Summer in the City

by Robyn Sisman

  “Yesss!”

  “OK, OK, I’m a moron. Is it . . . our horizontal friend?”

  “Exactly.” He caught a wobble of amusement in her voice.

  “And you want to tell me . . .” Lloyd’s mind clicked back over their conversation. She had put a special emphasis on one particular phrase. He had it! Both Mr. Schneider and Mr. Fox . . . “You want to tell me that Harry’s going to be there on Friday. Hmm.” Lloyd wasn’t sure if this was good news or not. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  “So you’ll be taking appropriate action at once, will you?”

  “Um . . .?” What did she want him to do? A dreadful suspicion entered his mind. He and Suze had already discussed the difficulty of getting Bernie to give them a fair hearing while Sheri had him by the balls. But Harry was a different matter. He might be angry with Lloyd, but his brain still worked. “You’re not saying you want me to see Harry first, and somehow convince him that we have a case?”

  “That would certainly be helpful.”

  Lloyd glowered. The memory of his last meeting with Harry was still painful. She had no idea what she was asking. “He’d never listen to me.”

  “You can do better than that.”

  God, she was tough. “You don’t understand,” Lloyd protested. “There’s no way I can get in touch with him. The office has instructions not to take my calls. I can hardly accost him in the street. I can’t call him at home because—” He broke off. It was hard to explain how he could still feel warmth for Harry’s family, or how he could respect the rigid line of demarcation between home and work drawn by the man who had fired him. “He had us down to his house in the country. He was so disappointed in me,” Lloyd finished lamely.

  “Look.” Suze’s tone was uncompromising. “My boss is standing over me and she’s not looking happy. My job is on the line here. If you don’t pull your finger out, neither of us will be getting further work from Schneider Fox.”

  Lloyd was silent. She was dead right.

  “Let me know what progress you’ve made,” she went on, sounding like herself for the first time. “I’ll be waiting for your call.” The line was disconnected.

  Lloyd dropped the receiver into its cradle. Huh. He scratched the back of his head. Huh, again. It was all right for her: anyone who could sit under an office desk while her bosses had sex on top of it clearly hadn’t a nerve in her body. She knew Harry Fox better than he did; why didn’t she make the approach? Lloyd’s gaze roamed about the room. Her personality was present in everything he looked at—the bold color of the walls, the dashing line of the cleverly faked curtains tacked up with drawing pins, the exuberantly piled books and scatter of zany postcards. He couldn’t escape her. Suze had linked her fortunes to his; now they were inextricably entwined. He had lost his job; now she was risking hers to help him get it back. Lloyd straightened his backbone and got to his feet. He couldn’t let her think he was a wimp.

  First he tried the Schneider Fox office number, but the line had already been switched to the recorded message. Without giving himself time to change his mind, Lloyd looked up Harry’s home number and dialed it. After several rings, a woman’s breathless voice answered. In the background Lloyd could hear children whooping. It was probably bath time.

  “Lorna? It’s Lloyd Rockwell.”

  There was an intake of breath. “Oh, dear. I wish you hadn’t phoned.” Her voice was reproachful.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t have something important to tell Harry. Is he there?”

  “You’ve upset him dreadfully. He’s been shouting at all of us for days.”

  “Harry’s wrong about me,” Lloyd told her. “I’m sorry if that sounds rude, after all your hospitality, but it’s the truth.”

  Lorna paused. “He’s not here anyway.”

  “What time will he be back?”

  “Not for several days now. He’s off to New York on business.”

  Lloyd squeezed his eyes shut. He was too late.

  As he wondered what to do next, he heard a giggle. “I know where Daddy is,” said a piping voice he recognized—Harry’s daughter.

  “Get off the phone, you cheeky monster!” said Lorna. “Bedtime! Harry’s at some function tonight,” she continued, sounding more friendly. “He’s flying tomorrow. But I don’t think much of your chances.”

  Lloyd was silent. Neither did he. But he had to try. “Can you remember which function—or where?” he asked. “It’s important.”

  “I’m afraid not. Selective deafness tends to afflict married people, as you’ll no doubt discover.”

  “He’s gone to the rewards dinner,” continued the little voice importantly. “Daddy says you have to eat a chicken made out of rubber. Then you get a reward.”

  “Off!” shouted Lorna. Lloyd heard a crash as the phone extension was replaced. “I’ll have to go, Lloyd. I’ll tell Harry you rang.”

  But Lloyd was hardly listening. A surge of hope fizzed through his veins. He knew exactly where he could find Harry. “Lorna, what would your daughter like best in the whole world?”

  “What?”

  “Forget it. I’ll think of something. You’re a wonderful woman. Good-bye.”

  Lloyd burst into the bedroom, where Betsy was lying on the bed with the curtains drawn. She looked on aghast as he flung open the closet and started unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Have you seen my dark suit?” he demanded. “What do you think ‘black tie’ means? Is that a tuxedo? God! Why do I never have any clean white shirts?”

  Betsy struggled on to one elbow. “There’s one at the back.” She pointed. “I ironed it this morning. What’s happening, Lloyd?”

  “I have to go out for a few hours.”

  “Where? Can’t I come?”

  Lloyd dressed swiftly, too preoccupied to answer. He hadn’t worn a suit in over a week. Tying his tie, buttoning his starched cuffs, he felt in command again. He brushed his hair smooth and stooped to look at himself in the mirror that was always too low. His reflection stared coolly back. He looked OK. Betsy watched him mutely from the bed. She was very pale, he noticed. A question surfaced in his mind, but she had said nothing and he hadn’t dared to ask. Suddenly tender, he bent to kiss her forehead. It was the formal, distracted kiss of a soldier going to war. She clutched his sleeve. “But where are you going?” she repeated.

  Lloyd straightened to his full six feet two inches. “I’m going to get my job back.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The hotel was an ugly, grandiose building on Park Lane, the sort of place where Edwardian dowagers might once have chaperoned young girls to chilly balls. Lloyd approached it at a brisk pace, nervous yet determined. Taxis were drawing up outside, disgorging funky-looking women and fastidiously dressed young men. Rowdy groups jostled toward the hotel on foot, trading gleeful insults. This was the advertising crowd: Lloyd recognized them by their confident laughs. The Admag Awards was the annual jamboree of the industry, an event of major boozing and bitchiness. Everyone who was anyone in the business would be here. How would they react to someone who was no one?

  Lloyd lifted his gaze to the high trees of Hyde Park, gathering his courage. The evening that lay ahead could be humiliating and unpleasant; he owed it to himself—and to Suze—to rise above pride and fear. He smoothed down his tie, wishing he weren’t the only man without a tuxedo, then squared his shoulders and stepped through the entrance.

  At the rear of the hotel lobby, a table covered in a cloth barred the way to the function room. A thin-faced woman sat behind it, checking the names of arrivals against a list she was holding. As Lloyd approached, she beamed a phony smile of professional welcome in his direction. “Good evening, sir. May I see your invitation please?”

  “Of course.” He reached into his jacket pocket and drew it out, savoring the irony that this had been one of the items returned to him by the motorcycle courier from his office at Schneider Fox.

  The woman ran a finger down the list in
front of her, turning over several pages. Then she frowned and began the process again. A line began to form behind Lloyd. “Buck up, angel,” called a cocky voice, “or the champagne will run out like it did last year!”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” The woman looked up at Lloyd, her face now expressionless. “Your name does not appear to be on the list.”

  “There must be a mistake.”

  “I’m afraid I have strict instructions not to admit anyone who isn’t on this list. Perhaps if you could speak to one of your colleagues . . .?”

  “But surely my invitation speaks for itself?”

  “Those are my instructions.” She glanced toward a uniformed security man standing by the door, who moved forward ominously.

  Lloyd’s fragile confidence wilted. He had fallen at the first hurdle. He retreated into the lobby, uncomfortably aware of the speculative glances that followed him. Over the years he had attended dozens of events like this, but always in a group of colleagues, sometimes even in the starring role of an award-winner. Like everyone else he had complained of the banality of the menu, the crassness of the judges and the viciousness of the inevitable morning-after hangover; all the same it had been a familiar world, his world. Now, as he positioned himself inconspicuously by a marble pillar, self-conscious in his business suit, he felt like an outsider.

  “Well, well, you’re a brave man,” said a voice in his ear.

  Lloyd looked round to see Julian Jewel, smiling impudently at him. “Something tells me you’re not with the Schneider Fox party. Am I right?”

  “Very perceptive of you.” Lloyd was not in the mood for badinage.

  “So who are you with?” Jewel persisted.

  “I’m not with anybody.”

  “Then what the hell are you doing here?”

  Lloyd sighed. “It’s a long story, Jewel.”

  “I love long stories. Let’s go through and you can tell me over a glass of fizz.”

  Lloyd flapped his useless invitation, feeling foolish. “They won’t let me in.”

  “Oh, crap. Leave it to me.”

  At the desk, Jewel told the thin-faced woman that Lloyd was with the Sturm Drang party. His bumptious charm did the trick. Confidence, thought Lloyd. It’s all about confidence. “Thanks,” he told Jewel.

  They took the escalator to an upper floor, where the party was in full cry. A young woman wearing startlingly few clothes and wound about with chains approached, bearing a tray of champagne flutes; Jewel took two and handed one to Lloyd. “I gather that you’ve been a naughty boy,” he said.

  “No. That’s why I’m here.”

  “It did sound a bit out of character. So why the bust-up? Have you been rogering one of Harry’s koalas?”

  Lloyd was craning his neck, looking around the room over Jewel’s head. “It’s Harry I’ve come to talk to. Will you let me know if you see him?”

  Jewel’s eyes sparkled with anticipation. “Can I be referee?”

  Suddenly Lloyd saw a woman he recognized. Smiling, he raised a hand. She caught his eye, then turned away. Inwardly, he flinched.

  “Listen, don’t let me spoil your evening,” he said to Jewel. “You got me in here, and I’m very grateful, but you must want to be with your friends. I’ll be fine by myself.”

  “Rubbish. You must join our table. Hang on, and I’ll have a word with Hugo. I’m sure he won’t mind. He loathes Harry.” Jewel slid into the crowd like a sleek seal.

  Lloyd stood alone in the babble of noise and blaze of high chandeliers. Where was Harry? He should be here by now.

  Lloyd found that his glass was being refilled, this time by a young man in a leather thong and gold body paint. He recalled reading that the theme of this year’s Awards was “Submission.”

  “Hi. Don’t I know you from somewhere?” A woman was standing in his path, blond, attractive, flirtatious.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I know!” Her eyes opened wide. “I saw your photo in Admag. What was the article about? I’ve a hopeless memory.”

  “He’s wanted by the police,” said Jewel, reappearing at their side. “If you’re interested, there’s a large reward.”

  Jewel was accompanied by an older man with unruly gray hair and a clever, dissipated face, who struck Lloyd as somewhat the worse for drink. “Great you can join us—anything to annoy the opposition.” Hugo Drang pumped Lloyd’s hand vigorously. “Bloody Fox pinched one of my best accounts. Tell me,” he poked Lloyd in the ribs, “what’s the definition of a well-balanced Australian?”

  Lloyd looked blank.

  “A man who’s got a chip on both shoulders.” Drang laughed heartily.

  Together they walked through to the banqueting hall, a cavernous, high-ceilinged room of tawdry opulence. Round tables laid for dinner crammed the space; on the far side of the room was a raised stage with a podium, backed by a large film screen. The noise was terrific.

  “It’s a bit like a brothel, I always think,” said Jewel. “In that sense absolutely appropriate to this evening.”

  Chaos reigned for several minutes as people milled around the room in search of their tables. The Sturm Drang party had been placed near the back, and while Lloyd waited for the surge to subside so that he could sit down, he once again scanned the crowd. There was a ramrod back topped with crinkly hair he thought he recognized: yes, it was Roger, the cricket freak from Schneider Fox. Straining his eyes in the atmospheric gloom, Lloyd followed his progress and saw him raise his hand in a greeting. An answering hand rose from a table near the stage. Lloyd’s nerves knotted. It was Harry.

  Now what? Creating a scene at the Schneider Fox table was not going to get him anywhere.

  Jewel introduced Lloyd to his colleagues, as if it were perfectly normal for him to be there. An extra place was set for him, between Jewel and a female designer—Cleopatra haircut, scarlet lipstick, tiny stretchy dress: dazzling in a scary sort of way. Lloyd hoped Suze didn’t look like that. Food began to appear on the table. He pushed it distractedly around his plate.

  “Apparently this place used to be a skating rink,” Jewel offered. “A chap told me earlier. In the War it was a favorite hang-out of your compatriots, Rockwell, including Eisenhower and Patton. You should feel at home here.”

  Lloyd smiled. “I’m being made to feel very welcome.”

  “Well said! Now, Lloyd, since I’m being so nice to you, tip me the wink. Do you think we’ve got a chance with Passion?”

  “Surely I’m the last person you should ask.”

  “On the contrary, you’re the only person who hasn’t got an ax to grind.”

  “Well . . .” Lloyd hesitated. Jewel was a friend of Piers, and Piers had not looked happy when Lloyd had last seen him in Harry’s office. It was all too possible that Passion would move agencies. Then he remembered Suze’s fighting words: You are innocent. You are good at what you do. He must be positive. He would not admit the possibility of failure. “In my opinion you haven’t got a chance with Passion. I’m sorry.”

  “Interesting.” Jewel nodded thoughtfully. Then he gave a sly grin. “I think we might have a go anyway.”

  The beginning of the ceremony was signaled at last by a blast of portentous music. A minor celebrity appeared on the stage and tripped his way to a podium to the sound of thunderous applause. The bright spotlights showed Lloyd that Harry was still in place. Should he go over there now?

  A giant screen began to flash up a succession of ads for jeans, deodorants, drinks, cars, toys, cereal and “social” issues like homeless-ness or cruelty to animals. Some of the work—and many of the acceptance speeches—made Lloyd wonder why he was so eager to get back into the industry. One image provoked an outbreak of raucous cheers and cutlery-banging at the Sturm Drang table. Lloyd had seen the poster, for women’s underwear, all over London, and it had made him smile every time. “Whose idea was it?” he asked.

  “Mine,” said three different voices.

  “And now it gives me great pleasure to present the a
ward for the best voiceover in a television commercial, which is sponsored today by Vision Computer Services. The nominations are as follows . . .” Lloyd ran a finger around his collar. He couldn’t eat and he didn’t dare drink. The room was simmering with heat and noise. As the latest winner descended the steps from the stage, he scanned the Schneider Fox table yet again and found one person missing. Harry had disappeared.

  Lloyd looked wildly around the room. A movement at the back caught his eye. He saw a beam of pale light as a door opened, then the outline of a tall figure. This was the chance Lloyd had been waiting for. He got to his feet and moved through the tables toward the door through which he had seen Harry go out. Hardly anyone looked up as he passed; they were all watching the presentations. Lloyd found himself in a lobby; a sign indicated where Harry must be. Now that the moment had come, Lloyd felt sick with apprehension. It was still not too late to find an exit and escape into the night.

  Steeling himself for the ordeal ahead, Lloyd pushed his way through the door.

  Harry was standing at a basin, washing his hands. Their eyes met in the mirror. Harry’s face turned ugly.

  “You’ve got a hell of a nerve showing up here tonight.” He flicked the water from his fingers with a violent gesture.

  “I came to see you.”

  “Well, you’re wasting your time. Whatever you have to say, I’m not interested.” He turned from the basin and moved toward the door.

  Lloyd stepped into his path. “Don’t you want to keep the Passion account?”

  “Don’t push your luck, Rockwell.” He was very close now. Lloyd thought Harry might hit him.

  “I can prove to you that I didn’t leak that data to Stateside.” Lloyd held his gaze. “The person who did is still working for you.”

  Harry looked at him hard. “Why should I believe you?”

  “Why shouldn’t you, Harry? If I had really been the robber, do you think I would have left my fingerprints all over the place? Do you thank that Tony Salvino would have been naive enough to leave a message with my secretary if we were in cahoots? Anyway, why would I have done it? I loved my job. Did you think that I was going to work for someone else?”