years. Some people thought its name, Pavanne, derived from the courtly French dance. Those in the know understood it was a contraction of its proprietor’s name, Paul Vane. At its peak of popularity in the Reagan-Bush decade, Pavanne employed eight full-time cutters, two colorists, a facial practitioner, an herbal nutritionist, a receptionist, a bookkeeper and two custodian-stockperson-intern-trainees. One of whom, Michael Esposito, had become Paul Vane’s inamorata.
Stein and Lila were greeted at the door by the proprietor himself. Stein guessed that Vane was close to sixty, though he was very elfin. His skin was pulled taut across his delicate facial bone structure. His eyes were without guile and looked reverent when he looked up, which was almost always, since Vane was barely five foot four. He wore a maroon shirt that clung to his meticulously trim body. Even at rest he seemed to be constantly in motion, like a hummingbird whose wings flap at 4,000 beats per second just to hover. When Stein introduced Lila to him he threw his arms around her and squeezed hard. “It’s so good to finally meet you,” he exulted. “You are all that Charlotte and Rita ever talk about.”
Vane released Lila and alighted in front of Stein. “I’ve heard nothing at all about you,” he swooned, “but it’s all been fabulous. Come in!”
The decor of the salon had the decadent feeling of faded French elegance. Pictures of Southern California’s blue-blooded ladies graced prominent spots on the walls. Vane enthralled Lila with tidbits of gossip about the Presidential First Ladies he had done: Nancy Reagan (“Ronnie’s mom”), Barbara Bush (“A political breeding machine”), Roslyn Carter (“The only woman who ever came out of here looking exactly the way she looked coming in”). He ran his finger lightly along the perimeter of Lila’s hair. “I see you’ve been to Rene Douglas.”
“Really? Can you tell?”
“It fits your face perfectly. The man should be knighted.”
“Maybe you can give her a little trim,” Stein suggested. “Like an autograph signature.”
“We’re not here to have my hair done,” Lila abruptly announced. “We’ve come under false pretenses.”
“False pretenses. My favorite kind,” Vane exulted. Then he shrunk in mock horror and grabbed Stein’s forearm as if to forestall a faint. “Am I being audited?”
“I’d like to speak to you about Michael Esposito,” Stein said quietly.
He looked around wildly. “Michael? Do I know a Michael? Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Your former business partner and intimate companion?”
“Oh, you mean Miss Espe,” Vane exclaimed with an exquisite mixture of self-deprecation and world- weariness. And for the first time he sounded like what he was-a man at the end of middle age who had suffered one more disappointment than he could endure.
Stein looked down directly into Vane’s troubled eyes. Gay or straight, pain is pain. “Is there a place where we can talk privately?”
Vane’s private retreat was part gymnasium, part French kitchen. Giddy laughter accompanied the pop of the cork as Vane cracked open the second bottle of chilled Fume. He kept a mini refrigerator alongside his Pilates machine, and Stein noted that both appliances had been well used. He had lived through the worst of everything, seen death often enough and at close enough range to clear his eyes of bullshit, and it had made him a reliable barometer. His only problem was the same as everybody else’s. He fell in love with the wrong people.
He had been fooled at first by Paul Vane’s Scarlet O’Hara excesses. But Vane was a solid citizen.
In the preceding forty-five minutes Stein had had all his pre-judgments about Vane dispelled and all those about marketing confirmed. It was about making people feel horrible about themselves and offering the product to save them.
“Let me see if I’ve retained any of this,” said Stein. “Manufacturers of designer products like Espe distribute only to exclusive salons. They don’t want discount drug chains to sell their goods at a cheaper price-God forbid the public should benefit.”
“Amazing,” Vane praised him. “The man has perfect retention.”
“I knew that, too.” Lila pouted.
“Of course you know it,” said Paul. “But we expect it of you.”
Lila was sitting on the pommel horse. The first glass of musky amber liquid had gone straight to her head. The second had whetted the warm spot between her legs and put her censor to sleep. “You should see his closet,” she giggled. “Three pairs of jeans that he still calls dungarees. Two sport jackets, previously owned. And no air- conditioning. How can you marry a man who doesn’t believe in air conditioning?”
Vane refilled their empty glasses. “That’s just what she needs,” Stein said.
“Do you think I’m smashed?”
Stein leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.
“Thank you. I’m sober enough to recognize the most patronizing kiss I’ve ever received.”
“I love this woman,” Vane exulted. He went on to outline the marketing plan that had been devised to create the maximum buzz around the release of Espe New Millennium. Only one salon in every area would be granted the license to market the product.
“Luckily you’re connected,” Stein said.
“One would think.” The sigh that Paul Vane let out could have changed the atmosphere of Jupiter.
Stein perked up, catching a glimmer of the unspoken truth. “Are you saying he didn’t choose you?”
“C’est la guerre. C’est l’amour.”
“The dirty little rat,” Lila shot.
“I bet it was that other place we passed,” Stein remembered the long lines. “They seemed to be doing a land office business.”
“Not all of us are in land,” said Vane.
“It must have hurt you not getting the franchise.”
“Why would I be hurt? Just because I took the little trollop in? Gave him a home, gave him love, made him a reasonably civilized human being, taught him the business, taught him all of my secrets, and as a reward he left me and marketed the things I gave him freely? Why would that hurt?”
“I only meant financially,” Stein murmured.
“Of course. I forget that straight men can make the distinction.”
Time had worn thin some of the zeal that Vane had once possessed in defending his lover’s transgressions. Only a frayed inner grace still remained. “Young men don’t know what love is,” Vane said. “If any of us ever do. Yes, he hurt me, but that’s what people do who are inexperienced in the world. It’s up to those of us who know better not to hurt back.”
“That’s very evolved of you.”
“When you’ve lived as long as I have, you’re lucky if the worst thing that happens to you is that a lover leaves. At least the little shit is enjoying himself.”
“I’d make him suffer,” said Lila.
“I love this woman.”
Stein declined having his glass topped off. Lila accepted. “You knew Nicholette Bradley pretty well,” Stein ventured.
“God yes. The poor angel. Can you imagine?”
Vane nodded toward the gallery of photographs on his wall of celebrity clients. Prominent among them were several of her Vogue covers and layouts for the old New Radiance shampoo ads.
“Do you have any idea who could have done it?” Stein asked.
“It’s too ghastly to think.”
“No enemies? No rivals?”
“You couldn’t do anything but love her.”
Stein nodded ruefully. “True.”
“You didn’t know her,” Lila scolded.
It was a long shot that Vane would supply something helpful. He was just a bystander, like Stein, a victim of collateral damage. Stein felt the irrational desire to hug him. “We’ll be out of your hair in a minute he said. No pun intended. I just need to hear you say, so I can tell my boss, that you are not hijacking any shampoo.”
Lila had become Vane’s staunch defender. “Stein, that’s rude and ridiculous.”
Vane was feeling wicked himself, or flirting, or showing off. “Why would I steal what I can make right here in my sink?”
