“Now you’re really going to see a palace, Bob.”

Andy and I were in Paris, on our way to a lunch in his honor at the Baron Alexis de Redé’s Palais Lambert on the Île Saint Louis. We had arrived a few days earlier for the opening of Andy’s Mao exhibition, on February 22, 1974, at the Musée Galliera, along with Fred Hughes, Peter and Sandy Brant, David Whitney, who hung the show, and Paloma Picasso.

It seemed like I’d seen nothing but palaces in Paris, starting with our hotel, the Crillon, where we had an endless suite of rooms smothered in gold brocade, which Fred told me had been occupied by the German high command during World War II. The Musée Galliera had been the palace of a rich Italian family in the eighteenth century, Fred said. Andy’s paintings had never looked more spectacular: the four twenty-foot-high portraits of Mao hung side by side in the epic grand hall, which had been covered in Andy’s delicate white-and-lavender Mao wallpaper—overwhelming icons of twentieth-century revolution set in the faded splendor of the ancien régime. The smaller salons had also been wallpapered and filled with medium-size Mao paintings, the Mao prints, and, in one room, one hundred miniature Mao paintings, which looked like so many Oriental postage stamps.

Everyone we’d visited lived in some sort of palace too: Yves Saint Laurent and his partner, Pierre Bergé; São Schlumberger and her husband, Pierre; Count and Countess Brando Brandolini, who owned half of the seventeenth-century hôtel particulière on the Rue du Cherche-Midi where Andy and Fred had recently purchased an apartment previously owned by Violet Trefusis, girlfriend of Vita Sackville-West. We had gone to see how the decorating work was progressing, and the high ceilings, ornate woodwork, and marble baths with gold fixtures made it look pretty palatial to me.

“Oh, I know,” said Andy, “but the Baron has a real palace, with footmen in funny white wigs and everything. You won’t believe your eyes, Bob.” Andy cracked his chewing gum before discarding it in the ashtray and added, “And the Baron was adopted. You could be adopted too, Bob. If you played your cards right. And stopped chasing after all those crazy young beauties.” He wasn’t proposing to adopt me himself.

Andy was a little let down when we drove into the cobblestoned courtyard of the Palais Lambert. The footman who scurried down the stone steps to open our taxi door wasn’t wearing a white wig or gold livery, just a plain black uniform and his own gray hair. “Why isn’t he all dressed up, Fred?” asked Andy. “They only get all gussied up for the big balls, Andy,” Fred explained. “This is just a normal little lunch.”

I had never been to a normal little lunch quite like it. The Palais Lambert, with its colossal crystal chandeliers and acres of red damask, looked like Versailles. The dining room, where twenty-two of us ate at one long table off gold plates with gold knives and forks, looked like the Hall of Mirrors. A footman stood behind every other chair in case a napkin dropped. I half expected Marie Antoinette to float through the double-height, double-width hand-painted doors, but instead in floated her seventies incarnation, Baroness Marie-Hélène de Rothschild. “Her husband, Baron Guy, really owns this place,” Andy whispered to me in a rush. “And now she wants to get rid of this nice old blind American lady who lives downstairs and stick the Baron de Redé down there, so she can have this apartment. She’s sort of mean,” Andy rushed on, while Fred gave us cautionary glances, “but we’re trying to get her portrait and I really like her a lot, so be sure to tell her how great she looks.”

Fred kissed her hand; Andy said, “Oh, hi, you look great, this is Bob, who helps us with Interview.” The Baroness de Rothschild was followed by the Princess de Polignac; the Baroness de Waldner; Bettina Graziani, the Aga Khan’s last flame; Virginia Chambers, the soon-to-be-evicted downstairs neighbor, in very dark glasses; and Irving “Swifty” Lazar, the legendary Hollywood literary agent. Yves Saint Laurent and his “family” were all there too: Pierre Bergé, who ran his business; his muses, Loulou de la Falaise and Betty Catroux; his spokeswoman, Chilean-born Clara Saint, and her beau, Thadée Klossowski, the handsome son of the painter Balthus.

This Paris circle made the New York fashion world seem downright plain, even boring. It wasn’t only the Proustian richesse that was overwhelming, but also the Proustian intrigue and backbiting. Nobody ever seemed to say anything nice about anybody else, not even their greatest friends. We saw the Saint Laurent-Rothschild group almost exclusively that week; if we had seen any other group they would have stopped seeing us. In New York you could mix and mingle. But in Paris the only things that were mixed were the marriages, and they were very mixed indeed. Otherwise, you had to stick with one clique.

After lunch Andy told me: “In Paris, it’s who’s not invited that counts. Now who wasn’t invited to lunch? The Brandolinis. They were In the last time we were here, why are they Out now, Fred?”

“They’re not Out, Andy. You can only fit so many people around one table.”

“But that was a really big table, Fred. And Hélène Rochas? Where was she? I thought she was the most In. How did she get to be Out, Fred?”

“She’s out of town, Andy, that’s how. Did you have too much champagne at lunch, or something? I wish you wouldn’t fill Bob’s head with such garbage. You never get it right, anyway.”

“Yes, I do, Fred, because I get it from you. Oh, Bob made a big faux pas at lunch. I forgot to tell you. He told Loulou that we saw São. She’s not part of the Yves Saint Laurent group, Bob. She’s part of the Givenchy group.”

“You didn’t say she’s having her portrait done, did you, Bob?” asked Fred. I said I sort of had. “Oh, no, this is all I need! I already have Pierre Bergé on my back because Marina let it slip that you did Valentino.”

“She’s your wife, Fred,” said Andy.

“I know she’s my wife, Andy,” said Fred.

“How much do you want to bet, Fred, that São doesn’t go through with her portrait when she hears that we did Hélène Rochas?”

“Well, she won’t hear, unless Bob tells her!”

“We’re never going to get Marie-Hélène, Fred. She hardly looked at me at lunch. She talked to Yves the whole time, in French. I told you we should’ve done her first.”

“Andy, you’re driving me crazy. I got you Eric de Rothschild first, didn’t I? I can only work on so many people at the same time. If we don’t get Marie-Hélène, we don’t get Marie-Hélène, and that’s that.” Fred stormed off to his room, muttering under his breath, “I told you so, I told you so, I told you so … ”

“Gee, I guess Fred’s cranky,” said Andy, unfazed, “because you kids stayed out so late last night, kicking up your heels at Club Sept.” Club Sept was the hottest night spot, Paris’s Le Jardin. All the most beautiful models went there for dinner upstairs and dancing downstairs, every night into the wee hours. The king of the club was Antonio Lopez, the hottest fashion illustrator since Joe Eula. If he liked a girl, it was a sure thing that the fashion magazines and fashion designers would too. He had launched the careers of Pat Cleveland and Apollonia van Ravenstein, sweeping them up from the dance floor to the runways of Saint Laurent and Halston, and now his latest discovery was Jerry Hall.

“Did you meet anybody cute at Club Sept after I left?” Andy asked. No. “Did Fred?” No. “Oh, I had the oddest conversation with Clara and Thadée in the taxi home, but I can’t tell you about what, because Fred will get mad. He says I can’t tell you anything, because you talk too much, Bob. You have to learn to talk less, especially in Paris. Thadée’s father gave them another drawing and they want to sell it to me. Should I do it?”

“Is that what you’re not supposed to tell me?”

“No, it’s something much worse. I mean, it’s just the Yves Saint Laurent group is so nutty. Like, Thadée is Clara’s boyfriend, right? But then … Oh, I better not tell you. Oh, I know what I should do, call up Pat in New York and give her the expenses. These trips don’t cost peanuts, you know, Bob. Gotta bring home the bacon.” Andy got to Pat in New York: “And then we took a taxi to the Baron de Redé’s to talk about Marie-Hélène’s portrait, twenty-five francs … ”

When he got off the phone, his face brightened as he said, “Should we call Fred’s room and tell him São just called to cancel her portrait?”

“Why don’t you leave Fred alone, Andy? He works so hard for you.”

“No, he doesn’t. He stays up all night kicking up his heels and drinking a lot of champagne. Your champagne chin is getting worse, Bob.”

“Andy, you know that all the entertaining Fred does brings in a lot of business.”

“Oh, really. Gee, should we call room service and order up some hot chocolate and chocolate cake and chicken sandwiches and tea and whatever else you want, Bob?”

“I can’t eat another thing, Andy, after that enormous lunch.”

“Oh, I know. But I didn’t eat anything. It all had too much butter and cream. It’s all bad for my gallbladder. Let’s just get some chocolate cake, okay?”

“But that’s bad for your gallbladder too, Andy. What’s the point of taking your pill every morning and not eating lunch, if you come back to the hotel and eat chocolate?”

“I don’t eat it, Bob! I just put it in my mouth and spit it out.”

I called room service. Eventually, Andy went to his room to lie down before yet another dinner with the Saint Laurent group. I liked the Saint Laurent group, but I wasn’t sure if they liked me. It was hard to tell who they liked, except each other, and even then I wasn’t sure. Yves hardly talked, except in whispers and in French. Pierre never stopped talking, in barks and in French. They knew that Andy and I didn’t speak French, and they could speak English, but, said Andy, that’s the way the French are. Loulou was nice one minute, not the next. Clara was always nice, always laughing, but did she also laugh behind your back? And Thadée was like Yves, the weak, silent type. Or so it seemed. I wondered if Yves and Pierre had an Andy-and-Fred act going, and if when no one was around, Yves drove Pierre crazy, as Andy did Fred. Everyone said that Yves was so pure and sweet and fragile, but I wasn’t so sure. That’s what they said about Andy, too, wasn’t it?

I went into Andy’s room—he was asleep, snoring slightly, on top of the gold brocade bedspread. He was also fully dressed, which wasn’t that unusual, as even at night he slept in his blue Oxford shirt, girdle, jockey shorts, and knee-length support hose, so that only a short stretch of leg was exposed between his socks and shirttails. Now he had his expensive Parisian cowboy boots on too, and I thought I’d slip them off to make him more comfortable. He awoke in an instant, with a start. “What are you doing, Bob?” he squealed, as if I were about to murder him. He took them off himself. Had I ever touched him before? I don’t think I’d ever even shaken hands with him.

I retreated to my own room, with its gold brocade bedspread, gold brocade curtains, gilded furniture, gilded woodwork, crystal chandelier, crystal vase filled with white tulips on a gray February day. I stared out the high French doors at the expensive view: the Place de la Concorde, the Seine, and, across the river, the Boulevard Saint-Germain, with the Eiffel Tower off to one side. It was our last night in Paris, and I couldn’t wait to get home to my tiny Manhattan studio with a view of the studio across the street.

And yet, the minute I got back, I couldn’t wait to go on another five-star trip with Andy.

The opportunity came soon enough—an invitation from Franco Rossellini to the world premiere of The Driver’s Seat in Monte Carlo in May. “Everyone will be there, darling,” Franco said, “Ursula, Elsa, São, Rosemarie … ” He meant Andress, Martinelli, Schlumberger, and Marcie-Rivière, the Swiss socialite legendary for her multiple marriages and multiple fortunes. “And don’t breathe it to a soul, but I think I have Ari and Stavros coming, except one doesn’t know the other is coming.” He meant Onassis and Niarchos, who were bitter rivals. “All my friends from all over the world are coming to support me,” he went on, “because would you believe that those so-called intellectuals who run the Cannes Film Festival turned down The Driver’s Seat—which is a masterpiece, I tell you, a masterpiece!—and those idiots chose some piece of shit by Franco Zeffirelli as the official Italian entry instead?” The two Francos were also bitter rivals. “So you know what I did? I picked up the phone and I called my old friend, Princess Grace, and arranged to have the première of my film on the same night they show the Zeffirelli film in Cannes. And, as you know, darling, when Grace and Rainier invite, the entire Côte d’Azur comes. There’s not going to be a star left in Cannes that night! Rex Reed has already told me he is coming to my premiere. Don’t you think it’s divine?” Franco got to the point: “Now, of course, I want Andy to be there. And you too, my darling Bobino, because without you holding Archie all those days, we could never have shot Andy’s scenes, let’s face it, darling.”

What about Elizabeth Taylor? Would she be coming too? With or without Richard Burton?

“Who knows what those two are doing,” Franco snapped. “One minute they’re remarrying, the next minute they’re splitting up again. It’s a big bore, and, entre nous, if it wasn’t for the publicity, I wouldn’t care if she came or not. Now, be sure to tell Andy that I’m sending two first-class tickets, round trip, because I know how he is. And I’ll see you in Monte Carlo. Ciao, bello.”

I was sure Andy would say yes—free tickets, Onassis and Niarchos, another chance, perhaps, to take that Polaroid of Elizabeth Taylor—it was the perfect setup. Andy said, “Oh, really,” which meant, “What’s the hitch?” He paused to make me suffer a bit and added, in an uninterested tone, “Well, maybe we can go. Let’s ask Fred. Maybe he can line up some portraits for me to do in Europe at the same time. Maybe it would be a good way to get some work done on the Philosophy book. We can tape a lot. Why don’t you call up Paulette in Switzerland and see if she wants to meet us in Monte Carlo? I bet Franco would love that. And why don’t you call Franco back and see if he’ll send her a free ticket too. And what about Fred? Can’t Franco send him a ticket?” Traveling with Andy, like going out with Andy, was work.

In March we had signed two book contracts with Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, one for the Philosophy book and one for the Paulette book. They were to be titled THE and HER, respectively. (And if and when Andy did an autobiography, that would be called ME.)

Andy had said he would give me “part” of the Philosophy book advance, to get me going on the proposal and outline. When it was accepted, he agreed to give me “half,” but he wouldn’t let the lawyers put that in the contract. He said HBJ might “get mad”—a ridiculous excuse as they knew of my involvement all along. I tried to change his mind, but he always came back with “Don’t you trust me, Bob?” When HBJ paid out the first half of our $35,000 advance upon signing the contract, he gave me my share in dribs and drabs. Finally, Roz Cole said she needed a letter from Andy authorizing her to pay my share of future income directly, and Andy gave in, probably thinking there wouldn’t be any future income.

“I love doing the Philosophy project,” I wrote in my diary. It was so much easier being a ghostwriter than a real writer. When the “I” wasn’t me I could coast along at the typewriter, instead of worrying over every syllable. I plunged right into Chapter One: “Existence”—Andy getting up in the morning, dragging himself out of bed, tiptoeing across the minefield of chocolate-covered cherries on the floor, looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, trying to answer that eternal question: What is Being? It was Andy’s idea to cull phrases from the Factory clippings scrapbook to describe what he saw in his mirror: “the affectless gaze … the wasted pallor … the childlike, gum-chewing naïveté … the slightly sinister aura … the long bony arms, so white they looked bleached … ” Journalists had had a field day with Andy over the years and now, typically, he was going to use it all himself.

When I finished the chapter, I handed it to Andy. He counted the pages, as he counted the ads in Interview, and said, “Only twelve?” He took it home that night and read it over the phone to Brigid Berlin, taping her reaction. Then he gave the tape to Pat Hackett, telling her to “make it better.” So now the ghostwriter had a ghostwriter, Factory-style. A literary assembly line was set up: Bob to Andy to Brigid to Pat to Andy to HBJ, with a quick stop at Fred’s desk, to make sure we didn’t put in anything “funny” about Lee Radziwill or Jackie Onassis. (Another assembly line was set up for the Paulette book. A friend of Fred’s, Christopher Hemphill, a young scribe from an old family, was hired to redact those tapes. Paulette to Andy-and-Bob to Chris to Fred for the Lee-and-Jackie check to Andy-and-Bob to HBJ.)

Pat ended up writing more of the Philosophy book than I did, and I ended up paying her half of my half of the advance. She deserved a percentage of its future income as well, but Andy absolutely refused to consider it. Andy liked to set his collaborators against each other. As Pat put more and more time, effort, and ideas into the Philosophy book, she became increasingly dissatisfied with her deal. Eventually, she decided if she couldn’t have more money, she wanted more credit—a byline. When she proposed that to Andy, he gave her a curt turnoff, and she made the mistake of screaming at him, then bursting into tears. “Pat’s freaking out,” he moaned, scurrying out of the cubicle they shared. “You’ve got to do something, Bob. Pat’s going crazy.” It was Andy’s standard last recourse, and just in case I missed the implication, he added, “I don’t know what she might do.” When it came to doing business with his Factory workers, Andy played every emotion.

I did calm Pat down, not by giving her more of my share—I felt I deserved what I was getting, especially in light of my Factory salary—but by promising to pitch her idea for a book on the Factory in the sixties to Roz Cole and HBJ. I did, and that idea became Popism: The Warhol Sixties, by Andy Warhol and Pat Hackett.

The Paulette Goodard book, HER, was another complicated story. Andy had said I would get “part” of that too, but again, when it came time to draw up contracts, he balked, this time blaming it on Paulette. At one point, he said “all the money” I was getting for the Philosophy project was “really for helping with Paulette,” since “Pat is doing your job for you,” ignoring the fact that I was paying Pat. He loved to tangle everything up, until you felt so roped in you just gave up. He eventually agreed to give me 10 percent of his half of the $50,000 advance. Paulette got the other half, and Andy wanted me to ask her for 10 percent of that too. I didn’t.

And while we negotiated, we worked. A few days before we signed the HER contract, Paulette, Andy, and I had met with a major magazine editor to line up a first-serial-rights sale. Paulette turned on the charm and out poured a waterfall of Old Hollywood gossip. “Oh, yes, I dropped George Gershwin for Clark Gable,” she splish-splashed, “wouldn’t you?”

A few days after signing the contract, Paulette, Andy, and I met for lunch at the Regency Hotel, along with Sony, her twin sister Sony Colacello, and her older cousin, Motorola Goddard. Paulette wanted three tape recorders “for protection.” There were also three sirloin steaks on the table, medium rare. Unfortunately, Paulette’s Old Hollywood gossip had suddenly turned more medium than rare. Whenever Chaplin came up, Paulette would say something short and vague, and then freeze her face into a frown, as if it were too painful to go any deeper. Andy hadn’t helped matters, admittedly, by starting off lunch with “Well, now that we’re really working, tell us what we really want to know: How big was Charlie’s cock?”

Despite this foreboding beginning, we went ahead with a celebratory lunch at the Factory with Mr. and Mrs. Jovanovich and Steven M. L. Aronson, our very able editor at HBJ. Paulette brought her “picnic provisions,” champagne, caviar, and Brie. Not to be outdone, Andy showed up with his “office entertainment supplies,” pâté de foie gras, prosciutto, and pastries from the swank Dumas bakery. After our guests left, I bought the afternoon New York Post and there was our lunch, already written up in Eugenia Sheppard’s “Inside Fashion” column, with a long quote from Paulette explaining, as only she could, how the book project came to be. “It was the year of the white fox,” she told Eugenia. “I was always wearing it, long, short or just a stole, and Andy is the white fox, blond, pale and silent.”

“I don’t think Paulette wants a book, Bob,” said Andy. “I think she wants to marry me. This was the engagement lunch. I just hope she doesn’t expect an engagement ring. Or a white fox.”

Just before Paulette left for her usual summer in Switzerland, Andy and I went by her apartment to give her a little Sony like ours. She promised that she would make tapes and send them to us, if we promised to make copies and send them right back. There was more champagne and caviar—was this whole thing a ruse for Paulette to tax-deduct her daily staples? And then Paulette insisted we kiss her goodbye. Andy gave her a peck on the cheek, but from me she demanded a kiss on the lips. “You’re the only one I let kiss me on the lips,” she said. “Again, but harder.”

“Paulette doesn’t want a book,” Andy said when we were back on Park Avenue. “She wants to marry you. Maybe you should. Then I wouldn’t have to give you ten percent. You’d be on easy street.”

Within forty-eight hours, Paulette’s lawyer sent Andy’s lawyer a side letter to the HBJ contract: “Paulette Goddard Remarque and Andy Warhol agree that neither author shall have the right to use the tapes thereof without the prior written approval of the other and that each author shall receive a copy of each tape.” I persuaded Andy to sign. “She’s nuts,” he said, “if she thinks I’m really going to do this.”

“You know what I like. Long sleeves, décolleté, red or white. Maybe pink, but pale pink, like champagne, not bright pink, like Valentine’s Day wrapping. No chemise! You know the look I mean. Andy knows. If it’s good for the girls you put in Interview, it’s good for me. Size ten. Byyyye.” It was Paulette, asking us to pick out some dresses for her from YSL’s Rive Gauche boutique. We were in Paris, she was in Switzerland, and in a couple of days we would all be in Monte Carlo for The Driver’s Seat premiere.

Paris was wonderful the second time around. It felt more familiar, less forbidding. We were at the Crillon again, to which I had quickly grown accustomed. Clara Saint took us to the Rive Gauche boutique but we couldn’t find anything for Paulette—Yves wasn’t doing red or white that season, and his pink was a no-glow salmon. With my first Philosophy check, I bought a Fred-like black suit for the Monte Carlo première.

In the afternoons, Andy and I worked on the Philosophy book—with me reading from Chapter Two, “Sex Is Work,” Andy popping candy in and out of his mouth. It was a terrible chapter and Andy, I noted, “tore it apart with amazing clarity of vision sometimes, fumbling abstract intuition other times, always making it better.” He told me that the book should have more “nutty lines.” He said it should be funny, but not too funny, so that people couldn’t be sure if we were serious or not. “I think Mr. Jovanovich is an intellectual,” he said, “so we have to put some serious stuff in there, Bob. You don’t want to give the money back, do you?” And he quickly came up with a serious Warholian line: “I can start things, but I can’t stop them.” What’s more, it was true.

Most nights we went to dinner at Club Sept with Clara and Thadée, or Jay Johnson and his model friend Tom Cashin, who were now living and working in Paris. Andy always left right after dinner, but Fred and I stayed on downstairs, dancing with the models. I couldn’t believe that drinks cost ten dollars each. Fred paid.

Almost everywhere we went, Andy insisted on bringing an odd American boy named Rodney Buice, a friend of a friend of a friend. Rodney was a painter. He did forty-by-forty silkscreen portraits of movie stars and society figures, for $500 instead of $25,000. Otherwise, it was difficult for the untrained eye to tell the difference between a Buice and a Warhol. Andy thought this was “greaaaaat.” Fred thought that Andy’s clients might be at best confused, and at worst infuriated, if they saw Rodney’s work, especially on the recommendation of Andy. But that was the whole point of having Rodney around, to torture Fred, to make his job harder. Fred put his foot down when Andy wanted to drag Rodney along to lunch at Pierre and São Schlumberger’s for the unveiling of her Warhol portrait.

The Schlumbergers lived in a vast private house called the Hôtel Luzy, near the Luxembourg Gardens. It had everything, from a Matisse odalisque to a Motown discothèque. And things mostly seemed to come in twos: a blue drawing room and a green drawing room, an upstairs dining room and a downstairs dining room, a large library and a small library, matching chests of drawers from Marie Antoinette’s boudoir, a pair of Picassos, a second Matisse. Yet São seemed so casual about it all, dismissively waving her hand with its giant Golconda diamond on one finger and a giant Burmese ruby on another, when I praised the Rothko and the Kline and the Bonnard and the Monet. She was more excited by her latest acquisition: her portrait by Andy. He had done something special for São: Instead of four panels of the same pose in different colors, he had done two of one pose and two of another, full face and three-quarter view. And he had “really painted,” which was his code for de Kooning–like gesture. Unlike so many of his society portraits, it wasn’t flat and two-dimensional.

Neither was the subject. São Schlumberger was one of a rare breed: a rich woman with a mind of her own. Half Portuguese, half German, she refused to follow the Paris pack, no matter how much that made the other ladies tittle-tattle. She loved her couture and her jewels as much as they loved theirs, but she also loved art and artists. The Schlumbergers were said to have an annual income of several million dollars, and while São didn’t mind showing it, she also didn’t mind sharing it. She supported the museums in Paris, and was active on MoMA’s International Council. She helped finance, to the tune of several hundred thousand dollars, some of Bob Wilson’s elaborate avant-garde productions. All of that impressed Andy, but he also liked São because she wouldn’t censor what she said when Sony was around. And she said a lot.

São and Pierre, whose first wife had died, married in 1961. Six years later he suffered a massive stroke. Now he walked with a slow limp and hardly uttered a word. But when São walked into a room, he perked up, and chattered away with her in some unintelligible tongue.

Though we’d met when Andy did the Polaroids for her portrait at the Carlyle, São seemed to take special notice of me that day, laughing at my jokes, agreeing with my opinions of people in Paris, asking questions about Interview. Andy and Fred started teasing me about it the second we were out the door. “São likes Bob,” Fred said. “I can tell. Did you see the way she looked right at Bob when she said, ‘See you in Monte Carlo’?”

“Oh, I know,” said Andy. “You should marry her, Bob.”

What about her stricken husband?

“He won’t be around forever,” said Andy. “And if you marry São you can get her to have her portrait done by me.”

But we had just unveiled it.

“Oh, I know, but you can convince her to have me do a new one every year. I could show her hairdos change. It’s a great idea, Bob.”

“Oh, there’s going to be a cat fight in Monte Carlo,” said Fred, “between São and Paulette over Bob.”