by Marilyn Kaye
He was always a gentleman, holding out her chair for her, taking her arm when they crossed a street, that sort of thing. And he’d made no physical overtures — a kiss on the cheek at the end of the evening, that was it. This surprised her. It certainly wasn’t what Helen Gurley Brown considered to be an affair.
But of course, that was how it would look to his wife, and he wouldn’t want her to know about these dinners. On their first outing they’d made a plan as to how he’d explain her if they ran into anyone he knew. The excuse was that she worked in his department, and he was taking her out for her birthday. So far she’d had three birthdays, at Sardi’s, Delmonico’s and the Four Seasons.
She tried very hard to be discreet as she gave Mrs Parker the once-over. The woman was average height, with light brown hair, neatly coiffed in a wavy chin-length style. She carried a straw bag and wore a one-piece suit in a flowered print. It wasn’t very revealing, but Pamela noticed — with some satisfaction — that she didn’t have anything to reveal. Mrs Parker was thin, almost bony, and while her legs were reasonable, there wasn’t much on top.
Alex didn’t see her right away. The couple took seats on side-by-side lounge chairs. The woman took a magazine and what looked like a transistor radio from her bag. She handed the radio to Alex, who inserted the earphone. Then he lay back and closed his eyes. They didn’t seem to be speaking to each other at all.
What was he listening to? she wondered. She didn’t know his taste in music. She really knew very little about him.
Pamela didn’t see anyone she knew at the pool, and she hadn’t brought anything to read. She wasn’t about to jump into the pool and destroy her hairstyle. And she’d forgotten to bring suntan lotion, which meant she’d be turning red before too long. She decided to go hunt down some of the other interns.
She started to put on her little dress, and then thought better of it. Alex should see her in this pink bikini, she decided. So she sauntered alongside the pool, taking the long way around so she could pass his chair. And hers.
Mrs Parker had the open magazine blocking her view, and Alex’s eyes were still closed. Impulsively she spoke.
‘Hello, Mr Parker,’ she chirped.
He opened one eye, then the other, and both widened. He glanced in the direction of his wife, but she was completely engrossed in her magazine and hadn’t even looked up.
‘Oh, um, hello.’ He didn’t use her name.
That didn’t surprise her. Of course he wouldn’t want his wife to think he actually knew her. Not when she was so much more attractive than the woman he was married to. For some odd reason, this pleased her. She started back towards the buffet table, where desserts had been laid out, but she was stopped before she got there.
‘Well, hello there,’ the boy called to her.
She hadn’t seen him since he stopped working at Gloss, but she recognized him immediately. Ricky Hartnell, the boss’s son, the one who took Sherry to the movie premiere and tried to jump her in the back seat of the limo. She’d thought he was very cute the first time she saw him.
He was looking a little less desirable today. His hair looked like it could use a good wash, his shirt was stained and his eyes were bloodshot. As he came closer, he staggered a little, and it was clear he was feeling no pain. Then she caught a whiff of his breath, and stepped back.
‘You’re one of those Gloss girls, right?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘I’m Pamela.’
‘How ya doing, Pamela?’
‘Just fine,’ she replied.
‘You look just fine,’ he declared. ‘And you look like you need a drink.’
‘What makes you say that?’ she asked.
‘Because you don’t have one.’ With that, he tossed back his head and laughed uproariously. The guy was completely smashed. ‘
He jiggled the glass in his hand. ‘Let me get you one of these.’
‘What is it?’
‘Bloody Mary.’
Pamela looked at the remaining inch of liquid in the glass. ‘It’s yellow.’
He frowned and examined his glass. ‘Hey, you’re right.’ He gulped down what was left. ‘Tequila Sunrise. Want one?’
‘No, thanks.’
He drew closer, and she could smell his breath. ‘Sure you do.’ He was slurring his words. ‘You can’t go through an event like this sober.’
‘Why not?’
He made a face. ‘Well, I can’t. Come on, babe. Let’s get drunk and go at it like rabbits.’
He grabbed her arm. She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened.
‘I said I don’t want a drink. Now let go of my arm.’
‘Babe, don’t you know who I am?’
Pamela rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, I know who you are. But I still don’t want a drink, and I definitely don’t want to neck with you.’
It was funny in a way. When she met him on that first day at Gloss, she’d thought he was cool. Now, despite the fact that he was still rich, blond and tanned, he seemed kind of pathetic.
‘Oh, I get it. You’re playing hard to get, right?’
‘Not hard to get, Ricky. Impossible to get. Now let me go.’ He was really getting on her nerves now.
He didn’t let her go. In fact, he squeezed harder, and it actually began to hurt.
‘Let me go,’ she hissed, ‘or I’ll scream.’
He snickered. ‘Yeah, right, you’re going to scream. Right here, at my home, in the middle of a party. OK, go ahead and scream.’
Did she dare make a scene, in front of all these people? But as it turned out, she didn’t have to. From just behind her, a deeper masculine voice spoke.
‘Leave her alone, Ricky.’
Pamela turned to see Alex standing there. The Parkers, no longer in swimsuits, obviously hadn’t stayed long at the pool.
Mrs Parker stood slightly behind him, frowning. She glanced from side to side, as if worried about who might be listening to this encounter.
Ricky glared at Alex, but he seemed to be having some trouble focusing. ‘What’s it to you?’
Pamela swallowed, and looked anxiously at Alex. Had Ricky seen them together?
But Alex didn’t even glance in her direction. He kept his eyes on Ricky and spoke mildly. ‘It looks to me like you’re bothering one of the interns.’
‘Maybe she wants to be bothered,’ Ricky retorted.
‘Well, let’s just see about that.’ Alex turned to Pamela. ‘Do you want Ricky to bother you?’
Once again she noticed how he hadn’t used her name. She shook her head.
‘There you go,’ Alex said to Ricky. ‘I think you should leave her alone.’
Ricky actually released her, and he took a step towards Alex. His fists were clenched. Then, suddenly, he turned a ghastly shade of yellow-green. Pamela stepped back in alarm. It was a great relief when he staggered away.
She turned to thank Alex for his intervention, but his back was to her as he walked away with his wife. That was sweet of him, she thought. Trying to protect her like that. Was it because he cared? Or would he have done it for any of the interns? Unaccountably, under the hot sun, she shivered.
Looking around for something to distract her, she realized the band was playing more loudly now, and had switched to dance music. Right now they were doing a feeble version of ‘Let’s Twist Again’. She went over to the dance floor, saw some of the other interns twisting away and joined them.
‘Let’s Twist Again’ was followed by ‘Twist All Night’ and then by the ‘Peppermint Twist’. The other interns had clearly indulged a little at the bar, and they were giggling as they shook their bodies. Everyone seemed to be having a good time.
Except Pamela. An odd sensation was creeping over her, and she couldn’t give it a name because she didn’t think she’d ever felt it before. She realized that she wanted to be alone.
She left the dance floor and headed towards the house.
The beach was nearby … maybe she could walk there. She circled the house, but as
she came around the side to the front she heard a woman’s angry voice.
‘You’re a fool, Alex! Insulting Hartnell’s son like that. How are you ever going to get ahead in this company?’
‘I’m director of advertising, for crying out loud!’
‘That’s nothing. You should be a vice-president by now!’
‘Phyllis, we’ve had this argument before. More times than I’d like to remember. I’m getting sick of it.’
‘And I’m sick of reminding you that you have a family to support! I want a bigger apartment, I want our kids to go to private schools, I want our own house in the country so we don’t have to keep on renting these crappy cottages! And we’re never going to have any of these things if you don’t start earning more money!’
‘Phyllis, keep your voice down!’
‘Don’t worry, I’m leaving. Here’s my taxi.’
From behind the hedge, Pamela could see the yellow car pulling into the driveway. Alex’s wife started towards it, and Alex followed her.
‘What are you doing? I’ve got the car — we’ll go to the cottage together.’
‘I think you should stay in the city this weekend and think about our future,’ the woman snapped. ‘And keep in mind that I have no intention of spending my life with a man who’s going nowhere.’
She got into the taxi and left Alex standing there staring at the departing vehicle. Pamela emerged from the hedge.
‘Alex …’
He turned. There was a stricken expression on his face. Pamela tried to act like she hadn’t heard anything.
‘I just wanted to thank you for getting rid of Ricky.’
He nodded and managed a small smile. ‘You’re welcome.’
They stood there in silence for a moment. Finally Alex spoke again.
‘Are you having fun?’
‘Not really,’ Pamela replied.
He cocked his head to one side and gazed at her. She got the feeling he was really looking at her, for the very first time.
‘Do you want to leave?’ he asked suddenly.
‘With you?’
He nodded.
She moved closer to him. He continued to look at her, almost as if he was studying her. Then he reached out and touched her hair. ‘You look so pretty …’
She smiled.
His eyes left her face and he looked around. She knew why — to make sure no one was watching. So it came as no surprise at all when he took her in his arms and kissed her!
Perched on the edge of her elegant chair, Sherry looked around at the other occupants of the room this hotel called the ‘petite salon’. A third of the room was blocked off with a high opaque curtain, and she assumed that was where the models were gathered.
From what she understood, most fashion shows were held in the hotel’s grand ballroom. But this show featured the work of a young, up-and-coming designer who didn’t yet merit a huge room. The event was taking place a week before Givenchy, Saint Laurent, Dior and the other big names would show their designs.
But even though Rafe Bryant wasn’t yet a big name, that hadn’t stopped people from attending his show. There were a lot of folks there, and most of them were women. At first Sherry assumed they were society types, who bought high fashion directly from designers and straight off the runways. But then she noticed that the majority of them were wearing name tags identifying them as working for magazines and newspapers — Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, the New York Herald Tribune. Some of them were buyers from big stores like Bloomingdale’s and Bendel’s. They were career women, not rich socialites.
They were all impeccably dressed, in Jackie Kennedy suits or simple sheath dresses. Caroline had let Sherry borrow from the samples closet again, and she felt fairly secure in her white belted dress with a navy and white striped insert at the neckline. She just wished her hair was long enough to cover her name tag. With all these important women around her, the word ‘intern’ seemed so, so … not important.
There were some men at the show too of course. And one of them was George Simpson. She hadn’t been too thrilled that morning when Caroline told her he’d be accompanying her.
‘Our fashion editor is taking some vacation time before the really important shows next week,’ Caroline had explained. ‘And since this is the first year Gloss is covering the shows, I can’t send only an intern. No offence, Sherry,’ she added quickly. ‘I’m sure you’d do just fine on your own. But if we don’t have someone with a title there, it will look like we’re not taking this seriously.’
Sherry wasn’t offended at all. She just wished that editor would be someone other than Mr Simpson, who didn’t think she was capable of doing anything more than typing his letters.
But at least she hadn’t had to travel alone in the taxi with Simpson. David Barnes, the photographer, came with them.
‘This is a first for me,’ the handsome photographer remarked as the taxi inched up Madison Avenue. ‘When did Gloss decide to start covering the fashion shows?’
‘Caroline’s idea,’ Mr Simpson muttered. He looked even grumpier than usual. ‘I’m only coming because what’s-her-name, the fashion gal, is on vacation.’
‘Belinda Collins,’ Sherry murmured.
‘What?’ Simpson asked sharply.
‘That’s the fashion editor’s name. Belinda Collins.’ She was practically certain that Simpson knew this. After all, the magazine staff wasn’t that big. She suspected he was just trying to appear so important that he couldn’t remember everyone’s name.
The features editor just shrugged, as if her comment wasn’t even worth acknowledging.
David gave her a friendly smile. ‘And you’re coming because … ?’
‘She works for me,’ George said shortly. ‘She’s my intern.’
Inwardly Sherry shuddered. He made it sound like he owned her. She had an overwhelming urge to speak up for herself.
‘We’re not actually covering the shows, like Vogue does,’ she told David. ‘Our readers aren’t in the market for designer duds. But we thought it would be interesting to look at the trends in couture, and maybe come up with an article about the impact on junior dressing. Maybe a feature article,’ she added, with a glance in Simpson’s direction.
His expression was unreadable. Or maybe he wasn’t even listening.
Thankfully she didn’t have to sit with him in the petite salon. When they arrived, he took the last remaining seat in the front row of the semicircle. David went to the end of the runway, where other photographers were gathered. Sherry selected a seat in the third row, making sure the women in front of her weren’t wearing large hats that might block her view.
The hum of conversation immediately stopped when, from somewhere she couldn’t see, music filled the room. It was a bouncy tune with a rock ’n’ roll beat, and Sherry noticed some raised eyebrows. She got the impression that this wasn’t the usual music that accompanied high fashion shows. She took her notepad and pen from her bag, and made a note.
The first model stepped out from behind the curtain. She wore a black cocktail dress, but it wasn’t the simple sheath-with-pearls Sherry had seen before. This one had a high waist, and the skirt fell in perky flounces. Teenage girls might not normally wear black, but if they did, this was the kind of dress that would suit them.
The model strode down the aisle and struck a pose at the end. In the flashes of light from the cameras, Sherry got a good look at her face. She wasn’t heavily made-up at all — in fact, though she was probably a bit older, she looked like the kind of girl who posed for Gloss. She did a little twirl and then headed back down the aisle. Before she reached the curtained area, another model emerged and passed her.
This second girl was wearing black-with-pearls, but in a very original way. The dress itself was spotted with pearls across the bodice, making the dress look more — something. Playful, thought Sherry.
The next dress was more casual, a red sundress edged in white with tiny white polka dots. When the model turned, she saw
that the back had crossed straps, like a child’s pinafore. Young and breezy. Sherry could see herself in this dress at an afternoon barbecue. It was followed by another sundress, this one in sky blue with spaghetti straps and a ruched top.
By now, Sherry was writing furiously, her eyes darting up and down from the models to her notepad as she tried to catch every detail.
There was so much to take in. A series of dresses with a nautical theme emerged, all red, white and blue. An oversized white collar on this one, a print of stars on another … and there was a fantastic yellow taffeta party dress, with lace insets on the stiff full skirt. Oversize buttons on two-piece ensembles, kitten heels instead of stilettos. A couple of models carried shoulder bags instead of handbags. Practically everything in the collection could work in a teen wardrobe.
It was the last model who truly took her breath away. She must have had the same effect on others in the audience, because there was an audible gasp.
She wore a bridal gown, a heavenly creation, clouds of chiffon dotted with tiny rhinestones. It was unbelievably romantic, but fresh too. Like the girl had been showered with dogwood blossoms. Sherry had pored over enough bridal magazines back home to know that she was looking at something new and modern, yet still a young girl’s fantasy of a wedding day.
Dimly Sherry was aware that the music had switched to a soft ballad, and maybe that was why the hush in the audience seemed so intense. The girl posed, turned and floated back down the aisle.
The music turned upbeat again, and all the models returned, walking in single file to the end of the runway and turning to walk back. This time the ‘bride’ was accompanied by a young man with tousled brown hair, dressed in khaki trousers and a slightly wrinkled sportscoat. The audience burst into applause, and Sherry realized that this must be Rafe Bryant himself.
The designer wore a crooked, almost bashful grin, and he took only a brief bow before following the models back behind the curtain. The show was over.