Gloss

by Marilyn Kaye

  Now she wouldn’t know what to say to anyone who asked that question. Hopefully she’d meet someone else who could be there for her, someone who would be the father of her children, who would support the family, who would sit at the head of the dinner table. But she couldn’t give that someone else a face, and it made her feel that word again. Lost.

  Get a grip, she ordered herself. She shook her head, as if the gesture would disperse all the bad feelings, and forced her mind to focus on the work at hand. What Allison had suggested, about submitting Mike’s story to Gloss … well, why not?

  She removed the paper from the typewriter and tossed it in the wastepaper basket. Then she took two fresh sheets, placed a piece of carbon paper between them and inserted them all into the typewriter.

  It was strange — she knew Mike liked her, why else would he constantly stop by her desk and ask if they could take their coffee breaks together? And those breaks were always interesting. They talked about all kinds of things — polities, civil rights, religion. Mike did most of the talking — she still wasn’t completely comfortable discussing subjects that were so off-limits back home. But she was beginning to join in and express the occasional opinion, and she enjoyed the conversations. Still, it wasn’t what she’d call flirting.

  As she typed, it dawned on her that there might be another reason he hadn’t asked her out. He couldn’t be making much money working in the mailroom, and he’d said he was saving for college. Which was another good reason for submitting his story for publication — Gloss paid writers. Surely he’d take her out, if only to express his gratitude to her. And that could lead to a real relationship.

  She started imagining a very different future — standing by Mike’s side in a bookstore handing him the books to sign for his adoring fans. Books that held dedications like, ‘To Sherry, my wife and my inspiration’. Hosting elegant cocktail parties, offering canapés to literary types, writers, poets, professors. It wasn’t a world she’d ever seen, and not quite what she’d imagined for herself, but it could work …

  She reached the end and separated the two manuscripts, putting one aside to give to Mike and the other in a brown manila envelope. Inserting another sheet into the typewriter, she quickly made up a cover sheet. She typed the date, and then: ‘To: Martin Gold, Fiction Editor, Gloss; From: Michael Dillon, Mailroom, Gloss.’ Under that, she typed: ‘Attached, please find a short story I would like to submit for publication in Gloss. Thank you for your consideration.’

  She slipped the page into the envelope, sealed it and wrote the fiction editor’s name on it. Then she took it to the desk where Ellen sat. She wasn’t there, so Sherry dropped it in her in-box.

  She was passing Caroline’s office on her way back to her own desk when the managing editor came out.

  ‘Sherry, just the person I wanted to see! I have another favour to ask. I’m throwing a little cocktail party tonight, for a fashion editor from Paris. Normally my secretary would help me out, but she’s under the weather. Do you think you could take her place?’

  ‘Sure,’ Sherry replied. ‘What would I need to do?’

  ‘I just need another pair of hands. You’d be greeting people at the door, passing trays of canapés, that sort of thing. You’ll meet some interesting people, and possibly make some good contacts for the future. How about it?’

  Sherry wasn’t quite sure what she meant by ‘contacts’. Would there be single guys there? In any case, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like she had anything else to do, and she had to admit, she was curious to see how the editor lived.

  ‘I’ll be glad to help,’ Sherry replied.

  ‘Of course, I’ll see that you get some compensatory time off from your internship,’ Caroline added.

  ‘Oh, that won’t be necessary,’ Sherry said quickly.

  Caroline gave her a mildly reproving look. ‘Sherry, if you’re going to have a career in the magazine industry, learn to negotiate when special demands are made. Don’t let bosses walk all over you.’

  Sherry smiled uncertainly. Whatever gave Caroline the idea that she was seriously considering a career in the magazine industry? By now she’d realized that none of the interns was planning to go into publishing. They were here for an expenses-paid summer in New York. Maybe the editors, like Caroline, just hoped some of them would get hooked on the idea of a career.

  Caroline went on, and it was almost as if Sherry had actually asked the question out loud.

  ‘You’ve got talent, Sherry. I saw this right away in the review you wrote. And the piece you wrote about yourself — it’s excellent.’

  All the interns had been told to write a short autobiographical description that would accompany their photo in the special readers’ issue. Sherry had agonized over hers.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if I should mention the Miss Teen Georgia pageant,’ she told Caroline. ‘I was afraid it would sound like I was showing off.’

  Caroline shook her head firmly. ‘No, not at all. And it’s something that would appeal to a lot of our readers. I like the image of a pageant contestant who is also a serious writer, not just some shallow superficial beauty queen. And you mentioned it in a down-to-earth way, without sounding conceited.’

  Sherry was at a loss for words, but she managed to stammer out a ‘thank you’.

  ‘You need to do more writing while you’re here,’ Caroline said. ‘If you have any good story ideas, don’t hesitate to propose them.’

  ‘To you?’ Sherry asked.

  ‘No, the articles are the domain of the editors for each section of the magazine. If you want to write fiction, talk to Mr Gold. If it’s a feature piece …’

  ‘Talk to Mr Simpson,’ Sherry finished.

  ‘That’s right.’ Caroline looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got some calls to make.’ She scribbled something on a pad, ripped off the sheet and handed it to Sherry. ‘Here’s my address. Can you be there around six thirty?’

  ‘OK. Um … what should I wear?’ In the back of her mind she saw the women her mother hired to help out at parties. They always wore a white uniform-type dress.

  Caroline shrugged. ‘Oh, anything you like. A little black dress always works …’ She smiled. ‘If you don’t have one, borrow one from the samples closet. I wouldn’t call this an extraordinary occasion, but you’re doing something exceptional for Gloss.’

  On her way to the door Caroline added, ‘But make sure to sign out the dress, Sherry. We’ve been having some problems …’ Her voice trailed off, and some lines of concern crossed her forehead.

  ‘I will,’ Sherry assured her.

  ‘Oh, and if you see Donna, would you ask her to drop by my office?’

  Back in the bullpen, Sherry scanned the room but she didn’t spot her roommate. She did see Pamela, perched on another intern’s desk and chatting. Sherry beckoned to her.

  ‘What’s up?’ Pamela asked.

  Sherry told her about going to Caroline’s party. ‘She says I can borrow a dress from the samples closet. Want to help me pick something out?’

  It was funny, how less than three weeks ago she would never have sought Pamela’s advice on something to wear. But in the past week, ever since her makeover, Pamela’s style had changed dramatically. Today she was wearing a cap-sleeved dusty-pink shirtwaist dress with neat little tucks on the bodice. And it actually covered her knees.

  ‘I love what you’re wearing,’ Sherry commented as they headed down the corridor towards the closet.

  ‘You do?’ Pamela sighed. ‘I don’t. Alex bought it for me.’

  ‘He bought you a dress? Is it your birthday?’

  ‘No. He just wants me to look nice.’ She sighed again. ‘His idea of nice. But if this is what makes him happy and he’s willing to pay for it, what can I do?’

  Not go out with him, Sherry wanted to say.

  ‘You’re spending a lot of time with him,’ she commented as she opened the door to the samples closet.

  Pamela nodded happily. ‘It’s been amazing! I’ve actually
been to Sardi’s, and El Morocco too! And he really knows how to treat a girl. Ooh, check out the bikinis!’

  But Sherry’s mind was still on Pamela’s new relationship. ‘Pam … you do remember that he’s married, right?’

  Pamela groaned. ‘Of course I do. And don’t start nagging me about that. His wife’s on Long Island, he’s lonely and I’m keeping him company, that’s all. I’m not trying to break up his marriage, Sherry! I just want to have some fun.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ Sherry said quickly. ‘As long as you know what you’re doing.’

  Pamela suddenly became serious. ‘But listen, Sherry … no one can know about this, OK? I mean, besides you and Allison.’

  ‘Because his wife could find out?’

  Pamela nodded.

  Sherry studied her. ‘But doesn’t that make you feel, I don’t know … creepy?’

  Pamela turned away. ‘Let’s look at some dresses.’ She walked over to one of the racks. ‘Now, this is what I call a little black dress.’

  Sherry didn’t have to look at it too closely — the glitter from the sequins was enough to make her shake her head. ‘Think simple, Pam. What would your new man pick out for you to wear?’

  With a great show of reluctance Pamela replaced the dress and looked over the selection.

  ‘He’d like this,’ she said, and indicated a simple sheath.

  Whatever Sherry might think of him, she had to admit Mr Parker had good taste. She picked out two other dresses and tried them all on.

  When she’d made her selection, she went to the logbook that hung on the wall.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Pamela asked.

  ‘Signing out the dress.’ She paused, and remembered how she and Allison had wondered if Pamela might have something to do with the items that had gone missing. ‘You know that we have to do that, right?’

  ‘No,’ Pamela said, ‘but I haven’t had any reason to borrow a dress. Hey, I wonder if going out with an executive would count as an extraordinary occasion.’

  Just as they left the closet, Donna turned the corner from the bullpen into the corridor and stopped short when she saw them. For the zillionth time, Sherry had the impression of a deer caught in the headlights of a car.

  ‘Donna,’ Sherry called to her, ‘Caroline wants to see you.’

  If anything, her expression became even more fearful. Without even acknowledging the message, she turned and hurried back the way she had come.

  ‘What’s her deal?’ Pamela asked in bewilderment. ‘Why does she always look so nervous?’

  Sherry shook her head. ‘Search me. When we’re in our room together, she hardly opens her mouth. I’ve given up trying to get to know her.’

  Back in the bullpen, Mr Simpson was looking for Sherry.

  ‘Did you get those letters done?’ he demanded to know.

  Fortunately she’d finished them before typing Mike’s story. ‘Yes, sir, I’ll get them now.’ She hurried over to her desk, snatched up the work and brought them back to the features editor.

  ‘I’ll need envelopes to go with these,’ he barked.

  ‘They’re attached,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Oh yes, I see.’ He seemed somewhat mollified. He went through the letters and nodded. ‘Yes, these look fine.’

  She decided this might be a good time to ask about writing.

  ‘Um, Mr Simpson … I’ve had an idea for an article.’

  He looked up from the letters. ‘Yes?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘I’m wondering if readers might like to read about what goes on behind the scenes in a teen beauty pageant.’

  He didn’t frown, and maybe that was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. Encouraged, she continued.

  ‘I was in a pageant, back in Georgia, just last year. And I think I could write an interesting article about it.’

  His eyebrows narrowed. ‘Let me think about this,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve left an edited manuscript on your desk for you to retype.’

  A shiver ran up her spine. He was actually considering it! She couldn’t wait to tell Caroline. But glancing at her office, she saw that Donna was still in there. Maybe she’d have a chance to mention it tonight.

  At her desk, she was typing so furiously she didn’t even hear Mike say her name. When he said it again, she looked up. ‘Hi!’

  ‘Ready for a coffee break?’

  She glanced at the clock. ‘Not today. I’ve got too much work to get done.’ She was rather pleased to see him looking a little disappointed. Then she remembered something that would cheer him up.

  ‘Oh, I typed up your story,’ she said, and handed him the folder.

  He opened it, and his eyes widened. ‘Wow. You really did it!’

  ‘I said I would, didn’t I?’ She wasn’t going to mention submitting it to Gloss. If it wasn’t accepted, he’d be disappointed.

  ‘Well … thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome. It was a pleasure reading it again.’ She glanced back at her typewriter. ‘I’d better get back to this …’

  But he lingered. ‘I was wondering … if you’d like to do something tonight. See a movie, maybe? Or just get something to eat?’

  She tried very hard not to look as thrilled as she felt. She wasn’t even going to have to wait until the story was accepted for publication. For one fleeting second, she almost forgot that she wasn’t free.

  Damn.

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t,’ she said sadly. ‘I have to do something for Gloss. Another time?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘And thanks again.’

  She finished retyping the manuscript and took it to Mr Simpson’s office. It was just about five o’clock.

  ‘I’m leaving now, Mr Simpson,’ she said brightly.

  He tore a sheet of paper from a pad on his desk. ‘Could you get one more letter typed up before you go?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She took the paper from him and headed back to her desk. At least it was just a paragraph — it would only take her a couple of minutes.

  She inserted another sheet of Gloss letterhead stationery into the typewriter and turned to the paper he’d given her. The letter was going to someone named Allan Cunningham, and she recognized the name as a frequent contributor to Gloss. She started to type.

  Dear Allan, I’ve got an assignment for you. Would you be interested in writing an article about teen beauty pageants? You could include interviews with contestants, and hopefully get some tips as to what goes on behind the scenes. I’d like something in the range of 2500—3000 words, with photos …

  She stopped typing, her hands in mid-air. Her idea, her article. He was asking someone else to write it!

  He was coming out of his office now, briefcase in hand, and putting on his hat. She wanted to confront him — but she couldn’t move.

  And what could she say to him anyway? She was a nobody, a lowly intern. Maybe she should just be pleased that he considered her idea worthy of an article.

  But she wasn’t. And she was filled with feelings she couldn’t recognize and didn’t know what to do with.

  Mechanically she went back to the letter, finished it and put it in her out-box to give Mr Simpson for signing. Then she covered the typewriter and checked to make sure she had everything in her handbag. She placed the little black dress carefully over her arm and left.

  Her fury made her walk faster than usual, and she got back to the Cavendish Residence in record time. She was very grateful that Donna wasn’t in the room. She wouldn’t have to make her usual polite conversation.

  It was already quarter to six, and she didn’t know how long it would take her to get uptown to Caroline’s, so she had to rush. She stripped off her clothes and went into the shower, taking the black dress with her so the steam from the hot water would hopefully erase the crease she’d made by carrying it over her arm.

  When she got out, she dried off quickly, applied a little make-up and wrapped herself in a towel. Back in the room, she was surprised to see Donna there, sitting at the desk.r />
  ‘Hi.’

  Donna turned slightly and mumbled a greeting. She looked even more tense than usual.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Sherry asked as she began to dress.

  ‘I have to write something about myself for the readers’ issue.’

  Sherry was surprised. ‘That was due on Tuesday.’

  ‘I forgot about it. That’s what Caroline wanted to see me about.’ She hesitated, and then she said, ‘I don’t know what to write.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell your whole life’s story,’ Sherry told her. ‘Just a little something about yourself. Like, you could talk about your family. Or your hometown.’

  Donna shook her head.

  ‘Well, how about a hobby?’

  ‘I don’t have any hobbies.’

  ‘Um … you could write about why you applied for the internship at Gloss.’

  There was no response to that, and Sherry gave up. ‘Well, feel free to use my typewriter. How do I look?’ she asked.

  Donna turned.

  ‘I’m helping Caroline at a party she’s giving,’ Sherry explained. ‘She told me to dress like a guest, and she let me borrow this from the samples closet.’

  ‘It’s nice,’ Donna said.

  ‘Do you think I need a necklace? Maybe a scarf?’

  Donna shook her head and turned back to her desk.

  Sherry frowned. The only decent conversations they’d had were about accessories. Clearly Donna’s mind was elsewhere.

  Outside the residence, Sherry consulted her map. According to the address Caroline gave her, she had to get across town to the West Side, and then go up ten blocks … and it was already six fifteen. She checked the amount of cash in her wallet. Staying in and eating free meals every night had some benefits — she had enough for a taxi.

  In the back of her mind she had a vague image of how Caroline Davison would live — maybe in one of those anonymous, sterile towers she’d passed. She imagined they held tiny boxy dark apartments where people without families lived dull, sterile lives. So she was pleasantly surprised when the taxi pulled up in front of a charming three-storey brownstone building where window boxes dripped geraniums.