Make No Mistake: He WAS Halston

By Joan Juliet Buck

When I was 19 — a chubby, disoriented producer’s daughter from London in culture shock at Sarah Lawrence — I managed to get a summer job at Glamour magazine writing book reviews and assisting a fashion editor named Frances Stein. It wasn’t talent that got me the job as much as the fact that I came from London. That wasn’t all: At my first meeting with Frances, she had The New York Times open to a double-page ad announcing the premiere, one year later, of “The Lion In Winter."

“That’s my father’s film,” I said. I was in.

Frances was stylish, temperamental, and talked a lot about inspiration. Her best friend was Halston, who was just about to bail from making hats. There were dinners where he would lay back on her sofa holding court in his black turtleneck as everyone smoked joints and talked about style. Once in a while, he’d call up and scream at me: "My nose is out of joint!” He enunciated carefully during one rant about a photograph of one of his hats. I had pinned something on it — a bunch of artificial cherries, or a fake orchid. He was not to be tampered with.

After Frances left Glamour, rather fast she opened Halston’s fashion house with Joel Schumacher and Joanne Creveling. Frances borrowed a certain amount of my London clothes for inspiration. At Halston’s first show, I saw my skirts and tunics drift by on models — remade in shiny ciré and nylon. I was half pleased.

The premiere of “The Lion in Winter" rolled around. I had managed to keep my job at Glamour while still going to Sarah Lawrence. Frances and her husband were my guests.

“What about your date?” asked my parents. The publicist, too, wanted to know.

I was still chubby and disoriented. I had no boyfriends, dates, or escorts of any kind. Halston had just shown that first collection. He was becoming famous. I decided I’d invite him. Fashion cred, a bit of glamour, the famous new designer. That should please everyone.

The publicist had to be told. “What’s his name again?” he asked, pen in hand. “Halston,” I said.

“What’s his real name?” asked the publicist, “Everyone has two names, he’s not Charo! He’s not Cher!”

“Halston Frowick,” I said, “Roy Halston Frowick.” He wrote it down.

Halston was too busy to come to the movie, but would be happy to join me at the party.

Film, party. Empty seat next to me. Party, music, dinner. Empty seat next to me. “Where is Halston?” asked Frances. She appeared to be having less fun than she thought she would. I ran from the table to the door again and again. No Halston. Speeches, dessert. I ran to the door one more time. Halston was there, in a red-faced fury, carefully enunciating his name: “I … am … Halston! I … am … Halston!”

A girl with a clipboard barred the way. “We have no Mister Halston on the list,” she said.

“Yes you do,” I said, horrified. I pointed at the list. My finger trembled. “Look, here. Roy Halston Frowick”

“Mr. Frowick,” said the girl. “Of course. Why didn’t you say so?”

Halston gave me a look of such contempt that, to this day, I am scared of men in black turtlenecks, and in we went to the ball.