Summer in the City

by Robyn Sisman

  Tucker told him that the advertising agencies Passion had approached so far were all desperate to suggest ways of glossing over the features that did not square with traditional airline values—the company’s newness, its maverick boss, its association with rock concerts and youth culture. Lloyd had turned the problem upside down. Instead of trying to pretend that Passion was American Airlines, he made the new airline fun, as hip and adventurous and youth-oriented as the music on the Passion label. When early rumors of the campaign leaked out into the advertising industry, how they had cackled and sneered! Nobody, they said, would want to fly with a company whose previous reputation had been for sex n’ drugs n’ rock n’ roll. The truth was exactly the opposite. Lloyd had wooed the young people first, those who wanted to watch indie movies, listen to Passion bands on their headphones, and were delighted to eat simple packed lunches instead of microwaved cardboard.

  Their success was almost frightening. Soon everyone wanted to travel with Passion, not just because it was cheap but because it was hip. The advertising budget tripled. Lloyd won his first—and only—Grand Prix, the Big Daddy of the advertising-industry prizes. Nobody realized that for its first year Passion owned only one airplane. Now Passion was poised to take over from Stateside as the dominant airline in the lucrative transatlantic trade. Next season, when they expanded the range of US destinations, would be the determinant. For Schneider Fox, Passion was their biggest single account and the chief reason for Lloyd’s swift ascent up the company ladder.

  What a genius I had in those days, Lloyd thought—what fire, what confidence! Where had the years gone? One minute he was a firebrand in his twenties, working most of the hours God gave him and fooling around the rest; the next, he had a fat corporate job, a live-in partner and thirty-four years on the clock. Correction: thirty-five.

  Betsy had been very mysterious about the plans for tonight. Last year she had baked him a cake—chocolate fudge, he remembered, with candles. He had found the gesture curiously girlish, and the cake too rich, but he had been charmed all the same. It was nice to be adored. He wondered what surprise lay in store for him. An image of the black garter belt arose briefly and was banished. Control, please. Just as long as she hadn’t bought him another of those ties that made him feel as if he should join the Republican party pronto.

  After the dazzle of the street, the Schneider Fox reception area was dim and cool.

  “I say, Lloyd, have you seen this? Your picture’s in the paper.” It was the receptionist, a young Indian woman with an accent as posh as the queen’s.

  “You’re kidding.” Lloyd strolled over to her. “How come?”

  “It’s in the new Admag. Gossip column, back page. Here, take it.”

  Lloyd read the article at his desk as he tore into the baguette, scattering crusty flakes. Two photographs accompanied it, a dopey one of himself taken at an awards dinner some years ago, kissing a trophy, and another that showed a man in shirtsleeves and suspenders, hair groovily cropped, posed cross-legged on a boardroom table. So this was Julian Jewel. For someone who had just dumped his employer he looked pretty impressed with himself.

  Ah, My Jewel, Past Compare!

  The canalside offices of Schneider Fox are awash with rumor after the shock departure of creative director Julian Jewel to Sturm Drang. It is understood that Jewel accepted a salary comfortably into six figures and a golden hello in the form of a brand-new red Ferrari. He joined his new firm on Monday after a celebratory weekend in Saint-Tropez.

  “It’s nothing personal,” Jewel assures us. “Schneider Fox is a great company and it’s been fun. But Hugo Drang and I have been mates ever since our Saatchi days. The chance to work with him again was irresistible.” Not to mention seeing his name on the letterhead: word is the company is shortly to be rechristened Sturm Drang Jewel.

  Ozzie supremo Harry Fox is rumored to be less than delighted by the manner of Jewel’s resignation—a one-line e-mail message programmed to flash up on his screen at the end of play on Friday. But his response to our inquiries—“Julian who?”—suggests he is not reaching for his handkerchief just yet. Industry-watchers will recall Fox’s tigerish assault five years ago on the prestigious but ailing Schneider agency in Manhattan, since which time the company’s global turnover has increased fourfold.

  Meanwhile, the big question is whether Jewel’s key clients—including Wondersnax, Snifflies and Passion Airlines—will decamp to Sturm Drang. “Of course, I’d love to go on working with them, but I’m not counting my chickens,” claims Jewel coyly. Very wise when there’s a Fox about.

  Ironically, Jewel was to have flown to New York last weekend to participate in the exchange program initiated by Fox to promote transatlantic goodwill and company loyalty. (Whoops!) Undaunted by Jewel’s departure, Schneider Fox New York have sent their man anyway, whiz kid Lloyd Rockwell. Coincidentally, Rockwell masterminds the US account for . . . Passion Airlines. Fasten your seatbelts for a bumpy ride!

  One clear winner in this everyday tale of adfolk is Susannah Wilding, flame-haired temptress of the art department at Schneider Fox London, who was whisked to the Big Apple in Jewel’s place at twenty-four hours’ notice. Grab a bagel for me, kid!

  “You don’t want to believe everything you read in the papers,” rasped a voice.

  Lloyd looked up to see Harry Fox filling the doorway, cigarette in hand. He rose awkwardly, brushing the crumbs off his suit.

  “Ah, sit down, finish your lunch.” Fox waved away Lloyd’s politeness in a zigzag of smoke and settled himself casually in a chair.

  Lloyd gestured at the magazine. “Are you concerned that we could lose any of Jewel’s clients?” he asked.

  Fox gave him a long look. He was a tall man, with an attractively angular face that could have been hewn from Ayer’s Rock, and a rangy frame just beginning to betray middle age. Lloyd hadn’t met many Australians, but he could tell that Fox was distinctly un-English. There was something in his unnervingly direct gaze and the swing of his shoulders that spoke of the lawless frontier, though when he smiled he looked like the charming fox of children’s fables. He wasn’t smiling now.

  “Jewel’s contract prevents him from approaching any of our clients for twelve months. He knows I’ll be after him with a posse of lawyers if I catch him playing dirty.” He flicked his ash into Lloyd’s waste-bin. “And in the case of Passion, anyway, we have a secret weapon.” He eyed Lloyd enigmatically.

  “What’s that?”

  “You, of course. Aren’t you supposed to be Passion’s golden boy? It’s time I put you to work. You don’t think you’re here for a holiday, do you?”

  Lloyd laughed. “Not from what I’ve seen so far.”

  “I came to tell you that we’re going to Lord’s on Thursday,” Fox said. “Client entertainment. I’ll let you guess who the client is. You’ll have the whole day to convince them how wonderful your new campaign is going to be. Think you’re up to it?”

  Was that the House of Lords, Lloyd wondered. What kind of “entertainment” could possibly last an entire day? He knew better than to ask. Harry Fox hated stupid questions. Aloud he said, “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “Good.” Fox smacked his knees with the palms of his hands and stood up. “You still on for next weekend?”

  “Of course. Betsy and I are looking forward to it.”

  “Did I warn you about the little monsters?”

  “You did.”

  “And you’re still coming?” Fox shook his head admiringly. “You Yanks must have nerves of bloody steel.” And he was gone.

  Lloyd subsided in his chair. Harry Fox was a challenge. Lloyd found him difficult to read. He was almost sure he liked him.

  Chapter Eight

  Betsy climbed crabwise up the narrow stairway, dragging two fistfuls of bulging supermarket bags. Her arms ached from the effort of holding them clear of the white pleated skirt she had put on to celebrate the arrival of summer. Pausing at the top of the stairs to catch her breath, she became
aware of a sudden soft scampering from the hallway. Something furry and horribly alive squeezed through her legs, and a cat shot past her, heading for the open kitchen window. Betsy aimed a kick at it, missed the trick step down into the kitchen and crashed to her knees. There was an explosive chink of breaking glass and the drumroll of scattering tin cans. The cat yowled, scrabbled onto the windowsill and leaped free into the sycamore tree. Betsy saw her new potatoes, authentically dusted with organic soil, spill from one of the bags, chased by a foaming rivulet of champagne. A little lake of expensive mud formed on her newly washed floor.

  “Shit!” she yelled. “Shit. Shit. Shit.” Then, to nobody in particular, she added quietly, “Excuse me.”

  For a few moments Betsy breathed deeply through her nose, centering herself as her therapist had taught her. Then she rose from a squelch of lettuce, rubbed her knees tenderly and set about clearing up the mess. It wasn’t too bad, she told herself. The avocado looked a little dented, but she could make it into guacamole. The Betty Crocker box was sodden, but thankfully the cake mix inside was sealed in plastic. Lloyd would get his favorite chocolate cake.

  That damned cat! This was not the first time Betsy had caught it in the apartment. Not only was she allergic to cats, but this particular cat was the most loathsome specimen she had ever seen, a low-slung creature of leprous white with a piratical black patch across one eye that gave it a malevolent air. The thought of it roaming over the kitchen counters or spreading its hairy bulk across her pillow made her shudder. Something would have to be done.

  Betsy wiped her groceries clean and put them away, wrapped the thick shards of champagne bottle in newspaper and cleaned the floor. Her first purchase in Britain had been a new sponge for the floor mop, to replace the stiff, emaciated corpse of its predecessor. She had spent the whole of last week giving the apartment a spring-cleaning. More than once, as she excavated yet another cache of fluff-encrusted ephemera from underneath cushions and down the sides of armchairs—paper clips, pistachio nut shells, wine corks, spent matches—the shadow of Ms. Susannah Wilding had darkened her thoughts. But now the bath gleamed, the windows sparkled, the tops of wardrobes and the underside of the bed were dust free. In the kitchen, spice jars marched in alphabetical order across scrubbed shelves. The oven no longer belched foul-smelling smoke when she turned it on. Betsy had even washed the curtains, braving the local laundromat that doubled as a refuge for mucus-smeared toddlers and old ladies with bandaged legs as thick as tree trunks. Betsy didn’t understand London. While in America there were clearly designated rich neighborhoods and poor neighborhoods, here a peeling tenement packed with immigrant families could be right next door to a lawyer’s astronomically priced home. It made her very uneasy.

  When the kitchen was restored to order, Betsy opened the tall sash window wide to clear the champagne fumes. Honeyed air floated up from the backyard. It was almost pleasant. Betsy paused to lean on the windowsill, feeling the warmth on her arms, thinking how typical it was that the sun should have come out for Lloyd’s birthday. He always seemed to get what he wanted.

  The first time she had seen Lloyd he had been sitting in the sun. It was Labor Day weekend, and she was staying out on Long Island with an old school-friend. The highlight of the weekend was to be a tennis tournament that was held every year by some people who lived out toward Montauk Point. The rule was that anyone who wanted to stay for the evening barbecue had to play. Early on Saturday morning, armed with a sheaf of rackets, they had climbed into a station wagon and driven east, arriving at a sprawling clapboard house in a state of casual decrepitude that spoke of old money. Wicker furniture sagged on the deep porches. There were hammocks among the trees and a slope of yellowed lawn leading to the ocean. Their hosts were a hearty pair in late middle age, with wrinkled knees and unfashionably deep tans. Betsy saw at a glance that this was not her sort of crowd. She had been partnered with one of those terrier-like older men who like to stand at the net and shout “Mine!” It was not until the afternoon that she contrived to lose a match and escape into the house for a cooling shower. Afterward, she had strolled down to the water, drawn by a soft breeze that trailed plumes of cloud across a turquoise sky. The boisterous babble of the tournament faded and was replaced by the scurry of waves on sand and the rhythmic thunk of a boat knocking against wood. The trees cleared until there was nothing but blue sky and blue ocean. And there, alone, at the end of the boat dock, sat a lean man with dark, ruffled hair, reading a book. His air of calm self-containment had struck her as much as his looks. Betsy had wanted him at once.

  With a self-possession she did not know she had, she had walked out to him and said, “Jay Gatsby, I presume,” wanting him to know from the start that she was an educated woman, a thinker, a scholar.

  Lloyd had just laughed, of course, but Betsy thought he had been quite struck when she told him that she had majored in English at college and was working on her doctorate at Columbia. He accompanied her to the barbecue, and over the spareribs and hot dogs Betsy was able to ascertain that Lloyd was college educated, solvent, heterosexual and apparently unattached. He seemed intelligent and honest, and he was certainly good-looking. She couldn’t believe her luck.

  It wasn’t as easy as that, of course. When Lloyd didn’t call her the following week, Betsy bought two theater tickets for the new Arthur Miller play, due to open shortly. Somehow, she managed to make herself wait until the morning of the play, then called Lloyd to explain that she had been let down at the last minute and had a spare ticket. Would he like to come? He accepted.

  Afterward they ate sushi and discussed the play, literature and life. At the door of the restaurant Betsy, well versed in dating rules for the thirtyish woman, hailed a cab and wished Lloyd goodnight before he could make up his mind whether to invite her home or make another date. Her strategy worked. He called her the next day to thank her for the theater and to suggest a date for the following weekend. That was the beginning. Over the next couple of months they went to movies, to galleries, to dinner; finally to bed.

  That winter, during some of the worst blizzards New York had ever suffered, something went wrong with Betsy’s central heating and Lloyd let her stay at his place for a couple of days. Then he got the flu, so badly that Betsy stayed another week to take care of him. She made him soup, read aloud to him and worked on her research notes while he slept. By the time he had recovered, she had also sewn all the missing buttons onto his shirts, taken his tape deck to be repaired and hung the curtains that had come back from the cleaners two months previously. It had been one of the happiest weeks of her life.

  The evening before he was due back at work, Lloyd found her packing her bag in the bedroom. “But what about your heating?” he had asked.

  “Fixed.”

  “What about all that reading you had to do?”

  “Done.”

  And finally, as she had hoped and prayed, he had taken her in his arms and reproachfully murmured, “And what about me?” She had stayed.

  That was almost two years ago. They had settled down into the social pattern of most couples—movies, friends, dinners, the occasional weekend in the country, low-key stuff. They rarely argued, largely because Betsy chose to give way. But she was becoming impatient. Practically every time Mother called, it was to announce the marriage of yet another of her friends’ daughters, increasingly women younger than Betsy. “Any special news?” she would ask, with coy emphasis. It was Mother who had encouraged Betsy to accompany Lloyd to England—had, in fact, paid for the ticket. “Every man needs a little push now and then. Look at your father.”

  “Things are different nowadays,” Betsy would reply, though sometimes she wondered whether the dynamics of courtship had changed all that much over the centuries.

  She checked her watch guiltily. The morning was almost gone, and she had written nothing. Sighing a little, she fetched her glasses, seated herself at the computer in the living room and switched it on. She reached for the disk that contained th
e chapters she had written so far, and read the neatly inscribed label with a proprietary glow: Prejudice and Persuasion: Themes of Slavery and Empowerment in the Novels of Jane Austen.

  Several people had warned her off so crowded an area of literary study. Betsy knew better. Previous critics had been so captivated by the superficial romanticism of the texts that they had completely missed the profundities. Betsy felt it was her mission to reinstate Jane Austen as a champion of women’s rights and a serious commentator on social equality, particularly after Hollywood’s crass attempt to claim her as the hot new scriptwriter of light romantic comedy. Personally, Betsy found nothing to laugh at in the novels. For three years she had labored to show that they dealt not with the trivialities of who married whom, but with the great iniquities of society: ageism (Persuasion), the exploitation of the Afro-Caribbean community (Mansfield Park), the gender bias of inheritance law (Pride and Prejudice), and anorexia nervosa (Northanger Abbey). This last analysis, drawing heavily on Freudian case studies, Betsy believed to be a genuine coup of original research.

  Now she had reached Emma (fascism), and was in mid-exposé of the totalitarian state of Highbury. Betsy inserted her disk, reread the chapter so far, and started to type. Somehow, actually being in England had sharpened her distaste for its petty gradations of class, and she worked up quite a head of steam as she described the plight of exploited workers and unwaged widows. It was almost uncanny how each character exemplified an aspect of political theory or gender stereotyping. Betsy thanked God she was an American, living in freedom and equality. “Thus it is clear,” she concluded, “that Austen is less concerned with her protagonist’s choice of life partner than with the process of democratization that will enfranchise her claim to co-status with Knightley.”