Second Star to the Right

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Faye held her breath as she watched him turn and climb the stairs back up to the nursery, his long legs taking the steps two at a time. He soon turned the corner, disappearing from view. After closing the door she slumped against it, blowing out a long stream of air, adrift in confusion. She hadn’t felt the wham of a kiss like that since high school. Did she ever feel it so strongly with Rob? She didn’t think so.

  Spontaneous combustion, he’d called it. Oh God, it was accurate. She’d felt an explosion inside of her the moment his lips touched hers. Faye brought up her fingertips and grazed the tender, swollen skin, closing her eyes. Her insides rocked, and her blood ran like lava once more. Aftershocks.

  What was the matter with her? It had been several years since she’d been with a man. Could she be sex-deprived? Man-hungry? Just plain horny? There were plenty of expressions, some very crude, that she’d heard to describe this heat she felt glowing throughout her body. That kiss was magical. It was....

  “No, no, you don’t,” she scolded herself, pushing away from the door. She was not going to indulge in romantic dreaming about that kiss. If she did that, she’d start looking for him every time she crossed the threshold of No. 14. She had to concentrate on her children, on her job.

  Her job. The thought was like a splash of icy cold water. She had the presentation to Susan Perkins and her team on Monday. Nothing like a cold jolt of fear and anxiety to squash the sex drive. Faye neatly compartmentalized her thoughts about Jack into a little box labeled “horny” and stored it into the far nether regions of her mind.

  “Focus,” she told herself over and over again as she gathered her materials onto her desk in her bedroom, turned on the green banker’s light, sharpened two pencils, laid out a clean pad of lined paper. “Focus,” she told herself after she caught a faint whiff of Jack’s aftershave on her skin. “Focus,” she groaned when she rested her head in the crook of her arm and felt rocked by a low Richter-scale tremor all over again.

  * * *

  Hours later she yawned noisily and rubbed the back of her neck, exhausted. The children were asleep in their beds. They’d crawled in dutifully. Not, however, before relentless pleas to return to Wendy’s nursery on the following afternoon for another installment of the story. Maddie refused to call Wendy’s place a flat or an apartment or anything other than the nursery because that was what Wendy herself called the third- floor aerie. Faye couldn’t debate that it seemed rather ridiculous to call a grown woman’s home a nursery, because in fact the name seemed to fit.

  Faye looked at the Queen Anne desk clock and sighed. The small round face revealed that it was almost midnight. She didn’t think she could get anything more done on her presentation. Her ducks, as Bernard liked to say, were in a row. Now if she could just get a good night’s sleep. Weary, Faye stood up from her long labors and crossed the room to her window, pushing back the thin slip of Scottish lace to peer out at the street below. Yellow halos of light from the streetlamps pierced the light fog. A breeze was shuffling the leaves of the trees lining the dim, deserted street. She bent to open the window, just a crack, to allow some of the moist night air into her room. Perhaps it would help her relax and drift off to sleep.

  The refreshing cool night air smelled sweet, and she lay again in her bed and closed her eyes to try to sleep. The breeze was balmy against her skin, and her thoughts slowly dissipated, becoming as thin and wispy as the clouds outside. Before dozing off she heard, somewhere in the distance, the high, haunting song of a flute. A sweet reedy tune, playful and yet insistent, that seemed to call to her in that hazy, foggy place between wakefulness and dreams. As she fell asleep, the tightly wrapped box in her mind that held all of her memories of Jack’s kiss tumbled from the shelf and spilled open into her dreams.

  Chapter 9

  It was ten o’clock on a bright, sunny morning but from the bored looks on the faces of her creative team, one would think it was quitting time on a rainy afternoon.

  Faye was standing in the small conference room of Leo Burnett, having just summed up her proposal for the Hampton Tea campaign. Exhaling a breath and casting a sweeping, questioning glance around the conference room, Faye didn’t spot a single spark among her colleagues. Her heart sank to her shoes.

  Her team slouched back in their seats and looked at her, then at each other, with blank expressions on their faces. Pascal from the Art Department shifted his weight and slung his arm with a French, sexy insolence over the sleek chair’s back. Patrick and Harry, the copywriters, sat side by side in their linen trousers and button-down shirts, both tapping their twin clipboards on their laps.

  George from Production was a walrus of a man who appeared years older than the thirty-five he owned up to. He began stroking his thick handlebar mustache, feeding the tips into his mouth in a gesture of futility. She knew laconic George wouldn’t say much in the group setting, but he always had a storehouse of pithy comments to share in private. The only other woman on the team, Jaishree, a beautiful, Indian media whiz in her twenties, offered no hint of sisterly support. She crossed her endlessly long, slim legs and returned a glazed gaze.

  So much for her team, Faye thought with resignation, folding her hands tightly on the table. As for her bosses, Bernard Robbins dominated the other end of the table with his glaring eyes, his dark, Savile Row suit and slicked-back hair. No one disputed that this man carried the whip, yet he remained unusually silent, deferring to Susan’s position as account supervisor. Letting her handle her own bailiwick, as he put it. His thick dark eyebrows, however, formed over his nose like storm clouds darkening the peak of a mountain. Bernard’s only outward response to Faye’s presentation was to signal abruptly for the maid to serve tea.

  In her mid-forties, Susan was a seasoned veteran of ad campaigns in England. She liked to claim that the few lines on her face were battle scars. She’d made it clear to Faye that she resented the fact that Bernard went over her own recommendation of a young Englishman from Oxford and selected an unknown American for account executive. That Faye was pretty—and younger—as well only fueled her bitterness.

  “Tea isn’t a new product,” Susan began in her clipped British accent. She raised her pale eyes under heavy tortoiseshell glasses, twisting her lips into a smirk. “Not even in America.”

  Mild chuckles rippled through the room. Other than herself and Bernard, everyone on the team was either English or foreign. Faye girded herself, knowing full well that this would be the first of a barrage of arguments after her presentation.

  “Americans know what tea is, of course,” Faye replied in calm defense, “but they tend to think of it as upscale. Something to be had once in a while. Or perhaps when one is sick. Tea is something you might want. Coffee is something you need.”

  “Amen to that,” muttered Pascal. A Frenchman, he made no attempt to disguise his disgust for tea. The one bond he and Faye shared was their occasional midmorning run to a coffee shop in the lobby.

  Susan tapped her pencil irritably against her palm and tilted her head to check Bernard’s response. Bernard was stone-faced.

  “Okay, keep going,” Susan said.

  Faye said, “This concept offers Americans a fresh slant for tea. Tea—something you drink when you’re healthy. To stay healthy.”

  “So is milk,” said Patrick dryly.

  Harry rolled his eyes.

  Faye straightened her shoulders and plowed on. “Tea is natural, too.”

  “Now there’s an idea whose time has come—and passed,” groaned Patrick.

  “Everything in the store is natural these days.

  “Natural is dead,” added Harry.

  Bernard gave her a piercing glance, watching her response like a hawk.

  Faye rallied. “Is it? Research says...”

  “No, no, no,” groaned Patrick, shaking his head. “Spare me. No more research. I don’t want to hear what research says. And neither do the consumers. We want some emotion going here. Feelings. A bunch of statistics are going to bore the pu
blic, not to mention me.”

  “He’s right,” piped in Jaishree. She was born in India, raised in England, but her love for film and TV was strictly LA. ‘‘Toss the health bit. It’s so...well, dull. It simply tastes good. Picture this,” she said, uncrossing her legs and bending over the table with enthusiasm. “A vignette commercial, adults and kids having all sorts of fun. Energy, energy. Ice tea comes out. Sweetened. We give a sound bite. Message: Tea is fun. Kids like it, too.”

  “You’re going in the opposite direction of the point of the campaign,” Faye replied, trying hard not to slam her palm against her head. “Sugar? Kids like it for the sugar? Now tell me the health connection there, please.”

  “That’s the point,” said Patrick with a sneer. “There isn’t one. Excuse me for having to point it out, but Jaishree’s going for emotion. That’s motion, with an e. As in— that’s what we’ve got to get in this campaign.”

  Bernard looked at her questioningly, expecting her to come up with the snappy retort. To snap the whip. Patrick was the aggressor here; he was pawing at the air, snapping his teeth and growling. He needed to be put down properly.

  But she couldn’t. She’d lost her edge. “I...” Faye cleared her throat and licked her lips. “I think we can get some motion into this campaign. That’s motion without the emotion. Let the facts carry it along.”

  “Just the facts, ma’am,” quipped Jaishree to the response of chuckles.

  Faye kept her chin up. “Precisely. A factual-based, no-nonsense approach. Doctors, pharmacists. Women in conservative suits.”

  “Now there’s an idea the suits will like.” Patrick rolled his eyes with sarcasm, then, catching Susan’s glare, he coughed, and amended, “The suits at Hampton Tea, that is.”

  “All joking aside,” Susan said, “I believe the problem here is that this team wants a more, oh, what should I say, Bernard? Inspirational idea? Less concrete and more catchy?”

  “Okay,” Faye replied, conceding. Inwardly she cringed, afraid now even to look at Bernard, whose displeasure was obvious. “We can find clever ways to incorporate a catchy slogan or symbol. That’s our job, isn’t it? But I stand firm that the fundamental thrust of the campaign should be the research.”

  “I’ve got to be honest,” Jaishree said in her university accent, rolling her pencil between perfectly filed and polished nails. “I’m British. I’ve been drinking tea since I can remember. And this is the first time I’ve ever heard that it was good for me. Frankly, I don’t give a flip. I like the way it tastes. To me, a cup of coffee is a fun thing to do once in a while, but for the everyday, give me my tea.”

  “Yeah, that’s what we’ve got to appeal to,” said Harry.

  The banter exploded on the table. Looking around, she saw that the lions were on the loose. The whip was chewed up, swallowed, and spit out again. In only fifteen minutes she’d lost control. They were bouncing ideas off the walls and making jokes, most of them at her expense. They were going for an emotion-based campaign all the way. Faye shrank back in her seat, tucking her hands in her lap. When she looked up at Bernard he merely sat staring at her with a pinched expression.

  Susan cleared her throat and brought the meeting back to order. “Faye,” she began in a low, cool, highly controlled voice. “You’ve presented some good ideas, but you simply have not generated any life in the project. There are no breakthroughs here. Perhaps you haven’t used your research as well as you could.”

  Faye cringed at the obvious slap and felt her world crumble, She struggled not to let her shoulders slump.

  Bernard stood up abruptly and circled the room like a great winged hawk, his dark eyes missing nothing, his shadow far-reaching. At length he stopped and stood at the opposite end of the table from Faye with his hands behind his back.

  ‘‘I’ve got confidence in her,” he boomed.

  Seven pairs of eyebrows rose. Faye’s breath caught in her throat. She could have wept.

  “Maybe the pitch isn’t right yet,” he continued in his blustery manner, “but that’s not her job alone. That’s a team effort.” Now everyone squirmed under his sharp gaze.

  “Come on, Bernard,” Susan said in a commiserating tone. “The odds of this pitch getting the client are next to nil.”

  “I say it’s a go.”

  Silence. The team shifted in their chairs. Patrick speared Faye with an antagonistic glare that promised later repercussions.

  “I know you all want emotion,” Faye said, almost as an apology. “But I honestly think this idea will speak to the people who care about their health.”

  “Yes, well,” said Susan sharply. She seemed irked by Bernard’s grandstanding. “But that’s not the point quite yet, is it? The first question is—will the Hampton Tea people care?”

  Susan stood up and gathered her papers, seemingly gathering her temper, too. “I don’t need to remind you how big an account this is. Nor how much we want it.” She paused. “How much I want it.” She lifted her chin and shifted her gaze to focus on Bernard. There was a moment’s impasse while the president and his supervisor came to terms. Then, Susan’s face shifted to reflect submission.

  “All right, I’ll go along,” Susan said. Her back was straight and her lips tight. “But I want you all to come together. Pascal, Jaishree, put in a media plan to give ideas of how it might play out. Patrick and Harry, you know what you have to do. It’s Faye’s concept, but I want you all to work long and hard until you’ve pounded out so many campaign slogans you’ve run dry. Then work some more. I want a winner.” She leaned over the desk. “I want magic.”

  Then, without another word, she turned on her heel and left the conference room, with Bernard right behind her.

  Faye sat swamped in the murky silence that followed. There were no backslaps of congratulations on her successful idea or rallying calls from her teammates for cooperation and some good old gung ho. Only Pascal met her eyes with a hint of sympathy buried in his own dark ones. So, she had one ally on the team. As for the rest, they made no secret of their frustration, even anger. It was clear that she didn’t fit in their team—much less lead them.

  She cleared her throat, desperately wishing she could somehow bring the team together. “Why don’t we meet again, here, say at two o’clock? We can talk about the client, their needs, and get some initial ideas.” She smiled. “I’ll bring the tea.”

  Jaishree raised her dark eyes, and they were as cold as iced tea. “Teatime in England is at four o’clock. I should have thought all your research would have taught you that much. Or will Bernard support you on that, too?”

  Patrick leaned over and behind his palm said loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Whatever his protégé wants.”

  Faye paled but refused to dignify the rude comment with a reply. She gathered her supplies and walked from the room with her head high. Inside, however, she felt like she’d been mauled. She was eager to be alone and lick her wounds. She’d only traveled a few steps down the hall when she stopped abruptly, halted by the sounds of Susan and Bernard around the corner, arguing hotly.

  “Look, Bernard, I know she’s special to you, but this is too big an account to risk.”

  “This has nothing to do with being special. She’s good, damn good. And a hard worker. I’ve seen her knock heads with the best of them. She thinks fast, and I tell you, when she’s on a roll, her ideas sing. They jump out at you and make you feel good all over.”

  “Really? Just how good all over does she make you feel? Rumor has it, old boy, that she’s been working late most nights. With you.”

  “I don’t like the insinuation.”

  “Nor do I.”

  “Christ, Susan. You think I’ve got something going on with my account exec?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time. She’s certainly pretty enough. Young enough. Devoted enough...to you.”

  “As she damned well better be,” he shot back, ignoring the first time comment that had caught Faye by surprise. She’d never heard that about Be
rnard. “You might take a few lessons from O’Neill,” Bernard fired off. "You might call it devotion. I prefer to call it good old-fashioned loyalty.”

  “Spare me the American platitudes, Bernard. In there I defer to your authority, but privately, let me be frank. The idea doesn’t grab me. It has potential, I’ll give you that. I know factual campaigns can be successful, but it’s not just the campaign idea I’m concerned about.” She paused and Faye leaned forward to better hear Susan’s lowered voice.

  “When you told me you were bringing in some hot shot protégé from Chicago I didn’t like it but I thought okay, we need a firecracker on this one. But Faye O’Neill? What’s her problem? They ate her alive in there. We need a fighter when we present this campaign to Hampton. Not some reserved, or timid, thing. And I swear, Bernard, if we lose the Hampton account, she’s out. Protégé or not, problems or not, she’s history.” She paused, and when Susan spoke again, her voice was conciliatory, as though she realized that she’d gone too far.

  “I’m concerned about you, too, Bernard. You’ve only been here a year. Your first responsibility here in London is to get new business into the agency. That’s what you came here to do. Here’s your best shot at it. Don’t blow it. Or you could blow your job, too. You want to talk about loyalty? You just wait and see how loyal the head men in Chicago are to you if you lose this account.”

  Faye heard Susan’s heels click down the long hall, followed by a heavy sigh from Bernard before he padded down the hall toward his own office.

  Faye leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Bernard’s job on the line, too? What could be worse?

  The answer came as a roar from the conference room behind her. Patrick was yelling at the top of his lungs, “That Yank wouldn’t know a creative idea if it kicked her in the bloomin' arse!”