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I had reached that stage in my career where I had more prospective clients than my firm could handle and I could happily pick and choose those I considered worthy of my attention. I had a few ground rules for my clients and refused to work with anyone who wouldn’t obey them.

I began each job with a “Design Inspiration,” chosen by the client. It could be a favorite rug, a painting, a ceramic piece, family photos, souvenirs of their favorite vacation, or a hideous piece of furniture inherited from Aunt Maude. Whatever it was would have pride of place in the new room, and I built the design around it. The client got to specify the budget, tell me if there were any styles or colors they hated, and promise to stay out of my way until I was done with my creation. I am too old, too cranky, and too intolerant to put up with other people’s bad taste or meddling with my designs.

Occasionally I would have a client sophisticated enough to request a Viennese Secession dining room or an Art Nouveau bedroom, but most of them couldn’t get beyond telling me that they liked “traditional” or “contemporary” furnishings, never mind Art Deco or Louis XIV.  They were too busy making money to care about the fine points of design.

To be on the safe side, if it was a high-budget job, I’d show them my portfolio (while specifying that no two clients ever got the same room) and let them pick the style they liked best. If a client insisted on getting involved in the process, I’d politely hand them over to one of my junior employees, fresh out of design school, who still had the time and patience to shop with a client at the Pacific Design Center.

Most of the clients played by the rules. The prestige of having a room designed by Blanche Himmel far outweighed the possibility that they might have preferred a different coffee table. It was a statement that money was no object.

As a rule, I take great pride in my work, but after completing my most recent commission, I was left with a bad taste and a nagging suspicion that I’d somehow been had.

It began one morning with a call from Lola Oppenheim, the socially prominent third wife of Barney Oppenheim, a major player in “the industry” and the L.A. philanthropic scene. There is only one industry in Los Angeles, namely the movie business. Barney’s studio was hugely successful, producing the kind of summer blockbusters that warm the hearts of teenage boys and are the despair of any adult with a modicum of intelligence.

He had a humongous mansion in Beverly Hills and  awhole stable of unctuous hangers-on, and he’d made a name for himself as a mover and shaker on the cultural scene, donating money to build various entertainment venues, particularly those beloved by sports fans. He was known for his golf game, his passion for travel, and his habit of wining, dining, and seducing young actresses. Now on wife number three, he’d been through two divorces and was still paying enough alimony to run a small country. Having reached his late seventies, he was rumored to have slowed down in the seduction department and had been married to Lola for almost five years. His recent retirement party had been the social event of the season.

Barney, Lola explained to me, had left town on a long, “guys only” African hunting safari, leaving his bride to her own devices. She thought that, while he was gone, she’d prepare a little surprise for him and redecorate his study. My gut reaction was that this was a bad idea and could lead to a divorce, but I was curious to see the inside of the Oppenheim mansion, so I agreed to consult.

The exterior of the huge place was California Mediterranean. This means the architect couldn’t quite figure out if he was doing Tuscan, Spanish Revival, or Greek so he threw in elements of all three topped by the mandatory red tile roof. The landscape was composed of well-manicured native plants, Barney having contributed generously to environmental groups. Bougainvillea in full bloom draped over the courtyard walls.

I was admitted to the interior by an attractive maid dressed in black and white, as if she’d just stepped out of a ‘30s movie, who escorted me through the two-story foyer with its marble floor, curved stairs, wrought iron railings, and chandelier, to a living room, all done up in Louis XV. The adjacent dining room was contemporary chrome and glass with art by Andy Warhol and Leroy Niemann. The effect was schizophrenic.

Lola greeted me effusively. She wore tight white jeans and a sequined tank top, and teetered on very high platform Manolo Blahniks. Her hair was blonde, of course, with the careless streaks only a skilled colorist knows how to achieve, and she was wearing a modest pair of two-carat diamond studs and a tennis bracelet. I complimented her on the beautiful marquetry work on the French cabinet, and she beamed.

“I picked it out myself,” she said. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t talk Barney into letting me redo the dining room. It was done by his first wife’s decorator. He doesn’t think the Warhols will look good with rococo furniture.”

“He’s probably right,” I said. “Would you like to show me the rest of the house, so I can see your tastes and preferences?”

Our first stop on the tour was the enormous kitchen. It had white vinyl cabinets, black granite countertops, gray granite floors, stainless steel professional appliances, and all the warmth and charm of a morgue. A staff of three were busily preparing for a large dinner party. The scent was seductive, but no one offered me a snack.

We proceeded to the family room, an English Country symphony in chintz with a 48-inch flat-screen TV occupying the wall over the Georgian mantelpiece. There was also a media room with a full screen, a projector, rows of reclining leather chairs, and a huge bar, as well as a workout room the size of The Sports Connection.

The second floor consisted of two wings: one contained the eight guest bedrooms, two of which doubled as quarters for the housekeeper and maid; the other was the master suite, consisting of a bedroom, his and hers bathrooms, his and hers closets (hers being twice the size of my master bedroom), and a study for each of them.

Double doors led to the master bedroom, which was done in Victorian Gothic Revival style. The huge four-poster bed was covered in red velvet with a fringed canopy. The stone fireplace, with its Gothic arches and gargoyles, faced a Victorian settee and several throne-like, straight-backed chairs. The walls were covered with expensive tapestries, and the ceiling was coffered.

“Oh, my,” I offered, eyebrows raised.

Lola sighed. “I see you’ve grasped the problem. Barney did not get to be a multi-billionaire by spending money wastefully. Prior to our marriage, he had two other wives and a host of live-in girlfriends. All of them wanted to redo the house to their taste. Barney refused to spend the money to redecorate every time he changed women, so he’d keep the peace by letting each one do one room. I got to redo the living room in French Antiques, but he wouldn’t let me touch the bedroom.

“Second wife?” I inquired.

“Worse,” she said. He selected everything for this room himself, years ago, and he loves it.”

“I see the problem,” I said. “It’s like that HGTV show, Designing for the Sexes.

Are you sure he won’t mind your redoing his study?”

“The study is different,” she explained. “It’s the one room in the house that was never decorated. Barney can’t complain that I threw out expensive furniture for no good reason. Let me show you.”

She escorted me down the hall and opened another door with a flourish. I took two steps backward. It was like a giant college dorm room run amok.  I couldn’t see the desk because it was shrouded in piles of paper, with a large computer teetering on top. The floor was covered in papers and magazines, with a narrow aisle leading to a faded leather swivel chair. The place smelled like a combination of cigar smoke and mildew. The crowning touch was a stuffed Cape Buffalo head above the fireplace.

“He never allows the maids in here,” she said.

“Does he work here?” It was hard to believe.

Lola shrugged. “He does most of his work in the office. He comes in here when he wants to smoke and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

I bent down and picked up a magazine from one of the piles. It was dated 1974. I’d read about people like this, unable to throw anything out. Eventually they died, and the police only found them when the neighbors complained of the smell.

“Quite a contrast, “I said, “between this and the rest of the house.”

“I imagine if he ever lived alone for any length of time the whole house would start to look like this, but no woman would stay here and put up with it. Fortunately, we have a large staff. It’s not that he hoards, he just forgets to throw things out.”

“I see.” I didn’t see but I didn’t want to admit it. I didn’t want to be within miles of this place when he came home and discovered his newly pristine study. “Have you given any thought to how you are going to deal with all these papers? He might be a bit annoyed if you threw them out.”

“Oh I won’t throw them out. I’ve rented a storage unit and hired an organizing team. They’ll sort them, put them in labeled boxes, and provide me with lists of every item so that Barney can retrieve anything he wants. There might be some papers he needs, so you’d better build in some file space.”

I thought quickly about what I could say to change her mind about hiring me.

“You may be familiar with how I work with my high-profile clients. I need an unlimited budget for furnishings and labor, and my fee is $50,000 per room. That pays for my time supervising and selecting the items. I assume everything in here will be gone?”

“Everything except the Cape Buffalo,” she said. “It’s his pride and joy. He’s hoping to kill another one on this trip.”

I winced. “Is that our design inspiration for the room? Is it to be an African Safari study?”

She smiled. “I do want an African-themed room, but the buffalo is not my inspiration. I bought something special. Why don’t we go into my study? I’ll show you the centerpiece, give you the architectural plans, and write you a check for a hundred grand to get you started. I’m so thrilled you’ll be helping me.”

What could I say?

Lola’s study was more of a sitting room, reflecting restrained, mid-century modern good taste. She sat down at a small rosewood desk, wrote me a check, and handed me a roll of drawings. Then she got up and went to the corner of the room where a large wooden crate lay on the floor. It had been opened previously and I helped her lift the top and place it on the ground. Inside, resting on a bed of popcorn, was a four-foot-high, bronze canopic jar decorated with the head of a giant eland. It was stunning.

“It’s a William Morris,” she informed me. “Usually, he works in glass, but lately he’s been doing bronzes. He’s going through an Egyptian phase. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

“It is,” I said, my admiration genuine. That piece of art must have set her back at least seventy-five grand. “It will be a stunning focus for the room. I can visualize it already.” My opinion of Lola had just ratcheted up a notch. She wasn’t the dumb bimbo I’d assumed. The woman had taste.

Lola beamed. “You’d better get to work then. I should have the room cleared by the end of next week.”

“When is your husband due back?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “He’ll be on Safari for at least six weeks and was planning to stop in Switzerland on business for another two. Is that enough time?”

“Certainly,” I said, knowing that money can purchase speed as well as furniture. “I’ll plan to have my contracting crew here in a week to start on the walls and floors. Are you sure he won’t be angry?”

“Absolutely sure. I’m positive Barney will be spending an enormous amount of his future time in his study.”

Lola escorted me to the front door, smiling all the way.

I left Holmby Hills and drove to my modest 4000-square-foot home in Santa Monica. Some years ago, I’d converted the garage to a design studio with high, peaked ceilings and one wall of French doors. The other walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling built-in cabinets and shelves, containing my prodigious collection of design catalogs and samples. Keeping it current was a challenge, but I did much of my shopping from my desk chair.

Now I wouldn’t go so far as to say that the studio was as cluttered as Barney’s study, but it was certainly not a prime example of anal-compulsive order. I confess that there were papers everywhere and catalogs all over the floor.

I thought about what I would have done to my husband if I came home from vacation and discovered he’d put everything in storage and redecorated the studio as a surprise. It was inconceivable; if not grounds for divorce, certainly grounds for assault. I was astonished at Lola’s certainty that Barney would love the surprise.

From every piece of random gossip I’d gleaned from my many industry clients, Barney Oppenheim was a control freak and a micromanager. Either Lola knew a side of him that he kept well hidden, or she was stupid. Although third trophy wives are not known for the size of their intellects, stupid had not been my initial impression. Perhaps she just had a taste for danger or enjoyed a good fight. Their marriage, however, was not my problem. I had been hired as the designer, not the couple’s therapist. I went back to my drawing board.

A week later I returned with my crew. As promised the room was empty, which was a vast improvement. We refinished the wood floors with a dark stain, and I proceeded to turn the interior into a tent.

I found some lush silk fabric, which I used to create padded panels on the walls and draped from the center of the ceiling. I suspended three camp lanterns for lighting and found torch sconces for the walls. With the drapes closed, the room had an intimate golden glow.

The stone fireplace was an appropriate rustic touch, with a rough, wood beam mantle. I hung the Cape Buffalo head over the fireplace with a shudder. Sometimes one’s good taste must be sacrificed on the altar of the client’s preferences.

I commissioned two display cabinets, flanking the fireplace. On one, I placed the bronze canopic jar. For the other, I purchased some William Morris glass pieces with a similar, funereal theme. A brown leather loveseat faced the fireplace, flanked by two camp chairs and anchored by a genuine zebra-skin rug, head attached. The final touch was a large custom desk and chair, which occupied one corner.

When I finally allowed Lola to view the space, she beamed.

“It’s perfect. I couldn’t have done anything that imaginative myself!”

Of course she couldn’t have. That’s why she hired me in the first place. I smiled graciously and handed her the bill for the balance, which she paid without blinking an eye. One thing I like about the obscenely rich is that they don’t quibble over a few thousand dollars.

I put the job out of my mind and moved on to other things. A few weeks later, I read in the LA Times that a tragic hunting accident in Tanzania had ended the life of the prominent Hollywood mogul Barney Oppenheim. There was a two-page story about his life and many accomplishments in entertainment and philanthropy. The grieving widow wore a fashionable black Chanel suit to the funeral.

Lola phoned me a year later. She was marrying again and needed to start her new marriage without too many remnants of the old one. She intended to refurnish all the major rooms of the house in Louis XV and wanted me to design them. The offer was too lucrative to turn down.

We met at the house the next day. The movers had emptied the dining room, the master bedroom, and the den. It was all going to Butterfield’s for auction.

“What about the study?” I asked.

“We’re keeping that as is,” she said, opening the door. “Ron, my fiancé, just loved what you did. We thought we should keep it intact in Barney’s memory, except for the buffalo head. Ron’s going to replace it with an antelope he shot.”

“Ron hunts?” I asked

“Oh yes. He loves it. He introduced Barney to the sport a few years ago. He was on that last trip with Barney when the accident occurred.”

I couldn’t restrain my curiosity. “The paper didn’t give any details about the accident. What happened?”

Lola shook her head sadly. “Barney had a Cape Buffalo in his sights and fired, but he must have missed because the buffalo charged him and he panicked. By the time Ron and the others shot, it was too late. Barney was trampled to death.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

Lola wiped away a tear. “At least he died doing something he enjoyed,” she said.

I glanced again around the room, noticing how the soft golden glow of the lighting and fabric brought out the highlights in the bronze canopic jar.  I walked over and admired it once again.

“We used it for his ashes,” Lola said. “It seemed like the most appropriate place. This way he can spend eternity at home.”

“I see,” I said with sudden understanding. No wonder Lola had been so sure that Barney wouldn’t be angry and would spend much of his future time in the study.

You can learn so much about people from the objects they choose as their design inspiration.

Remote Control

A New Medical Thriller by Paula Bernstein

  Dr. Alanna Davidson’s life is upended when her father is shot and paralyzed the same night a cutting-edge medical robot is stolen from his laboratory at DARPA. Three years later, the crime remains unsolved.
 
Alanna, now a senior resident at Los Angeles Memorial Hospital, is puzzled when high-profile patients start dying unexpectedly after routine surgeries and resolves to investigate the deaths.
 
At the same time, the LAPD is tracking a serial killer with a surgical signature who is leaving bodies in the most dangerous neighborhoods of the city.
 
When a Memorial resident becomes the newest victim, Alanna’s investigation leads to her father’s stolen robot and to a predatory healthcare company intent on taking over Memorial Hospital. But Alanna’s sleuthing draws the killer’s attention. Not only her career, but her life is now in danger.
 
"Smart, relentless, and terrifyingly plausible, Remote Control fuses cutting-edge medical technology with chilling suspense. I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough watching Dr. Alanna risk everything to uncover a truth more sinister than you could ever imagine!"  
— Laurie Stevens, author of the Gabriel McRay Thriller Series.
 
Available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Books2Read, or ask for it at your local independent bookstore.

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