by Robyn Sisman
Dee Dee was a dumpy girl from Queens, with an invalid mother and a wardrobe so unfashionable it was spooky, whom Lloyd had picked out of twenty more-sparky-looking candidates. He had picked right. Dee Dee worked hard, thought ahead, remembered everything, laughed at his jokes and never, ever sulked. By now she did the job just about as well as it could be done. Pretty soon, Lloyd thought gloomily, they would have to think about promoting her.
He found her in the small conference room, collating photocopies and storyboards for Sam & Martha. “Last day, huh?” she said, squaring the edges of the photos and sliding them into a folder. “I brought you a present to celebrate.” She nodded toward a brown paper bag. “Almond croissant—Balducci special.”
“Oh.” Lloyd took the bag and held it awkwardly, wondering if he was supposed to eat the damn thing now, even though he wasn’t hungry.
Dee Dee scanned his face with amusement. “You don’t have to eat it right this minute, Lloyd. You know how you get without regular fueling. I’ll put it in your briefcase.” Deftly, she slid all the presentation material into a portfolio, placed the bag on top and led the way back to Lloyd’s office. “I love your Sam & Martha idea,” she said.
Lloyd eyed her suspiciously. “You’re very solicitous this morning. Don’t tell me you’re going to miss me. Not when you can have the great Joolian Jool.”
They laughed together over the name.
“And Sheri,” Dee Dee added, without enthusiasm.
“And Sheri,” Lloyd agreed. “She’s in charge while I’m away. I know you’ll do everything to make that easy for her.”
“Of course.” With the tiniest of sighs Dee Dee packed everything into Lloyd’s briefcase, while he put on his jacket, then stooped to catch his reflection in one of the posters on his wall.
“How do I look?”
Dee Dee rolled her eyes. “Like you always look. Clark Kent without the glasses.” She put the briefcase into his arms. “Don’t forget your Kryptonite.”
Lloyd opened his mouth to explain that Kryptonite was just what Superman did not need, then told himself not to be a pedant. He was already branded a “pointy head” in the office, having once let slip that he had read a Henry James novel prior to its Hollywoodization on the big screen.
It took until lunchtime to reassure the shoe people. Lloyd was too busy to stop and eat, but Dee Dee had been right about the hunger pangs. He devoured the croissant in three huge bites as he rode down in the elevator, dusted himself off and hurried back downtown to Schneider Fox. Stuck to his computer screen was a note in Dee Dee’s handwriting: Bernie wants to see you a.s.a.p. No reason given.
Lloyd felt a twinge of anxiety. Bernie never wanted to see anyone. Alone of all the Schneider Fox staff, he had a proper office to himself, with solid walls and a door that closed. He preferred to communicate with his employees by memo, which he recorded into a Dictaphone that he carried with him everywhere. It was just one weapon in his arsenal of power, reminding his staff that however long they lasted in the business they would never launch as many successful campaigns as he had, or call as many millionaires by their first names.
Bernie Schneider was a legend in the advertising world, the enfant terrible who had put the first naked woman in an American ad, the crazy guy who had stuck a real car onto a billboard to advertise glue. In the glory days of the 1970s he had done drugs, girls, motorbikes; moved on to houses, wives and his own company; graduated to alimony and corporation tax. Now he was nudging sixty and had discovered Himself in a big way.
At Bernie’s door Lloyd took a breath, knocked, and entered a ballroom-size expanse of pale carpeting, with giddying views on two sides. The walls were studded with expensive contemporary art and posters from Bernie’s design-guru days. In one corner a fountain tinkled, strategically positioned by his feng-shui adviser. In another, incongruously placed on a marble plinth, was a battered New York fire hydrant—“To remind me of my humble Brooklyn origins,” Bernie liked to tell clients sententiously, though the word was he’d been born in Hoboken. Obliquely positioned in front of Lloyd was a giant mortuary slab of a desk. Behind it sat a big man in a suit, with restless eyes and gray curls beginning to slip backward. The desk was empty apart from a telephone and a white dinner-plate with an artistic arrangement of bite-sized pieces of fruit. Bernie had an ongoing love affair with his stomach. He had tried every diet invented, except the simple one of eating less.
“Bernie,” said Lloyd, perhaps a little too heartily. “What can I do for you?”
Bernie gestured toward a black leather couch. He stabbed a piece of pineapple with a toothpick, eyed it suspiciously, then popped it in his mouth. He chewed slowly, making Lloyd wait. “Bad news,” he said eventually. “London’s fucked up. They lost Julian Jewel. Guy walked out this afternoon. No warning, no apology. Seems Sturm Drang made him an offer he couldn’t refuse: double the salary and a red fucking Ferrari parked outside his fucking apartment.” A frown of distaste creased his face. “Jeez, a Ferrari. It’s so eighties.”
Lloyd stared. “Julian’s quit the company? But I just talked to him yesterday. We had a whole session about the job, the apartment, which day the garbage was collected. He said—”
“He lied,” Schneider said succinctly, already bored. “You know what these Brits are like, especially the creatives. The guy walked. End of story.”
Lloyd sat in silence while the implications sank in. “So does this mean the exchange is cancelled?”
“Looks that way, doesn’t it? And, you know, maybe that’s not such a bad thing.” Bernie’s gaze settled intently on Lloyd. “Four weeks is a long time out of the office. Maybe too long to take your eye off the ball.” He speared a berry, gave it a little twirl and ate it.
“Any particular ball?” Lloyd asked.
“You tell me.”
“Everything’s looking good. Clients happy, budgets under control, billings on the up.”
“Including Passion?”
“Especially Passion.”
For several long seconds, Lloyd endured a hard, challenging stare.
“That’s OK, then.” Bernie wiped his mouth on a white napkin, leaving a red trail. He checked his watch. “Shit,” he said, “I’m late for my astrologer.”
Dismissed, Lloyd walked back through the open offices, feeling weightless, disoriented. It was as though a door had been slammed in his face. Back at his desk, he sat idly for a while, letting depression steal over him like paralysis, then reached for the phone. There was only one person who would understand.
After several rings a voice answered, “Chinese laundry.”
Lloyd almost smiled. “How did you know it was me?”
“I didn’t. I’m pissed off. Lousy day.”
“Me too. You doing anything after work?”
There was a world-weary sigh. “Counting my billions. Auditioning Kristin Scott Thomas for my new picture. Same old stuff.”
“Good. I’ll meet you at Kiki’s around six.” Lloyd put down the phone, feeling better.
“Kiki’s?” said an amused voice from the hallway. “I didn’t know you led such a wild life.”
“Ah, Sheri.” Lloyd straightened in his chair. “Come in.”
But she was already in, slotting a cassette into his VCR in that assertive way she had, filling the room with her perfume. As always, she was dressed for success, yet with a blatant femininity that was disquieting. It was impossible not to notice her legs or the snug fit of her skirt as she bent over the machine. Lloyd had never asked for a deputy, nor had he been asked if he wanted one. Bernie had just produced her one day, about three months ago, like a birthday present.
Sheri cleared some files from his desk, perched on the edge and started the tape. “Lloyd, the most terrible thing,” she breathed. “Have you seen this?”
“I don’t think so. Is it the latest Bertolucci?”
Sheri looked blank for a moment, gave a polite laugh and continued. “It’s an ad for that horrible little bank. They premiered it last nigh
t. Isn’t it just a total rip-off of our last campaign for Citybiz?”
Lloyd watched little animated dollar signs dance across the screen. “Our” campaign for Citybiz had been 99 percent Sheri’s, and in his private opinion 100 percent cliché. That some other agency should have come up with something similar was hardly a big surprise.
Sheri was stabbing her finger at the screen, pointing out the offending details. “Can’t we sue or something?” she asked.
“Well . . .” Lloyd began carefully. “You know what they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I think you should take it as a compliment, Sheri. If the client questions you, just say you got there first. Remind them that Schneider Fox is the best. That’s why people copy us.”
Sheri seemed delighted by this interpretation. Seamlessly, she moved on to outline a plan she wanted to implement while he was away, to analyze the effectiveness of their print-buying, agency wide. Lloyd’s attention wandered. Sheri was the sort of person who read management books. Sometimes he felt that they had increased her word power to an unfortunate degree.
“. . . so the way I figure it there will be significant financial implications above and below the line,” Sheri concluded.
“Very impressive. Put it in writing, will you? Now, about the next few weeks—”
Sheri reached over and gave his shoulder a friendly rub. “Relax, Lloyd. Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I can’t run your clients.”
“That’s not what I meant. That is, I don’t think of you as a woman,” floundered Lloyd.
“Really?” She flashed him a smile.
“Sheri, read my lips. I’m trying to tell you something that has nothing to do with being a woman.” He explained about Julian Jewel.
To his surprise, Sheri seemed genuinely upset. “But this is awful,” she burst out. “You have to go. You were so looking forward to the trip.”
Lloyd shrugged. He didn’t want to talk about it.
“Can’t London send someone else?”
“Most people have commitments—work deadlines, families, vacations.”
“Well, did you at least ask?”
“Bernie was too busy to discuss it. He had an appointment.”
“What was it this time? His inner child?” Impatiently, Sheri stood up and faced him across the desk, fists on hips. “You’re not going to just leave it, are you? Did you fix to see him again later?”
Lloyd’s temper rose. She was beginning to remind him of Betsy’s mother. “Let’s drop it, OK?” He reached for a pencil and opened a file at random. “I’m sure you’ve got work to do.”
He heard a sigh of exasperation and the rustle of stockings, then the click of the glass door as it shut behind her.
Abruptly, Lloyd swung his chair around to face the window. Out behind the tangle of wire fencing and rubble, where they were widening the riverside highway, stretched the docks, their gigantic piers jutting into the water. Once everyone had gone to Europe by boat—Southampton, Rotterdam, Cherbourg. Lloyd pictured the majestic liners nosing into the Hudson, streamers fluttering, hands waving: the start of an adventure. He wondered if Sheri was right, if he should insist, if he should subject himself to another session on that clammy black couch.
No, he decided eventually. Julian had turned out to be a lying bastard, but Lloyd had felt comfortable with him. They had discussed the exchange in detail. Everything had been planned, organized, under control, the way Lloyd liked things to be.
It just wouldn’t be the same with a perfect stranger.
Chapter Three
Kiki’s was a tiny basement bar off Washington Square, where Jack Kerouac had once been sick over a female folk singer. An aura of 1950s Bohemia lingered in its sepulchral lighting and black leatherette furniture. It was one of the few places in Manhattan where smoking was positively encouraged. Tonight it was empty, except for a skinny waitress in vampire makeup and a figure slouched in a corner, camouflaged in sunglasses and black leather jacket. His blond Andy Warhol hair glimmered like a beacon through a haze of smoke. Lloyd stopped at his table. “Jean-Luc Godard, I presume.”
Jay waved his cigarette in welcome, then uncoiled himself slowly to frown disapprovingly at Lloyd’s suit and briefcase. “Jee-sus,” he drawled. “Every time I see you, you look more like a banker. What is it you guys carry in those cases?”
Lloyd shrugged. “Emergency toilet paper. Baseball mitts. Grandma’s ashes.” He put his briefcase on the floor. “You want a beer or what?”
Jay started to laugh, a reluctant scratchy chuckle that turned into a cough. “They’re going to love you in jolly old England.”
“Actually, they’re not.” Lloyd waited until they had ordered their drinks, then settled himself moodily in his chair, hands in pockets, legs stretched out. “I’m not going,” he pronounced.
Jay took off his sunglasses. “Don’t tell me Little Miss Muffet put her foot down.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call her that.” Lloyd scowled. He waited while the waitress set out their drinks, running his fingers irritably through his hair. “Betsy was happy for me to go. She has her dissertation to finish. Anyway,” he went on more calmly, “she would never do a thing like that. She is loyal and supportive and thoughtful and—”
“And all the things I’ll never be,” Jay finished for him. He raised his glass. “Here’s to us, Manhattan’s very own Jekyll and Hyde. Now, speak. What’s the story?”
Lloyd gave up. There was no point getting angry with Jay. He explained the whole messy situation.
Jay shook his head. “I’m sorry, pal. I know you have this crazy thing about England. Still,” his eyebrows shot up, “a red Ferrari! Remember that old rust-bucket you got in California? You offered me a ride East, then stung me for the gas. Cheapskate.”
“It was a 1969 Chevy,” Lloyd protested. “The rust was an integral part of its mature charm. It was the Jeanne Moreau of the American car industry. I was in love with that car.” He chuckled. “I probably could have married it under California law.”
“On a cliff top, with a Buddhist priest . . .”
“Naked . . .”
“. . . with a poodle for best man.”
“ ‘With this hubcap I thee wed.’ ”
They laughed together at the fantasy. Then Lloyd sobered. He smoothed his tie down his shirt-front, neatly tucking in the tail end. “I’ve come a long way since then.”
“Yep.” Jay sipped his beer. “You certainly have.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t you ever miss the old life? Bombing down the highways, picking towns off the map just because you liked the name, everything you owned in a beat-up bag in the trunk.”
“I was nineteen.” Lloyd flicked his long fingers dismissively.
“And screwed up. You can’t spend your life playing piano bars at twenty bucks a night. Why would I want to go back to that stuff?”
“I didn’t say you wanted to go back, I just asked if you ever missed the fun.”
Lloyd hesitated. He didn’t want to go back to the chaos and shame of those times, but Jay was right: there was something he missed. What was it? Youth, probably—that feeling that any second something extraordinary might happen to change your life. “Four weeks in England would have been fun enough for me.” Lloyd could hear the sourness in his voice. “How’s the movie?” he asked, changing the subject. “Any takers?”
Jay’s face twisted. “You want to hear the latest? It’s ‘too good.’ Too smart, too ironic, too ‘European.’ Little Miss Gum Chewer in Lobotomy, Nebraska, won’t get it.” Jay waved his fists in the air with frustration. “What is it with the nineties? It’s like everything died. No one wants anything that hasn’t had all the life sanitized out of it. What happened to ambiguity, to originality, to ideas?”
Lloyd looked away, feeling uncomfortable. Was that what he did in his job—sanitizing, commercializing? A form of lying? “Maybe it’s just us,” he suggested. “We’re getting old.”
&nb
sp; “Not me, buddy,” Jay objected.
For a while they sat in silence, sipping their drinks. The bar had filled up. Over the ripple of conversation Lloyd could hear Thelonious Monk stumbling artfully over the piano keys. He cleared his throat. There was something he needed to raise with Jay.
“Speaking of Betsy,” he began casually, “I was thinking we might get married.”
Jay’s expression did not change. He nodded consideringly. “Betsy must be happy.”
“Well . . . I haven’t actually told her yet. I was going to wait until I got back from London, but now—”
Jay let out a cackle of laughter. “Told her—I love it! What if she says no, you cocky bastard?”
“I just—” Lloyd stopped, abashed. “Look, we’ve been together almost two years. We’re not twenty any more. It’s about time.”
“Marriage isn’t about time, it’s about love.”
“We have a good, stable relationship. We like the same things—literature, the outdoors, traveling . . .”
“Very logical, Mr. Spock.”
Lloyd suddenly felt furious. “Jesus, Jay, is that all you can say?”
Jay raised a conciliatory palm. “You don’t need my approval, Lloyd, or my opinion. Look at me. What am I ever going to know about marriage? But love . . .” Jay reached for his matches and lit one. He held it up to his pale face, watching the flame flicker and dance as it scorched a black path toward his fingers. “Does it burn? Does it dazzle? Does it hurt?” He raised his eyes to Lloyd’s and gave a sad little smile. “Love. It’s the only thing.” Then he blew out the flame.
