Jack and I were getting ready to leave the studio after the week eleven telecast, walking down the hall past the row of dressing rooms. I’d perfected the technique of walking so close to him that my breast brushed against his arm while we both kept our eyes facing forward, looking as if nothing untoward was going on. It was our secret signal to let Jack know I wanted him, but the body language was so subtle that an unsuspecting eye would have discerned nothing out of the ordinary.
“It’s so quiet here,” I marveled. The sound of my heels against the linoleum floor practically echoed. “I need you, Jack. I want to kiss you,” I whispered to him. “Right now.”
“Here?”
“No.” We’d just passed an emergency exit door that led to one of the stairwells. “There.” I stopped walking and turned back to face the door.
“Do you think . . . ?” Jack seemed rather intrigued by the idea. “It’s pretty risky.”
We both looked up and down the long corridor to see if there was anyone within either sight or earshot, and determining that it was safe, Jack cautiously opened the heavy door to the stairwell. It made a very discomfiting creaking sound as it swung toward us. We slipped through the doorway into the stairwell and Jack guided the door closed, afraid it might slam.
“Now, you were saying . . .” Jack placed his hands on my breasts and steered me so that my back was against the wall. I could feel Jack’s heat everywhere: flickering on my tongue, dancing in my mouth, searing through my sweater and penetrating the hollow between my thighs.
I’d just been angling for a kiss, but when he slid his hand along my leg, I accommodated his progress by bending my knee and resting my leg, storklike, with the heel of my shoe pushing against the wall about two feet or so off the floor. Any consideration of common sense became totally lost in a flood of sensation. All I could think about was how much I wanted to give myself to Jack—heart, soul, and body.
“Well, aren’t you a naughty little girl,” he whispered, a lascivious little glint in his eyes. “Did you go without panties on national television?” He pressed his body against mine as his hand sought the source of my heat.
“On prime-time, baby,” I said playfully, gently biting his lower lip.
“And such a short skirt, too. No wonder they didn’t dare kick you off the air. What possessed you to do this, sweetheart?”
“Fantasizing about what you’re doing to me right now,” I gasped, in between moans.
“Shhhh,” Jack cautioned.
“Or maybe I was just feeling wicked,” I whispered. “Jack?”
“Yes, love?”
“I want to feel you inside me.”
“Now?”
“Now.” I reached for his belt and managed to undo it with my right hand, then unzipped his trousers, reached through the flap on his briefs and drew him out, guiding him into me. As I leaned back against the wall for support, Jack lifted my legs so that I was straddling him as he stood. The urgency of our passion and desire enabled us to maintain our contorted position and yet enjoy the most luscious sensations as I wrapped my legs tightly around Jack’s waist, pulling him deeper and deeper inside me with each thrust. I wondered if the look in my eyes was as glazed as his. We climaxed together in a sort of silent scream, then practically devoured each other’s mouths, using our tongues to fill the void from which no sound dared escape.
My thigh muscles had received quite a workout. My legs felt like mush. I slowly lowered them to the floor and found I was too wobbly to stand. I reached one hand back and placed my palm against the wall, and grabbed Jack’s forearm with the other to steady myself and regain my balance. With his index finger, Jack smoothed a few beads of sweat from my brow and kissed me where they had rested. Then he dressed himself and made sure my miniskirt was no longer in a compromising position.
“Well, that was quite an adventure,” I said, catching my breath, my hand still grasping Jack’s arm. I had yet to fully regain my equilibrium. “Wow. It seems like the stairwell is spinning.” I looked up at Jack. “Was it good for you, too?”
He took my face in his hands and kissed me tenderly. “Need you ask?”
I reached for the doorknob and turned the handle. “Jack?”
“Yes?”
“Either the fantastic sex we just had sapped me of all my strength, or this door is locked.”
“It can’t be locked.” He tried the handle. “It’s locked. Shit.”
“I don’t remember seeing a sign on the door saying we couldn’t get back in, do you? Otherwise, we wouldn’t have gone through the door in the first place.”
Jack tried the handle again, unwilling to believe that it could possibly have locked behind us.
“Uh-oh,” I said. “This is a no re-entry stairwell.” Jack surveyed our surroundings. “Okay, Liz, we can either go up or go down and try to get into one of the corridors on another floor. Got a preference?”
“I’d prefer to go down. Of course.”
“Of course.” He took my hand and we descended to the next landing. That door, too was locked.
“One more flight and I think we’re at street level,” I said, remembering that Bad Date is broadcast from Studio 3B. At the foot of the stairs, the door was clearly marked EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY and instead of a knob or a handle, had one of those rectangular metal bars across the width of the door. Affixed to this bar was a red and white sticker, warning that an alarm would sound if the door were opened. “Where do you think this leads?” I asked Jack.
“Beats me. Outdoors, I expect.”
“Do you think we should open it, Jack?”
“I don’t see any alternative. Unless you want to snuggle up here on the staircase and call it a night. Maybe some nice janitor will let us out when he comes around in six or seven hours or so.”
“Okay. You’ve convinced me.”
Jack pushed against the bar and the door opened easily, immediately triggering a deafening, wailing siren. As we stepped into the night, I noticed that the alarm was just above our heads, right on the outside wall of the building. We were on an alleyway. I grabbed Jack’s hand. “I say we make a run for it.”
“Good idea.”
Hand in hand, we ran down the length of the alley and out onto a side street, feeling like convicts escaping the state penitentiary. I had hoped it would seem more like Bonnie and Clyde, but wasn’t nearly as glamorous. We kept running until we reached the corner, turned it, and once the studio was out of sight, panting like crazy, we stopped in the vestibule of a coffee shop to catch our breath.
“I need a drink,” Jack wheezed. “Want to stop for a quick one at Pinky’s?”
I shook my head. “Whatever you want, I’ve got it at home.” My heart must have been pumping a million beats a minute. “Let’s take a nice hot shower and finish what we—”
A police car, gumball flashing, siren blazing, screeched to a stop near the coffee shop. Both cops jumped out of the car like they’d been ejected by a magic button.
I looked at Jack. “You don’t suppose they’re looking for who busted out of the studio?”
“Somehow I doubt it.”
One of the cops had a two-way radio, and I could hear someone’s voice crackling through the static about the TV studio located at . . . the address of the Urban Lifestyles Channel. I didn’t think it prudent to continue to eavesdrop any longer. “Let’s go,” I hissed under my breath. Trying to look as unassuming and nonchalant as possible, we trotted to the corner and grabbed the first cab we saw. I told him to head straight up Eighth Avenue—and, until we got out of the immediate vicinity—to floor it!
32/
When the Shoe Fits . . .
“What time is it?” I grogged into the phone.
“Ten A.M. Do you know where your former bosses are?”
“Oh, God, I thought it was dawn.” I rolled over and reached for Jack. His side of my bed was empty, but still slightly warm. Oh yeah . . . it was all coming back to me. He had to leave insanely early to make an eight A.M. flight out of
LaGuardia back down to Miami, and had insisted, in the still-dark, predawn hours, that I stay in bed and not accompany him out to the airport, as was my wont. I rubbed my palm against the sheet, imagining that it was a magic lamp that could grant me the wish to return my lover to my arms.
I cradled the phone to my ear. “Liz? It’s Jason and F.X. here. We’ve got you on speakerphone. Are you there?”
I looked over at the digital clock. It was indeed ten o’clock in the morning. I must have fallen back asleep soundly. That’s what great sex will do for a girl. “Yes, I’m here. I’m in bed,” I grumbled. “What do you guys want?” I tried really hard to focus, to wake up. I reached for the half-glass of water on the night table and took a swig. It was lukewarm.
“Liz, we really need you back,” Jason began. “We’ve got a major project that only you can handle. A big new client.”
“What’s wrong with Jackie?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “We had to let her go,” F.X. said. “She just couldn’t cut it.”
“Face it, she was as green as Kermit the Frog,” Jason added apologetically, as though he felt somewhat guilty for attempting to fill my job with someone far less experienced. “Don’t get us wrong; she was a very bright girl, eager to learn . . . but SSA is just too small to be a training ground. At the level we work at, our clients expect top-notch performances from seasoned ad veterans across the board.”
“Like Jason said, we really need you back, Liz.
We’ve thought long and hard about it and we think you’re the right person for the job—so much so that we’re willing to give you another chance here.”
I continued to listen to their pitch.
“F.X., back me up on this. It’s a fabulous client, Liz. Trust me, you’ll love creating the campaign. And we can all but promise that you won’t think it’s something consumers never knew they wanted or needed until you got hired to force-feed them with ad copy that makes the merchandise seem utterly irresistible.”
“Liz, you’ll love the product,” F.X. continued. “On Nona’s grave, I swear it.”
I took the bait. “Okay, I bite. What is it?”
“Shoes!” they said in gleeful unison.
I looked back at the clock: 10:03. “Shoes, huh? I’ll be down there in a hour.”
By noon, I was standing over several shoeboxes in the SSA conference room, fingering the fine quality materials and admiring the workmanship. God, the new leather even smelled good and it was buttery soft and supple to the touch. I bet shoes like that didn’t even give you blisters the first time out.
I couldn’t resist the urge. Boy, do I love having sample-size feet. I slipped off my own shoes and lifted a nut-brown slingback with beige topstitching and a high, conical heel from one of the boxes and slipped it on. I wiggled my foot. I can’t remember when I’ve tried on a more comfortable shoe. I limped around for a bit, with only the right shoe on.
Jason started to laugh at me. “That’s ridiculous! How can you get a proper idea of how they fit if you only put one shoe on?” He lifted the left shoe out of the box and held it out to me. “Here, try the mate.”
I slipped into the other shoe and started doing laps around the conference table. My hunch was correct; they really didn’t need breaking in.
“The company prides itself on its product lasting forever,” F.X. told me as I continued to circle the room. “Remember how Coach leather used to promise to repair its products for you for free for as long as you owned the bags? Well, these guys stand behind their goods in the same way. No matter how long you own a pair of their shoes, you can ship it to them from anywhere, they’ll pay the freight, and return them to you good as new.”
I looked at the array of shoes. “They’re gorgeous, that’s certainly true.” Then I looked at the prices marked on their boxes. “And they’re not cheap.”
“They’re more high-end than the average purchase for a pair of good shoes, that’s true; but the cost is no higher than, say, Charles Jourdan or Bruno Magli,” Jason commented.
“And they’re supposed to be environmentally friendly, or something,” F.X. added.
“What the heck is that supposed to mean?” I asked. “Like, if you accidentally stepped in dog shit, the shoes will automatically compost it?”
Jason laughed. “I haven’t a clue. Call the client and ask. Or wait until he comes in here on Friday afternoon and ask him then. We’re as curious about that claim as you are.”
“Cute logo,” I mused, turning over the shoe to see a picture of a jungle bird carved into the leather sole. The same bird graced the shoebox top. “It reminds me of the Froot Loops cereal bird.”
“I think it’s supposed to be a toucan,” Jason said.
“Did you know that those exotic jungle birds—well, I don’t know this for a fact, I heard it on the Discovery Channel or something—they mate for life! Isn’t that cool?”
I could feel myself suddenly grinning like a blithering idiot.
“What’s with you, Liz?” F.X. asked.
“Ask Demetrius to come into my office in an hour,” I replied, trying not to feel too smugly triumphant. I had my ad campaign.
“I think it’s the easiest one I’ve ever done,” I told Demetrius, two days later as I admired his rough sketches for the Sole Mates print campaign. “It’s like everything conspired at once—in a good way—to give me just the angle I needed. We’ve captured the beauty and durability of the product, and the manufacturer’s corporate culture, though I’ll be damned if I can figure out why a pair of pumps is eco-friendly.”
Demetrius shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe the box is biodegradable, mahn. Or they think there’ll be less waste when your shoes last forever.” Demetrius looked down at my feet. “Nice. Very sexy. How do they feel?”
“They’re the most comfortable open-toed purple suede pumps I’ve ever worn.”
I looked at our brainstorming list. The Sole Mates “Mate for Life” campaign was taking shape with record speed. In just two days’ time, Demetrius had dashed out collectible-quality posters. In lush, exotic, colors, against a luxuriant South American landscape, he’d rendered a pair of tango dancers so seductive you could feel the heat emanating off the page. The woman’s perfectly shaped calf entwined about the man’s leg; on her foot was a black leather Sole Mate’s shoe not unlike the style I was wearing, except strap-pier. It looked entirely appropriate in that milieu. I’d asked him to sketch in the phrase “Toucan Tango” above their heads. I hadn’t yet decided where to place it on the poster, or simply to replace it with the “Mate for Life” phrase that I’d originally intended to be the tag line for all the print ads, as in “Sole Mates: Mate for Life.” There was also the briefest explanation of the product’s lasting durability, and a word or two about the company’s loyalty to its customers. I’d come up with a bunch of slogans for different ads, all with different images, batting wordplay around in my head. I finally settled on “A Lasting Relationship” as a catch-phrase that might work.
This “Mate for Life” campaign was the best fun out of bed I’d had in years. In addition to the hot tango poster, I asked Demetrius to work up artwork for a Cinderella and the Prince ad, in which he’s slipping a Sole Mates slipper pump on her foot. I had him provide recognizable images of Clark Gable and Carole Lombard stepping with their Sole Mates–shod tootsies into the cement outside Hollywood’s famous cinema, Grauman’s Chinese. Even the company’s less-than-sexy shoe styles had an arousing look to the ads. For the heavy, lug-soled hiking boots, Demetrius had rendered an exceptionally attractive couple trekking through a lushly verdant rain forest, two toucans perched in a tree overhead, with the words “Rubber Soul” underneath the graphic.
And the client was a joy. The owner of Sole Mates, Domingo Peres-Arroyo was a tall, elegant Argentinian who gave new definition to the word courtly . His family had been Sephardim from Spain who emigrated to Argentina in the early nineteenth century. His barely accented English was tinged with a slight lilt that made
his speaking voice soft and musical. I was enchanted. Upon learning that I was an inveterate shoe shopper, Domingo assured me that from now on, I could have any pair of shoes in his catalogues free of charge, whenever I wanted something.
It felt like Christmas in July.
“Please. If you should ever need anything, I want you to call me,” he said after our first meeting at SSA. “You do have my number?”
“It’s in the paperwork somewhere.”
“No. You should never have to search for anything.” He retrieved a wafer-thin card case from his inside breast pocket and removed his business card. “I must tell you again, Liz, how delighted I am with the ‘Mate for Life’ campaign and the mock-ups you showed me. Your concept is so sensual, the ads seem . . . almost fragrant. I hear music .”
We shook hands. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
For the first time in ages, I wanted to grab life with both hands and give it a big wet kiss. I had my boyfriend back. SSA had given me a second chance and I was back in the groove, in the zone, in the saddle again, in every corny cliché I could think of. And two days after my client meeting with Sr. Peres-Arroyo, after episode twelve, sweet, lovably eccentric Milo Plum was voted off Bad Date, leaving nothing standing between me and a million dollars, plus that all-expense-paid trip for two to Paris, except the personal opinion of 253 members of the studio audience and . . . Jack Rafferty.
Reality Check Page 26