B004183M70 EBOK

by Rosemary Stevens

  As he passed me my order, I handed him some money. "What's wrong?"

  Marv had a big heart when it came to his wife and was suffering right along with her during her pregnancy.

  I waited while Marv served another customer, then another. Finally he turned to me, wiping his hands on his stained white apron. "Her back is killing her, she tosses and turns all night trying to get comfortable, and she keeps sending me out for pineapple."

  "Oh, Marv, I'm sure all this is normal. Just stock up on canned pineapple."

  "Betty only wants fresh. The doctors don't have a certain date for the delivery. They say it can be anytime between now and the next two weeks. I'm losing my mind." He shrugged, starting to refill the ketchup from the big jar of mustard.

  "Marv," I said, touching his arm. "You've got the mustard there. . . ."

  He looked at what he was doing and shook his head. Deep circles under his eyes told me he wasn't getting much sleep.

  A group of women approached the stand, and Marv snapped to attention. I couldn't help but laugh.

  As I strolled back toward the Ryan building with my hot dog and bottle of Coke, I enjoyed the sunny day. What would it be like, I wondered, to be carrying Bradley's baby? The thought sent a tingle through me. One of the goals in my life was to have first a boy, then a girl. I imagined lying in a hospital bed holding a baby Bradley. Big Bradley would come in, grinning, clutching a bouquet of red roses.

  My fantasy screeched to a stop. Big Bradley had just sent red roses to Suzie!

  I headed back to the office, where I found a man seated in the reception area. He stood when I walked in.

  I smiled, put my food on my desk, and said, "Hello." I gave a quick glance to the sign-in sheet that we used to keep track of arrivals and departures. All I could make out was that a new name had been scrawled at the bottom.

  "Nice lunch you've got there," he said, and grinned.

  Surely he was a model. Striking green eyes looked at me from a face that was all angles and topped with shiny black hair worn in the same style as John Lennon's. His teeth were very white, he seemed about Bradley's height, and he had a vaguely European look about him. He wore a black suit and white shirt with a narrow paisley tie.

  Suddenly, I felt shy. "I'm Bebe Bennett, Mr. Williams's secretary."

  He held out his hand, and I took it. He gave it a tender squeeze, then said, "I'm Louis Kinnaird, Miss Bennett. Nice to meet you." He'd pronounced his first name Lou-ee.

  "Thank you. Are you here to see Mr. Williams? Because he's at lunch right now." I walked around my desk and got out Bradley's calendar.

  "Oh, I don't have an appointment," Mr. Kinnaird said.

  Was there a hint of a Scottish accent in his voice? "I see. Well, when Mr. Williams returns, I could ask him if he has time to meet with you. That is, if you want to wait."

  "That's very kind of you. I have to be upstairs soon, but I do want to wait. Here, okay?"

  Well mannered, charming, good-looking. I slanted a quick look at his left hand: free of any ring. Hmmm. "Please do. May I get you some coffee?"

  "No, thanks. I'm not much of a coffee drinker. And don't let me keep you from your lunch."

  I smiled. "Okay." I settled in my chair and took a bite of my hot dog. Then I looked up and saw that he had moved one of the metal-legged, light brown chairs from the waiting area over to my desk. I took a swallow of Coke and used my napkin, suddenly wishing for my lip gloss.

  "You're a very pretty girl, Miss Bennett, but I'm sure you're told that often. Do you model?"

  Was he flirting with me? "Thank you, and no, I don't model. In fact, I know only a couple of the models here. And please call me Bebe."

  "I'm Louis. I understand Mr. Williams took over this week. I landed a print campaign for Burma-Shave shave cream. I'm hoping to do well enough for them that they'll give me TV ads too."

  "I've never heard of Burma-Shave, not that I keep up with men's shave cream."

  He chuckled. "The company was established in the 1920s, but over the years sales haven't been increasing. Last year Philip Morris bought them out and is hoping to attract a younger crowd. They're starting a whole new advertising campaign."

  "Philip Morris? Out of Richmond, Virginia?"

  "Yes, I believe so."

  "I worked for them for a while before moving to New York."

  He smiled and lounged in his chair. "Really? So that explains your sweet accent."

  Here came the heat to my face. "You have a bit of an accent yourself."

  "My dad's from Scotland and my mom's Swiss, but I was born on American soil. They live in Rochester now."

  "Your parents have the same ancestry as James Bond!"

  He laughed. "I like James Bond movies."

  "Me too."

  Just as I was about to ask him how he got started in the modeling business, Gina, the agency's scheduler, came striding from the elevators. An ex-model, she was tall, still trim, and in her late forties. She wore her blond hair in a tight chignon. She nodded at me, then pinned her gaze on Louis. "You must be Mr. Kinnaird."

  He stood. "Yes."

  "Come along then, and let's get you into makeup," she said in a brisk tone.

  "I'll be right there," he told her. She stood to one side, tapping her foot. To me, Louis said, "Will you still be here when I'm finished?"

  A little flutter went through me. "I'll be here until five."

  "Good." He smiled and then allowed himself to be whisked away by Gina.

  I stared off into the distance. Slowly I picked up my hot dog and resumed eating. Louis was an attractive man. Did he have a girlfriend, or was he potential dating material? My hand reached for the cold Coke bottle, and I took a long swallow. Would I really be able to go out with someone other than Bradley?

  "Dreaming, Miss Bennett?" Debbie Ann asked, bringing me back to reality. She removed a pair of large shades, reached for the clipboard that held the sign-in sheet, and used the pen tied to it with bright orange ribbon (my choice) to sign her name. Today she had on a red plaid cotton shirtwaist dress. Her brown hair was immaculate. Her face, almost bare of cosmetics now that she wasn't on air, appeared very pale and lined against the red lipstick she wore.

  I smiled at her, determined to treat her with kindness because of her tragic past. "What's on the menu today, Debbie Ann?"

  "Vegetable juice, breaded fish fillets, tartar sauce, parsley potatoes, Harvard beets, coleslaw, and raisin rice pudding," she replied. "A much healthier meal than hot dogs, I might add. In fact, I never recommend serving hot dogs. Do you know what they are made from?"

  "Uh, no, but they're very American," I said, borrowing a line from Daddy. "And I'm sure you know Coke was provided free to American soldiers during World War Two." I almost clapped my hand over my mouth. Her son had died in the Korean War.

  "Just because hot dogs are popular does not mean they are good for you. And that soda you're drinking is unhealthy as well, regardless of its history," she lectured without losing her smile. "A homemade tuna-salad sandwich, an apple, and a Thermos of milk would be a better choice, and less fattening. I must go upstairs. Think about what I said, won't you, dear? I'm only thinking of what's best for you. You'll never catch a husband if you put on weight."

  She smiled back at me from the elevators, and I managed a weak smile and a thank-you in return. The elevator didn't dare keep her waiting, though, so I was saved from further dietary advice. Debbie Ann was the bossy type, but I could not find it in my heart to dislike her.

  I looked at the hot dog in my hand. My mind formed a mental image of my waistline expanding, of my wearing housecoats—like Mama—at home, while I slowly became known as a spinster with a penchant for hot dogs, eating six of them at a time.

  That would never do. Mama and Daddy wanted grandchildren. I suspected Daddy, a gun collector, was dying for a little boy whom he could show his fallout shelter to, tell all his military stories, and give his first Red Ryder BB gun.

  Telling myself my hot dog was cold, I
threw the remains in the trash. I kept my Coke, though. Darlene had started drinking Tab, which was Coke without the calories. Maybe I'd try it.

  The phone rang, interrupting my thoughts.

  "Ryan Modeling Agency, Miss Bennett speaking."

  "Are you that Southern girl who sits outside Bradley's office?" a female voice demanded.

  "Yes, I am. How may I help you?" I tried to keep the irritation from my voice. At Charlotte Marie's Secretarial School in Richmond, we were taught to be polite to callers, no matter how rude they were.

  "This is Suzie Wexford. Put me through to Bradley."

  With evil pleasure, I said, "I'm terribly sorry, Miss Wexford, but Mr. Williams is out to lunch."

  "How inconvenient," she barked. "Have him call me immediately when he returns. I can't see him tonight after all. I feel a case of the sniffles coming on and need to rest. I know he'll be devastated."

  She hung up before I could say a word.

  What a shame they wouldn't be getting together tonight, I thought, then grinned.

  I hummed "My Guy" by Mary Wells while typing a letter Bradley had dictated, fielded phone calls, and made another pot of coffee (Bradley usually liked a cup when he returned from lunch).

  My timing was perfect, as the elevator pinged, announcing his return. He looked as if he had just stepped out of the pages of a magazine himself, not a blond hair out of place, carrying a bag from B. Altman's, the department store for which we were scheduled to do a photo shoot next week.

  "Everything in order, Miss Bennett?"

  "Oh, yes, Mr. Williams. I put your phone messages on your desk."

  "Excellent," he said, and flashed me a blinding smile.

  I smiled back with equal enthusiasm, knowing he wouldn't be seeing Suzie that night.

  He put the bag from B. Altman's on my desk. "I've purchased this Pucci scarf for Suzie," he said, pulling a stunning pink-lavender-yellow-and-white confection from the bag. "But I didn't have time to have it wrapped. The clerk gave me a box and some gift paper." He piled those on my desk as well. "Would you be so kind as to wrap it for me?"

  "Why, of course I will!" Darned if I would let him know how I felt, which was jealous. "Shall I have it sent over to Miss Wexford?"

  Bradley turned to enter his office, speaking to me over his shoulder. "Don't bother, kid; I'll be seeing her tonight."

  Oh, no, you won't, I thought happily. I counted the seconds until I figured he'd read the phone message from her.

  "Dammit!" he exclaimed, then got up from his desk and closed his door.

  His phone line lit up. A measure of satisfaction carried me through wrapping the scarf—not before I tried it on and looked at myself in the mirror that hung above my credenza.

  Just as I finished wrapping the scarf, Louis returned wearing pancake makeup, and stood in front of my desk.

  "Had your picture taken?" I asked.

  "Yes, many times. I can't wait to go back to my studio apartment and wash my face. I don't like the soap they have here, or the towels," he replied. He leaned closer. "Bebe, could I persuade you to have dinner with me tomorrow night? I know it's short notice, but I'm hoping you might be free."

  My heart jumped in my chest. A handsome man was asking me for a date! I had told myself I would date, and now opportunity was not only knocking at my door, it was standing right in front of me.

  I looked at the wrapped box containing the expensive scarf Bradley had bought for Suzie. I remembered them cuddling at Pierre Benoit's gala. I thought about the times Suzie had been in Bradley's office with the door closed.

  Then I turned back to Louis. Not only was he asking for a date, but a Saturday-night date, the most important date night of the week! On the heels of this came Mama's voice in my head, telling me a girl should never be too available.

  I crossed the fingers of my left hand behind my back. "I'd like to, Louis, but I'm afraid I already have plans for Saturday night." I said it with just the right encouraging note so that he might ask for another night.

  "How about Monday night?" he persisted, as I'd hoped.

  I spared a thought for Bradley's rule of no office dating, but quickly decided that models obviously didn't count in his book.

  "That would be lovely."

  "Do you like to dance, Bebe? I was thinking we could go to the Phone Booth. They have great food and an orchestra."

  I repressed a gasp. The Phone Booth was one of the cool places to be seen in New York City. It was also expensive and dressy. "I'd love to go there, Louis. What a good idea."

  He beamed. "Great! I'll pick you up at seven Monday night."

  I wrote down my address, and he was pocketing it when Bradley's door flew open. The annoyed look on his face told me his conversation with Suzie had not gone his way. And I thought he'd seen Louis pocket that piece of paper with my address on it.

  Too bad, I thought, and stifled a giggle.

  He sauntered over and took Louis's measure. "Have we met?"

  Louis held out his hand. "No, Mr. Williams, but I was hoping for a chance to introduce myself. I'm Louis Kinnaird, the new Burma-Shave guy."

  "Yes, Gina told me about you. You were hired before I came on board," Bradley replied while he shook Louis's hand, looking from him to me.

  I had on my most innocent expression.

  Bradley looked fierce. I guess Louis picked up on it too, because he did not press him for a meeting. He said, "I'd better go. It was good to meet you, Mr. Williams. I plan to do the best job I can with the print ads, so that maybe the execs at Burma-Shave will want a TV spot. I also wanted to let you know that Burma-Shave doesn't have an exclusive on me. So I can do other assignments for you."

  "I'll keep it in mind, Kinnaird," Bradley said.

  Louis knew a dismissal when he heard it, and made for the elevators, turning once to wink at me. I smiled.

  I turned back to Bradley and saw that he was eyeing me with an expression I couldn't read. He picked up the neatly wrapped gift for Suzie.

  "Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Williams?" I asked, my tone professional.

  "Sure, kid, bring it in."

  When I did so, he said, "Thanks. Got any big plans for the weekend?"

  I set the coffee cup down carefully, my fingers shaking. Was he finally going to . . . going to . . . ask me out? Or was he fishing about Louis and me? "I'm going to the World's Fair tomorrow," I managed.

  He took a sip of coffee. "Be sure to come by and see Suzie's introduction of the Mustang. I'll be there. Oh, and thanks for wrapping the scarf. I'll give it to her tomorrow night."

  So the two were going to be at the fair together; then they had a date for Saturday night. I needed chocolate. "I'll see if I can work the Mustang display into my schedule. There are so many things to do and see at the fair, you know."

  "True, but I hope you come by, kid. Tomorrow night will be a celebration for Suzie. She landed the Breck Girl contract."

  My feelings deflated even more. "Does Lola know?"

  "Yes, I called her after I returned Suzie's phone call. I don't know what I'm going to do about Lola. She's under contract with us, but she cursed at me when she heard the news, and I won't have that."

  "I'm sure she was upset," I said, thinking back to Lola's drunken prediction that she would lose the contract and that she'd kill Suzie if she did.

  "Lola's done it to herself," Bradley said. "Her drinking is out of control. I don't know how many assignments I can give her. Advertisers are clamoring for Suzie."

  "I feel bad for Lola," I said, then turned and marched back to my desk.

  I looked up Lola's phone number in the company's talent directory, wrote it down, and slipped it into my purse. I'd call her tonight and try to encourage her, though she probably wouldn't remember me, or take any advice from me.

  While I finished my work, I tried to concentrate on what I would wear for my date with Louis. But my mind kept wandering to Suzie and the part she'd played in Lola's career slide.

  And Suzie's date with
Bradley tomorrow night.

  My enthusiasm for going to the World's Fair dimmed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Standing in front of the Unisphere while the Waldwick High School band marched by, I realized there was too much to see, more than I could ever fit into one day.

  The Unisphere, sponsored by U.S. Steel, was twelve stories tall and 120 feet around. I gaped at the steel representation of Earth, which I read in my fair guide was the size of the Earth if you viewed it from space, six thousand miles away.

  The Unisphere alone was worth the long subway and bus ride I'd taken into Queens, and the dollar-and-eighty-cents admission.

  I'd dressed comfortably but—since I knew I would see Bradley—fashionably. My dress was a sleeveless sheath, one side black with white polka dots, and the other white with black polka dots. I had on low-heeled T-straps in black to save my feet.

  Last night when I got home from work, Darlene wasn't there. I'd tried calling Lola to offer comfort, but got no answer. Going to bed early seemed like a good idea, so by nine I'd turned back my black-and-white daisy bedspread and fallen fast asleep. Darlene hadn't returned this morning. I had to talk to her.

  Past lunchtime, I felt my stomach grumble. I stopped at a booth selling pizza for twenty-five cents a slice. With pizza in hand, I saw a vendor for Fizzies. Delighted, I ordered the root-beer flavor. I watched as the man dropped the tablet into a cup of cold water, causing the water to fizz, bubble, and turn brown. Yummy.

  I sat down for a moment with my lunch and map and, while eating, planned what I would do next. I wanted most to see the Pieta, Michelangelo's 469-year-old masterpiece carved in marble, on loan from the Vatican. Pope John XXIII himself had granted permission for the precious piece of art to be displayed. It had never been taken from the Vatican before, and was said to have been created by Michelangelo when he was only twenty-four years old.

  Once I found where the Pieta was located on the map, I looked for the Ford Pavilion, where I'd see Bradley, Suzie, and maybe Gloria, and then the Skyway exhibit, where I'd see Darlene. They were right around the corner from each other.