‘Helena Rubinstein: The Woman Who Invented Beauty’, by Michèle Fitoussi – review

In New York, in the 1960s, in a sleek, silvery elevator, I rose from the marble halls of Helena Rubinstein’s gleaming emporium up towards the top floor office of a new friend who worked for that legendary beautician. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the lift stopped, the doors slid open and a tiny, squat figure with oily, inky hair scraped back and livid carmine cheeks above violently purple tweed capes stabbed with a jagged, surreal brooch, stood peering up at what I hoped was my youthful, English-rose complexion. A short, intense scrutiny. Then, imperiously: ‘Oy vey! But I sink ve can help. Tell Patrick he needs gif you our XXX recipe. Now, out of my vay’, she elbowed past me; we descended, not a word more, but not exactly in silence, for she was loudly sucking on a Lifesaver, and, by your leave, let go a none too discreet fart.

My unique encounter with the woman Cocteau called — not, given her machinations, without a touch of irony — the ‘Byzantine Empress of Beauty’, encapsulated her self-made aura: her battle against blemishes, her extravagant style, canny acumen and her famously brusque manner.