In his prime, he played all the rich-boy, upper-class parts, a sort of modern-day Cary Grant, with Gary Cooper looks. He had never played a villain or a single rough part, only playboys and dashing heroes in impeccable clothes. And women loved the fact that he had kind eyes. He didn't have a mean bone in his body, he was never petty or cruel. The women he dated adored him, even long after they left him. He somehow nearly always managed to engineer it so that they left him, when he had had enough of them. He was a genius at handling women, and most of the women he had affairs with, those he remembered at least, spoke well of him. They had fun with him. Coop made everything pleasant and elegant, for as long as the affair lasted. And nearly every major female star in Hollywood, at some point, had been seen on his arm.
He had been a bachelor and a playboy all his life. At seventy, he had managed to escape what he referred to as “the net.” And he looked nowhere near his age.
He had taken extraordinarily good care of himself, in fact he'd made a career of it, and didn't look a day over fifty-five. And when he stepped out of the magnificent car, wearing a blazer, gray slacks, and an exquisitely starched and laundered blue shirt he'd had made in Paris, it was obvious that he had broad shoulders, an impeccable physique, and seemingly endless legs. He was six feet four, also rare in Hollywood, where most of the movie idols had always been short. But not Coop, and as he waved at the gardeners, he flashed not only a smile which showed off perfect teeth, but a woman would have noticed that he had beautiful hands. Cooper Winslow appeared to be the perfect man. And within a hundred-mile radius, you could see how charming he was. He was a magnet to men and women alike. Only a few people who knew him, like Abe Braunstein, were impervious to his charm. But for everyone else, there was an irresistible magnetism, a kind of aura about him that made people turn and look, and smile with awe. If nothing else, he was a spectacular-looking man.
Livermore had seen him coming too, and opened the door as he approached, to let him in.
“You're looking well, Livermore. Did anyone die today?” He always teased him about his somber mood. It was a challenge to Coop to make the butler smile. Livermore had been with him for four years, and Coop was immensely pleased with him. He liked his dignity, his stiffness, his efficiency, and his style. It lent his home precisely the kind of image he wanted to achieve. And Livermore took care of his wardrobe impeccably, which was important to Coop. It was a major part of the butler's job.
“No, sir. Miss Sullivan and Mr. Braunstein are here, in the library. They just finished lunch.” He didn't tell his employer they'd been waiting for him since noon. Cooper wouldn't have cared anyway. As far as Coop was concerned, Abe Braunstein worked for him, and if he had to wait, he could charge him for that too.
But as Cooper strode into the room, he smiled winningly at Abe, and looked faintly amused, as though they shared a long-standing joke. Abe didn't fall for it, but there was nothing he could do. Cooper Winslow danced to his own tune.
“They served you a decent lunch, I hope,” he said, as though he were early instead of nearly two hours late. His style generally threw people off guard, and made them forget they'd been angry at him for being late, but Abe refused to be distracted and got right to the point.
“We're here to talk about your finances, Coop. There are some decisions we have to make.”
“Absolutely,” Coop laughed as he sat down on the couch and crossed his legs. He knew that within seconds, Livermore would bring him a glass of champagne, and he was right. It was the vintage Cristal he always drank, chilled to the perfect temperature. He had dozens of cases of it in his cellar, along with other fabulous French wines. His cellar was legendary, as was his taste. “Let's give Liz a raise,” he beamed at her, and her heart went out to him. She had some bad news for him too. She'd been dreading telling him all week, and had put it off until the weekend.
“I'm firing all your domestic help today,” Abe said without ceremony, and Cooper laughed at him, as Livermore left the room expressionlessly It was as though nothing had been said at all. Cooper took a sip of the champagne, and set the glass down on a marble table he'd bought in Venice when a friend's palazzo had been sold.
“There's a novel idea. How did you come up with that? Shouldn't we just crucify them, or maybe shoot them perhaps? Why fire them, it's so middle class.”
