by Robyn Sisman
“Because,” Sheri went on, “we now have a most serious situation developing at Schneider Fox. I am going to need to rely absolutely on your help and your discretion.” She looked solemn. “Nobody in this whole office knows what I am about to tell you except Bernie and me. Do you understand?”
Suze nodded. This was exciting.
Sheri folded her hands on the desk before her. “Rumors have reached us that one of our key accounts may be in jeopardy. I am speaking of Passion Airlines. It seems that they may be thinking of taking their business elsewhere.”
“But why?” Suze couldn’t help asking. “How could they? The ads have always been so brilliant, right from the beginning.”
“I know,” Sheri agreed. “It doesn’t seem possible—and maybe it isn’t. But Passion is our most valuable and prestigious account, and we have to devise strategies for dealing with what may be the biggest crisis in the history of this company. And I’m going to need your help.”
“Right,” said Suze decisively. “Er, why, exactly?”
Sheri explained the extreme delicacy of the situation. She couldn’t ask Passion outright if they were leaving, nor did she dare to let the rest of the office know of the problem in case word leaked out. “Clients don’t like uncertainty.”
“So what can we do?” asked Suze.
“We convince them that we are too good to lose, that’s what we do,” said Sheri confidently. “After Christmas, Passion will be opening new routes, direct transatlantic flights to and from destinations all over the US. They need a new campaign that will reflect that. This has always been in the pipeline, but now Bernie wants me to action it urgently.” Sheri looked important. “He’s trying to schedule a meeting with the Passion marketing people within the next two weeks. Our job—yours and mine—will be to come up with a presentation that will impress the hell out of them. That way, if they were thinking of leaving, we’ll change their mind. If they weren’t, then we just look super-efficient.”
“You want me to work on a major new campaign—to art direct it, do the layouts, presentation, everything?” Suze could hardly believe it.
“I want your input on every aspect, Suzanne. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you could do it.”
“Of course I’ll do it.” She couldn’t wait to tell Nick. When he came to dinner, perhaps she could cook something really exotic to celebrate, like lobster. They could suck the meat out of the claws and then, when their lips and fingers were all buttery and warm—
“There’s just one more point,” Sheri was saying, in a tone of voice that Suze hadn’t heard before, almost as if she were embarrassed.
“What is it?”
“God, this is so difficult.” Sheri pressed her hands to her temples and took a deep breath. “The thing is, there’s a chance—just a faint possibility—that our client doesn’t have a problem with us as a company, but with a particular individual within this company.” She paused significantly.
“I see.” What on earth was she talking about?
“I mean the account executive.”
“Ah-ha.”
“I am speaking, of course, of Lloyd Rockwell.” Sheri sounded edgy. “There have been one or two incidents recently when he has taken his eye off the ball. Well, you saw that yourself over that invitation. I know Lloyd is staying in your apartment in London and I have to be sure that you won’t mention our work to him.”
“Why would I?” Suze was amazed. “I’ve only spoken to him once in my entire life.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t intend to say anything, but you know what men are like. They can be so territorial. Their poor little egos bruise at the slightest nudge. And Lloyd—well, I shouldn’t really tell you this . . .” Sheri lowered her voice.
“Go on.” Suze was agog.
“Well, one time after an awards dinner, Lloyd made a pass at me in the back of the cab. I handled it as tactfully as I could but he was terribly offended. He hardly spoke to me for days afterward.”
“How creepy! Anyway, I thought he had a girlfriend.”
“Since when has that bothered a man?”
Suze remembered Lawrence and Minty. “You’re right.”
“So let’s you and I just do what women always wind up doing—pick up the pieces and get the job done. We can argue afterward about who deserves the glory.” Sheri offered her hand. “Is it a deal?”
Suze shook it. “Absolutely.”
“Good. Now the first thing—”
The telephone rang. Sheri stared at it disbelievingly, then snatched up the receiver. “I said no calls, Dee Dee.” She listened for a few moments, then snapped, “Tell him I’m busy,” and cut the line. She raised her eyes to Suze’s. “Lloyd,” she explained.
“Oh dear.” Suze and Sheri exchanged a complicit half-smile, like naughty schoolgirls.
“There’s nothing I can say to him right now,” Sheri complained. “So why do I feel so guilty?”
“Don’t,” urged Suze. “After all, you’re the one who’s having to cover up for him.”
“I suppose.” Sheri sighed. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes.” She patted a tall pile beside her. “Your first job is to master all the back history. And here’s a draft of the profile for the new campaign, though it’s pretty sketchy, I’m afraid. Our job would be so much easier if we could find Lloyd’s meeting notes, but they’re locked away in his computer. Poor old Lloyd has always been very big on confidentiality. He goes crazy if you even ask him for a client’s telephone number. We’ll just have to wing it.” She gave Suze a big, confident smile. “Two women have got to be smarter than one man, right?”
Suze walked out of Sheri’s office feeling like Superwoman. For once, she had not been patted on the head or asked to realize someone else’s grand plan, but personally selected for a special, secret mission. She swelled with the fantasy of herself promoted to agency art director, formidable in her power suit, taking command of a boardroom with the merest lift of her eyebrow, barking “No calls” into her speakerphone.
Dazzled by these visions of the future, Suze found that she was standing in the middle of her office. A shaft of sunlight slanted through the venetian blind, spotlighting Lloyd’s computer with almost mystical significance. Suze stared. If only we could find Lloyd’s notes, Sheri had said. Well, if anyone could hack into his files, it was she. A mere man, especially a bumbler like this Lloyd Rockwell, was no match for a clever woman.
Suze walked over and tentatively touched the keyboard. It wasn’t really snooping. Besides, if she played her cards right, Sheri might find her a permanent job here in New York. Impressed by her brilliant career—and her cooking—Nick would suggest they move into a loft together. They would become one of those “hot couples” that were always being profiled in Vanity Fair.
Swiftly, Suze crossed the room and closed the office door. Drawing up a chair, she switched on the computer with a decisive snap.
Chapter Fifteen
Il Capriccio was a restaurant Betsy had picked out of her guidebook as “a real taste of Continental sophistication in the heart of London’s theaterland.” It turned out to be an old-fashioned Italian place of the rustic school. Fishing nets snarled with plastic crabs hung from rough-plastered walls. There were red candles in Chianti bottles, and tasseled menus the size of sandwich boards. When one of the waiters whipped Betsy’s napkin from her wineglass, loosed the elaborate folds with an operatic flick and laid it across her lap, as reverently as if it were the Baby Jesus, Betsy caught Lloyd’s eye and blushed. She was looking her best tonight, hair glossy, arms slim and tanned against her flowered silk dress.
Lloyd smiled back at her. That’s all she needs, he thought: attention. Recently he had left her alone far too much. He knew that she was finding English life difficult and he wanted to compensate for her disappointment. Suddenly optimistic, he reached over and took her hand. “Let’s make this a night to remember—a fresh start. I’ve always had a feeling something wonderful was going to happen to us in England, if we let it
.”
Betsy responded at once, squeezing his hand. “I hope so.” Her glance lingered, eyes sparkling with anticipation.
Lloyd leaned closer. “Let’s make love tonight,” he whispered. “Properly—the way we used to.”
Betsy nodded. She withdrew her hand. “I bought a microwave for the apartment today,” she said. “You know, in compensation for that awful cat.”
Lloyd laughed. “I don’t get the feeling that Miss Susannah Wilding is exactly a microwave person.”
“It wasn’t cheap.” Betsy straightened defensively. “Mother got hers for half the price at that discount store on Lexington.” She shook her head. “I really don’t know how the English can afford to live here.”
Lloyd listened while she rattled off comparative prices of household items. She was just nervous, he concluded. It was so long since they had been alone like this.
“It was very thoughtful of you,” he said soothingly. “I’m sure Susannah will appreciate all the improvements you’ve made. Now, let’s order. Nothing microwaved here, I hope.”
The food arrived on giant platters piled with potatoes and steaming with garlic.
“I have never seen so many carbohydrates in my life,” Betsy gasped. “I’ll have to live on lemons and hot water the rest of the week.”
“Nonsense.” Lloyd poured ruby-dark wine into her glass. “Live a little—a few calories won’t hurt.” He tore off a hunk of crusty bread with his teeth. “You’ve got a great body, Betsy. Give it a treat.”
Betsy impaled a small lettuce leaf on her fork. “Did you see Mother’s letter?” she asked.
“Uh . . .”
“You absent-minded old professor, you.” Betsy sighed. “I left it out for you specially this evening. Anyway, the big news is that Mary Beth is getting married. Isn’t that great?”
“Who’s Mary Beth?” Lloyd mumbled, mid-prawn.
“For heaven’s sake! Mary Beth, my oldest friend. We met when I was staying at her house.” Betsy gave a mock pout. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember, or I’ll cry.”
But of course Lloyd remembered. It was a couple of months after the end of a disastrous love affair with a beautiful but flaky sculptress who lived in a warehouse in the meat district and created monstrous phalluses out of concrete. When she finally went into detox, Lloyd decided he’d had enough of women, and New York women in particular. Then two close friends, a happily unmarried couple, invited him for a week’s vacation on the Island. The three of them had swum, sailed, overdosed on seafood and played vicious poker into the small hours, but after a week of watching his friends trail to bed together, Lloyd had begun to feel lonely, shamefully lustful and freakishly single. It was in this frustrated frame of mind that he had accompanied his friends to a neighbor’s party and found himself drawn to Betsy’s slim, athletic legs and the polite way in which she dealt with her tyrannical tennis partner. A nice old-fashioned girl, he had thought approvingly. Later on they had met, quite by chance, and chatted over the barbecue. Lloyd remembered being impressed by Betsy’s commitment to her academic work. He was a little hazy on what had happened next. He must have invited her to dinner—or was it the theater? Anyway, she had seemed wonderfully normal and undemanding after the sculptress. It was refreshing to talk with someone who didn’t think Jack London was something you drank out of a bottle. Yes, on the whole he had chosen well. Lloyd felt a glow of self-congratulation. Betsy was just the sort of girl who would have a friend called Mary Beth. In fact, now he thought about it, he seemed to recall a large, gratingly cheerful young woman urging him to eat more coleslaw.
“Oh, that Mary Beth.” Lloyd wiped a trickle of butter from his chin. “So who gets to be Mr. Mary Beth?”
“Don’t.” Betsy giggled. “She’s not that bad. Apparently he’s an older man, never married, some kind of corporation lawyer. Very respectable, Mother says. He has an apartment on the East Side, and he wants Mary Beth to give up work. They’re going to have a huge white wedding at St. John’s in September.” Betsy’s face sharpened with anxiety. “God, Lloyd, what are we going to give them for a present? They’re both so rich they probably have everything.”
“Sexy underwear,” Lloyd replied promptly. “She’s going to need it to rekindle his aging ardor.”
“Be serious, darling. I thought a wonderful English teapot from Fortnum and Mason might be nice, or something from the Silver Vaults. Or maybe—”
“You decide,” Lloyd interrupted. Then he saw from the way Betsy folded her lips that he had somehow offended her. “I’m sorry,” he said, “weddings aren’t my strong point.”
“No,” she agreed.
Lloyd hastily crammed his mouth with more bread. In theory, he was in favor of marriage. In practice, it was hard not to think of all the blondes one would miss out on, and having to be home on time. Still, people did it every day. It couldn’t be too difficult.
“I wonder what Fox’s wife is like,” he said aloud. Tomorrow morning they were driving down to Fox’s house in the country in a hired car. It would be fun to drive on the wrong side of the road, legally.
“Whatever she’s like, I’ll be on my best behavior,” Betsy promised, assuming a prim look. “I even bought a new dress.”
Lloyd recalled the battered cricket hat. “Harry’s not like that.”
“Everyone is like that,” Betsy corrected. “You’re so naive, Lloyd. It’s important to make a good impression. That’s how other people get promoted.”
“I’m the one you want to impress.” Lloyd waggled his eyebrows insinuatingly. “Tell me about the dress. Is it preposterously short?”
Betsy clicked her tongue and gave an aggrieved sigh.
“Now what have I said?”
“That’s not all there is to a relationship, you know. Of course the sexual element has its place, but there are other things.”
“Of course there are other things, but—” Lloyd broke off in frustration. He frowned, trying to find the right words. “Sex is an expression of those other things. It’s a—a sort of channel for everything we are, everything we mean to each other. It’s a giving of our selves—not just our bodies—to each other. When we make love it should be . . .”
“ ‘Should be,’ ” Betsy echoed. “Well, I’m sorry, Lloyd, but for me, life is a little more serious than that. When I think of all the laundry and cleaning and cooking I do for you, while you just prance off to work every day and pounce on me when you get home . . .”
“That’s not what I meant.” But he felt guilty all the same. “I know you’re finding it lonely over here, but you were the one who wanted to come to England,” he reminded her.
“Oh, I know. I’m not complaining, Lloyd. Truly. It’s wonderful to be with you, to share your experiences. I just sometimes wish we could be a little . . . closer.”
Wasn’t this what he had just said? Lloyd speared a baby squid and chewed its rubbery legs.
“You were wrong about Passion having the cheapest flights, by the way,” Betsy told him. “Mother got a call from another airline offering her a special deal for fifty dollars less.”
“Really?” There was something odd about this, but Lloyd was too chilled by Betsy’s reminder to pursue the thought. It had been decided—when, and by whom, Lloyd wasn’t too sure—that the grand finale of their English trip would be a week touring the Lake District and Scotland with Betsy’s mother. Lloyd had favored Paris but Betsy said it would be too difficult, what with people speaking French, and the plumbing system. The Lake District was famous for its rainfall. Lloyd dreaded incarceration à trois in some overheated car smelling of damp raincoat and fussy meals in moribund hotels. He knew that Betsy would turn coy and girlish in her mother’s presence, while he became progressively more taciturn and lumpishly male. “When is she arriving?” he asked neutrally.
“In two weeks, as I’ve told you a million times. Don’t worry.” Betsy sneaked him a smile. “I’ve booked her into a hotel when she first gets to London. We’re planning on doing major
shopping. All you need to do is show up for dinner now and then.”
Lloyd reached for her hand and kissed it. “You are a wonderful woman.”
“I know.”
Lloyd’s spirits revived enough for him to order a lurid dessert floating in a bath of cream. Betsy chose chamomile tea, but having ascertained that there were absolutely no nuts in the dessert—the merest speck could cause a fatal reaction—she seemed happy enough to share it with him. He fed her slurpy spoonfuls while they talked of what they would do when they returned to New York. Betsy wanted to move, somewhere bigger, quieter, with a view of green. They debated whether to move downtown, or out of town, weighing price against space. Betsy’s enthusiasm was infectious. She talked about a little house with a porch and a second bedroom for friends, of clean air, friendly neighbors, bicycles, nice stores, good schools—
“Wait a minute!” Lloyd interjected. “I don’t care about schools.”
Betsy gave a shy smile. “You may one day.”
Lloyd found himself becoming quite excited at the thought of a study of his own, places to walk without fear of mugging or dog shit, maybe even room for a piano.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful?” Betsy breathed, leaning close.
Lloyd smiled back. He had never seen her looking so pretty and desirable.
Evidently the waiter felt the same, for he appeared at their table bearing two tiny glasses. “For the bella signorina,” he crooned. “On the ’ouse.”
“Signorina,” Betsy repeated thoughtfully. “Is that Miss or Mrs.?” She sipped her drink and winced.
Lloyd didn’t answer. He was still lost in a dream of perfect domesticity, with everything settled and orderly. It was all just there, in reach, the whole perfect package. All he had to do was reach out and pick it up.
There was a sudden blast of cool air from the door. A handsome woman with gipsyish looks entered the restaurant, carrying a basket heaped with red roses. Smiling boldly, she went from table to table: “Flowers for the beautiful lady?”