Amadoro

CHAPTER ONE-2

“Without much success.” Mandy frowned. “This lady is most elusive.”

Ash smiled. “Another female subject?”

“You’re very good with the ladies.” Carrington rose from his desk. “No objection to two in a row, I trust?”

“Certainly not. That’s happened before.”

Everyone got up as Carrington came around his desk.

Ash joined him and they went ahead of the others toward the north pair of doors.

Carrington was a dynamic figure, tall and lean. Intelligent face under a thatch of unruly white hair. Brown eyes flashing with enthusiasm. Tanned from weekends in Bucks County, where he owned a small farm. He had the large and capable hands of a man who worked the soil. Surprising hands for an editor. It was Carrington’s taste and enthusiasm that had made Metropole an instant success. What was he saying now?

“...and, as you’re about to see, Cort has come up with quite an interesting collection of photographs.”

“Not so many as usual,” Cort muttered, behind them.

“And a file of pertinent facts on the lady, prepared by Mandy and her staff,” Carrington continued, grasping the knobs of both doors.

“Fewer facts than I’ve ever dug up on any subject in the past,” Mandy responded.

Carrington pushed both doors back. “And here she is! Known as the most beautiful woman in New York City. Your portrait story, Ash, will call her the most beautiful woman in the world! Lyli Amadoro...”

“Amadoro?” Ash glanced at Cort again and the art director raised an eyebrow and grinned.

Carrington entered first, Ash following, into the spacious room that was the magazine’s picture gallery, where spots of light focused on a single row of mounted photographs circling the walls at eye level.

Miss Crevani, beaming with anticipation, stood at a long conference table, like the hostess of a party. The youth who had handed out the copies of Metropole stood beside her near a stack of file folders.

Carrington had turned toward the left, the others at his heels.

Ash, as was his habit, went in the opposite direction, alone, moving along the line of color photographs and gray newspaper clippings framed by dark mats. He leaned forward to study each one intently.

Amadoro! Most beautiful woman in the world?

He had seen the lady several times in person. Once in some restaurant. He couldn’t remember whether it was Le Cirque or 21. Twice in theater lobbies. Both shows were hit musicals. The first time he had been with his wife.

Mara had whispered, “There’s Lyli Amadoro...”

He’d turned to see an incredibly beautiful woman with long blond hair talking to a distinguished older man.

His wife had murmured, “I don’t think she’s all that beautiful, do you?”

The second time he’d been alone because Mara was working. That night he had bumped into someone and turned to apologize. It was Lyli Amadoro. He’d been so surprised by her beauty, face-to-face, so overwhelmed by the unfamiliar scent she was wearing, that he had stammered his apology.

She had smiled and looked into his eyes. “Any time.”

He had remained frozen as she moved ahead with a different escort.

Her perfume, again, had been unlike any scent he’d ever encountered. The most subtle, and certainly the most sensuous. It had tantalized him long after he was seated and trying to concentrate on his program.

She had been more attractive in person than in any of these photographs.

Amadoro leaving a Bond Street boutique, a scarf covering her golden hair and dark glasses hiding her eyes, but the exquisite nose and voluptuous mouth were unmistakable. Dining somewhere—the typed card said it was the Plaza—with another woman and two men in evening clothes, both women lavishly jeweled. A stunning shot of Amadoro walking in a silver-and-violet drizzle, hands thrust into a tailored white raincoat, long blond hair glittering with drops of mist. The captioned card, underneath, said it was the Tuileries. Somebody must’ve taken that shot with a telescopic lens, because she had obviously been unaware of the prying camera. Amadoro caught in a stunning pose, descending the grand staircase at the Metropolitan Opera on the arm of another handsome escort. This time her rose velvet gown and long metallic evening coat were striking because of their simplicity. The blond hair was wound on top of her head and threaded with jewels, which made it appear to be some fantastic sort of crown. Snapshot of a little girl with curly brown hair, posed with a small white dog, in front of a modest New England-type cottage. The card said it was New London, Connecticut. She was beautiful even then. He wondered if her name was Lyli Amadoro when she’d been that age...

Of course not! Amadoro was one of her husbands. The most recent.

“What do you think?”

He turned, still engrossed, and looked down to see Mandy Kwong’s oval face—her unblemished skin like ivory silk—Oriental eyes and straight black hair with bangs touching her eyebrows. “What?”

“Will you accept this assignment?”

“Without a moment’s hesitation. The dame’s incredible.”

“That’s the only picture Cort could locate of Amadoro as a child. He sent one of his photographers up to New London, after I discovered she was born there, to dig up early pictures. Bought this from a filling station attendant who claimed he’d gone to school with her.” Moving on, beside Ash, to a portrait shot of the adult Amadoro in a tailored suit and slacks. “Isn’t she exquisite! Truly lovely...”

“Even more in person.”

“You’ve met her?”

“Never. Only seen her.” He continued to follow the line of photographs around the gallery, Mandy chattering softly beside him.

“She’s noted for guarding her privacy. There’ve been incidents with those creepy paparazzi who tried to get shots of her. Cort had a difficult time finding this many pictures.”

“These are quite enough to put me on the trail of the real Amadoro.”

“Good luck, my friend.”

“First an interview with the lady.”

“She never gives interviews.”

“I’ve met that type before. In the end they always talk. And talk...”

“From what I hear, she’s more accessible at her office.”

“What’s the address?”

“Fifty-sixth and Fifth. You know I never remember numbers. It’s in those file folders. All necessary addresses, including her parents’ in Connecticut. They still live there.”

“I’ll tackle them after I talk to her.”

“She’s on the board of directors of Amadoro Associates, the corporation that owns the building where she has an enormous office suite. They also control the skyscraper where she has a condo.”

“Sounds like a cozy tax shelter for the lady.” He continued to study each photograph as they circled the gallery, glancing at Mandy, conscious of her exotic beauty. She always wore a high-necked and close-fitting dress, slit on the sides, called a cheongsam. During office hours it was partially hidden by loose white smocks with large pockets in which she kept slips of paper covered with notes on all current projects. Sunday she never wore a smock, and today her cheongsam was made of lime-colored silk. Her tiny hands, as she talked, made delicate birdlike motions.

“I had one of my assistants check all major newspapers and magazines,” she was saying, “but Amadoro’s never given an interview to any of them.”

“Whose idea was it to call her the most beautiful woman in the world?”

“Carrington’s, of course. But Cort agreed. Don’t you?”

“I suppose... Can’t think of any woman more beautiful. Maybe Garbo.”

“Curious, isn’t it? They’re both known by their last names. Garbo and Amadoro...”

“They both had good press agents.”

“I saw Garbo the other day. Walking on East Fifty-seventh.”

“She still as beautiful?”

“Couldn’t tell. She was wearing a hat and sunglasses, but I recognized her from the way she walked. Garbo and Vanessa Redgrave are the most elegant walkers I’ve ever seen. And maybe Meryl Streep.” She peered around the gallery as Ash glanced at the final photograph. “Time for brunch!”

“And I’m ready. Didn’t get any breakfast.” He saw Carrington waiting for him near the open doors beside Miss Crevani and the boy with his stack of file folders.

Mandy walked beside him toward Carrington. “I look forward to working on this Amadoro story, Ash. It’s going to be quite a challenge.”

“You were very helpful with the Saunders portrait. Especially simplifying that parapsychological material in the beginning as I struggled to understand it.”

“That’s me! Mandy the great simplifier. Concentrate and define. Tell me, Ash, did the Saunders story affect you, personally? All those scientific papers on extrasensory perception and the rest...”

“It affected me profoundly. I plan to read more deeply in the whole psychic field.”

“I’ve always been a believer.”

“Have you?” He looked down at her with fresh interest.

“My father was Chinese, but my mother’s Irish and psychic. I’ve been interested in parapsychology and astrology for years. I’m a member of the Parastro Society.”

“I’ll be damned!”

“So, working on the Saunders story was especially fascinating.”

“Come along, Ashton!” Carrington touched his sleeve.

“We’ll talk later, Mandy.”

“Of course.”

Carrington’s eyes revealed his excitement. “What do you think, Ash? Another great portrait!”

“Fascinating.” He walked with Carrington as Miss Crevani, still the hostess, led the way through the editor in chief’s office, toward the south wing of the Metropole suite where double doors to the executive dining room stood open and the staff butler, Parkins, waited to greet each person by name.

“The big problem, of course,” Carrington was saying, “is that Amadoro seldom gives an interview. Even Fortune couldn’t get one. The few times she did talk to reporters she gave them a tissue of taradiddles!” He accepted two file folders from the waiting youth and handed one to Ash, who, as they talked, slipped it into the envelope with his copy of Metropole. “Mandy’s come up with fewer facts than usual. Less background material...”

“She was just telling me.”

“Lyli Amadoro is an enigma!” Carrington continued. “You must ferret out the secret at the heart of the Amadoro legend. And you’re certainly the man to do it. I told Horace yesterday that you would charm her, as usual, and come up with the greatest portrait we’ve ever done.”

“I’m flattered, sir.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Carrington.” Parkins bowed and smiled. “And Mr. Hendrie.”

“We’re at opposite ends, as usual.” Carrington paused, inspecting the attractive table. “I’m ravenous. Had breakfast at seven and drove in from the country for a conference on the Placido Domingo portrait we’re having painted by a new young artist in Madrid. He sent color prints of what he’s done thus far. Absolutely brilliant! They arrived Friday after I’d left for the weekend and I wanted to see them before brunch. We must find something special for your Amadoro cover. A really stunning portrait of the lady. Any suggestions?”

“Not offhand...”

“We’ll talk to Cort about it.” He headed for the far end of the table where he always sat, his back to a row of tall windows overlooking the distant East River.

Ash took his place at the other end of the table and, facing Carrington, stood behind the Chippendale armchair, glancing at his name on a place card as he wondered who would sit on either side of him. Woman on his right and man to his left but he hoped the man wouldn’t be Tony Rufino. Impossible to check the two place cards unobserved.

As Carrington waited beside his armchair, the others spread out, looking for the cards with their names. Everyone talking.

Ash saw that one of the senior editors, Corina Curtis, who had worked with him on most of his portraits, had paused beside the chair to his right. “Good morning, Rina. Didn’t get a chance to see you earlier.

“You were a bit late.”

“Overslept and caught a laggard taxi.”

“Aren’t they always?” She smiled at Cort, who was standing behind the chair opposite. “That’s a fascinating portrait of Sandra Saunders on the new cover.”

Cort turned to Ash. “I hope Saunders likes it.”

“I’ll let you know.” Ash saw that Carrington was peering around the table.

“Everyone found his place? Sit down, ladies and gentlemen.”

Ash, like everyone else, rested his white envelope on the damask tablecloth as he sat. He was aware of Miss Crevani departing and closing the doors, conscious of clear blue sky visible through the windows behind Carrington, and of Parkins snapping his fingers at a waiter standing near what appeared to be an enormous many-paneled Coromandel screen, but if you looked close, each panel held an amusing picture of a city where one of Metropolis’ branch offices was located. At the same time he noticed that Mandy Kwong was seated on Carrington’s left, with Bert Bemis, another senior editor, on his right. Tony Rufino was in the middle, next to Corina, and Sylvia Vernon, a bright associate editor, sat between Cort and Bert. All talking and laughing, even Tony, which meant they were genuinely pleased with his portrait of Sandra. Everyone, of course, had read the proofs weeks ago but hadn’t seen it in print until today.

“Here we are!” Carrington exclaimed, welcoming the waiter, who had returned from behind the screen, bearing a silver tray holding magnums of champagne in Georgian silver coolers.

The waiter set his tray on an antique serving table, placed against the long wall, under a framed Renoir from Horace Bradshaw’s private collection of Impressionists.

Parkins lifted one bottle from the ice, wrapped it in a napkin and proceeded to uncork the wine as the waiter performed the same ceremony with the other bottle.

“Congratulations on the Saunders portrait.” Tony Rufino was looking toward him, smiling his customary sardonic rictus.

“Glad you like it,” Ash responded. “Any reservations?”

“None about how you handled the story. Several about your subject. I still can’t believe this Saunders dame is for real.”

“I gather you don’t accept parapsychology.”

“Buncha crackpots manipulating credulous people who are afraid of dying. Simple as that!”

“Millions of people, according to one recent survey, do believe in psychic phenomena,” Ash responded.

“Buncha fools.”

“I’m a firm believer in extrasensory perception,” Corina said quietly. “I have personally experienced demonstrations of its viability. Many times.”

“I can’t believe it!” Rufino exclaimed.

Ash reached out and touched Corina’s hand, resting on the white cloth. “I believe you. I’m convinced, since meeting Sandra Saunders, that there is something else after we finish this present life. I was never absolutely certain before.”

“And you are now?” she asked eagerly.

“Unexpectedly.”

All conversation halted as Parkins filled Tim Carrington’s glass and the waiter poured Ash’s champagne. Everyone waited silently, familiar with this monthly ritual.

Ash’s eyes moved from face to face. These were people he’d been associated with for five years, but, except for Mandy and Cort, he didn’t consider them his friends. They were the daily strangers who touched one’s life, day after day, yet you never really knew them. Not even Carrington or Corina...

Carrington rose, smiling, as the last glasses were filled. “I wish to propose an affectionate toast to our man of the month—that brilliant investigative reporter who writes our most subtle and provocative portraits—Ashton Hendrie!” Raising his glass. “To Ash!”

Everyone stood, reaching for his wineglass and holding it toward Ash, who remained seated. “To Ash!”

“Thank you. Every Ms. and man of you.” He stood up as they drank. “I wish to propose a toast to that fascinating lady who is the subject of our June portrait.” Lifting his glass. “To Sandra Saunders!”

“Sandra Saunders!” They raised their glasses.

Ash drank with them, his eyes moving from face to face.

In three months he would be standing here again, another glass of champagne in his hand, drinking a toast to Lyli Amadoro.