Title: A Very Good Life
Genre: Literary Fiction
Author: Lynn Steward
Website: www.averygoodlife.com
Publisher: CreateSpace
Purchase on Amazon
Although Lynn Steward’s debut
novel, A Very Good Life, takes place in 1970s New York City. it has
a timelessness to it. Dana McGarry is an "it" girl, living a
privileged lifestyle of a well-heeled junior executive at B. Altman, a high end
department store. With a storybook husband and a fairytale life, change comes
swiftly and unexpectedly. Cracks begin to appear in the perfect facade.
Challenged at work by unethical demands, and the growing awareness that her
relationship with her distant husband is strained, Dana must deal with the
unwanted changes in her life. Can she find her place in the new world where
women can have a voice, or will she allow herself to be manipulated into doing
things that go against her growing self-confidence?
A Very Good Life chronicles the perils and rewards of
Dana’s journey, alongside some of the most legendary women of the twentieth
century. From parties at Café des Artistes to the annual Rockefeller Center
holiday tree lighting ceremony, from meetings with business icons like Estée
Lauder to cocktail receptions with celebrity guests like legendary Vogue editor
Diana Vreeland. Steward’s intimate knowledge of the period creates the perfect
backdrop for this riveting story about a woman’s quest for self-fulfillment.
Chapter One
Dana McGarry, her short blond hair
stirred by a light gust of wind, stood on Fifth Avenue in front of the display
windows of the B. Altman department store on the day after Thanksgiving, November,
1974. Dana, public relations and special events coordinator for the store,
pulled her Brooks Brothers camel hair polo coat tighter around her slim,
shapely frame. Shoppers hurried past
her, huddled in overcoats as mild snow flurries coated the streets with a fine
white powder. It was now officially
Christmas season, and Dana sensed a pleasant urgency in the air as people
rushed to find the perfect gift or simply meet a friend for lunch. The frenetic pace of life in Manhattan
continued to swell the sidewalks, but pedestrians were more inclined to tender
a smile instead of a grimace if they bumped into one another. Dana often told her friends that Christmas
was a time when there was a temporary truce between true believers and
grinches. As far as business was
concerned, she was pleased to hear the cash registers of B. Altman singing
their secular carols inside the store, but she also still believed that the
holidays brought magic and balance, however briefly, into a world of routine
and ten-hour workdays.
Balance? Dana smiled wistfully, for balance was
becoming harder to achieve. She was only
twenty-nine, but the pressures of life were already assaulting her mind and
spirit in numerous ways. She tried to
please multiple people in B. Altman’s corporate offices on a daily basis, not
an easy task given that the seasoned professionals who were grooming her had
various agendas, not all of which tallied with each other. And then there was her marriage to Brett McGarry,
a litigator at a Wall Street law firm.
Brett was as busy as she, and simultaneously attending to her career and
the needs of her husband was sometimes difficult, if not downright
burdensome. His needs? Well, “demands” would be a more accurate
description of what Dana had to contend with.
Although Brett didn’t overtly order Dana around, he informed her of what
he would or would not be able to do with her on any given day. His growing air of superiority was extremely
subtle and couched in affable smiles that most of Dana’s friends could not
accurately read.
Dana’s eyes had
become unfocused as she stared past the display window, but she quickly snapped
her attention back to the present moment.
People, coated with a dusting of light snow, continued to stream through
the portico outside B. Altman’s. Magic
and balance still held the better claim on Friday, November 29. She’d worry about Brett later.
“I think they
like it,” commented Andrew Ricci, display director for the store, as he stood
to Dana’s left, referring to the happy, animated shoppers. “Good idea,
Mark. Christmas was the right time to
bring in live mannequins.” Andrew, slender and dressed in a gray suit
with sweater vest, wiped snowflakes from his salt and pepper hair, wavy and
combed straight back. Even as Andrew
said this, a little girl waved both hands, trying to get the attention of one
of the Sugar Plum Fairies behind the window, saying over and over, “I saw her
blink! I did! I saw her blink!”
Mark Tepper was
the president of the Tepper Display Company, and B. Altman had been a good
account for ten years. “You’re welcome. I want you guys to look good. Bloomie’s is just twenty-five blocks away,”
said the suave president, dressed in a blue pinstripe suit. He stood to Dana’s right. His light brown hair was parted neatly above
a broad forehead, and he had intense blue eyes that could capture the slightest
nuance. He was of average height, in
good physical shape, and his ideas seemed to emanate from a bottomless
reservoir of energy. “You can’t go wrong with a Nutcracker
theme.” Mark stepped back and surveyed
the scene. “Now if I could only figure
out a way to make the live mannequins stop blinking,” he said with a grin.
Dana and Andrew
laughed at Mark’s quick wit, the result of keen intelligence combined with a
sophisticated playfulness. He could be
highly focused without taking himself too seriously.
Andrew rubbed
his hands together and exhaled, his breath drifting away in a small cloud of
vapor. “Say, would you two mind coming
inside to look at the blueprints for the cosmetic department? I have to make
one change.”
Dana, like all
B. Altman employees, was energized by the transformation of her beloved store,
and being a close friend of Andrew’s, she knew of changes starting with the
planning stage. More than a year ago, when Dana first learned that the cosmetic department would be
renovated, she thought it might bode well for her idea to add a teen makeup
section.
Inside, the
store was glowing from Christmas decorations, chandeliers, and red-capped mercury lamps illuminating counters that
curved and zigzagged across the main floor in every direction. A decorated tree in the center of the main
floor rose fifteen feet into the air, a grand focal point for the holiday
atmosphere. Andrew led the group to one
of the counters in the existing cosmetic department and unrolled a set of
blueprints he’d stored beneath the glass counter. The trio would be undisturbed since holiday
shoppers were buzzing past them on their way to the gift departments, many to
see the new million-dollar menswear section that opened the previous month and
extended the entire block along 34th Street.
“We’re aiming
for the new department to open the first week of May,” Andrew said, “followed
by a black tie gala.” He poked his index
finger onto the center of the blueprints for emphasis. He then looked up proudly and pointed to a
section of the floor where the new cosmetic department would be installed.
“Good
placement,” Mark said. “And nice layout,
too.” Mark usually spoke rapidly and in
short sentences. Insightful, he sized
things up quickly and didn’t waste time.
It was another aspect of his confidence that allowed him to act
professionally without losing his innate charm.
He also had a knack for including everyone around him in any discussion.
“So what does the public relations and
special events coordinator think?” he asked, pivoting to face Dana, sensing she
had something to say.
Dana cocked her
head slightly while mischievously narrowing her eyes. “I think we shouldn’t forget that a teen
makeup section is just as important as an updated cosmetic department. Otherwise, why are we bothering to update it
in the first place? Our demographic is
getting younger. Girls today are wearing
makeup by the time they’re fourteen.”
Dana turned to Andrew. “What do you
think, Mr. Ricci ?
Andrew chuckled at Dana’s use of his
surname, which she occasionally did when talking business with her friend and
confidante. Andrew was the
quintessential Renaissance man—artist, craftsman, and cook. He and Dana attended art lectures at the Met,
and he had personally taken Dana under his wing to give her what he called “a
gay man’s culinary expertise” when her husband announced they were hosting a
dinner party for a few of the firm’s partners.
Andrew was not only Dana’s close friend, but he was also a consummate
professional in his capacity as display director. He was a passionate man, at times almost
compulsive, but he commanded respect from the refined corporate culture at B.
Altman.
Andrew
rolled up the blueprints and sighed.
“Good luck trying to persuade Helen.
She’s done a great job with her department, but she’s from the old
school—if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
Andrew paused. “But the fact that
Helen isn’t on board isn’t going to stop you, is it?”
Helen Kavanagh
was the junior buyer at B. Altman.
Dana shook her
head and winked. “Not for a minute. I’m an optimist, Andrew. Besides, it’s Christmas. I’ve been a good girl, and Santa owes me.”
Mark
was clearly enjoying the good-natured exchange.
“Santa naturally wasn’t big at Temple when I was growing up. No stockings hung by the chimney with
care—although I remain an ardent fan of stockings. That having been said,” Mark continued, “I
think—”
The
conversation was interrupted by a no-nonsense twenty-something secretary, dark
brown hair falling to her shoulder. “Ms.
Savino would like to see you in her office as soon as possible, Ms. McGarry,”
she said. The secretary turned on her
heels and promptly disappeared into the busy throng of shoppers without waiting
for a response from Dana.
Bea Savino was
Dana’s boss and the vice president of sales promotion and marketing.
“She’s new,”
Dana commented. “Poor girl—she’s scared to death. We all
were when we started.”
“I
still am,” Andrew laughed, “and I
don’t even report to her. Bea can kill
you with that look. You know, when her eyes tighten and she peers over her
reading glasses—ouch! But give her a
martini, and it’s party time. Bea’s a
moveable feast.”
Dana
nodded. “True enough. I better see what the indomitable Ms. Savino
wants. Gentlemen, it’s always a
pleasure.”
Dana
headed to the bank of elevators on the far side of the store, passing a dozen
lively conversations that blended into what she regarded as a delightful
holiday symphony. People were spending
money—and happy to be spending it. She envisioned a teen makeup section
facilitating that same enthusiastic banter at some point in the future.
“Dana!”
Dana wheeled
around to see Mark hurrying past shoppers, his outstretched arm indicating that
he wanted her to pause until he could catch up.
“People just
can’t get enough of my infectious optimism,” Dana proclaimed.
“You’re
cursed with good genes,” Mark said, stopping a foot from Dana. “Seriously, the teen makeup section is a
smart move. I think you should ask Helen
if she’s been following the incredible success of Biba.”
“I think everybody’s eyes are on London.”
“If
not, they should be. Biba just moved to
a seven-story building in Kensington, and the store is attracting a million
customers a week. Teen makeup sure seems
to be working for the Brits. The birds,
as the English call young girls, are flocking to the store in droves.” He paused.
“I’m mixing my metaphors—birds, cattle—but you get the gist.”
` Dana put her hands on her hips and
burst into laughter.
“When was the
last time you used the word droves, Mark?”
“Hey,
I’ve watched cowboys on TV like anybody else,” he replied with mock
defensiveness. “Head ‘em up and move ‘em out.
And that’s what Biba is doing.
The customers are in and out, and most of their wallets are quite a bit
lighter when they leave. That’s the
idea, right?”
“Absolutely!”
“Go get ‘em,
tiger,” Mark said, touching the side of Dana’s arm right below her
shoulder. He walked away, turned back
with a big smile and a thumbs-up, then disappeared.
Mark’s energy
and enthusiasm, as well as his one-minute pep talk, were just what Dana needed
to boost her confidence and keep her idea alive.
As Dana neared
the far side of the store, she and Helen Kavanagh simultaneously approached the same elevator.
As
always, Helen was impeccably dressed, and her carriage bespoke an elegant,
stylish demeanor. She was in the later
years of middle age, but she advanced towards the elevator briskly, her blond
hair pulled severely back from her face and secured with an ever-present black
velvet ribbon. Her face expressionless,
she glanced at Dana, her pace unchanged.
A signal had clearly been given.
In point of fact, Helen truly admired Dana, but the young events
coordinator was in her twenties, and there was a protocol in Helen’s universe
that she didn’t believe needed to be articulated. Respect carried the day, with camaraderie
offered in moderation, preferably outside of the workplace. Dana therefore
halted just long enough to allow Helen to slip into the elevator before she
followed, the doors closing behind her.
The two women were alone as the elevator ascended to the executive suite
of offices on the fifth floor.
Nothing
ventured, nothing gained, Dana thought.
Besides, Mark had literally gone out of his way to suggest that she
approach Helen. Mark, of course, could
be aggressive and disarming at the same time, so such a feat would naturally be
far easier for him to
accomplish. Still, she was quite aware
that Mark had her best interests at heart.
It was worth a try.
“Good
morning, Helen.”
Helen nodded and
smiled thinly. “Dana.”
“Helen,
I was wondering if you shopped Biba when you were in London last month. They’re pulling in a million customers a
week. A million!” Dana raised her
eyebrows, her clear blue eyes sparkling even in the dim light of the elevator.
Helen
tapped a silver ballpoint pen against the brown leather case holding her yellow
legal pad. “Biba,” she said with
frustration. “Biba is filled with
non-paying customers who rush in before work to try on free makeup. Free, Dana.
Are they running a business or having a party? Try it before you buy it? I don’t think so. They’re crazy. Excuse me—as the British say, they’re quite
mad. They’ll be out of business in a year.”
Dana’s heart skipped a beat, but she
wasn’t going to show any nervousness.
Instead, she laughed. “Well, I’m sure you’re right. Shows what I know!”
It was a
self-effacing remark, but Dana knew when to back down.
Helen, who had
been facing forward, turned and looked at Dana squarely. “And don’t even think of taking this to Bea.”
Dana smiled as
the elevator door opened, but she said nothing.
The
two women stepped onto the fifth floor, the rooms of which were a facsimile of
the 1916 interiors of Benjamin Altman’s Fifth Avenue home. Dana and Helen walked through the reception
area, which was a replica of Altman’s well-known Renaissance room. Fine art adorned the wood-paneled walls
beyond the anteroom, with elaborately carved woodwork accenting the hallways. The President’s Room was a reproduction of
Altman’s personal library, while the Board Room was a faithful rendering of his
dining room. Oriental carpets lay on the
polished parquet floor, and Dana never ceased to marvel at the rich interior of
the executive suite and its expensive art collection no matter how many times
she entered the area. It had the
ambience of a corporate cathedral, and the first time she stepped onto the
floor years earlier, she had unconsciously lifted her right hand for a split
second, as if to dip her fingers in a holy water font.
Dana and Helen
walked in the same direction for fifteen paces until it became obvious that
they were both heading for Bea Savino’s office.
“I was told Bea
wanted to see me,” Dana stated.
“I’m sure you
were,” Helen said flatly. “But I need to
see her first. That isn’t a problem, is
it?”
“No. Of course not.”
It was another
elevator moment. Dana gave Helen a
politically correct smile and stepped back, allowing her to open Bea’s door and
slip into the office.
Dana
walked up and down the hall, admiring the landscapes hanging on the dark
paneling. Miniature marble sculptures
stood on pedestals and library tables with inlaid mother-of-pearl. She hoped Helen wouldn’t be long since she
wanted to get back home, walk her dog, and double-check arrangements for the
annual McGarry Christmas party, now only six days away. It was one o’clock, but if Bea called a
special events meeting, Dana’s afternoon would be lost. She was overseeing the expansion of the adult
programs, known as “department-store culture,” and she and Bea were still
working out the details for the rollout in January. B. Altman was a pioneer for such a program,
and Dana would be programming three events a week in the Charleston Garden restaurant that seated two hundred. A smaller third-floor community room was
newly renovated for the expanded sessions that included mini-courses in art
appreciation, cooking demonstrations, book signings, self-improvement, and
current events.
She
reversed direction and walked past Bea’s office, noticing that the door was
slightly ajar. She turned around and
decided to wait outside Bea’s inner sanctum to make sure Helen wouldn’t slip
out unnoticed. Heart pounding, she stood
near the open door and heard Helen expressing dismay.
“You
know how I feel about having shoes in my department, Bea. Can’t you help me convince them to find
somewhere else to put this Pappagallo shop?
Shoes belong with shoes. It just
doesn’t work for me. I don’t want to see
them. Period.”
There was clear
exasperation in the junior buyer’s voice.
“But
it works for Ira and Dawn,” Bea responded calmly, “and they firmly believe in
the merchandising potential for this young market. “Don’t quote me, but I heard Ira’s daughter will be working in the shop
this summer. You gotta get on board,
Helen. Think young. Think upbeat.” Her voice rose with sudden enthusiasm. “Think Biba!”
“Bea, if I hear
that name Biba one more time!” Helen interrupted.
Bea ignored
her. “The kids are all drinking
espresso, and I’ll probably go down for a cup in the afternoon.”
“What are you talking
about?” Helen asked. “You’re going to—”
“Helen,”
Bea slowly responded, “Pappagallo stores have love seats and espresso
machines. It’s that Southern
hospitality. They were introduced in
Atlanta. Anyway, we have no choice. Remember, Pappagallo is leasing the space.”
There was a
noticeable silence inside Bea’s office.
“Breathe deeply, Helen,” Bea advised with a laugh. “You’re going to hyperventilate. It’s
“Breathe deeply, Helen,” Bea advised with a laugh. “You’re going to hyperventilate. It’s
not the end of the
world.”
“Espresso
machine?” Helen repeated. “Love seats? Taking up selling space. I’m not putting up with this. Fine.
Then they’ll just have to give me a larger department. I’m not giving up without getting something
in return.”
Dana
smiled. If Ira Neimark, the executive vice president and general merchandise
manager of B. Altman, together with his hand-picked vice president and fashion
director, Dawn Mello—Helen’s boss—were looking for ways to bring young people into
the store, maybe the teen makeup department wasn’t a lost cause after all.
Helen
came flying out the office, brushing past Dana by mere inches as she talked to
herself under her breath. “B. Altman
will be out of business before Biba.
It’s all totally absurd.” She
took no notice of the young events coordinator.
Dana
moved forward and stood in the doorway.
“You wanted to see me?” she asked. “Yes, Dana. Come in.”
Bea Savino was a
tiny but feisty Italian woman with snow white hair, a chain-smoker with a
no-nonsense approach to life and business.
Bea had married five years ago, at the age of forty, and had no
children, but she felt compelled to give her adopted young staff reality
therapy every chance she could, believing they were too influenced by the soft
dress-for-success career articles in fashion magazines. With Dana, Bea’s mantra was “Toughen up, for
God’s sake!” When Dana had been passed
over for an assignment and complained to her boss, Bea merely said, “It’s the
squeaky wheel that gets the grease, kiddo.
I didn’t even know you were interested.
Carol was in here every day, begging.
Speak up, Dana.”
Bea lit a
cigarette, exhaled a plume of smoke, and laughed. “I think poor Helen is headed for a
stroke. I saw you standing outside, so I
know you heard our exchange. Ah
well. She’ll get over it. She’s a tough old broad, God love her.” Bea shuffled some papers around her desk
before finding the folder she was looking for.
Her office was not a model of perfection and order, as were Helen’s and Dana’s.
Dana cringed at
the term “broad.” The expression seemed
out of place on the sacrosanct fifth floor, but she merely took a deep breath
and remembered that Bea didn’t mince words.
She decided to pitch her idea despite Helen’s warning.
“Bea, since Mr.
Neimark and Ms. Mello are interested in the youth market, why can’t we go one
step further than the Shop for Pappagallo and add a teen makeup section
too? As I told Helen, Biba is pulling in
a million customers a week.”
Bea leaned back in her chair and took
another puff of her cigarette.
“You always tell me to speak up,” Dana
said, her voice rising slightly as she shrugged her shoulders. “So . . . ?”
“It’s not a bad
idea,” Bea conceded as she surveyed her cluttered desk, “but it’s not going to
happen, at least not now. One step at a
time. Let Helen adjust to the intrusion
of Pappagallo first. It’s too much at
once.”
“But—”
“Go whine to Bob. I know you two are thick as thieves. I asked you here to discuss something else.”
Bob Campbell was
the store’s vice president and general manager.
He was Dana’s unofficial mentor, a fact that often irritated Bea to no
end.
It was she, not Bob, who was the young woman’s immediate boss.
Dana clasped her
hands behind her back, squeezing her right fist in frustration. Was she supposed to toughen up and be vocal
or remain silent? Bea’s mixed messages
could be infuriating. Dana was
advocating the same teen strategy that the general merchandise manager and fashion
director of the store apparently believed in, and she couldn’t help but think
that she was being penalized for her youth.
Or maybe it was because Helen might pitch a fit. Either way, Andrew had been right: Bea was a
moveable feast.
“Bob has chosen
the winner for this year’s teen contest.
You’ll announce the results next week at the Sugar Plum Ball. It’s a favor for a friend of Mr.
Campbell. His friend’s daughter, Kim
Sullivan, will be this year’s winner.”
Bea sighed deeply and crushed her cigarette in a large glass ashtray on
her desk. “Have a good weekend, Dana,”
Bea said, summarily dismissing the figure standing before her.
Dana was
speechless. The contest involved getting
the best and brightest teens to write essays, make brief speeches, and model
clothes, and they were down to the five finalists. She’d run the contest for
three years, but the idea that the contest was rigged this year—and by Bob
Campbell of all people—left Dana dazed and temporarily unable to move. The Sugar Plum Ball was the annual December
benefit for the Children’s Aid Society.
The idea of committing fraud was bad enough, but she would also have to
disappoint the girls who would be competing in good faith. Did such a prestigious charity event have to
be marred by dishonesty?
Bea looked up, glasses perched on the
end of her nose. “Is anything the
matter, Dana? You look positively pale.”
“No.
Everything’s fine.” Everything was most decidedly not fine. Dana had the ear
of Bob Campbell, and she would use her access to the general manager to express
how odious the idea seemed. One way or
another, she’d find a way to avoid making the contest into a sham.
Feeling
manipulated, Dana turned and left Bea’s office.
Her normally fair complexion was red with anger, and her breath came in
quick, short bursts. She marched down to
the Writing and Rest Room for Women, a beautifully carpeted room with chairs
upholstered in blue velvet. The mahogany
walls and soft lighting made this one of the most elaborate rest areas in any
store, and Dana sometimes came here because of the quiet and repose it
offered. Today the room was, not
surprisingly, filled with shoppers taking a moment to compose themselves. She hurried to her office in the General
Offices section of the fifth floor, retrieved her purse, and tried to calm
down.
Regaining her
composure proved impossible, however.
She took a deep breath and decided that she would have no peace for the
rest of the day until she spoke with Bob Campbell. Bea must have been mistaken. Bob would never rig the yearly teen contest.
Dana got up from her desk, hoping to get
a few minutes with the general manager.
She walked back to the executive suite, ready to make her case.
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