Lovers

by Judith Krantz

  It was like being a visitor on a film set, Gigi thought as her eyes darted from left to right under the brim of her hat without catching a single interested glance. They recognized her instantly as neither potential cast nor crew and, without prejudice, dismissed her as unworthy of interest. Advertising might well be the art form of the second half of the twentieth century, she observed, but those few of its practitioners she observed seemed to be passionately scruffy and as carelessly dressed as ballet dancers in their oldest, drabbest rehearsal clothes. One or two of them sported bright plumage in odd colors and unusual shapes. There was too much of a contrast in this for it not to mean something, she realized, but what?

  “Here we are,” the receptionist said, gesturing as they finally entered a tiny room where fluorescent tubes hung down from a high ceiling and cast an uninviting light. “It’s too small for two people, so nobody ever uses it.”

  “Doesn’t anybody have his own office?” Gigi asked.

  “No way. They don’t like to be alone, it makes them nervous. Miss Frost is the only one with a private office. The creative teams are joined at the hip … you’ll see. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No, thanks,” Gigi answered. “I’ll be fine here, Polly.” She gave the retreating receptionist a close-mouthed smile that she hoped was warm yet not desperate, neither overeager nor unprofessional. The little room contained nothing more than a nondescript desk covered with towering piles of hundreds of magazines: Vogues and Bazaars from all countries, years of back copies of Elle, Town and Country, and some ultra-high-fashion magazines from France and Italy that she barely recognized. She prowled around the desk, closed the door to the office firmly, and sank into a surprisingly comfortable, battered old armchair that she found hidden behind the desk.

  Well, she knew Polly and she knew where Polly sat. That was a beginning. She could, of course, start leafing through the magazines she assumed had been dumped there for her inspiration, but the idea wasn’t remotely tempting, following on the heels of the shock of this non-welcome. There was a phone on the desk, but the only number that came to mind was 911.

  Somehow, Gigi told herself, as she took deep breaths to conquer her hyperventilating, she’d made a grave mistake about the corporate subconscious. There was no chance she would let herself be introduced to those people out there in her overdressed state. Why hadn’t Archie or Byron warned her? Why had they entrapped her by their own attire? At least when she’d started high school she’d known exactly what all the other kids would be wearing, and that knowledge had enabled her to get through the first awful day before she made human contact. Of course, if she were truly, deeply self-confident, it wouldn’t matter—she’d have the basic inner assurance to meet anyone dressed in anything, assaulting the corporate norm without a second thought. She’d be Anna Magnani, she’d be Lauren Hutton, she’d be Martha Graham. No, Bella Abzug. Better yet, Barbara Jordan. How could her hands and feet be icy while sweat was forming on her forehead? How could she, Graziella Giovanna Orsini, be reduced to acting like such a wimp just because she hadn’t known the dress code? On the other hand, even Ralph Waldo Emerson had admitted to submitting with admiration to a lady who had told him that the sense of being perfectly well-dressed gives a feeling of inward tranquillity that religion is powerless to bestow.

  As she arrived at this reflection, the door opened without a knock, and someone stuck a head into the room.

  “Where are you?” an unknown man’s voice asked.

  “I’m working,” Gigi muttered, hunching farther down until only the top of her hat could be seen as she buried her face behind a magazine. Emerson’s presence had vanished.

  “Jeez. Already? I thought we could destroy a few bagels and trade life stories,” he said, stepping into the room.

  “Maybe later,” Gigi said testily, not raising her eyes, “much later. I’m getting into this.”

  “I’m David,” he said. She had the impression of someone trying to peer down at her from a great height.

  “Gigi,” she admitted, shifting her chair closer to the highest pile of magazines and pressing herself into the lee of the desk, the shield of the magazine almost touching her nose.

  “Polly told me you were here. Sure you don’t want a bagel? I just got ’em fresh. Or there’s some terrific Chinese stuff from yesterday. We pulled an all-nighter and there’s lots left. I could stick it in the microwave. I’ve got a box of Fig Newtons in my office, and an espresso machine. Come on, I’ll make you a cappuccino.” His voice was eager and full of curiosity as he advanced, about to edge around the desk, obviously trying to get a look at her.

  “No! Absolutely not! Nothing!” Gigi turned herself into the smallest possible surface, bringing her knees up to her chin and planting her shoes on the seat of the chair. Only shoes, hat, hands, legs, and the smallest slivers of gray flannel on either side of her hips and shoulders were visible as she menaced him with her voice.

  “Nothing?” he repeated incredulously.

  “Food is the last thing on my mind,” Gigi said as coldly and dismissively as possible, cowering in her chair. “I told you I was busy. Close the door when you leave.”

  “Sure,” he said in disappointment. “I’ll catch you later. Maybe we can lunch? Great hat.”

  In less than a minute he had rematerialized as a large hand holding an apple. “Got it! You’re into organic food. This is Mrs. Gooch’s guaranteed best. Now, what’s your sign? I’m a Leo. I’m not convinced about astrology, but you can’t rule it out. Tell me about the first time you went to bed with a guy. How much of a disappointment was it? Did you cheat a lot in school? How much credit card debt do you feel comfortable with? Are you married, single, divorced, or—”

  “OUT!” Gigi screeched, batting the apple to the floor.

  My first office loser, she thought, as she heard the door shut. He was worse than those warned about in the magazine. They’d said that losers would be suspiciously over-friendly because they had no one else to talk to. They hadn’t mentioned maniacal personal questions. The article had emphasized that you had to watch out for the office outcasts who clung to every newcomer. It was fatal to let them link themselves to you. You’d be known by the company you kept, and it was better to lunch alone than to lunch with the wrong people. Her sign, indeed!

  Getting rid of that leech had made her feel more in control. Her mind was working again, Gigi realized. She leapt up and, with first one shoulder and then the other firmly pressed to the office door so that no one else could come in, she hastily snaked out of her skirt and jacket. Next she adjusted the plain white shirt, which fell below mid-thigh. She rolled the sleeves up above her elbows, undid the buttons so that it fell open just above her small, high, upstanding breasts, unconfined by any bra, and flipped up the collar so that it reached her ears. She could leave the fine white material hanging loose like a smock, but she wasn’t your basic smock person. Remorsefully but without hesitation, she took off her hat and attacked the hatband. Once removed from the hat, it wrapped twice around her waist, a snug, wide cummerbund. Opaque panty hose could easily pass for tights, she assured herself, fingering her earrings. Pearls wouldn’t do. She put them in her bag, hung the two joined cherries over one almost-pointed ear, and thrust the red velvet rose firmly into the front of the cummerbund. Damn, she wished she had a mirror, Gigi thought, grinning as she fluffed out the swinging silken bell of her hair. She folded her skirt and jacket carefully and hid them in one of the empty desk drawers, along with what was left of the hat.

  Now, ready for anything, she leafed rapidly through a copy of Italian Vogue. FRB had been invited to pitch for the account of Indigo Seas, an established, San Francisco-based manufacturer of swimsuits designed especially for the oversized woman, and the pitch was to be the first campaign Gigi would work on. As she turned the pages, so much more outrageously avant-garde than those of American Vogue, she saw nothing but tiny two-piece suits on girls with bodies no mature woman would want to contemplate in her worst daydrea
m. Hell, brooded Gigi, she didn’t need to look at magazines that had nothing to do with reality, she needed to be alone in a room with a word processor and her imagination, or else in a big department store, communicating with living humans, suffering women engaged in the winter ordeal of shopping for swimsuits for resort wear or the following summer. What’s more, she was starving. Chinese food … noodles, spareribs, spicy spring rolls, sweet and sour squab … if only someone else but an office outcast had made that offer, she thought longingly. Funny how reheated take-out was so much better than the first time around, and she’d been too nervous to have breakfast. Why was it that when that intrusive lunatic had mentioned Chinese food, she’d started to crave it?

  Impatiently she slammed the magazine down and started pacing around the room. Not only was this like being kept in after class, but it was unbelievably rude. Archie and Byron had come after her hungrily, courting her with lunches, phone calls, visionary words, and promises of a fabulous future in advertising. She’d said no to them many times before she’d finally said yes, yet now here she was, seduced and abandoned, in an office she’d never visited before, stuck in a cell adorned only by windows that offered her a small, grimy view of a parking lot, with no idea of how to escape and no information about their return. What if their meeting lasted all day? She peeked quickly into the dauntingly confusing length of empty corridor outside the office and realized that even if she could find someone to direct her back to Polly’s desk, she didn’t have the inclination to attempt it.

  Gigi returned to the armchair, slumped back into the worn-out cushions, put her legs up on the desk, and lost herself in morose contemplation of her new shoes. She had to admit in all modesty that she had truly marvelous legs, she decided, relaxing and lowering the lovely smooth shells of her eyelids so that the long lashes on which she used three layers of black mascara set up a bristling hedge in front of the pupils of her eyes, which were the green of a Granny Smith apple. Perfectly divine legs … legs to conjure with … legs to cause an empire to topple … legs … legs …

  Gigi was sleeping deeply an hour later when Archie and Byron burst into the office, uttering apologies to the empty room.

  “Shit! She’s gone!” Byron shouted.

  “Calm down,” Archie said. “Where could she go?”

  “Back to Scruples Two … wait, see those shoes?”

  “More to the point,” Archie crooned as he walked around the desk, “see those legs!”

  The two men gazed down at Gigi, delighted to find the butterfly they had been chasing for many months at last captured in their net. She was a rare prize, a collector’s item, and God knows they needed her desperately. The powers that be at Indigo Seas had been enchanted by Gigi’s copy for Scruples Two, and she could be the key to capturing a vital piece of business. Not only that, but the two of them specialized in food accounts, they hadn’t yet been able to find a truly talented fashion copywriter, and the acquisition of Gigi would open doors to a new set of potential clients.

  “You just going to stand there and admire her?” Byron inquired.

  Startled, yanked back to reality, Archie broke out of his contemplation and growled in his best Papa Bear imitation. “Who’s been sleeping in my chair?”

  “You jerk, you’ll frighten her,” Byron hissed.

  “Well, you try, then.”

  “Gigi? Ah, Gigi … are you awake?” Archie whispered loudly. “Come on, wake up.”

  Gigi slept on.

  “Maybe we should just let her sleep,” Byron suggested. “Maybe she’s tired.”

  “She started on the payroll this morning,” Archie said firmly. “And everybody’s always tired in this business. If they aren’t, they’re not working hard enough.” With a quick gesture he snatched Gigi’s shoes off her feet and beat a tattoo with their heels on the desktop.

  Gigi’s eyes flew open. “What’s going on? … Give those back!”

  “See,” Archie said, pleased with himself, “it works every time. Women have a deeply rooted protectiveness about their items of adornment. Now, a man might have slept through it, but—”

  “Say, hello, Gigi, we’re sorry we’re late,” Byron interrupted him, punching him in the shoulder.

  “Where are my manners?” Archie asked the heavens. “Gigi! The house of Frost, Rourke and Bernheim is thrilled and delighted to welcome you to its collective heart. On behalf of my partners and myself I wish to extend our most sincere apologies for not being here to greet you this morning, but alas …”

  “My shoes,” Gigi demanded, swinging her legs off the desk.

  He gave them back to her with a bow. Gigi put them on and jumped up, feeling an immediate boost as she moved to the vertical plane.

  “I was expecting the turnkey with my bread and water any minute now,” she said severely. “It’s like Devil’s Island in here, without the ocean view.”

  “Didn’t anyone offer you coffee or a bagel?” Archie asked.

  “I came in here two and a half hours ago,” she replied, forgetting her weird visitor and looking at her watch. “It seems to be lunchtime and, as I remember, you guys intend to take me out for lunch today. It was billed as a little welcome party.”

  “Damn! Wrong. Sorry, Gigi, unavoidable change of plans,” Archie said.

  “We have to postpone that lunch,” Byron explained, embarrassed. “As of right now, we’re on deadline for a totally new campaign for Bugattini Pasta. The account guy came back from Italy last night and he’s changed his mind about the stuff he approved before he left.”

  This sort of abrupt switch was normal in the agency business, although it couldn’t have come at a worse time, he gloomed to himself. The client’s demands always came first, especially since Bugattini was the most considerable of the few clients they had. They’d just have to leave her to her magazines for a few hours while they tore into the new plans.

  “Wait a minute, Byron,” Gigi said indignantly, “forget the lunch. I can find my own way to the nearest tuna sandwich. But you and Archie promised to take me around the office and introduce me to everybody, and spend the afternoon settling me in. I’m not spending one more minute in this room! I feel as if I’ve been shanghaied and put on a boat to Macao. This is not starting well, and when a fish stinks, it starts at the head. So far you’ve been nothing but lunches, promises, and no delivery. You two came chasing after me, remember? I never dreamed of a job in advertising until you guys talked me into it. My old job is waiting for me with open arms, and I’m returning to it.”

  She glared at them in righteous outrage, her fists on her hips, her almost-turned-up little nose as accusing as the bright spots of anger that had suddenly appeared on her cheeks. Gigi Orsini aroused was a splendid combination of her fire-eating ancestral stock, totally Irish on her mother’s side and Florentine Italian on her father’s. She shook her head vigorously in thorough disapproval of the two men, her long wispy bangs flew up from her pointed eyebrows, and every wrathful curve of her perfectly formed oval head managed to express the feeling of affront she had been experiencing since her arrival.

  “But, Gigi …”

  “Gigi, we’ve got no choice …”

  “We’re the creative team on Bugattini, the two of us, it’s our biggest new account …”

  “Be reasonable …”

  “Fuck reasonable. I’m out of here,” Gigi said with dignity, picking up her handbag.

  “So this is what you look like,” a familiar voice said from the door.

  “David, where the hell were you?” Byron shouted.

  “This is all your fault, David,” Archie accused him. “Now Gigi’s trying to leave because you didn’t take care of her the way we told you to.”

  “This continues to stink,” Gigi said in disdain, moving purposefully toward the door. On top of neglect, they had actually planned to fob her off on the office loser, she thought grimly, brushing by, without a glance, the lanky man who leaned on the door frame. He put out one long arm, wrapped it around her waist, s
wiveled her around, and returned her to the room, where he held her firmly in place by standing behind her with his arms tightly around her waist.

  “Let go!”

  “Nope.”

  “Let go!”

  “I will not. You’ve rejected me enough today. You actually hurt my feelings.” He sounded amused—worse, he was totally unimpressed by her words and her vigorous attempts to get out of his grasp.

  “David, hands off,” Archie commanded, trying vigorously to pry Gigi out of David’s hold.

  “Both of you, stop it!” Byron joined in the tug-of-war, making it a three-way battle, grabbing Gigi by her shoulders and pulling her toward him.

  This wasn’t entirely unpleasant, Gigi thought. Scruples Two, with its largely feminine staff, had never made such flattering claims on her body. Nevertheless, these rude, untrustworthy creeps were probably leaving bruises.

  “FIRE!” she screamed, as loudly as she could, and was rewarded by her freedom as each of the three men released her and dashed into the corridor. As they milled about, not finding a sign of smoke, she righted her ruffled feathers. These goons expected her to be reasonable, she realized. They took it for granted, although the word “reasonable” had never been mentioned in previous discussions of the conditions of her new job. But she’d been reasonable for most of her life, and she hadn’t made a break with the past to continue in that mode. If she even once allowed them to think of her as reasonable, she’d be stuck with it, and they’d tack on “reliable,” and “undemanding” as well, all adding up to an impermissible “predictable.” She planted herself on her instincts; it was lunch or good-bye. If the concerns of Bugattini Pasta could be allowed to overshadow her arrival, she was in the wrong place.