Chapter Seven: Alexandra

Alexandra was weary, drained of energy, and anxious to get home. Her head rested against the velvet interior of her limousine. A searing pain behind her eyes intensified the nausea churning her insides. With silent desperation she urged her driver to speed the car along. Do something, anything, but get her, for God's sake, home!

Sunset Boulevard traffic was unusually heavy for three in the afternoon. The Rolls Royce Silver Cloud was forced to inch its way toward the West Gate of Bel Air. Once inside it would gain speed and leave behind the miles of ordinary cars belonging to the very ordinary people who lived ordinary lives.

"We're almost to the gate, Madam."

"Thank you, Goodwin."

She opened her beautifully lush and opal-like eyes after deliberately keeping them closed so she would not look upon the ordinary people who crowded the elegant boulevard surrounding her cherished silver-gray Rolls Royce.

Searching her black alligator handbag now, she located a solid gold pillbox. Ultra-cautious of her perfectly manicured nails, she opened the tiny box and extracted two Fiorinol with Codeine. The headaches were becoming more frequent and violent. Normally, she wouldn't consider taking two of the powerful drug, but there was a long afternoon and night ahead.

Everything had gone wrong at the studio. Despite dozens of memos and explicit instructions, the setup for the new television commercial was a disaster. The Producer, Director and Set Designer conspired behind her back and came up with an entirely different, Avant Garde concept for Alexandra Cosmetics. A surprise, they had said. It certainly was! And she told them so in no uncertain terms. Alexandra Cosmetics was identified the world over as elegance and exquisite taste personified! They were insane to tamper with perfection. "Never mix your fantasies with my proven success gentlemen," she had coldly declared.

The model they had booked was all wrong. A simpering cover girl, too thin, with a pouting mouth and defiant eyes. Alexandra Cosmetics required a woman who looked dewy and youthful, yet elegant and world-wise; to whom cosmopolitan, success-oriented women could relate. Not some silly teenager who happened to be this year's fashion sensation and next year's Hollywood bombshell. Alexandra had specifically outlined someone who projected a cool, refined aura of regal poise thinly veiling a well of danger and wanton, unbridled passion. A woman such as herself. That issue had been the focal point of an extensive and heated argument from the beginning of the project. Ben Nash, a Cleo Award winning Producer, and Roger Waltrip, Director, had insisted months ago, that Alexandra's was the ideal face to promote her own products.

Flattered though she might have been, there were personal reasons for resisting, but they were close to wearing her down. None of the Ad Agencies in New York had been successful in unearthing the right face. Still, Alexandra was unconvinced. To be photographed at a gala opening or fundraising event was one thing. It appeared in the society columns the following day and then disappeared. How would it look if she appeared in full-page ads in Harpers, Vogue or Vanity Fair? What would her elite society friends think? She could imagine the jokes and snide comments to be made at her expense. The very thought of appearing on television left her repulsed. It was alright for Betty Furness and Bess Myerson to hawk refrigerators and appliances, but Alexandra correctly surmised it would erode her hard-won identity and social standing.

Leaning forward, she reached for a crystal decanter held firmly in place by a shining gold fixture. She refreshed herself with a sip of imported sparkling water. A small amount in a baccarat tumbler and popped the drugs in her mouth. In minutes she would have blessed relief.

Goodwin was at last making the welcomed right hand turn through the Bel Air gate. Four more miles of winding pavement and she would be home. As suddenly as she realized that she was frowning, she tapped herself forcefully on the brow and smoothed out her forehead. She did a series of nearly imperceptible exercises, raising and lowering her eyebrows ten times in succession and made a mental note to be sure and wear her 'frownies' to bed that night.

Tonight! Oh, God how she wished she didn't have to attend that damned charity ball at the Beverly Hilton. She glanced at her watch. Quarter to four. Kenneth had better have left his station at Saks Fifth Avenue in time to be there waiting for her when she arrived.

Chen Ling, her dressmaker, had been working for over a month on a stunning black chiffon gown that perfectly complimented her alabaster skin and Titan red hair.

Originally she had planned to wear the emeralds. Fabulous cabochon emeralds surrounded by hundreds of diamonds, but now she was seriously considering the rubies. After the argument with Ben and Roger she was drawn to red. It matched her mood. Bloody. Yes, the rubies. Be sure and tell Juanita to clean them while Kenneth had her under the dryer.

Was it time for a touch up? The dark roots were just beginning to show. She'd have to consult her desk calendar and see when she was due for another color session. How she wished she could be honest with Ben and Roger and tell them her real reasons for fighting their arguments.

Her revelry was interrupted by the crunching sound of gravel under the limo tires. She was home. It was a reassuring sound that signaled the maddening world was behind her now. All that these ten manicured acres contained: the swimming pool, tennis courts, hillside paths, Gazebo and orchid house, were hers. A constant reminder of her position, security and social standing in the world.

Goodwin opened the door and held out his hand to assist her.

"Baroness?"

She grasped his hand and slipped a delicately curved leg toward the waiting gravel.

"Thank you, Goodwin,"

Eyeing the silver Porsche parked nearby she smiled. "I see Kenneth is on time for a change. Have Juanita bring the packages to my suite, please." Her voice was a veiled command.

"Certainly, Madame."

With that the Baroness Alexandra Von Lonsburgh strode toward the imposing portals of her mansion, neck in careful alignment with her graceful shoulders and rhythmically swaying hips. The magnificent walk and graceful allure she had developed so many years before, when she was an unknown chorine struggling to eek out a living in the second chorus of a third rate Broadway show.

The Fiorinol was beginning to take effect. She was feeling light-headed as she slipped the sable off her shoulders and ascended the curved marble staircase that led to her private apartment within the mansion. She considered a vermouth-cassis and immediately rejected the idea. Doctor Martin was adamant in his warning not to mix alcohol with this prescription. Well, a glass of champagne wouldn't hurt. She would just sip a little while Kenneth was doing her hair.

Kenneth was on the phone, as always, his mouth yammering away, making plans to meet someone later on that night. He gave her an airy wave as she strode past her private salon on her way to the bedroom to change into a robe.

Kenneth annoyed her to the core, if the truth were to be known. His incessant flapping of lips and feminine mannerisms embarrassed her, but she tolerated him because he was a talented hairdresser. Not only that, but he could be controlled. She knew he was impressed with her money, prestige and social connections. Alexandra would occasionally placate him by inviting him to one of her parties where he could ogle and meet the elite. An occasional Senator, a few movie stars, a visiting dignitary. Invariably, Kenneth would cozy up to the wife of such a person and ruin her evening trying to persuade her to come into Saks so that he could have a go at her hair. Kenneth had the unnerving habit of constantly inspecting the hair of someone he was speaking to. He was incapable of simply looking someone in the eyes and listening to what was being said.

A bottle of Dom Perignon was perfectly chilled in the bedroom refrigerator. In designing her quarters Alexandra had spared nothing in insuring her personal comfort. There should never be a need to go downstairs if she didn't feel like it. To that end, the master bedroom held a completely stocked wet bar with a small refrigerator hidden in its interior. She pulled the bottle out and set it on the silver tray on the bar. She would have Goodwin come up and open it. Kenneth always enjoyed a glass while waiting for her to come out from under the dryer. She slipped out of her Channel suit and silk slip by Jewel Park, Beverly Hills.

Standing alone in her cream and salmon bathroom, she unfastened her bra and let it fall to the floor. The breasts were still firm and youthful for a woman of her age, thanks to her daily ministrations of Alexandra Breast Creme and dutiful exercises. Harsh, unflattering neon lighting had been installed in the bathroom. The better to inspect herself. She had learned ages ago that, if a woman looked good under neon, no lighting save direct sunlight could make her look bad. Unpleasant though it was, she subjected herself to daily inventories in a relentless struggle to stave off the telltale ravages of time.

Well, Kenneth was waiting and she wanted to be completely ready when Congressman Jordan arrived. Four-thirty already. Charles Jordan wasn't expected until seven-thirty. If she hurried a little she could just make it. A mirrored closet behind her housed a collection of lingerie and robes. Everything from feather trimmed satins to plain old terry cloth. She selected a brightly patterned cotton kimono that ended just above the knee and slipped her pedicured feet into a pair of cozy slippers she had scooped up by the dozens at Gucci, Beverly Hills. She went to the telephone and buzzed Goodwin's apartment, gave him a list of instructions which included the unopened bottle of champagne and then strode into her very private salon.

"Kenneth, get off the damned phone," she hissed, "there's work to be done."

Like a small boy discovered with his hand in the cookie jar, he sprang to attention. His parting words, spat into the telephone ran together like one word. "Alright, I gotta go now. Call you later." With that he slammed the receiver down and turned to her with a ridiculously boyish grin on his forty-three year old face.

Thirty minutes later she was under the dryer with a satin mask holding a moistened tea bag over each eye. A beauty secret she discovered during her travels in England. The tannic acid in the tea had a soothing effect on the eyes and produced a tightening effect as well. Although she had several eye creams bearing her name in her cabinets, she preferred this simple procedure. It produced remarkable results.

She was drawn back to the earlier argument with Ben and Roger. Essentially, what they proposed made a good deal of sense. She was a living monument to the preservation of youth and beauty. She was fifty-five and looked thirty. Only in direct sunlight, which she assiduously avoided, could the naked eye discern the tiny smile lines that were beginning to form around the eyes. And no hairdresser could ever say that she bore the telltale scars of a facelift. Two years ago she had found a wonderful European surgeon who performed miracles without leaving a trace of evidence. All of the work was done from the scalp. Practically no scars at all. She was elated that she could wear her hair pulled straight back in a ponytail or a sleek chignon for evening, brazenly exposing her ears and neck, daring anyone to whisper that she had succumbed to plastic surgery.

"Alright," she told herself. All of that aside, there were other considerations. Aside from the fact that she disliked the notion of hawking her products like some barker on a carnival midway, there were more important reasons why she had to weigh exposing herself to close public scrutiny. Might they remember or, Heaven forbid, even resurrect the two terrible films she had done? The first had been done in Europe on an infinitesimal budget. It was a terrible potboiler, a critical failure that made piles of money for the Producers because it contained a nude scene of her frolicking in a Belgian lake. "Very artsy," they said at the time. The truth was that nudity in those days was verboten in commercial filmmaking. People flocked to the box office to gape at her incredible body. Old photographs still showed up from time to time showing a very young, dark haired beauty with an amazingly proportioned body, but no one could guess that it was the red haired enchantress that the world now knew as the fabulous Baroness Alexandra von Londsburgh. Her years of experience in dealing with the press cautioned her not to give them reason to dredge up her past, which was exactly what might happen if she become too public a figure. It was one thing to own a cosmetics empire and quite another to put your face out there and all that went with it. Talk shows and interviews and introspection into the past. She shuddered at the thought of having to talk about her four marriages.

Her hand tightened around the crystal glass and she took a sip of champagne. She calculated that she had about five more minutes before Kenneth came to comb her out. Undoubtedly, he was on the phone again.

The image of Frank Magana forced itself into her brain and she fought to push it away as she had so many times over the years. To mentally push him down and deeper down into the subconscious, drowning him until he was as dead in her mind as he was in real life. It was only in rare, quiet moments like these that he continued to haunt her. She was unable to escape him. His death. The headlines screaming. Police asking relentless questions. Unspoken accusations. Speculation that she had accomplished the impossible: gotten away with Murder.

Police Investigators were never satisfied at the mysterious death of one of Hollywood's legendary hero's. A swashbuckling, two fisted man's man found dead at the wheel of his white Cadillac in the closed garage of his Malibu beach house. Cause of death, carbon monoxide asphyxiation. The press speculated for months over the question of suicide or murder. After all, there was a very bitter divorce in progress. A huge amount of community property was being argued about. Even hotter was the child custody battle over four year old Erika.

That period was one of the darkest in Alexandra's life. Of course it was murder and she knew who had done it. Certainly not her. She was aware of the whispered speculations but couldn't confide what she knew to anyone. Not the police or even the FBI, for that matter. The information would have rocked the industry to the core and shattered the world's conception of Frank Magana, swarthy star of nearly forty films including "Dawn Over Iwo Jima," which won him an Oscar. A bitter divorce and child custody battle was one thing. The destruction of Frank Magana and the pedestal that his fans and the press built was out of the question. Alexandra had made a contract with herself to keep his secret and take it with her to her grave.

Of one thing she was certain. She should never have been a Mother. She didn't understand the needs of another human being. Especially an infant. It was Frank who wanted children. It was the only way to hold on to him.

She hated the way the little being inside distended her belly and swelled her breasts. Hours of daily applications of cocoa butter and a professional masseuse successfully fought the stretch marks. All it took was money. Thank God Frank had it. Alexandra couldn't have gotten through her pregnancy without the support of the highest priced Obstetrician in Beverly Hills and the private nurse hovering over her, attending to every minor or imagined discomfort. Frank was so happy about her pregnancy that he didn't object to the expense of daily massages or the Swiss beautician who spent hours administering facials and toning the skin.

Alexandra wouldn't think of going out in public once her waistline disappeared, so she made these people her social network. The manicurist, her hairdresser, the masseuse. She once considered striking up a conversation with the mailman but dismissed that idea as absurd. Who in their right mind would be seen talking to the mailman in Bel Air?

She had heard but never believed the old wives tale about pregnant women having a special glow. Well, she certainly was glowing those days. But from what? Or were the Swiss facials really as good as they were cracked up to be? No matter. She was a glowing example of impending Motherhood and it photographed beautifully.

She looked sensational on the cover of Life Magazine. Downright Madonna-like. For the inside story, Alexandra was cleverly seated for every photograph. The camera was forced to concentrate on her face. The perfect face. "The Face of the Age," as it had been christened. The camera couldn't capture the loathsome being that was filling up her insides and causing her backaches and sleepless nights. Thank God it would one day be over. Just a few more months and off to the hospital.

She feared the pain more than she allowed herself to admit. Her doctor suggested a Caesarian Section. How wonderful that sounded. Go to sleep, cut open the belly and take the little bugger out. But then she would be left with a scar.

To be scarred for life was just too horrible to think about. No. She would endure the pain. It couldn't last forever. Maybe they could give her a spinal block or something. But no scars. She couldn't bear the thought of a scar on her magnificent body.

The baby was born with her eyes open and screamed almost as loudly as Alexandra. Shortly after the nurses cleaned the infant and went to place it on her still swollen belly Alexandra rejected it.

So this was the monster who caused her so much pain. "Take it away," she whispered, "just take me back to my room, please."

Alexandra refused to breast feed the infant although she was filled with milk. She feared it would make her fabulous nipples brown and ugly. But she had to admit that the child was beautiful.

Once again she looked stunning in magazines across the World as photographers were allowed into her hospital room to photograph The Face of the Age who had given birth to the child of the All-American Movie Super Hero, Frank Magana.

The screaming never stopped. Erika came into the world with a scream and, as far as Alexandra was concerned, was a pain in the ass ever since. Thank God she could afford the luxury of a Nanny to wash, bathe and change the little creature. Of course it was essential that the child be treated like Royalty. The Movie Magazines were clamoring for stories about the enchanted life of Hollywood's newest little Princess. She had to be dressed in the finest laces and satins and her little Winter clothes were trimmed in expensive fur, just like Mommies. Oh, Alexandra put in her time at playing the worshipful Mother. How could she not, with a houseful of servants and a Nanny watching her every move? Alexandra was aware of the network of servant gossip rampant in Beverly Hills and Bel Air. You couldn't pass gas in your own home in the presence of the servants without the neighbors knowing how it smelled. And she also had to please Frank. Especially Frank. But that wasn't too hard. Most of the time he was off somewhere shooting a picture.

Alexandra was adamant about pretending to be the perfect wife and adoring Mother when Frank was home. She even got down on the floor in the living room and played with the baby for hours. Once the baby burped in Alexandra's face and let forth a smell of sour milk that sent Alexandra scurrying to the bar for a drink.

Frank Magana's sudden death, shrouded in mystery, conjecture, and speculation put an end to Alexandra's charade. All she had to do after his death was to ignore the gossip, the newspapers clamoring for an interview, and the open stares of people the moment she entered a room.

Erika was overindulged, no doubt about it. What she wanted, she got. Anything to keep her out of her Mother's hair. She got lots of pets because they kept her entertained for hours.

Alexandra hated pets. They got hair on the furniture and tried to jump on her, sometimes ruining an expensive outfit. The animals were allowed everywhere but Alexandra's bedroom, which became her private Sanctuary. No one was allowed in Alexandra's bedroom when the door was closed, which was most of the time. Alexandra would tell Nanny and the other servants that she wanted to read in peace or take a nap. The truth was that Alexandra sat for hours at her dressing table gazing at her image in the mirror. The Face of the Age. It certainly was. Absolute perfection. And no one admired it more than she.

By the time Erika entered her early teens she developed into the monster that overindulgence creates. For one thing, she resented the fact that her Mother was so beautiful.

Erika had a beauty of her own, but she would never be the flawless Goddess that her Mother was. Erika was sent to the best schools money could buy, but she did poorly. Why should she study Math? Her world was littered with money. She would never have to add or subtract in her entire life. That's what accountants were for. You hired them to add and subtract your money. Anyone knew that.

Erika grew up enveloped in her Mother's passion for beautiful clothes, expensive fabrics, jewels and furs. By age thirteen she discovered the best way to annoy Alexandra was to dress like a slob. It gave her a rush of independence to see the shocked and disgusted look on Alexandra's face when she came into a room wearing dirty jeans and an old shirt, her shoes badly scuffed. Alexandra had an absolute fetish for beautiful shoes and Erika enjoyed wearing scuffed and dirty ones to irritate her Mother.

She then discovered that her choice of friends could be a source of annoyance to Alexandra as well. Erika deliberately formed a circle of acquaintances at school who were renegades, like herself. They happily took the young girl into their circle. She was the daughter of a dead big shot Movie Star and a famous Mother. It gave them power to hang out with Erika and they doted on her. They taught her the joys of gutter language and how to smoke. How to talk back to adults and stare them down. How to sneak out of the house at night and cruise the sleazy bars of downtown Los Angeles. Erika took diabolic pleasure in inviting her "friends" home. She knew Alexandra was appalled and perhaps even a little bit frightened by them. Erika enjoyed staring defiantly into Alexandra's eyes, daring her to say a word against her rumpled, pimply-faced associates in dirty dungarees, torn sweat shirts and black leather jackets.

Alexandra had no control over Erika because she had never exerted any role of authority. In the beginning Erika was little more than a doll to be played with occasionally when she was a baby. Then a little girl to dress up and parade for the Press and Public. Alexandra was unprepared for the antagonistic teenager that Erika became. They were like two stray cats, forever circling one another. At times Alexandra would watch Erika and think to herself, "Did that really come from inside of me?" It caused her to shudder.

"Think of something else." "Have a drink." "Go to another Charity Ball." What stunning new creation was being made for her this week?

What a relief it was when Erika was taken on as a member of Etta Rawlings touring company. Out of the house at last. It had been simple enough. One phone call to her business manager with explicit instructions to find something for her nineteen year old daughter to do that would take her out of town. Airline stewardess. Cruise Ship Director. Just get her the hell out of town. Alexandra's financial manager was a friend of Arnold Weintraub and knew that Etrawl Productions was putting together a large bunch of youngsters to go on tour with Etta Rawlings. Something about promoting the image of healthy American Youth abroad. The man had no way of knowing that Erika harbored secret ambitions of her own. One fortuitous phone call changed Erika's life by setting her free.

Alexandra was suddenly alert. To Hell with this! If she kept this up she'd wind up with another headache and have to take to her bed. Summoning her iron determination, she raised the lid of the hairdryer, set the champagne glass on a nearby table and took the mask and tea bags from her eyes. She must be dry by now. Frank Magana was dead. Erika was grown and on her own. Alexandra had more important things to do than churn up old memories of pain and remorse.

"Kenneth!" she called, "Get in here! Let's get this show on the road."