Ollie Wood
OLLIE WOOD
MERCEDES
Each meeting occurs at the precise moment for which it was meant.
—NADIA SCRIEVA, FATHOMS OF FORGIVENESS
1980
Lady Elaine Stapleton had agreed to an amicable divorce with one non-negotiable condition. “We hold off on any formal announcement until the boys graduate,” she insisted, hoping to spare them, or herself, the shame of scandal while they were still in school.
Lord Stapleton, who called bullshit, was frustrated. It was just a power play, a stall tactic. His boys wouldn’t graduate until June of 1981. That was fifteen months away. Elaine was hoping it would all disappear.
“But I’ll show her,” he vowed, moving into Mercedes’s flat full time, and beginning the search for a larger place they could purchase together. Well into his fifties, he was acutely aware of their age difference, and so he suggested fun, young neighborhoods like Notting Hill. Her need for independence had so unnerved him, he was desperate to keep her interested and happy.
“We can go wherever you want,” he told her.
“How about California?” she asked.
That stopped him. “The States?” he said, trying to figure out how and why and if it was feasible.
“Not full time,” she reassured, “but as a place to go to! For fun.”
He relaxed into the idea and understood that it would probably be easier there for Mercedes. Elaine had a powerful circle who, he was certain, would be less than forgiving, and Mercedes had fewer friends and less family to shield her from gossip and untoward suggestions.
A few months later while on holiday in Palm Springs, he suggested they drive up to Los Angeles for the afternoon, where he then surprised Mercedes with a half-million-dollar pied-à-terre in Beverly Hills. The luxe apartment, located on the Wilshire corridor, had a private elevator that brought you to a private landing that led to a private foyer giving entrance to a private paradise with wraparound views of all that was possible.
“This will be our first place together,” he told her, suggesting she hire a decorator and make it over as the next Lady Stapleton would.
The gesture brought her to tears. This was really happening. They would start life fresh in the States where her new title would provide the pedigree her old background could not.
Shortly after he purchased the condo, Camillo Santorini, who was in Los Angeles screening his latest film, invited them to the premiere of Urban Cowboy, a new film starring John Travolta.
Since Stapleton had to visit his boys, Mercedes stayed back and took her interior designer, Nathan Jeremy, who claimed to have done work for the star. At the after-party, while the designer tried to get Travolta’s attention, Mercedes wandered through the crowd. It was dank and crowded and some friend of a friend who’d had too much to drink and too little to do was getting handsy and loud and cornering Mercedes in a rather aggressive way, blowing smoke about his import, entrapping her with stale breath and bad clichés. Mercedes was looking for a way out when it presented itself in the form of an affable, rather nice-looking man who wore a lanyard instead of a tie.
His name was Oliver Burns, he said, introducing himself, and in one fluid motion got rid of the rube and moved Mercedes with him behind the velvet rope where the only thing blown was coke, or a lucky guy in a dark corner. Either way, no one complained. She liked the way he took charge, and though she didn’t know who he was, she could tell that he was connected by the way people deferred to him. He was on the make, she was certain, but who wasn’t?
“What exactly do you do?” she asked, studying him as he ordered two Tequila Sunrises and explained that he was the man who did all the staffing for the Sylvan Light Agency.
“That’s a big job,” she said, feeding his ego. “There must be a lot of people who want to work there.”
“Hundreds,” he told her, “but I can size someone up in thirty seconds to know if they’re Light material.” He looked Mercedes up and down. “Take you, for example,” he said, studying her. “Born into money, private schools, the whole nine. Am I right?”
She smiled, giving nothing away.
“You’re not married,” he said, “but you are fun. And discreet.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Is that what you’re looking for in an employee?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” he told her, seeing if she took the bait.
But she didn’t, and that only made him want her more.
“Call me if you’re ever interested in something secretarial,” he said, making it clear that that was the job for which he believed she’d be qualified. He handed Mercedes his card.
“Olliwood?” she read aloud.
“It’s where dreams are made, kid,” he said, pointing out that his home number and service were on the back.
Later that night on her lovely terrace overlooking the Wilshire corridor, she studied Burns’s business card, thankful she would never have to run to Olliwood to make her dreams come true.