and canvas.
Any well-trained, competent artist should be able to draw a horse, but there are special abilities involved in understanding the movements, the stance, the anatomical differences and the variations of color necessary to make one horse look entirely different from another. Daisy had been drawing and riding horses most of her life. As for the children, she’d drawn them too, by the thousands, during all those years of making drawings for Dani, and she’d taken advanced courses in portraiture at Santa Cruz. Her sketch of the Middleton grandson had revealed an innate and pronounced knack which was to give her equestrian portraits a lively quality of sympathy and immediacy.
When she arrived at the Davises, a larger and more luxurious Monticello, Daisy was introduced to Penny Davis, who was already dressed in her best riding clothes. Daisy took one look at the child’s rigidly set face and apprehensive eyes.
“I thought we’d all have lunch together before you get started, Princess Valensky,” Mrs. Davis said. “And you must be ready for a Bloody Mary after the trip out”
“That’s awfully thoughtful, but what I’d really like to do first is ride with Penny,” Daisy answered. She wasn’t about to work with a model who not only was miserably shy but didn’t want to have her portrait painted under any circumstances.
“But what about lunch?”
“We’ll manage. Penny, why don’t you put on some jeans and show me the stable?”
When the girl returned, looking a tiny bit less uncomfortable, Daisy whispered to her, “Is there a McDonald’s near here?” Penny looked around quickly to see if her mother could hear. Out of the corner of her mouth, she confided, “It’s only five miles if you ride across country. But I’m not allowed to go there.”
“But I am. And you’re my guest. Let’s just git!” The little girl’s eyes lit up as she glanced with surprise at Daisy.
“Are you really a princess?”
“Sure. But to you I’m Daisy.”
“Do Princesses like McDonald’s?”
“
Kings
like McDonald’s. Come on, Penny, I’m having a Big Mac fit.”
Penny led the way over fields and fences. Within ten minutes and double Big Macs, Daisy discovered that Penny thought portraits were dumb. Worse than that, who would want to have a picture of herself with braces on hanging around for the rest of her life?
“Penny, I promise, cross my heart, I won’t paint your braces. In fact, if you want, I’ll paint you the way you’re going to look when they come off—with a gorgeous smile. But think of it this way: an equestrian portrait is as much a portrait of the horse as it is of the person. You’ll have to sell Pinto in a year or two, the way you’re growing, and now you’ll always have a picture of her to remember her by. Hey, could you eat another of these—I’m having one. Good—maybe I can get them to give us extra sauce.”
“They’re all having trout in aspic for lunch at home.”
“Ugh, ugh, ugh! Wonder what’s for dinner?”
“Roast duck—it’s going to be very fancy—she’s invited practically everyone we know.”
“Oh, well,” said Daisy philosophically. “Duck’s better than trout.”
That afternoon, as the young girl posed, relaxed and willing, Daisy made dozens of sketches to pin down the natural, spontaneous gestures and characteristic expressions of Penny Davis. She also took many pictures with the Polaroid she’d borrowed from the studio. They would be used as visual aids for the watercolor she planned to complete at home. She blessed the classes in anatomy she’d taken as she carefully sketched Penny’s hands holding the reins, and further blessed the natural limitations which surrounded an equestrian portrait, since they ruled out too great a variety of pose or attitude. She sketched lightly, without any tightness or stiffness, not trying for perfection, but for a feeling of the child in relationship to her pony.
On Sunday, as Daisy traveled back from the Davises’ estate, driven home by their chauffeur, she reflected on the fact that Mrs. Davis, like Mrs. Middleton, had ceremoniously and importantly introduced her as Princess Daisy Valensky at the big, formal dinner party last night. After her four years as Valensky at Santa Cruz, Daisy had almost forgotten that she had a title. Obviously it was a business asset—in Horse Country, anyway. Since painting kids on ponies was probably the most commercial way in which she could use her talents, Daisy ground her teeth and resolved to milk the princess routine for every penny it was worth. When she had finished the watercolor of Penny Davis, she signed it in clear, careful lettering, “Princess Daisy Valensky.” It meant six hundred and fifty dollars for Danielle.
Slowly, through word of mouth, after the Middleton sketch and Davis commission, Daisy got requests to paint other kids on ponies. Her prices rose steadily. Now, not quite four years later, Daisy was able to ask and get two thousand, five hundred dollars for a watercolor. These commissions, which had started to come just before the Fabergé money ran out, represented the difference between being able to support Danielle and being forced to try to get Ram to pay, any way she could. Daisy had never told Anabel where her money came from, because she didn’t want her to know that she had been left penniless after the bankruptcy of Rolls-Royce. Nor did Daisy tell
anyone at the studio why she spent so many weekends flying to Upperville, Virginia; Unionville, Pennsylvania; and estates near Keeneland, Kentucky. She knew they considered her to be a full-fledged member of the social, horsy set, but as long as she did her job, she didn’t see that it was any business of theirs what she did with her own time. Of course, Kiki, who saw her working night after night to finish the watercolors, knew about her work, and in certain circles a portrait of one’s child on a pony by Princess Daisy Valensky was quickly becoming a status symbol.
When Daisy had had to leave Santa Cruz to get a job, she finally told Kiki about Danielle. There was no other possible way to explain her leaving college a mere four months before graduation except by telling the truth—or part of it.
She remembered the scene as she had told the strange, sad story, the variety of expressions that crossed Kiki’s winsome, urchin’s face; disbelief, astonishment, sympathy, indignation and wonder replacing each other in quick succession. Daisy had anticipated the two questions she knew her friend would eventually ask when the reality of what Daisy was telling her finally struck home.
“But why
won’t
Ram support Danielle?”
“It’s a way to get at me. We had a serious and permanent quarrel over a family matter, and nothing can change that or make us friends. Believe me, it’s final. He doesn’t consider Dani his sister anyway—he’s never even met her. It’s out of the question.”
“Then why won’t you let me help?” Kiki asked, warned by Daisy’s tone not to pry into the nature of the family quarrel.
“I knew you’d get around to that. First of all, I have to do it alone because it’s going to be a permanent thing—even you, generous as you are, can’t take on someone else’s relative for an indefinite period. But I’m not too proud to borrow a couple of hundred dollars just until I get my first paycheck.”
She hadn’t expected Kiki’s last reaction. “I’m leaving school, too—we’ll go together,” she proclaimed, when Daisy had finally managed to convince her that she wouldn’t let Kiki support Dani on a regular basis.
“Never. No way. That’s out! I refuse to be the reason why you don’t get a diploma from
somewhere
. Your
mother’d never forgive me. But I’ll rent someplace that’s big enough for the two of us and the minute you graduate I’ll be waiting for you with open arms and half the rent bill—retroactive. It’s only four months. Do we have a deal?”
“Christ, you’re bossy,” Kiki complained. “Can I pay for the furniture? At least?”
“Half of it.”
“I assume it’ll be Salvation Army.”
“Unless you can get your mother to ship us some of her extra stuff—anyone who redecorates once a year must have leftovers. The idea is that well accept donations of
things
, just like any other deserving organization, but we won’t take money—because that gives people a right to say what we
do
. Got it?”