IN 1987, AHMET RECEIVED THE Irvin Feld Humanitarian Award from the National Conference of Christians and Jews. Apparently they didn’t know he was Muslim. I prepared the invitations for the gala dinner, receiving my first exposure to the rules and regulations of high society. For example, it seemed strange to address Ahmet’s envelope to “Mr. and Mrs. Ahmet Ertegun,” with Mica’s name nowhere on the invitation. How could women gain power, I wondered, if they didn’t even get to have names?
The guest list included billionaires like Sid Bass and Edmond Safra and their wives Anne and Lily, diplomat Francis L. Kellogg and his wife Mercedes (Sid and Mercedes eventually had an affair, divorced their spouses, and married each other), Peter Tofu—in short, the whole New York socialite crowd.
One day, as I worked on the invitations, Kevin Eggers came to visit. Eggers owned Tomato Records and was one of Ahmet’s partners in a theater investment.
“You look very intent on whatever it is you’re doing there,” he said.
“Yeah, Ahmet’s being honored next month and I’m helping with the arrangements.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“The National Conference of Christians and Jews. Ahmet’s getting the Irvin Feld Award.”
Eggers gave me a strange look. “Irvin Feld started Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Clown College so he could fuck all the clowns,” he said.
“Well, this gig is sounding more prestigious by the minute,” I said.
After Eggers left, I went into Ahmet’s office and broke the news. “So, I’m getting the clown-fucking award?” Ahmet asked.
“Looks that way.”
Ahmet thought for a moment, and a grin spread across his face. It was just his type of award.
I got an invite to the gala—another sign of how close Ahmet and I had become. This was a brave new world for me. My parents had never even taken us to a restaurant, let alone a black-tie gala. I didn’t know what to wear, but I knew I didn’t have it, so I went shopping. Luckily, I had always loved clothes and I had a good body. I picked out a black dress with a tulle skirt, figuring you can’t go wrong with something simple and elegant.
On the night of the gala, I arrived at the Waldorf Astoria on Park Avenue to find the crème de la crème of New York mingling in the ballroom, the men decked out in black ties, the women in gorgeous gowns. Ahmet wore an impeccably tailored tux that probably cost a quarter of my salary. The ballroom buzzed with self-importance. Photographers from every major magazine perched in strategic areas to catch the luminaries unguarded. To accentuate the Irvin Feld theme, the room teemed with clowns, little people, and a contortionist. It made for a bizarre spectacle—the glitterati dressed in formal wear trying to eat dinner while a man stood next to them with his leg bent behind his head.
During the dinner, Ahmet called me to his table. “This is Dorothy, my sec-a-tary,” he said. “She told me I’m getting the clown-fucking award.” Everyone at the table looked at me like I was an asshole. Mortification burned in my face. How could Ahmet do that to me? Mercifully, Henry Kissinger broke the awkward silence by rising to give his speech introducing Ahmet. I couldn’t understand a word he said, but I could have kissed him for the distraction. And what a distraction—despite repeated calls from his office warning that under no circumstances would he speak for more than five minutes, the guy wouldn’t get off the stage. After twenty minutes of introduction, Ahmet finally got up to accept his award. As he reached the microphone, Kissinger hugged him. Then, dozens of clowns rushed the stage—red noses, face paint, floppy feet, and all. As they surrounded Ahmet and Kissinger, the expression on Ahmet’s face was priceless. It almost made up for the way he had embarrassed me.
I should have learned my lesson that night. I had to be careful what I said to Ahmet because he’d invariably repeat it at the most inopportune time. Unfortunately, I made the same blunder when Atlantic general manager Dave Glew left to run Epic Records. Dave wanted to stay at Atlantic, but he wanted a bigger bonus. Ahmet, Doug, and Sheldon each got a $1 million bonus per year, and Dave asked to be cut in. I could hear Ahmet and Sheldon discussing the raise from my office. Ahmet stamped his feet and yelled, “Do you understand, Sheldon, nobody is more important than me? I’m not giving him another cent. Fuck him. Nobody’s more important than me.” He then called me and said, “Get me what’s his name down the hall.”
“Which what’s his name?” I said.
“You know, the one that wears the suit.”
“Mark Schulman? You’re going to hire him?”
“That’s what they’re telling me. Just get him.”
Mark Schulman was the executive vice president of marketing. When he walked into the office, Ahmet said, “Do you know my secretary doesn’t think I should hire you?”
Maybe the clown-fucking award was too good for him.