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  Liza always makes him feel better about himself. Better than he is alone. Halston loves her so much in this moment. He wants to tell her, but it comes out a different way. It’s all about him. He can’t find a way to make it about her.

  “I really need you here with me tonight, Liza,” he says. He is momentarily frightened.

  “You have me. I’m right here.” She bends down to do one of the lines.

  “If I’m not blitzed when those models come down the runway and something bad happens, then I’m going to be very upset.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s going to be great, Halston.” She kisses him on the lips, and he tastes the cocaine and the sweet and sour mix of champagne and lip gloss. “And, if it’s not great, we’ll just torch this whole fucking place down and everyone inside of it.” Halston smiles. He does the other line and at the end of it, he looks up at the mirror. Liza leans her head toward him, and they both look at themselves in the mirror. Halston and Liza. He wants to remember this moment. They both smile, kind half-smiles. Then they burst out laughing.

  The lights dim briefly as if it’s intermission during one of her musicals.

  “Let’s go open this show, goddamnit!” Liza says, already on her way out the door.

  Everyone has begun to take their seats. Liza sits down next to Steve and Andy and places her gold Art Deco clutch on the empty seat next to her.

  Someone hands Halston a microphone. He looks out over the sea of people who have assembled to celebrate his new line. To celebrate him. Or this new version of him, whoever that is. There are coordinated parties happening in several different cities around the country at this exact moment—Chicago, L.A. Miami, Washington D.C. It’s like the whole country is waiting for him to address them. He is standing directly underneath the belly of the whale.

  “You know me, I’m as American as apple pie,” he begins. “I’m the original Mr. Sweater Set. I like casual clothes and have never been able to make them. When I was a kid, I always shopped at Penney’s. Remember, I come from Des Moines, Iowa.” The audience laughs, and he takes the opportunity to look up for a second before continuing his speech. It’s like the whale is cresting the surface of the water before plunging back down.

  “What you are about to see, ladies and gentlemen, is the most challenging and gratifying fashion job I have ever done. This is for the American people,” he says. “Over half of America goes into JCPenney at some point. When I think of these clothes, I think of my family. I have a sister in Little Rock and a sister-in-law in Gainesville, Florida, and they’re dying for these clothes to come out.” He pauses and strikes a lanky pose. “Who needs cashmere?”

  “Why doesn’t he just send his sisters the clothes? Why do they have to go to JCPenney?” he can see Steve mouthing to Liza. At least that’s what he imagines Steve is saying. The lights in the great hall dim except for tracking lights that illuminate the great blue whale. Beneath it, the runway floor lights up from below, and a shimmering effect provided by the sheer aqua iridescence of the whale makes the whole hall appear as if it’s underwater. We are now all submerged, Halston thinks. We are all the rich people on the Titanic who didn’t get off in time.

  He takes his seat next to Liza just as “Let’s Dance” by David Bowie comes on over the speaker and the Halstonettes begin to come out one by one. A polyester crepe print blouse with tiny H’s along the neckline; a casual sundress accessorized with a silver Elsa Perretti bean; a herringbone tweed skirt paired with a crème cowl-neck sweater; a white Memorial Day-inspired half-pant with a khaki tank top and a Halstonette cheerfully waving a small American flag; a melton wrap coat with contrasting edges; a printed canvas knit shirtdress with self-sash, topped off with a single-breasted coat in taupe wool; a red marabou jacket; an ivory matte jersey with more tiny H’s; and then, finally, his showstopper: lightweight Shetland wool separates—a stole, wrapped over a matching sweater, and a knitted dress.

  Halston looks up again at the blue whale just as the showstopper comes to the end of the runway. How far did the whale have to travel? How many miles, how many leagues through the ocean must it have traversed to end up right here, floating in air?

  *

  When they pull up to Studio 54, there’s a predictable crowd surrounding the door. It’s not as big of a crowd as it used to be four or five years ago, but it’s still no cakewalk to get into the place and that’s what Halston likes most about it. If you’re not famous then you better be extremely good-looking, wearing something extraordinary, or someone worth screwing. You better be fucking fabulous, or you best get out of his way.

  He once saw a man in line dressed in drag as Mrs. Danvers from the movie Rebecca. The drag queen was standing next to a Joan Fontaine doppelgänger, complete with makeup that made both of them appear as if they were in an old black-and-white movie. They both so enraptured Halston that he thought about doing an entire Halston Originals collection based around the look. But then he must have forgotten about it or he became caught up in something else. He always has so many projects running at the same time. He could still put out that collection if he wanted to. He could have the Halstonettes walk down the runway in vintage-inspired gowns and gray makeup at Olympic Tower. He could resurrect an entire forgotten era of glamour and elegance if he wanted to. It would be the antithesis of anything you could ever find at a JCPenney. He is still the standard bearer in the industry. That moniker has not, and can never be, sold.

  He takes a long drag and ashes his cigarette before finally putting it out in the ashtray in the limo door. He feels for the mirrored sunglasses in the side pocket of his black sports jacket. He only started wearing the sunglasses so that people couldn’t see how bloodshot his eyes were. But there are only friends in this limo—they’re allowed to see who he really is. Roy Halston Frowick from Des Moines. The Hatmaker from the Midwest. The Haute Courtier of Seventh Avenue. The King of Olympic Tower. The Prince of Powder. The Mayor of Studio 54. Liza Minnelli’s Best Friend. Andy Warhol’s Muse. Steve Rubell’s Favorite Celebrity. The Man Standing Beneath a Giant Whale. Halston. Simply Halston.

  “Oh look, it’s Faye Dunaway,” says Andy, pointing out of the tinted window of the limo before doing a bump offered by Steve.

  “Who cares? Look at that fine specimen over there,” Halston says, pointing to a tall black man in a red wind-breaker, white jeans, and hi-tops. “Steve, why don’t you get out and go let him into the club?” Halston has always preferred black rough trade.

  “Just because you sell in malls now doesn’t mean I’m gonna start letting in bridge-and-tunnel,” Steve says. Halston rolls his eyes and puts his sunglasses back on. Liza grabs onto his shoulders and looks him dead-on. He thinks she might be trying to steady him before they exit the limo, so he doesn’t erupt at Steve in public. She has always been able to sense when he needs to be calmed down. But then he realizes that she’s just using his mirrored sunglasses to quickly fix her hair.

  When Studio 54 reopened after Steve and his business partner, Ian, got out of prison (having served time for tax evasion), Halston offered to throw a dinner gala to celebrate his return. Steve told him that he would prefer it if Calvin Klein threw the dinner. Calvin Klein, not him. It was practically unforgivable. To Halston, Steve is that ugly kid in high school the popular people keep around for entertainment. The kid who is always one bad night away from getting kicked out of the clique. And Halston has always been the leader of the clique. Steve would do well to remember that.

  Steve moves the rope aside so that Halston, Liza, and Andy can pass through.

  “Is Margaux here tonight? I didn’t see her at the show,” Liza asks Andy. Andy does a weird shake of his head that isn’t quite a no or a yes.

  Liza gives Mark, the doorman, a kiss as they walk past him. “I love you!” she says. Liza is positively lit. She links arms with Halston and they walk in together.

  Halston is surrounded by the familiar wall of mirrors that make up the front vestibule of the club. The mirrors are on all sides of him, i
ncluding the ceiling. Some are faded at the corners of the panes as if they are slowly reverting into glass. He sees small cracks in them like spider webs that appear in one’s field of vision and then disappear the moment they are noticed, having melted onto warm skin. He imagines what it must have been like to enter the club back when it was an opera house in the Roaring Twenties, a period by which he has always been fascinated, slightly jealous that he could not have lived then instead. He can feel the ghosts of past patrons staring back at him, superimposing their faces over his reflection. They stare back at him through his own eyes, reflecting back to him the optimism of another time. Old faces that look like new faces. A parade of faces.

  As they enter the main floor, the pulse of the club hits Halston like an electrical charge. It jolts him back to the present. He is home now, and he feels a bit better. 54 is home, just like 101. He doesn’t have to be anyone here. Here is exactly who he is. Whoever he is, he is here. No one is after him to reinvent himself or borrow his name to sell a piece of luggage, or an umbrella, or ask him for a check. Here he is alright. He feels so safe and sure of himself all of a sudden that he never wants to leave 54. And even if he didn’t, who would ever make him?

  Patrice Rushen’s “Haven’t You Heard?” is playing as Halston makes his way over to the DJ booth. “Liza, come with me,” he says taking her by the hand and leading her up a small staircase to the booth. It seems to him in this instant of having done this countless enough times he actually owns this small piece of the club. This real estate is his.

  “Let’s do another line—I love this song!” Liza says. She flips over a small drink ledge that has a mirror on the opposite side (Steve really does think of everything) and then pulls the amber vial out of her clutch and dumps out what’s left.

  “The show was a complete success. You know that, don’t you? Oh, I hope you do. I really do,” Liza says to him. He does know. He could tell after it was over. He saw one fashion reporter give him a nod right after the show that seemed to say, “Is it possible that you’ve done it again? Can I believe what I’ve seen here tonight?” Halston does half the line and leaves the rest for Liza.

  “Liza’s right, Halston. It was a success,” Andy says, joining them in the booth. “You shined. Everything really came together.” Andy uptalks, but it’s endearing.

  “Is there even a JCPenney in New York City?” asks Steve who Halston has failed to notice joining them in the DJ booth. Andy and Liza both look at each other like they can’t quite comprehend the question. Like, it’s in a language that neither of them can understand. In fact, there isn’t a JCPenney in New York City. The closest one is in Paramus, New Jersey. Halston knows this but was hoping that other people wouldn’t care or might have forgotten. And he never imagined anyone would dare mention it to him. The department store that is selling clothes which bear his name doesn’t even have a store in the city he has called home for twenty-six years. It embarrasses him.

  “You know, Steve Rubell, sometimes you’re just too fucking Jewish. Even for New York,” says Halston. He pronounces Steve’s last name like it’s an incurable venereal disease.

  Halston steps out of the booth and walks out into the mass of people that have gathered on the dance floor, cresting like waves with the rhythm of the music. He wants to be swallowed up in it. Swallowed up whole by them. “He’s the Greatest Dancer” by Sister Sledge comes on. Of course. It’s the song that mentions him in its lyrics.

  When the song used to come on at work, he would make everyone stop what they were doing until his name had passed. But he hasn’t heard it in a couple of years and it almost sneaks up on him when he hears his name again. He looks toward the DJ booth and sees Steve who has his arm around the DJ, looking back at him.

  It’s a Tuesday night, and there are mostly younger people in the club. Their images reflect back at him from a mirrored disco ball that spins above—another parade of faces. The pieces of the mirror in the ball reflect lights onto the dance floor and illuminate people for a flash before rotating and moving on. He suddenly spies Truman Capote near the center and nods in his direction, but Truman doesn’t notice. Truman is dancing with a shirtless Italian man. Although Halston can hardly call what Truman is doing “dancing,” it’s more like creepily prancing around the man in a predatory prowl, encircling him with gusto and beet-faced bravado, too drunk to be any threat, too bold to be outright ignored. The Italian man’s sweaty chest hair has caught the lights in just the right way so that he glistens. Halston would dress him in something light, a white linen suit perhaps with tan loafers and a neutral suede belt. He might trim the unruly mustache but keep the chest hair as it is, allowing its downy ringlets to pop out over the collar of a pale blue cotton shirt with buttons made of mother-of-pearl.

  Someone comes up from behind and caresses his shoulder with a familiar touch. It’s Liza. And although they never do it, tonight he thinks they will dance.

  * * *

  DON'T STOP ME NOW

  With the sound off, the television in Freddie’s hotel room played an episode of The Golden Girls in the background while they improvised their own dialogue. Kenny was Blanche, Cleo was Rose, Diana was Dorothy, and Freddie was Sophia.

  “What are you bitches doing in here?” Freddie (as Sophia) said as, on the screen, Estelle Getty burst into the kitchen to discover the three other ladies sharing a cheesecake.

  “Group sex,” said Cleo (as Rose). “And we need more tops.”

  “Don’t forget the lube, honey. You know how dry I get!” said Kenny in a drawl. He got up from his seat and started to mimic Blanche sashaying over to the refrigerator in a fur-lined silk calico robe.

  “We know, Blanche. I think everyone knows,” said Diana in her best Dorothy Zbornak.

  They all erupted into hysterics. Diana was giggling on the sofa. “So, what are you all doing tonight?”

  “We’re going to Royal Vauxhall Tavern,” said Freddie.

  “I’ve never heard of it. I’d like to come,” said Diana.

  Freddie, Cleo, and Kenny all acted surprised that she had even suggested it and tried to dissuade her, but they all quickly climbed on board just as Diana knew they would. She was feeling mischievous that evening; there would be no talking her out of anything.

  “Well, you can’t go as you to the club. We’ll have to disguise you somehow,” said Cleo.

  “I think I might have an idea,” Diana said. She announced her plan.

  “This is going to be bloody brilliant!” said Freddie. He was still pumped up from that night’s show at Covent Garden and was really jazzed about her plan. It almost sounded like the opening of a joke: So a princess in drag walks into a gay bar and orders a drink … “What a delicious idea!” Freddie thought it was everything. If they could pull it off, Diana knew they’d be telling this story for years.

  “I just love it,” Cleo said.

  “I have the perfect pair of skinny jeans for you to wear,” Freddie offered. “They’re fabulous. Let’s get you dressed, Butch.”

  “Do you really think this will work?” Diana asked, her voice kind of quiet but with that hint of excitement.

  “You’re a princess, and I’m a queen. Honey, this is so happening.”

  The plan was simple: they’d make the world’s most famous woman—a veritable icon—pass for an eccentric male model. Why not? It was worth a shot. Diana never got to go out, especially to the gay clubs with Freddie when he’d blow into town. Lately she hadn’t gone out at all. Freddie had gotten to calling her “Rapunzel”—“Oh, Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!”

  “It’s not that bad, Freddie,” Diana said.

  “Let’s execute your escape then.”

  Diana had been listening to Queen since before she could remember. Certainly before Charles and the boys. Maybe even since West Heath. “Fat Bottomed Girls” had been an early standard, but “Don’t Stop Me Now” was her all-time favorite, and Freddie and the boys had sung it that night at Covent Garden just for her. She and a handl
er had watched the band from a private balcony. Then the four of them fell into Freddie’s black town car, which waited at the exit of the auditorium.

  Cleo and Kenny were both comics whom Freddie had introduced her to a few years earlier. Diana had gotten rid of her handler for a couple hours, convincing him that she could take care of herself after the concert. She wasn’t expected to be anywhere else that night; Charles was in Balmoral, and the boys were both in bed.

  There had been no paparazzi stalking her in London for this jaunt. It had been leaked to the papers two days before that she was en route to Swaziland on a goodwill tour. She’d go of course, just not that week. This is what it took to have a life: fake itineraries, large sunglasses, escaping through secret exit doors.

  She wasn’t really shy; that was an image created by the media. She was just careful about who she gave herself to. She had to be. To the ones she loved, she was never shy. She was fearless. And she let her friends have as much of her as they wanted.

  “Let’s slick your hair back with pomade,” Cleo said, rubbing the gel between her palms and tamping down Diana’s beautiful hair.

  “You look like a twink! I love this!” Freddie proclaimed. He grabbed the pomade and flattened the sides of his own hair. He’d lost so much on top recently that there was nothing really left worth teasing. “I’d fuck you,” he told Diana.

  Cleo stopped zhuzhing Diana’s hair. “Language, Freddie! You’re speaking to royalty.”

  “Excuse me, Cleo. I’d fuck you, Your Highness,” he said.

  “Really?” Diana asked. Her blue eyes twinkled at him from her reflection in the mirror. “You would?”

  “Honey, you look better in those jeans than I ever have. That’s a fact. I mean, check out that ass.”

  Kenny pulled out one of Freddie’s many army jackets. “How about this?” It was structured in just that way. Fashion had so many angles now. All bold colors and planked shoulder lines. You could lose an eye on an exposed shoulder blade in 1988.