Pot of gold : a novel

by Michael, Judith

  "I told him I'd do whatever I could to help Emma be happy."

  Gina gave a small grunt. "Not exactly a declaration of independence." She watched Claire's face flush. "I'm sorry; I know he makes it hard. For you and everybody. And you know, they've gone totally bananas about Emma around here; I hear them talking about her all the time. The whole advertising team was here the other day; they're going to do a bunch of ads with Emma in the labs and offices and out on the grounds. Nice idea, actually; I think it was Quentin's."

  "He says she has an unusual beauty." Claire's voice was low and she knew there was a note of defeat in it. "They're building a whole campaign around her."

  "In other words, taking her over."

  "Yes." Claire felt a rush of relief. Gina always understood.

  "You know what else they're saying.^" Gina asked. "That she has a unique kind of beauty: youthful but not young. Bill Stroud said she looked more experienced than most seventeen-year-olds, sort of worldly-wise, he said; no more illusions, which I hope isn't true. Marty Lundeen says she's got a lot of sadness in her eyes, which I also hope is not true."

  "She is sad. Or at least not happy. And I don't know what to do about it."

  "Maybe nothing. At least not right now. You can't smooth out every pitfall so she'll be happy all the time."

  "I know that. But I ought to be able to make things easier for her; isn't that what age and experience are for.-^ What good is it if every generation has to repeat all the agonies of the generations

  that went before? It's like reinventing the wheel. Why shouldn't we be able to smooth out all the pitfalls, at least the ones we know something about?" Her voice trailed away. "Well, maybe things will get better between us; we're both working for Quentin now, so we have something new to share."

  "You're working for Quentin? You're working? don't believe it. Why? Doing what?"

  "Being a designer. Didn't I tell you I might want to go back to work someday?"

  "You're honest to God going back to work?"

  "Well, not really. Quentin wants me to design the packaging for a new line he's bringing out, and after that—"

  "He wants you to do it? You're in charge? How about that, it's what you always wanted!"

  Thank God for Gina, Claire thought; I don't have to explain anything. "That's why I couldn't turn it down. And after the new line, he wants me to redesign the packaging for everything else. But I'll hire a group for that and I'll be a consultant, not full-time. How much do you know about this new line? PK-20, such an odd name."

  "Not a damn thing. You'd think it's something the Pentagon dreamed up; it's got secret 2iVdi confidential 2X over it. And I would dearly love to get a look at it." She picked up a pencil and began to draw concentric circles on a pad of paper. "It looks like they've got a hell of a lot riding on it. I mean, there's this new advertising campaign built around Emma, and now you're designing the packaging, for a line that's supposed to be released next March. They might make it—I'd guess with Quentin pushing ever'body, they will; I've never seen people jump the way they do for him—but it'll cost a fortune in overtime, hiring extra people ... so somebody, and I guess it's Quentin, thinks the line is so important it's worth whatever it takes to make it a smash."

  "Wouldn't you do whatever you could to make sure something would be a smash?"

  "If you could make sure, which you can't. I guess that's what they're doing: trying to be absolutely sure. Which could be why they're still testing. It's taking a hell of a long time. More money; testing eats up money, you know." Gina tossed her pencil aside. "But then I'm a lowly lab technician; nobody asks my advice. Are you taking a tour of the plant? Do you need a guide?"

  "I'd love it."

  Gina took her through the laboratories, the lab kitchen, the cafeteria and its kitchen, the long wing of offices, with Quentin's at the far end, and, on the opposite end of the building, the manufacturing wing, connected by a walkway to a separate building for packaging and shipping. The main building was filled with quiet activity, men and women talking in low tones or bent over their work counters, oblivious to those around them. Everything was clean and bright, with large windows brushed by tree branches shedding red and gold leaves, gardens bronze and orange with the last of the fall chrysanthemums and asters, and beyond them, the smoothly sloping lawn. Claire thought again of a college campus. What a wonderful place to work, she thought, and then remembered she would be working there. She would have an office, and a team of designers. She felt a rush of warmth and gratitude toward Quentin. Whatever problems she had with his arrogance, she owed him, already, a great deal.

  "Do you see much of Quentin.^" she asked Gina as they walked back through the laboratory, their tour complete.

  "Not a lot. But enough to be reminded that he's in charge. He wanders through now and then, looking at what we're all doing, as if he really understands it, and who knows.? Maybe he does. He's clever enough to keep his mouth shut and just look very closely at everything, so nobody knows whether he's faking or not. And of course it's the smart thing to do; everybody works harder and nobody takes many breaks, because he could pop in at any minute, and there's this damned feeling you have that you want to impress him, please him, make him notice you. I find that scar% you know; it's what turns people into dictators."

  "But he is one," Claire said, a little surprised that it had taken her this long to see it clearly. "This is his empire and he runs it his own way, and there's no one to challenge whatever he decides to do."

  "Is that true.'^ Doesn't he have a board of directors.'"'

  "He does, but it's only two investors who bought the lab with him, and I think they let him run it without interfering. I suppose if he started losing money, they'd step in, but so far that hasn't happened. He changed the name from Norwalk Labs to Eiger Labs, and he hired consultants to modernize it, and he hired his

  own executive committee and office staff and a new team of chemists without going to his board for any of it. It's really his."

  "As long as it's a private company."

  "Well, yes, if he decides to go public that would change. And he's talked about doing it. But—" Claire gave a soft laugh. "He is so incredibly confident—"

  "Arrogant."

  "Well, I've called him that, too. He never talks about failing. He doesn't look left or right; he doesn't wait for other people to catch up to him; he doesn't even worr' about people who might not like what he's doing, might even get hurt by it. He just assumes everything will go the way he's planned it. And so far that's what's happened, every year. He's the perfect American businessman. As long as he's successful, no one asks any questions. I told you: it's his empire."

  "And we all do his bidding."

  Claire gazed around the laboratory-, at the rounded backs of chemists and technicians, the gleaming equipment, the powders and liquids and creams that had led Fortune magazine to call Eiger Labs the fastest growing and most innovative cosmetics company in America. Emma and I do his bidding, she thought. Gina goes home every day to a completely different life, but Emma is with Brix, at least she's with him as often as he allows, and I'm with Quentin at least three or four times a week. Part of his life. Trying to please him.

  They walked down the corridor to the reception room. "I don't know," she said slowly. "It's not as if any of us has made a commitment. Everything could change tomorrow."

  "Sure," Gina said.

  Quentin came through the doorway to the reception room, so tall he seemed to brush the top of it, his broad shoulders filling its width. He nodded a greeting to Gina. "Ready.''" he asked Claire.

  "Yes." Claire slipped the gold chain of her small blue evening bag over her shoulder. She kissed Gina's cheek. "Thanks for the tour. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

  "I hear good reports on your friend," Quentin said as they walked to his car. "She asks a lot of questions, learns fast, and comes up with interesting ideas. She'll have a job here for a long time, if she wants it."

  'Tm glad." Claire again
felt a wave of gratitude toward Quen-tin, and relief that he was pleased with Gina, and with her for sending Gina to him.

  That night they went to a musical, a benefit for a hospital on whose board Quentin sat, and then to his home, where Claire was his hostess for dinner. By now she moved easily through his house; she was familiar with its rooms and the routine he had established for himself, and she was at ease with his butler and housekeeper and gardeners. At first, when he had told her to plan this dinner party, she was nervous and hesitant in giving instructions to his staff, but then she saw that they took it for granted that she would give orders; clearly, Quentin had paved the way. And so, for the first time in her life, she hired caterers and chose the menu and selected the china and silver, and the tables and chairs and table linens they would bring; she bought wine and hired bartenders and selected a musical group; she ordered candles and flower arrangements for the tables and, on her own, filled vases and bowls throughout the house with branches of autumn leaves and berries from the countryside; and she hired two men to park cars for Quentin's guests.

  Our guests, she corrected herself, but still, no matter how many arrangements she made, she did not feel that this was her party, or that this was her home. All the guests knew her: they had taken her to lunch and dinner and shopping; she and Quentin had visited their weekend homes; they had gone in groups of four or six or eight to polo matches, horse races, and on overnight sailing trips. And they greeted her at the entrance to Quentin's living room as if she belonged there. With Quentin. Or to him. But the more casually they assumed it, the more she pushed that thought away.

  She kept it at bay all evening, not acknowledging how much a part of Quentin's home she was that night, flawlessly orchestrating a dinner for forty guests. And when they left, praising her for the evening as she stood at Quentin's side to say good-night, she felt his arm brush hers and knew he was pleased and knew she had passed another of his tests.

  "You'll stay with me tonight," he said when they were alone. His arms were around her, one hand caressing the back of her neck. "I don't like your leaving. And driving back alone."

  "Which is it.^ You don't like my leaving because you want me

  next to you when you wake up, or you're worried about my safety?"

  "Both." He kissed her, slipping her short silver jacket off her shoulders. In an instant, Claire was open and longing, straining toward him. He could always arouse her to a tumult of desire simply by wrapping her within his arms and holding her as if she were fastened to him, a vessel he could enter and leave at will. He knew it; he felt her desire, and Claire saw him smile as he led her to his bedroom.

  "But I can't stay," she said, forcing the words through the fog of her desire. "I want to be home when Emma wakes up."

  He shook his head. "Not tonight." He began to unbutton her dress. "Tonight you belong here. No one else has a claim on you."

  "Quentin." She wanted him so urgently she could almost feel him inside her, feel his bulk lying on her, pressing her into the bed with a weight that was careless and possessive, a weight she missed when she slept alone. But at the same time, she was pulling back against his arms, and she saw in his eyes a cold flare of anger because he knew she was about to refuse him. "I have to be home in the morning; I don't want Emma to wake up and not find me there."

  "Is this a game you're playing.'* You think she doesn't know you're sleeping with me, just as she's sleeping with Brix.^"

  Claire tightened inside. "I suppose she assumes it; I haven't told her. But whatever she believes, we have a home and I ought to behave as if I live there instead of running around like someone with no responsibilities."

  "For God's sake." He leaned against the doorjamb. "You have a responsibility to yourself, and to me. Emma is a grown woman, and you and I have our own affair and it has nothing to do with anyone else." He smiled, but his face was hard, and the smile had no meaning. "It has to be that way, Claire; I've been patient with you, but I'm not in the habit of rearranging my life every time someone has a new idea about how something should be done."

  /'w not ''someone''; Fm the woman you re sleeping with.

  "Why is it so important.^" she asked. "What difference does it make whether we have the morning together or not.^"

  "It's what I want."

  Claire waited, but that was all. She gazed at him, feeling trapped. He stroked her hair, then gathered her to him. His breath was warm in her ear. "You'll have to decide. I can take you to your car now, if that's what you choose."

  His body seemed to surround her; Claire felt she was disappearing into him. He kissed her cheek, her closed eyes, and then her mouth, his tongue moving over hers, making it his. He slipped his hand inside her open dress and covered her breast, enclosing it, locking her in. A low moan escaped her, her tongue met his, and they both knew she would stay.

  Emma leaned over the worktable in one of the small Eiger laboratories, resting her head on her hand, and looked at the camera. "Should I smile.'^" she asked.

  Tod Tallent circled her like a hunter stalking a prey. "I don't know," he muttered. "Something's missing. Bill, give an opinion here. You're the creative director, not me."

  Bill Stroud contemplated Emma. Beside him, Marty Lundeen did the same, their heads tilted at the same angle, raking Emma with their stares. Her electric blue silk blouse and red-gold hair seemed to shimmer in the stark white laboratory; there was no other color, anywhere else. Emma, accustomed by now to being stared at, gazed absently around the room. An open jar of face cream was on the counter, and she slid it toward her. It was so smooth, with a perfect swirl in the center, that she could not resist it: she dipped her finger in and began to stir. It was like stirring cool whipped cream and she smiled.

  "Good, good, good," cried Tod Tallent. His camera clicked rapidly as he moved forward and back, crouching, standing, then leaping on a chair to shoot from a higher angle. "Dynamite. Fun, fun, fun; I love it."

  "Emma, a little smaller smile," said Bill. "Sort of mysterious, you know.^ Tod.''"

  "Right. Good." He circled Emma, absorbed, muttering to himself. "Maybe looking over your shoulder. Like somebody just came in and you're surprised . . . that's it, good, nice, hey, what a sweetheart. Okay, now lean forward, move over the table, sort of lying across it, good. Now back, sit up more, like, turn on the faucet ... oh, good, good, keep doing that, the hand cupped under the water, terrific . . ."

  "How about those flask things?" Marty Lundeen asked. "They look so scientific. Couldn't she sort of do things with them.'"'

  "Here, dry your hand," Bill said, handing Emma a tissue. "Like what, Marty.^"

  "Oh, you know, pour something or look at something blue— no, red, it ought to be red ..."

  "Pretty dull," Tod Tallent said.

  "Get somebody in here," Bill said. "Somebody in a white coat."

  "You mean one of the chemists.^" Marty asked. "Oh, I like that." She went to the large laboratory across the corridor. "We need somebody to be in some of our shots," she said to the room at large.

  "Gina, you do it," one of the chemists said.

  "Gina.^" Marty's look swung to her. In a minute, as if she approved of the fact that Gina was not beautiful and would not compete with Emma, she nodded. "Nice idea. Women make cosmetics; women use cosmetics. Come with me."

  "No," Bill said flatly when they walked back to the small laboratory. "We'd confuse the people who see the ads. They wouldn't know who this woman is."

  "She's a scientist,'''' Marty said. "She's wearing a white coat. That's what you wanted."

  "People don't think scientist when they see a woman. A scientist is a man. Get me a man."

  "Lots of women are scientists these days," Marty said stubbornly.

  "Probably, but we're not in the business of raising the consciousness of magazine readers. Get me a man. In a white coat."

  "I'm sorry," Marty said to Gina.

  "This sort of thing happens all the time," Gina said easily. "Can I watch, now that I'm here.'"'
r />   "Sure," Marty said. "Could you get us a man first.^"

  Gina left the room and returned with a male chemist, and Marty and Tod and Bill bustled about, setting up a series of shots. The chemist held a simple pose, changing only the flasks and bottles and tongs and jars he held, while Emma moved as she was told, standing with him, sitting on a stool beside him, or on the counter, taking things from him or looking closely at some flask or

  other as he explained something to her, until at last Bill said they had enough. The chemist left, but Emma sat still for another moment on one of the work stools, her head drooping.

  "You okay, sweetie.'"' Tod asked.

  "Fine," Emma said, and sat straight. The first few minutes after a photography session were always a letdown; she felt empty when no one was telling her what to do, and she felt sad, as if no one needed her anymore. She wanted Brix. Marty had said he might stop by if he had a free minute; if he walked in now, he might ask her to dinner and she could get home really late and not have to be cheerful in front of her mother and Hannah. But there was no sign of him.

  The others had left, all except Gina, who sat quietly in the corner. "Are you staying for a while.-^" she asked.

  "Oh. I guess." Emma looked around the laboratory, and then into the hall.

  "He's not here," Gina said casually. "At least, I saw him go out a few minutes before I came in here. Shall I keep you company.^"

  Emma flushed. "You don't have to baby-sit; you must have lots of work to do."

  "Tons," Gina said cheerfully. "But I'd rather talk to you." She sat on the stool next to Emma. "How do you think it went, the photography.-^"

  "Oh, fine; Tod gets excited and everybody seems happy. It's not hard, it just goes on an awfully long time. Tod must have a million pictures of me by now, but he keeps taking them and sometimes I think he'll never stop."

  "I guess you like it, though."

  "Oh, I love it. It's better than I ever thought it would be. It's so big, you know, all these people, not just Bill and Tod and Marty, but hundreds of people, here and at Yaeger Advertising and at all the magazines . . . and then the readers, millions of readers, and I'm in the middle of it, really important in it, sort of the symbol for it. I love that. I love being important." Her voice fell away on the last word.