“What do you think of it?” Dan asks me.
“This is amazing. I love it. I’ve never seen a magazine about street fashions before. Never. Ali is going to go crazy when she sees this. She loves street fashion—well, she loves all fashion.”
“Look at page 7.” David says to me, a small smile on his face.
I turn to page 7. There is a photo of Austen and me outside the Fillmore. The caption under it reads: The New Romantic Look. Soft, drifting layers and a long flowing skirt create a new romantic style called, in Los Angeles, the Ladies of Laurel Canyon look. Here, seen on the girlfriend of rocker Austen Raneley.
I screw up my mouth. I’m not sure I like this.
“I take it from that look on your face that you don’t like that photo.” Dan observes.
“I don’t know…it feels like someone has sneaked up on my life… I remember when the photo was taken. No one asked me, asked us...we were leaving the Fillmore, but…well, I guess it’s done now. And the magazine is great. May I keep this copy? I want to show Ali.”
“Of course,” David says. “Now you have your local women’s magazine, Julia. Not women’s lib, but definitely targeted to young women. Enjoy it. I’m not sure how long it is going to last. There are not many ads in it. They are going to need a lot more if they want to continue publishing.”
That evening, as expected, Ali goes crazy when she sees Rags.
“I love it, I love it, I love it. I should be working for Rags instead of writing want ads for people at the Examiner.”
I tell her to look at page 7. She does, reads the caption then looks at me.
“ ‘Ladies of Laurel Canyon?’ I put together that outfit. Me. That caption should read ‘Lady of the Richmond District’ in San Francisco. This is so unfair. Ohhhh…why am I stuck at the Examiner?”
“Because it is a steady job that provides a paycheck regularly,” I retort. “David and Dan think it probably won’t survive very long. David said they don’t have nearly enough advertising to last.”
“How could it not survive? It is wonderful. Julia, they probably said that to you because they don’t want you to leave Voices and go over to Rags. I know it’s going to be a success. It has to be. It’s fabulous. I would love to work for them.”
I shake my head at her and go to the kitchen to fix dinner.
“How about dinner now?” I ask, deciding that it’s time to change the subject, although I know I will hear about Rags all evening from her.
In the refrigerator I find some hamburger and some left over boiled potatoes. I put the frying pan on the stove; I can sauté hamburger patties and pan-fry the potatoes for us. Ali pours two glasses of rosé wine and starts making a salad.
* * *
Austen calls on Monday.
“Hi. How are things going down there?”
“Better. We’re finally getting some tracks down. Tommy showed up on time for once.”
“That’s good.”
He is quiet for a moment. “I miss you. I want your warm little body in my bed, but I don’t think I will be able to come up there this weekend, Julia. We’re planning to keep working straight through.”
“Okay.” I answer, hoping I am hiding my disappointment. “I miss you, too.”
Oh no. This is it. I am a one-weekend stand—maybe. But would he have called at all, if I was going to be dropped? No. I don’t think so, but I can’t help it—I feel insecure. Maybe Ali and Dan were right. Maybe no woman in her right mind would do this. I just know that I miss him and want to be with him and be in his bed making love every night, every day—that I know for sure.
We talk for a little while longer.
“Dream of me, baby.”
“I always do, Austen. Dream of me.”
* * *
I don’t know who invented this new self-service salad bar idea, but he is a genius. It is fast and healthy and showing up in cafés all around town. Cathy and I take our trays to the table at the café around the corner from Voices. We are both having the salad bar lunch today—mine with lots of cherry tomatoes and crunchy croutons. The salad, plus one roll, plus black coffee is a low calorie, low cost lunch—just what my budget allows.
“Something’s up,” Cathy tells me. “I don’t know what it is, but there have been meetings behind closed doors lately. Have you heard anything?”
“No. Nothing.” I answer. “Do you think Voices is in trouble financially?”
“I don’t think so. Dale keeps telling me how many new advertisers he’s getting, how much more money he’s making. And how wonderful he is.”
“Has he been hitting on you?” I smile. Cathy has an angular face with high cheekbones and long dark brown hair that she usually pulls back in a ponytail. More often than not she wears black jeans and black knit tops along with big chunky bracelets. She looks sort of arty and gives the impression of being very independent. It’s almost laughable to imagine her with roly-poly Dale in his bland gray businessman suits.
“The guy will not take no for an answer—but he’s going to have to. I have no interest in him whatsoever,” she says. “You’re lucky. Everyone knows you’re dating Austen Raneley—especially since that photo was published. That sets up a kind of do-not-touch wall around you at the office.”
Oh, I think, a wall around me? Do I want that? Maybe this is another side of being the rock ‘n’ roll girlfriend and I’m not sure that I like it.
“I don’t think many people saw that photo. Rags’ circulation is small and they may not be around much longer,” I say, then change the topic. “Cathy, I’ll ask Dan this afternoon and let you know if I find out anything.”
Dan tells me we will all find out on Friday at a meeting for everyone on staff. Whatever it is, he doesn’t seem very enthusiastic about it. I pass the word along to Cathy, who is busy editing the ever-expanding Weekly Events section. It has become the most popular feature of Voices. If it is not in the Voices’ Weekly Events, it is not really happening in San Francisco.
* * *
Austen calls again Tuesday night. He can fly up on Saturday late afternoon. Will I pick him up at the airport? “Yes,” I answer. Yes. Yes. Yes. A million times Yes.
* * *
On Friday morning it is standing room only as we all crowd into the small conference room. Dan, David and another man are standing at the front. The mystery man has bushy reddish-brown hair, a stocky build, is wearing jeans, a tan T-shirt and a brown tweed sports jacket with leather patches on the elbows. No beard; he is clean-shaven. I glance over at Cathy who raises one eyebrow, skeptically. I think she knows who the other man is.
It is David who tells us. “As you all know Voices is committed to providing a platform for the voices of a wide range of people in the city. To further that ideal we have come up with the concept of Guest Editor. Three times a year Voices will be edited by someone other than me for a week, someone who brings a different viewpoint, a different voice to our paper.”
Well, I think, that sounds interesting. I wonder why Dan wasn’t very enthusiastic about this news. It might be a bit chaotic, I suppose, but it’s only for one week.
David continues: “We’re launching the Guest Editor program as of today. Many of you may already know Eric, who until recently was the editor of Politics Monthly. He is our first Guest Editor and will probably bring a more political slant to Voices this week.”
The mystery man, Eric, steps forward and thanks David for the opportunity. He says he looks forward to working with all of us and tells us he will meet with us, as needed, during the week.
Meeting over.
Then Eric turns to Dan. “Come in to my office and we’ll get started.”
At lunch, the salad bar again, I learn from Cathy why she had such a skeptical look on her face.
“Eric has a lousy reputation. He’s a brilliant writer and smarter than most, but he thinks that means he can run roughshod over people, even his staff. And he is obsessed with the war. The only people he treats well are the people who put up
the money for him. I’ve heard he is a really smooth talker with his financial backers.”
“That doesn’t sound good, but he’s only going to be here for a week. We’ll all survive,” I answer.
Chapter Twelve
This afternoon I decided to put on a full-skirted, white dress with black polka dots. It buttons up the front from the hem to the scooped neckline and has a thin black belt. It’s summery. I am tired of wearing winter clothes in late June. I even have bare legs—no pantyhose for me today—and strappy black sandals to complete my personal rebellion against San Francisco’s cold, foggy summer weather.
Now I am parked in my old blue Chevrolet at the Arrivals area at the San Francisco Airport with the car heater turned on full blast, creating an artificial summer in my car. As my back-up plan I’ve brought my black jacket and a change of clothing just in case it gets too cold, which it probably will. But right now I’m enjoying my imitation summer warmth.
Then Austen opens the car door, slides in and clasps my face in his two hands and kisses me, deeply, hungrily.
“Oh god, I missed you, baby.” He kisses me again and runs one hand down to my breast and caresses it through the dress. Then he runs his hand up my leg under my skirt.
“Bare legs. I like that. And silk panties at the top of them. I like that even more.”
I push his hand away, smiling. “If you keep doing that we will never get out of the airport.”
“That’s an idea.” He laughs. “We could park on the other side of the parking lot and do it in the back seat.”
I shake my head, smiling.
He continues: “This car is like the one I had in high school. It was red and the girls loved it.”
Turning out into traffic, I ask: “Where are we going?”
“Marin. To my place.”
“You have a place in Marin? I thought you lived in that house on Lake.”
“Nope. John and I bailed out of there after two weeks of living with Tommy’s 24-hour-a-day crazy partying and rented a home in Sausalito for the summer.”
This is news. I didn’t have to avoid that house on Lake after all.
“So, do you want to hear about my red Chevy?” I’m watching the traffic ahead of me but I can hear the grin on his face.
“Tell me about going to high school in No-Where Texas. You can skip the parts about girls in the back seat and the red Chevy.”
I learn that sports—especially football and basketball—were a big deal. He was not on either team. He had an English teacher his Senior year who read poetry to the class every Friday. She was determined to bring culture to her small town students.
“Most of them thought it was stupid—except me, of course. She left after two years and I heard she came out to San Francisco. I wondered if she was that former school teacher who dances topless in one of those clubs on Broadway, but it turned out not to be her. She’d be too old for that scene by now anyway. I still think of her sometimes, sitting in front of the class primly, reading John Donne’s love poems to a room full of East Texas teenagers.”
“I love John Donne’s poetry, but I didn’t read them in high school. The poems are a little too frank for Spokane.”
The home high up in Sausalito is ultra-modern. Through the wall of windows in the spacious living room I can see lights twinkling in the Berkeley hills across the Bay. The clean lines of the dark furniture in the living room match the architecture. Overall, it feels somewhat austere.
I don’t have much time to admire the view. Austen takes my hand and leads me back to a bedroom that is completely out of character with the living room. A big, ornate brass bed dominates the room. The bed cover is a pale aqua blue. An overstuffed chair is upholstered in pink. The porcelain lamps on the white painted bedside tables have pink shades on them. A stack of books are on one of the tables.
“It’s the daughter’s room,” he says anticipating my question. “The owner is on sabbatical in Europe and took his family with him. John and I flipped for the bedrooms. He got the master suite and I got this one.”
Then he pulls me into his arms. He feels so impossibly good, as if he is part of me that has been missing until now. I run my hands into his soft black hair and pull his head, his mouth closer. Our tongues seek out each other. He runs one hand down my back and caresses my fanny, then pushes himself against me. I push my hips back at him softly. He is so hard already and I can feel a needy ache deep inside me. I hadn’t realized how much I wanted him, his body.
Abruptly he pushes me down on the bed and lies down beside me. He pulls off his belt, unfastens my belt, shoves my skirt up and strips off my panties and tosses them on the floor. His hand goes down and circles around and around. “You’re juicy wet already,” he says, his voice dark and thick with desire. “I want to be inside you now, babygirl. I’ve dreamed of this the whole damned week.”
“Yes, now. Now.” I whisper, my voice revealing how much I want him.
He unzips his jeans and pulls them down. Then we are in each other’s arms on the bed and he rams into me. Oh god, it feels like heaven. Nothing gentle this time. He has pinned my arms to the bed beside my head, his finger entwined with mine, while he drives into me, pounding again and again. He kisses me deeply, his tongue flicking around my mouth. I love it. My body loves it. My hips rise to meet him, again and again. He thrusts into me, faster and faster. His breathing is heavy and ragged. I am panting as I feel the tension inside me grow. He roughly pushes my legs further apart and rams deeper and deeper into me. Oh, it feels so good. I tilt my hips up more. Again and again he drives his steel-hard erection into me, harder and harder. So good. So good.
I begin to breathe in short gasps as I feel my orgasm building deep inside. My pulse is pounding through my body. He thrusts into me over and over again as the quivering tension inside me builds to an uncontrollable agony. Inside I am screaming for release.
“Oh god, Austen.” I gasp.
“Let it happen, babygirl,” he whispers, his voice raw and ragged.
His words are all it takes. I am overcome by a climax that sends shudders through my whole body. I am spinning into oblivion. Oh, god, it feels even better than before. Release…yes, sweet release…yes…yes…oh god, yes. His body arches at the same time and he comes, emptying himself into me, my name on his lips.
We both go limp and he collapses onto me, his body pinning me to the bed. My dress is tangled around me. His head is beside mine on the pillow, his breathing is heavy. My pulse is still racing through my body.
As his breathing slows he rolls off of me and onto his back. “High school sex. Wearing clothes and fast.” And he laughs softly.
“Maybe your high school, but not mine,” I answer, smiling, as I lay there, limply, my dress still wrapped around my waist. My black sandals are lying on the bottom of the bed. I kick them off onto the floor and pull my skirt down. He stands up, pulls up his jeans and zips his fly.
“No sex in high school, huh?”
“Not for me.”
“Well, I guess we’ll have to do something about that,” he smiles that honey smile. “Catch up on what you missed, but first let’s go get something for dinner.”
I think it is still morning when I wake up, but it could be later. The terrace cut into the hillside outside the bedroom is flooded with sunlight. No fog. I grab my toothbrush and in the all-white tile bathroom find Austen naked and shaving. He looks so sexy, like one of those statues of Greek warriors, tall and slim with beautiful skin. I’ve never thought about a man’s skin being beautiful before, but his is. I have an urge to run my hands down his chest with its sprinkling of hair and then on down.
Instead, I ask: “May I use your toothpaste?”
He hands the tube of toothpaste to me as he continues to run the electric shaver across his face, then steps into the shower and turns it on. He turns off the shaver.
“Time for a shower, Julia.” He has a big smile on his face. I think I know what he has in mind and I finish brushing my teeth. Shower s
ex is good.
The soap smells like cucumbers, luxurious English cucumber soap. He rubs it into the washcloth and begins to wash my back, then my arms and sides. Again, his hand in the washcloth caresses my fanny, then goes between my legs, circling around and around. My hips begin to move in rhythm with his insistent fingers.
“Be still, baby. Be still,” he murmurs.
“It’s hard to be still when you do that.”
“Just wait, babygirl. All things in good time.” He is smiling. “Turn around now.”
More cucumber soap on the washcloth and he washes my shoulders, then down onto my breasts. His erection is growing harder. The warm water pours down on both of us. He leans over and tenderly kisses one nipple, then the other. Then continues to wash my body until his hand is again between my legs, circling, probing, desire building inside me. I can see that this excites him as much as it does me.
“Done.” He says and drops the washcloth to the tile floor and steps out of the shower. He has a grin on his face as he hands me an oversize fluffy white towel.
“Done?” I ask, softly. How can he leave me wanting more like this?
“Oh, does beautiful Julia want more this morning?” He asks in his honey voice.
“Yes,” I whisper as I wrap my arms around his neck. “More. More sex. More with you.”
I kiss him lightly on his ear, then across his cheek to the corner of his mouth. He slides one hand down between my legs. His fingers caress me round and round slowly. Suddenly he stops. Not again, my body shrieks.
“Let’s do it this way,” he says, leading me to the bed. His voice is rough. “You on top, baby.”
I push his naked body down on the messy, tangled sheets on the bed. He is so sexy looking and so aroused. And there it is: Temptation standing firm and upright at the top of his legs. Maybe I should surprise him.
Playing for Julia Page 8
