A Beautiful Rival, page 1
Dedication
For Lucia Macro
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1: Elizabeth
Chapter 2: Helena
Chapter 3: Elizabeth
Chapter 4: Helena
Chapter 5: Elizabeth
Chapter 6: Helena
Chapter 7: Elizabeth
Chapter 8: Helena
Chapter 9: Elizabeth
Chapter 10: Helena
Chapter 11: Elizabeth
Chapter 12: Helena
Chapter 13: Elizabeth
Chapter 14: Helena
Chapter 15: Elizabeth
Chapter 16: Helena
Chapter 17: Elizabeth
Chapter 18: Helena
Chapter 19: Elizabeth
Chapter 20: Helena
Chapter 21: Elizabeth
Chapter 22: Helena
Chapter 23: Elizabeth
Chapter 24: Helena
Chapter 25: Elizabeth
Chapter 26: Helena
Chapter 27: Elizabeth
Chapter 28: Helena
Chapter 29: Elizabeth
Chapter 30: Helena
Chapter 31: Elizabeth
Chapter 32: Helena
Chapter 33: Elizabeth
Chapter 34: Helena
Chapter 35: Elizabeth
Chapter 36: Helena
Chapter 37: Elizabeth
Chapter 38: Helena
Chapter 39: Elizabeth
Chapter 40: Helena
Chapter 41: Elizabeth
Chapter 42: Helena
Chapter 43: Elizabeth
Chapter 44: Helena
Chapter 45: Elizabeth
Chapter 46: Helena
Chapter 47: Elizabeth
Chapter 48: Helena
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Sources
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise for A Beautiful Rival
Also by Gill Paul
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Elizabeth
January 1915
Elizabeth Arden held her first meeting of the day in her bedroom while doing her yoga routine, dressed in a loose pink gym top and matching bloomers. Irene Delaney, her personal assistant—known to all as Laney—perched on the window seat, legs crossed and spectacles balanced on her nose. She began reading out messages from a notebook, then scribbling Elizabeth’s instructions with a pencil sharpened to a point.
Outside, snow was drifting past the tall picture windows but a brisk fire kept the room cozy. A pot of English tea was brewing on a side table, alongside two rose-patterned gilt-edged cups and saucers and a tiny milk jug.
Elizabeth bent forward into Downward Dog pose, feeling the stretch in her calves. She had broken her hip as a teenager after falling badly while trying to high-kick a chandelier on a dare. She’d spent months bedridden while it healed, and ever since, her joints got painfully stiff without the morning yoga, which had been recommended by a progressive Toronto doctor. It had the added benefit of helping to keep her figure trim. She was in good shape for a woman of thirty-six—an age she would never admit, as she hoped to pass for a decade younger.
“Mr. Pease rang yesterday,” Laney said. “From Pease and Elliman. He wanted to tell you they’ve found a tenant for 673 Fifth Avenue.”
Elizabeth hoisted herself into a neat headstand, proud of the strength in her arms. She’d been looking for a new Fifth Avenue salon, one with a street entrance. Her current New York beauty salon was on the third floor at number 509, so it didn’t attract passing customers. She had viewed the premises at 673 but felt they weren’t spacious enough for her plans.
“Do we know who the new tenant is, dear?” she asked, feeling her skin tingle as blood rushed to her head.
“She’s another beauty salon owner,” Laney said. “Name of Helena Rubinstein.”
Elizabeth wobbled, lost her balance, and let her feet topple to the carpet with a thump. “You’re not serious.” She sat up, adjusting her top, which had ridden up, exposing her flat stomach.
Laney consulted her notes, and nodded. “That’s what he said. Why? Do you know her?”
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose as if at a bad smell. “I visited her Paris salon in 1912 during my trip to Europe, and can’t say I was impressed. She calls herself the ‘Queen of Beauty Science’ and blathers on about ‘magical antiaging herbs’ she’s discovered”—she chortled dismissively—“but the facial I had in her salon was run of the mill. I’m sure her Valaze cream brought me out in a rash. What’s she doing coming to New York?”
She was thinking out loud. She knew Madame Rubinstein already had salons in Australia and London as well as Paris. Wasn’t that enough for her? She had no place in America; this was her territory.
“If she’s a charlatan, she won’t have a chance of succeeding in Manhattan,” Laney said. “New York women are very discerning.”
“Last time I saw her she didn’t even speak English fluently,” Elizabeth scorned, remembering the woman’s peculiar vowel sounds and the way she placed emphasis on the wrong syllable of words like “astringent” and “complexion.”
She was worried, though. All things Parisian were in vogue. There was a lot of sympathy for the French because of the war in Europe and, from what she had seen in Paris, Madame Rubinstein didn’t hesitate to promote herself. But she, Elizabeth Arden, was founder and sole owner of the most successful beauty brand in America, having outstripped all the other pretenders with her upmarket packaging, her clever advertising, and her stylishly decorated salons. She was well connected in this city. Women knew and trusted her.
Suddenly she remembered that 673 Fifth Avenue was owned by the husband of one of her salon clients. Perhaps she would have a quiet word.
“Is Mrs. Lawrance booked for a treatment this week?” she asked.
Laney dug out the schedule and tapped her pencil as she scanned the names. “Three o’clock on Thursday,” she said. “Facial strapping and massage.”
That was too long to wait. Contracts could be signed by then. Elizabeth decided to telephone Mrs. Lawrance at home. She glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. It was still only eight. She’d wait till eleven. The wealthy women she cultivated as clients took their time over their morning toilette, hairdressing, and outfit choices for the day. It would be seen as uncouth to call too early.
She completed her yoga routine while dictating correspondence to Laney, but all the time there was a sour taste in her mouth. She wouldn’t let anyone threaten the success she had achieved; it had been too hard-won. She’d grown up in a drafty, run-down backwoods shack near Woodbridge, Ontario, one of five children of an impoverished tenant farmer and a mother who died so young Elizabeth could only vaguely remember her. Hunger pangs used to keep her awake at night, along with the shifting and sleep-murmuring of the siblings who shared the same worn mattress on the floor.
Step by step she had hauled herself up from poverty to wealth and prestige, taking a lot of knocks along the way. It wasn’t easy for a woman on her own without family money to fall back on. She certainly hadn’t gotten this far without learning how to see off competitors. In her head, she planned the exact words she would use when she made the telephone call.
“Mrs. Lawrance, I couldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t have a word about the new tenant your husband is considering for number 673. You see, I came across Madame Rubinstein in Europe, and I’m afraid she’s not the sort you would want in your property. . . .” She listened hard, trying to judge how her words were being received, but could hear only the older woman’s breathing and a slight buzzing on the line. “She’s rather flamboyant . . . bohemian, you might say. I’m not sure it’s the image you want at the street level of such a prestigious building, where every passing shopper can see.” It was on the tip of her tongue to say, “She’s not one of us,” but she restrained herself. Mrs. Lawrance, born into old money and married to old money, wouldn’t consider Elizabeth Arden her equal, not by a long shot.
“My husband has been trying to find a tenant there for some time. Property lying empty costs him money,” Mrs. Lawrance said. “And I believe their lawyers are already discussing the tenancy agreement. It’s rather late in the day to ask him to withdraw.”
Elizabeth bit her lip. It was unthinkable that Madame Rubinstein should open a salon at one of the best retail addresses in the city with its own street entrance. She wouldn’t put up with it. She played her ace. “What if I were to take on the lease? You know I would present the right image for the area. My salons are discreet and tasteful, not loud and anarchistic.”
“Anar-chistic?” Mrs. Lawrance’s voice rose. Elizabeth seemed to have struck a nerve.
“She’s friends with all those avant-garde European artists—you know, the ones who doodle childishly on a canvas and charge hundreds of dollars for it, although no one can make out what on earth their doodles are supposed to represent. I believe they want to overthrow the status quo.” She sighed. “I’m sure the last thing your husband wants is a troublemaker.”
“Certainly, that wouldn’t be good.” Mrs. Lawrance paused, considering. “I will have a word with Mr. Lawrance. You say that if it’s not too late to halt the other contract, you will take on the lease? At the terms offered? You didn’t seem keen before.”
“I’ve reconsidered,” Elizabeth replied, frowning. She would keep her existing salon at
Mrs. Lawrance hung up. An hour later Elizabeth took a call from Mr. Pease, confirming that the lease was hers if she wanted it.
“Have you told Madame Rubinstein yet?” she asked, clenching her fist in triumph.
He cleared his throat. “Ah, no. I was waiting for confirmation.”
“Perhaps it’s best not to mention my name for now. Perhaps just say that there was a misunderstanding, that the owner’s wife had already promised it to a friend.” She nodded. That would do. She wouldn’t move in for a few months because the property needed complete redecoration from floor to ceiling. “I’m sure you’ll find somewhere else for Madame Rubinstein’s salon in a district that’s more suitable for someone of her . . . background.”
She knew he would catch her meaning: not on Fifth Avenue. The newcomer didn’t belong there. That was Elizabeth’s domain. Mr. Pease had arranged the lease of her first Fifth Avenue salon, and had received commission for referring her to the agent who found her premises in Washington, DC. She was expanding and he knew she was good for business.
“Of course, Miss Arden,” he said quickly, and she was reassured by his tone that they understood each other perfectly.
Chapter 2
Helena
January 1915
“I’m afraid there’s been a mistake, Madame Rubinstein.” Mr. Pease spread his hands and shrugged in a “what can I do?” gesture. “The landlord tells me his Fifth Avenue property is no longer available.”
“How strange.” Helena fixed him with her dark eyes. “The lease was sent to my lawyers yesterday and they have spent hours examining it.” She paused. “Please tell your client I will pay double the rent.”
She heard her sister Manka give a slight gasp, saw the greed flicker across the agent’s eyes as he calculated the commission. His suit was good-quality cloth, well cut, but it showed signs of wear: shiny patches at the elbows, sagging at the pockets. She guessed he only had a couple of suits, which he alternated.
He was reassessing her now—her navy-blue Worth gown, her chinchilla stole, her eye-popping diamond ring—and probably assuming she had a rich husband who gave her a generous allowance. Men always underestimated her at first. It could be useful.
“I’ll call and make the offer,” the agent agreed. “Would you ladies like some coffee?”
Helena made a dismissive gesture and watched him leave the room.
“What are you doing?” Manka hissed in Polish. “The rent was already extortionate.”
Helena turned to her. “He won’t accept. I bet he decided not to let me have it once he noticed my surname on the legal documents.”
Friends had advised her to change her name before launching her beauty business in the States, to avoid anti-Jewish discrimination, but she refused. She wasn’t a practicing Jew, didn’t keep kosher, and wasn’t sentimental about her Polish-Jewish heritage, but she didn’t see why she should bow to pressure from bigots. It made her all the more determined to succeed using her own name. She had managed in Europe and Australia, despite discrimination there. After researching the US market, she’d concluded that immigrant women could be a valuable source of customers and the name Rubinstein might attract them. If any potential clients were put off by her Jewish blood, frankly, she didn’t want them in her salon.
Mr. Pease came back, full of apologies. “So sorry, he promised it to a friend of his wife’s.” He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “But I have several more properties I can show you.”
“On Fifth Avenue, north of Forty-Third Street?” She had heard that area was the most prestigious location for a salon like hers.
He consulted his notes, flustered now. “Perhaps not on Fifth Avenue itself, but just around the corner . . .”
Helena spoke sharply. “How far around the corner? You’ve wasted my time already. Think very hard before you drag me somewhere else that might also turn out to be not available.” She had been running a successful business for thirteen years, and she knew how to handle men like this.
“I have the perfect place,” he said, his cheeks pink, perspiration beading on his top lip, where there was a nick from shaving. “Please—come with me.”
Helena viewed seventeen premises over the following week before choosing one on East Forty-Ninth Street, spacious with high ceilings and a sweeping staircase. She loved a good staircase. Mr. Pease was worn out when they sat down in his office to do the bit she loved best: making the deal. Always she had a price in her mind; always she got it.
She had learned her negotiation skills from her father, who was a kerosene salesman in her native Poland: Listen hard and never say more than you have to. Control your expression so you give nothing away. Work out your bottom line and stick to it. His rules worked every time. They hadn’t been in touch for over twenty years, since he threw her out of their family home and she left Poland to make her own way in the world, but at least she had picked up his deal-making wisdom before then.
Helena threw her energy into the East Forty-Ninth Street salon, choosing every element of the décor as well as the artworks that would be on display, among them sculptures by the Polish artist Elie Nadelman, and a huge Cubist painting by Georges Braque. A treatment room would have black lacquer furniture and gilt trimmings, while the main salon would have dark blue velvet walls, with contrasting baseboards and moldings in deep rose. She wanted an environment that was plush and visually stunning. When women came for treatments, they should feel like visiting royalty.
Time was short, because she wanted to open for business in three months. There was no point paying rent for a property she wasn’t earning money from. She bribed the tradesmen to work longer hours and promised them a bonus for speedy completion. It would be worth it.
Soon after they arrived in the city, she had sent Manka to investigate the other beauty salons, booking appointments under her married name, Czerwinksy. There was Eleanor Adair, Kathleen Mary Quinlan, and the woman Helena was most keen to hear about, the one she considered her main rival, Elizabeth Arden. Whenever she opened a newspaper or magazine, she saw expensive advertisements for Arden products. Be Beautiful! they proclaimed. Don’t Look Old! Her New York salon was known as the Salon d’Oro—a golden name to match her golden promises of eternal youth. Two could play at that game, Helena thought. Her husband, Edward Titus, wrote her advertising copy and he was a much more skillful writer than anyone on Miss Arden’s team.
Helena fingered the pink, white, and gold packaging of a pot of Arden’s Venetian Pore Cream. The etched glass was too pretty-pretty for her taste, but it was a decent weight in the palm of the hand. The lettering on the label was old-fashioned, from the last century. She opened the pot and sniffed: lavender and maybe a hint of rose. She dipped the tip of her finger inside, then rubbed the cream onto the back of her hand. It was far too heavy. How could anyone advise Manka to cover her delicate complexion with this muck?
“Miss Arden herself gave me a head and shoulder massage,” Manka told her. “She has big masculine hands, very strong.”
“It’s not a good business if she has to treat customers herself,” Helena said. “What does she look like?”
Manka tipped her head on one side, remembering. “She’s no beauty. Reddish-blonde hair set in waves. Square jaw, big nose, eyes too close together. She has good posture but a limp on the right side. She speaks with a breathy, little girl’s voice in an upper-class accent that sounds fake. And she calls everyone ‘dear.’”
Helena nodded, pleased at that. “What about the salon?”
“White and gold. Marble, chandeliers, mirrors, nothing remarkable.”
Helena examined the other Arden products Manka had brought back. She’d have them analyzed by a chemist, but so far she wasn’t impressed. Her own creams were far superior. She thrived on competition, and planned before long to be the leading beauty brand in the lucrative American market.
