At 10:30 AM on New Year’s Eve, I arrived at Clay Felker’s apartment on East 57th Street. A robust man in his late thirties, Felker was not only a consulting editor at Viking, but the editor of the Herald Tribune’s “New York” magazine section. When he answered the door, he looked as if he had just woken up. He was wearing pajamas, a silk art-nouveau bathrobe, and slippers. He took me through an impressive library of leather-bound books in glass-enclosed cases. A staircase led downstairs, where he suggested I wait while he got dressed.
His duplex had its entrance, library, and bedrooms upstairs. The living room, which had a 20- foot-high ceiling and casement windows, was downstairs. In the center was a tall, tinsel-covered Christmas tree with an angel on top. Next to it was a ladder.
The Filipino maid seated me at a round table, then brought me coffee on a silver tray. About ten minutes later, a strikingly thin woman in a sheer white nightgown descended the stairs, carrying a box and scissors. Unaware of my presence in the room, she climbed the ladder, her blond hair flowing over her shoulders, and began removing decorations from the tree. I did not speak up for fear of startling her. Felker then bounded into the room and introduced the beautiful woman on the ladder as his wife, Pamela. At that point, I recognized her as the movie star Pamela Tiffin.
Felker apologized for the delay, explaining he had been on the phone to the White House. He said in a grave tone that President Lyndon Baines Johnson might be ill, adding that the news might upset the stock market. He joined me at the table while Pamela, who had put on a robe, brought a basket of croissants.
I handed Felker my thesis.