Gloss

by Marilyn Kaye

  He was what her father would describe, in his old-fashioned way, as a ‘ne’er-do-well’, and he wouldn’t be pleased at all to know his daughter was spending an evening with a type like this. ‘Do you have the tickets?’ he asked her.

  ‘Yes.’ She reached in her bag and handed him the little envelope. Of course a gentleman would carry the tickets and hand them to the usher.

  He put the envelope in the pocket of his jacket. And pulled out something else — a silver flask. Unscrewing the cap, he offered it to her.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Scotch,’ he said. ‘Very good scotch. Single malt. From my father’s private stock.’

  She’d never drunk Scotch in her life, and she had no idea what single malt meant, but it didn’t matter.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said politely. He shrugged and took a swig.

  She imagined he now probably thought she was a prude. Which was not true. It had never bothered her that Johnny liked a beer once in a while, and at parties she herself had indulged a few times in a Purple Passion — a little vodka mixed with a lot of Hawaiian Punch.

  ‘I’m afraid of spilling something on my dress,’ she offered by way of explaining her refusal.

  He grinned and took another swig before putting the flask back in his pocket.

  ‘You like working at Gloss?’ he asked.

  ‘Very much,’ she said.

  ‘Let me know if anyone gives you a hard time,’ he said. ‘I’ll get my father to fire them.’

  For one fleeting moment she considered mentioning Mr Simpson. But she doubted that Ricky had that kind of influence with his father. Still, it was kind of cute that he’d offered …

  It was a short ride to the theatre. ‘Radio City Music Hall,’ the driver said as they pulled up in front of it.

  His announcement was totally unnecessary. The words were emblazoned in lights, not just across the entrance but vertically on both sides. On the strip of pavement leading to the doors, velvet ropes held back a crowd of onlookers and men holding television cameras. It took Sherry an enormous amount of self-restraint to keep from gasping.

  ‘Why are all those people watching?’ she asked Ricky.

  ‘They’re waiting for the stars to arrive,’ he told her.

  Of course! The actors, the actresses, the director — all the important people would be coming tonight. She couldn’t remember exactly who had been featured in Beach Blanket Kisses, but that made no difference. This was unbelievable — she, Sherry Ann Forrester of North Georgia, would be sitting in a theatre with real movie stars. She almost wished she’d carried a pad and pen to take notes. Somehow she’d have to commit every second of this evening to memory.

  Their limo inched forward, and now it was their turn. Ricky took another quick swig from his flask, and stuck it back in his pocket just as the guard opened their door. But she needn’t have worried about his public behaviour — he got out of the car first, and extended his hand to help her out. Then he took her arm, walked her down the red carpet, and took out the tickets to give to the man who stood beside the entrance.

  Ricky nodded. ‘It’s the biggest theatre in the world,’ he told her.

  And it wasn’t just big, it was grand. As the usher led them in, she saw magnificent winding staircases on each side, leading up to the balconies. Sweeping arches formed the walls and the ceiling, and in front of the stage there was a shimmering golden curtain.

  They were shown to very good seats — actually she couldn’t imagine there was a bad seat in the place, since there were no columns to block the view. She recognized the distinct chords of an organ, but it was nothing like the one in her church back home. This sound was incredible, filling the gigantic space with melody.

  ‘This is amazing,’ she said to Ricky.

  Ricky gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘It’s New York. Just stick with me, baby, and you’ll see only the best.’

  She glanced at him uncertainly. Was he just fooling around? Surely he didn’t think this was the beginning of something between them.

  Just then a murmur went up from the seats as the celebrities began to arrive. She caught a glimpse of the familiar figures as they passed their aisle. And then it was show time.

  The golden curtain rose as the organ began playing a jazzier tune and about two dozen beautiful girls dressed in silver leotards danced out from the wings.

  ‘Those are the Rockettes,’ Ricky told her. After a moment he added, ‘I’ve dated a couple of them.’

  And he was telling her this — why? To impress her? She decided it wasn’t necessary to reply; a smile and quick nod were enough to acknowledge his comment. Then she turned back to watch the show.

  Now this was impressive. The girls danced in absolute unison, performing high kicks to exactly the same level, moving together as if they were attached to each other. She’d been told that New York audiences were blasé, that they weren’t easy to impress, but this audience responded just like she did, with enthusiastic clapping and cheers.

  Then it was time for the movie. She’d seen it the first time on a small screen that had been set up in a conference room at Gloss, with a noisy projector. Now, watching it on a huge screen with a fantastic sound system, she could appreciate it a lot more. It was still a corny story, and very predictable, but it was cute and lively, and a person could get caught up in the romance.

  Throughout the film, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ricky taking surreptitious gulps from his flask, and she wondered what kind of effect the alcohol would have on him. At least she didn’t have to worry about him driving later. Even if he hadn’t shown up with a chauffeur, she’d followed the hard-and-fast rule her parents had set forth when she started dating boys who could drive. She always carried enough money for a taxi.

  A little more than halfway through the film, she felt Ricky’s hand on her knee. It wasn’t that big a deal, she supposed, since her dress covered her legs, but she wasn’t about to let him get any ideas. Gently but firmly, she removed the hand.

  He didn’t resist — but now she couldn’t allow herself to get lost in the film. She kept wondering if he’d try it again. But he made no more attempts, and finally the movie was finished. The stars and the director made appearances on the stage, two of the stars sang a duet from the film, and another one made a little speech. The show ended with an invitation from the director to the audience to join them in the grand foyer for a champagne reception.

  ‘These things are deadly,’ Ricky told her. ‘I’ve got better plans for us.’ She could smell the whisky on his breath, and his words were a little slurred.

  She wouldn’t have minded a glass of champagne — something she’d only had at weddings. And it would have been neat to get a closer look at some of the stars. But she didn’t want to make a fuss, and she was hungry. Surely they’d get something to eat before hitting the nightclubs or whatever else he had in mind.

  Back in the limousine, he said something to the driver that she couldn’t hear and then the glass window went back up.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked brightly. ‘Shall we have some dinner?’

  ‘I thought we’d take a little ride first,’ he mumbled, edging closer to her. And then he lunged.

  It happened so fast she froze. He was practically on top of her, his mouth pressed against hers, and his hands were on her shoulders, pushing her down on to the seat. She was practically flat on her back before she could react.

  With all the force she could muster, she pushed him away. ‘Stop it!’ she yelled. ‘Get off me!’

  Fortunately he was too drunk to put up much resistance. ‘Hey, come on, baby,’ he slurred.

  ‘I am not your baby! I’m practically engaged, for crying out loud!’

  He looked at her through glazed eyes. ‘Then what are you doing out on a date with me?’

  ‘This isn’t a date,’ she hissed. ‘You’re my escort, that’s all.’

  ‘Same difference,’ he muttered.

  ‘Not to me!’
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  His brow furrowed, as if he couldn’t quite make out what she was saying. Then he shrugged, leaned back and closed his eyes.

  Within seconds he started to snore. And suddenly she felt the urge to cry. Oh, how she missed her Johnny …

  She waited another minute, and then she tapped on the glass. The window came down.

  ‘Yes, miss?’

  ‘Could you take me back to the Cavendish Residence for Women, please?’

  ‘Certainly, miss.’

  The driver didn’t sound surprised. She even thought she could detect a hint of sympathy in his voice. This probably wasn’t the first time he’d had a request like that from one of Ricky’s companions.

  He was still asleep when the limo arrived at the residence, which was just as well. She wouldn’t have to worry about him throwing up on her borrowed dress.

  And as the chauffeur opened the door, she tried to look on the bright side. At least she hadn’t had to spend her taxi money.

  Allison tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for the elevator, and cast an anxious glance at the clock on the wall. She didn’t want to be late two days in a row. She really should get an alarm clock. Or maybe stop staying out so late.

  She smiled. No, that really wasn’t an option. Especially since she’d realized that a large brick, placed strategically in a back door of the residence, would keep the door open and she wouldn’t have to wake anyone to let her back in after curfew.

  A stocky, balding man arrived at the bank of elevators and stood close by her. He looked vaguely familiar. She gave him a tentative smile and a nod of her head.

  He smiled back at her. ‘You’re one of the Gloss interns, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m Allison.’

  ‘Felix Duncan.’

  Duncan … from accounts. She remembered how a secretary had warned her about him.

  The elevator door opened and they both entered.

  ‘How do you like working at Gloss?’ he asked.

  How did he manage to make a simple question sound like a come-on?

  ‘Very much,’ she replied politely, watching the lights above the door that showed the floor numbers, and wishing the car would move faster.

  ‘We’re happy to have you here,’ he said. ‘And speaking for myself, it’s very nice having pretty young faces around.’

  She kept her eyes on the numbers and said nothing.

  ‘You staying at that ladies’ hotel?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Must be kind of boring. All girls all the time.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said.

  ‘But I’ll bet you’d like to get out occasionally and have a nice meal in a real restaurant.’

  When she didn’t reply, he pressed on. ‘Wouldn’t you enjoy that?’

  ‘Depends on who I’m having the nice meal with,’ she replied.

  ‘Hmm, you’re a little spitflre, aren’t you? I like that in a girl.’

  Silently she groaned. This was so wrong; she’d done nothing at all to elicit this attention. She could understand how men would hit on girls like Pamela, who had an hourglass figure and dressed to succeed with men. Allison, on the other hand, wore a triple-A-cup bra, and her outfit certainly offered nothing to attract a roving eye. Today she wore what she had adopted as her working-day uniform, ever since Caroline had taken her aside and gently told her that capri pants weren’t appropriate for the office. Now Allison wore a straight black pencil skirt — which on her was totally shapeless since she had no hips to speak of — over a black leotard. A black beret was bobby-pinned to her hair, and there were black Mary Janes on her feet. It was a complete beatnik look, and not designed to appeal to middle-aged businessmen out for a good time.

  On the other hand, men like Felix Duncan would probably try to make it with anything remotely female. And when you were trapped in an elevator, with someone who worked in your company, especially someone who was in an important position — then what? Finally the elevator stopped, the doors opened and she fled. Thank goodness the creep didn’t work on her floor.

  She said the usual ‘good mornings’ to everyone she passed on the way to her desk and sat down to resume the task she’d been given by the entertainment editor the day before.

  She had to proofread articles for the next issue, which wasn’t very exciting. Mainly she was supposed to be looking for errors in spelling, grammar and punctuation. Having always made top grades in English, this wasn’t too demanding. But today she was pleased to have an assignment like this. She could get through it quickly, and then pretend she was still working while she enjoyed a little daydreaming.

  Or maybe proofread later and daydream now. About Sam. He was everything she’d hoped he would be.

  It had taken her long enough to find him. Friday night was a wipeout. She’d gone from cafe to club, spending practically all her money on the cover charges she had to pay just to get into some of the places. She’d heard some good music, some pretty bad comedy and a lot of poetry. But there was no sign of her folk singer.

  She’d planned to spend all day Saturday in the Village, but poor Sherry was in a wretched mood after a disastrous evening with Ricky, and she was missing her boyfriend. So Allison had ended up spending the entire day with her, even joining her to hit a sale at Bloomingdale’s in an effort to cheer her up. Once Sherry had recovered enough to go to a movie with Pamela that evening, Allison was free to go back to the Village, but it turned into another fruitless search.

  It occurred to her then that the mysterious folk singer might not even be in the vicinity. Guys like him were probably free spirits, roaming from place to place, no real destination in mind, only stopping to play some music, sing a song. She pictured him by the side of a road, guitar in hand, with a thumb stuck out in an effort to hitch a ride to anywhere. He could be so far away by now that she’d never find him.

  But she didn’t give up. Somehow she knew that she and he were meant to meet up again. And the next day, Sunday, she took the subway back down to the Village.

  For about an hour she strolled through the streets — Bleecker to Mercer, turning on West Third, then up MacDougal to Washington Square Park. As she entered the park, she realized she was hungry. She spotted a hot-dog vendor at the other end, and it was on her way there that she saw him.

  He was standing under a tree and strumming his guitar, and for a moment she couldn’t catch her breath. She took in the same wild, unkempt curly black hair, the same lean torso, the same red bandanna around his neck. The same faded blue work shirt over black jeans. The only addition was a pair of sunglasses.

  There were three people standing around listening to his music. It was the same music he’d been playing in the coffee house, and once again she couldn’t quite make out the words. One of them tossed a coin into the empty guitar case that lay at his feet and left. Allison moved closer, and joined the couple who were still listening. Just as she arrived, they ambled away.

  He stopped singing, strummed a few more chords, and then took off the guitar. Before he could put it back in the case, Allison went into her bag, found a dollar, and quickly put it in.

  He picked it up, along with the dime the other person had left.

  ‘Thanks,’ he muttered.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said.

  He stared at her. At least, she thought he was staring. With his sunglasses on, she couldn’t really tell. But his head had turned in her direction.

  ‘I really like that song,’ she blurted out. ‘I heard you sing it before. In a coffee house, last week.’

  ‘Oh, right. I was trying out, for a gig.’

  ‘Did you get it?’

  He scowled. ‘Nah. They went for some crummy trio singing Peter, Paul and Mary crap. Actually I’m glad I didn’t get it. People who hang out there, they don’t appreciate original stuff. They want to hear “Michael, Row the Boat Ashore”. Bunch of yahoos.’

  Allison flinched. Clearly, her personal taste in folk music needed development. ‘What a shame,’ she murmured.<
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  He nodded. ‘These squares, they listen to the New Christy Minstrels or the Kingston Trio, and they think they’re listening to real folk music. It’s all fake.’

  She wished he would take off his sunglasses.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked as he placed the guitar back in its case.

  ‘Sam,’ he said, without offering a last name.

  ‘I’m Allison.’

  There was no ‘pleased to meet you’ or ‘nice to know you’. He arranged the strap of the guitar case over his shoulder, and it seemed like he was about to take off. But after all she went through to find him, Allison was not going to let him get away so quickly.

  ‘Would you like to get some coffee?’

  He hesitated, and she remembered the meagre amount of money he’d collected.

  ‘My treat,’ she added.

  He shrugged. ‘Yeah, OK.’

  They walked together across the park to the street. Allison tried desperately to think of something to say, a comment that would show him she wasn’t like those jerks who couldn’t appreciate his music.

  ‘You know, people have the wrong idea about folk music,’ she began. ‘They think it’s just old songs. But honest folk music, it’s about something. Feelings, and struggles, and conflicts. Philosophy. Real folk music, it makes statements. And it asks real questions.’

  ‘Yeah? Like what?’

  Surely he knew. He was just testing her.

  ‘Well, questions like, like, what’s it all about? How do people connect to each other? What does life mean? The struggles of the common man, compassion, equality …’ She trailed off, noticing that he had taken off the sunglasses and was actually looking at her. His eyes were definitely brown,’ and his lashes were spectacularly long.

  ‘I dig Bob Dylan,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, me too!’ she cried out. ‘In fact, you remind me a little of him.’

  He didn’t smile, but she could tell he was pleased. ‘What did you like about my song?’

  ‘Well, the tune … and I could tell the words meant a lot to you, it was all over your face. It was pretty intense.’

  ‘You liked the lyrics?’

  She hesitated. Here was where she could be caught out. ‘I couldn’t understand all of them,’ she admitted. Then quickly she added, ‘Of course, I don’t understand all of Bob Dylan’s lyrics either.’