After all the good press following the new Midnight Frolic, I’d been approached by Albolene cold cream to sit for one of their advertisements. The money was good, but more than anything, I was excited about appearing in magazines and maybe even a well-placed billboard.
After rehearsal, I freshened up and reapplied my makeup—even though I knew I’d be having it all redone when I arrived at the studio.
I was about to leave for my sitting when Howie popped his head into the dressing room. “Ziegfeld wants to see you.”
“Now?” I checked the time. “Any idea what it’s about?”
“He didn’t say.”
I hadn’t been alone with Ziegfeld since the incident in his car. He’d commended the uptick in ticket sales at the late night performance in front of Howie and some of the other girls, and though he hadn’t singled me out as the reason, I’d felt he was pleased with the new act. It was almost as if I hadn’t slapped him across the face. I even started to wonder whether he’d really tried to kiss me, or had it simply been a friendly kiss good night; but no, as I recalled the details, it was far more than that. I took the elevator up to the sixth floor to meet him, and I wondered briefly if he might even be calling me up to apologize, though I quickly dismissed that idea, imagining instead a request to rejoin the Follies. Or maybe he wanted to discuss a new number in the Frolic—though surely Howie would have been part of that conversation.
“Mr. Ziegfeld,” I said, standing the moment he opened his office door. “Nice to see you,” I added slightly awkwardly.
“Miss Shine, lovely as always.” Maybe it was all water under the bridge. “Thank you for seeing me. Please—” He motioned for me to enter his office, then he closed the door behind me and took a seat at his large dark wooden desk.
“How’s the Frolic going?” he asked.
“I’d say it’s going very well, Mr. Ziegfeld, don’t you think? The audience seems very responsive.”
“Yes, you’re doing good work, and Howie tells me the flying act was your idea?”
“I just thought it would be a whole lot of fun. We should all be having fun at all times, don’t you think, Mr. Ziegfeld, otherwise what’s the point in it all?” I was trying to be upbeat and cheery. No need for bad feelings or hostility. It hadn’t even happened.
He clasped his hands together. “I live to entertain,” he said. “Actually, that’s why I wanted to see you today. I have a proposition.” He smiled.
I considered it a poor choice of words given our last encounter, but I didn’t let on. “I’m intrigued.”
“I’d like you to take the show on the road this August,” he said. “I’m putting together a traveling Follies troupe this summer, and I’d like you to join them.”
My stomach dropped. He was kicking me off the stage altogether. How could he? After I’d made the Frolic a big success in just a few weeks. Was he punishing me again for declining his advances?
“Well, what do you say, Miss Shine?”
“But I’m the lead in the Frolic,” I said. Everyone knew it was the second-rate girls who made up the traveling troupes—he saved the very best for Manhattan. “You said yourself it was my act that had improved the sales.”
“I don’t believe I said that, Miss Shine. Besides, you’d be one of the principals on the road.”
“But what about the—”
“We can find another girl to fill your shoes here, it’s just for a few weeks.”
He was making light of this all, acting blasé, but I could feel the weight of it. Once some other girl took over my role, I would be replaceable. But what could I do? Everything came down to Ziegfeld. He could kick me out at any time for any reason at all. I had to please him. I knew that if I didn’t agree, he could simply remove me from the whole show—this would be a reason to get rid of me.
“Well, as long as I have a place in the Frolic when I get back.…”
“Of course,” he said, smiling broadly, and I had no idea if I could believe him.
“Then this sounds like a great adventure.” I slapped on a smile. “Where will we go? Chicago, Los Angeles, Miami?”
“No need to cross the country. In fact, you’ll be staying in New York—this show is going to the Adirondacks.”
“The Daddy-what?”
“The Adirondacks. My dear, haven’t you heard of the Great Camps?”
I shook my head.
“Ah, what a treat you’re in for. It’s about three hundred miles directly north of here. The wealthiest industrialists of our time escape to the North Woods by their private railcars, where they have built sprawling, timbered getaways along secluded lakeshores. It’s quite elegant.”
“But camping?” I was bewildered by this proposition and that Ziegfeld would even toy with the idea of sending us there.
“That’s what they like to call it. When I first accompanied Mr. J. P. Morgan to his beloved Camp Uncas, he described it as a rustic compound and made it sound as if we were going to be roughing it in the wild. But I assure you that’s not the case, they’re elaborate estates, rustic luxury. Anyway you’ll see for yourself. You’ll stay three or four nights at each of the camps, starting with the Belmonts at the Pines Camp, then the Morgan family’s Camp Uncas, Camp Sagamore, and Camp Santanoni. It will take a few days to get there and a few to get back.”
I must have still had a look of shock and bewilderment on my face because he continued to reassure me that whatever I was thinking was wrong.
“Miss Shine, you will be well taken care of. There will be valets, chambermaids, chefs, butlers, a governess, a laundress and guides to take you on chaperoned walks. There’ll even be staff taxidermists on hand should you care to hunt and take home your prized hunting trophies.”
I wrinkled my face at the idea, then remembered not to in his presence.
“They escape to the wilderness for nature and relaxation and they invite guests to indulge in the same luxury, but what they need, what they desperately need once everyone has made the trek into the woods and they’ve been out on the lake and they’ve explored the great outdoors, what they need at the end of a long day, my dear, is to be entertained. There’s nothing else out there to do. You will be everything to them. They need you.”
Later, when sitting for my portrait, I was distracted and uneasy, but I tried not to let it show. The slogan was going to be “Up All Night? Do What the Ziegfeld Girls Do and Use Albolene Cold Cream for Beautiful Skin in the Morning.”
I felt like a fraud: by the time this advertisement came out I wouldn’t even be performing on a proper stage. I’d be relegated to some campground in the middle of nowhere. My hope of having my father see my face in Times Square was quickly replaced by a feeling of defeat. First Archie, engaged! And now this. Every setback made me feel that my parents could be right about failing, that soon I’d be used up, and then what?
The photographer had me change into a decadent beaded silver dress, silver gloves and a jeweled headband. They curled and pinned up my hair similar to how I liked to style it, mimicking the bob that I wanted so badly but had resisted since Ziegfeld preferred his girls to keep their hair long and feminine. I looked quite fabulous when they were done with me, and in front of the camera I was able to put away some of that disappointment. I had to. I’d make the most of this adventure just as I said I would. I was tired of being told what to do and how to do it—I could have stayed home for that. Each time the camera popped and smoked, with each momentary blinding flash, I became more determined to turn this into something better, just as I’d always tried to do in the past. With each shot I told myself I was taking a step up that giant Ziegfeld staircase, a step in the right direction, wherever that might be. One thing I’d always been good at was having fun and making sure those around me were having a good time, too. If that meant shipping off to the woods for the summer, then so be it.
After the sitting, I popped into a hair salon on West Thirty-fourth Street. I took out the pins and let my long dark hair hang around my shoulders one last time. I rarely ever wore it down like this, and seeing it made me feel weighed down, old-fashioned and owned. I suddenly couldn’t wait to be rid of it.
“Chop it all off, please. I’d like a bob.”
“Are you sure, madam?” the hairdresser asked with a look of concern, as if I were his own daughter about to sever ties with her girlish ways.
“Never been more sure,” I said.
He shrugged. “As you wish.” He placed a book in front of me and opened it to a page that showed three different styles of the modern bob. “Which one?”
“None of these.” I closed the book and handed it back to him. “I want my own style, something that suits just me. I’m thinking short and sleek and with a fringe straight across my forehead. How does that sound?”
“Whatever you like, madam.” And he started to snip, long thick clumps of hair falling to my feet like ropes being untied and releasing me. I’d give up my place on Broadway if I had to, I’d go to those Great Camps that Ziegfeld spoke of, I’d do it all, but he should know I’d be doing it my way.