Return to Peyton Place

by Grace Metalious

  Two years later he opened an office of his own, and many of the big names with whom he had worked in radio and who were to become the pioneer stars of television followed him. The printing on his door read, “Paul Morris, Publicity and Public Relations,” and, as Paul said, he could always tell a square the minute he spoke to one, because the square always asked, “Just what is it that you do, Mr. Morris?”

  For his clients, Paul Morris did everything, and he did it better than anyone else. One of the most important clients was a man named Jerry Baldwin who had a coast-to-coast television program called “Fun with Uncle Jerry.” Baldwin was an alcoholic who could enjoy sex only with girls under fifteen. It was Paul Morris’ job to see to it that none of Baldwin's escapades became open scandal. Paul had often arrived on the scene of a barroom brawl, minutes ahead of the police, to drag Baldwin, fighting and screaming obscenities, into a waiting automobile, and he had been called upon frequently to soothe, with cash, the outraged parents of teen-age girls.

  “You'd better knock it off, Jer,” he told Baldwin. “You're going broke. Pay-offs aren't deductible, you know.”

  Another of Paul's prize customers was an ex-gangster named Manny Kubelsky, who had turned respectable in his old age and wanted the whole world to know it. Paul saw to it that Manny made the gossip columns every time the ex-hood gave to charity or opened another store in his chain of sporting goods shops. Paul found a teacher who erased the lower East Side from Manny's speech, and a good tailor who succeeded in making the little mobster look like a Madison Avenue executive. Paul traded Manny's long, black Cadillac for a medium-sized, gray Buick and he had Manny's apartment redecorated to look like the home of a moderately successful businessman.

  “You can't afford ostentation, Manny,” said Paul.

  “Ostentation, my ass!” cried Manny, sulking over the loss of his velvet drapes and white fur rugs. “I don't want to live like no bum, neither.”

  “Any bum,” corrected Paul patiently.

  Very often, a man grows to hate a person who knows his innermost secrets and hidden vices, but this was not the case with Paul Morris and his clients. He was everything to them from nurse to father confessor and they worshiped him. He procured jobs for them, got their names and photographs into newspapers and magazines, bought them front-row seats for opening nights and patched up lovers’ quarrels.

  “Just what do I do?” Paul Morris often said. “Why, everything or nothing, depending on your point of view. But if you want me to do it for you, it'll cost you, and cost you plenty.”

  When Lewis Jackman began to realize that in Allison MacKenzie's novel he had a book which, with good advertising and clever publicity, could be turned into a runaway best seller, he sent at once for Paul Morris. The realization of what he had had not been long in coming to Jackman. As soon as the comment cards which he had sent out with each advance copy of the book began coming back to him, Jackman knew.

  “Makes Caldwell sound like a choirboy,” read one card.

  “Tobacco Road with a Yankee accent.”

  “Earthy. Real. Truthful.”

  “Wowie!”

  These were the remarks of the booksellers. From the people to whom Jackman had sent books in Peyton Place, there was an ominous silence.

  Paul Morris read all the comments and studied a photograph of Allison MacKenzie.

  “She's just a kid,” he said to Lewis Jackman.

  “Exactly,” replied Jackman.

  “But I've read the book. No kid ever wrote that!”

  “She did, though. Makes rather a nice gimmick, doesn't it?”

  “I'll say,” said Paul. “The face of a schoolgirl and the mind and vocabulary of a longshoreman. We just might have something here.”

  “That's what I think, Paul. Do you think you can do anything with what we have?”

  Paul Morris sat quietly and tapped a pencil against his front teeth.

  “Can you get her to come down here?” he asked at last.

  “Yes, I'm sure of it. The thing that may make it easier all around is that she wants this book to be a big seller almost as badly as I do.”

  “Call her up right now,” said Paul. “I'll wait. Tell her you need her the day after tomorrow for four or five days.”

  Jackman picked up the telephone and called Allison MacKenzie. After a few minutes of conversation, he winked at Paul Morris and formed the words “She'll come” silently with his lips. He spoke into the telephone a moment longer, and when he hung up he was grinning.

  “Not only is she coming,” he said, “but she's very excited about the whole thing.”

  “Good,” said Paul. “I'll start setting up appointments as soon as I get back to my office.”

  “Just a hint for what it's worth, Paul,” said Jackman. “Allison is sweet, tractable and co-operative, for the most part, but when she turns stubborn she's pure, shell-backed Yankee and next to impossible to deal with.”

  Paul laughed. “You're paying me to cope with little problems like that,” he said. “Don't worry about a thing.”

  “I won't worry,” said Jackman, and although he smiled there was a little edge of warning to his voice. “I know you won't botch this one, Paul.”

  You're damned right, I won't, thought Paul as he left Jackman's office, for although he had plenty of clients as it was, the job he was going to do for Jackman now was the first one he had attempted for a book publisher. Jackman had opened a whole new untapped field for him, and he was determined to do the best job of his career on Allison MacKenzie and Samuel's Castle.

  “Hundreds of books are published every year,” Paul told his wife. “If I do a spectacular job this time, there'll be other jobs. It's a potential gold mine.”

  Allison had taken Lewis Jackman's telephone call in the kitchen, where she, Mike and Constance had been drinking coffee. Watching her on the phone, Constance realized how lacking in animation Allison had been these past weeks. Just talking to someone in New York, Constance thought, brings her back to life again. With a pang, she wondered whether Allison would ever be content with Peyton Place again.

  “Mr. Jackman wants me to go down to New York,” Allison said, when she had hung up the phone. “I'm going to be interviewed by some newspaper and television people. He says that they are all very interested in the book and want to talk to me.”

  “Why, that's wonderful!” said Constance. “When do you have to go?”

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  “Good Heavens!” Constance exclaimed. “What are we doing just standing here! We've got to find you something to wear.”

  Michael Rossi did not say anything, but his eyes narrowed a little as Allison and Constance left the room. He could hear them upstairs, laughing and chattering, as they looked over Allison's wardrobe.

  I don't like this, he thought. I don't like it at all.

  He felt there was a reckless fervor in Allison's manner, an eagerness to throw herself into life. He did not want her to be hurt. He had read her novel and, unlike Constance, he had not been blinded by a mother's love; he knew its publication would not pass quietly in a town like Peyton Place, that those who were offended by it would strike back. Sometimes he found himself hoping that the book would not be a success; he was afraid that Allison was all too ignorant of what success can do, how destructive it can be.

  But he said nothing to Allison and Constance, for he would have had no answers for the questions they would have asked. He didn't know precisely why he felt as he did, he only knew that he had a feeling of apprehension and that he wished that Allison were not going to New York. Later, he was to wish desperately that he had voiced an opinion, no matter how vague, for his anxiety had been more well founded than he knew.

  2

  WHEN SHE GOT OFF the train at Grand Central, Allison spotted Lewis Jackman immediately. His height would have made him recognizable even if she had forgotten his face. She had seen him only once before, but he had a darkly handsome face that was hard to forget. Jackman was so touc
hed by her youth that he held her hand a moment longer than was necessary. Allison saw revealed in his eyes a naked longing that caused her heart to lurch.

  “I've reserved a room for you at the Algonquin,” he said. “At our expense, of course. It's close to everything and still has a certain literary flair about it that I think you'll enjoy.” His voice was warm, resonant, but his words impersonal; he acted like a man determined to let nothing interfere with business.

  “I've read about the Algonquin,” said Allison. “Do famous people still gather there to insult the world and each other?”

  “Not any more,” laughed Jackman. “But their ghosts survive. The place is full of them. I asked the manager to be sure to give you one of the haunted rooms.”

  They were sitting on one of the sofas in the hotel lobby having a cocktail when Paul Morris joined them.

  “Hello, Allison,” said Paul and smiled his famous smile. “I read your book and I think it's terrific. I enjoyed it tremendously.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Allison, thrilling to the words of praise she knew she would never tire of hearing.

  How nice he is, she thought. Not at all what I expected. Well, what did I expect? she asked herself, and smiled inwardly at her own answer.

  She had only just heard of him from Jackman and had expected a caricature of a motion picture publicity man. Someone with dark-rimmed glasses and hair that was a shade too long and who smelled of constant hurry and tension.

  Paul Morris began to talk about New England, the towns he had visited and the summer camps he had attended as a child, and within fifteen minutes Allison felt as if he were an old friend she had known all her life. This was the measure of one of Paul's greatest talents because, in reality, the only time he had ever set foot in New England had been to cart one of his clients, an actress with a penchant for the bottle, to a theater in Boston. He had been forced to spend the weekend there, stuck in a small hotel room near the North Station, and when he had finally been able to leave he had sworn to God that it would be a long, cold day in hell before he ever left New York again.

  “We're having lunch with Jim Brody tomorrow,” said Paul. “Ever hear of him?”

  “I think so,” said Allison. “Doesn't he write some sort of newspaper column?”

  “I'll say he does,” said Paul. “A column that's syndicated in over six hundred papers all over the country. He wants to interview you.”

  Allison's hands began to tremble. “I'll never be able to think of anything to say.”

  “Yes, you will,” said Paul. “All you have to do is be yourself. Now, listen. This is going to be a very important interview. Not only because Brody is big, but because it's your first time out. What are you going to wear?”

  “I have some new dresses,” she said, “and my mother let me borrow her mink stole.”

  “No,” said Paul, “I don't want you to look dressed up. I want you to look very young, innocent and little girlish. Come on. Let's go upstairs and take a look.”

  The three of them went up to Allison's room, and Paul examined every garment in her clothes closet. Allison felt that she should be embarrassed and she knew that with anyone else in the world but Paul she would have been. But he handled her clothes so impersonally that she could not mind. Besides, she was beginning to have the feeling that none of this had anything to do with her. Finally he selected a gray wool with a round, white collar.

  “This one,” he said.

  “But that's not new,” Allison argued. “I've had it two years and the only reason I brought it along on this trip was to wear it home on the train because it doesn't wrinkle easily.”

  “This one,” said Paul again, more definitely. “And no fur stole. The coat you had on downstairs is fine.”

  Before Allison knew what was happening, he had picked up her hairbrush and was working on her hair.

  “No fancy hair-do, either,” he said. “Get a rubber band and tie it all up in a pony tail.”

  “But I haven't worn my hair like that since I was fourteen,” she objected.

  “Exactly,” said Paul with a smile. “And no make-up except for a tiny bit of lipstick. Do you have a pink one?”

  “No.”

  “I'll bring one when I come to pick you up,” said Paul. “I'll be here at twelve-thirty.”

  “But I don't want to go dressed like a child,” Allison almost wailed. “I want to look nice.”

  Paul put a friendly arm around her shoulder. “Sweetie,” he said, “you'll be a smash. The United States has glamorous lady authors, and old lady authors, and housewifely lady authors and schoolteacherish lady authors. We do not have a scrubbed, clean-looking, young girl author, and you are going to fill this big gap. Trust me, will you?”

  Allison looked into the soft, dark eyes that smiled into hers.

  “All right,” she said at last. “I'll be ready at twelve-thirty.”

  “And go to bed early tonight,” said Paul as he went out the door. “I want you to look as if you'd had twelve hours’ sleep tomorrow.”

  When he had gone, Allison turned to Lewis Jackman.

  “Do you think I'll be all right?” she asked nervously.

  “My dear,” said Jackman, “don't give it another thought. Just leave everything to Paul.”

  But now that Paul Morris was gone, all of Allison's doubts began to return.

  “Is all this necessary?” she asked Jackman. “I mean, this masquerading as something I'm not in order to impress someone?”

  “Publicity is a delicate business, Allison. We are paying Paul Morris quite a lot of money to handle it well for us. He is an expert in his field, and the best thing for both of us to do is to put ourselves entirely in his hands. You do want to sell books, don't you?”

  “Of course I do,” said Allison.

  “Then just do as Paul says,” said Jackman. “I repeat, he's an expert.”

  Allison walked to the window of her room and looked down on New York spread out and waiting. As if it wants to be conquered, she thought. She sat down on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette, then piled the pillows against the headboard and, for the first time since she had arrived, relaxed and began to feel herself. Until this moment, she thought, I've been playing a role, the role of the young novelist coming to New York to see her publisher. It was too unreal.

  “I never expected it to be like this,” she said to Jackman.

  He smiled and pulled a chair over to the bedside and sat down. Like a doctor, she thought, and smiled at him.

  “It never is,” he said. “Authors always have a hard time learning the facts of literary life today. It's not that it's so complex, but rather that writers don't want to accept the facts.”

  “Try me,” Allison said.

  “It's quite simple, Allison. Publishing is a business—like any other. The motive is profit. Books are something we sell. The only difference between a so-called good publisher and a so-called bad one is that the good ones like to think a profit can be made from publishing good books.”

  “Which kind are you?” Allison wanted to call him Lewis but could not yet bring herself to do so.

  “I have always imagined I am a good one,” he said, smiling. “You know, publishers are very much like authors in a way. After I got into this business it took me quite a few years to accept the reality of it. I suppose that in my youthful fervor I believed that a publishing house was something like a charitable institution for the talented young men and women who submitted their manuscripts. I had to make up my mind to one of the primary facts of business life, which is that the first duty of a business is to stay in business. If my company had gone under, I wouldn't be much good to you now.”

  “You have a way,” Allison said, “of making the most unreasonable things sound like sweet reason herself.”

  Jackman laughed. Allison looked up at him, startled, not knowing why. Then she realized what it was. “That's the first time I ever heard you laugh, Lewis,” she said.

  “I suppose I am a
little out of the habit of it.” He touched her hand with his fingertips. “You must come to New York more often, and stay longer. Apparently you are good for me.”

  They were both silent then, looking into each other's eyes. Jack-man was the first to turn away. “You touch something in me, Allison. But I have no right to talk like this. I am married. I have a son who is almost as old as you.”

  Allison turned her hand over; their palms touched. He bent down and kissed her, a kiss that for all its gentleness shook her with its intimation of suppressed passion. “Even your lips are young,” he said, his voice soft, hardly more than a whisper. “Even your kisses taste young.” He moved toward her again. And Allison thought, I don't care, I don't care, I want this. She opened her arms to him. He was on the bed with her and they were lying side by side.

  They spoke not another word to each other, as if both realized that there would be time for speech later. Now they wanted only each other, and with a terrible hunger. He undressed her with hands that trembled like a boy's and, noticing this, she permitted herself to feel a moment of selfish triumph. When their naked bodies touched she gasped; it took her breath away, it was like the shock of diving into a mountain pool.

  She was ready for him in an instant and, when he began to stroke her breasts, she cried out and opened herself to him. He took her with a harsh intensity that left her spent and breathless and dazed. She felt Lewis’ lips kissing her eyelids. She felt release flowing through her, she cried soundlessly. Lewis held her close and said, “Oh, my dear, my dear,” over and over again, and caressed her gently and with love.

  Later he took her to dinner and gazed at her across the table. He made Allison feel she was the rarest being in the world.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said, so softly that the words barely reached her ears, as if he had spoken across vast distances.

  “Only moonstruck boys have ever told me that, Lewis,” she said.

  “Then I am a moonstruck boy, my darling.” His face became sad again, the word “boy” had reminded him of his age and of the great difference between his age and Allison's. Allison was aware of what he must be thinking and reached out and took his hand.