by Judith Gould
She shook her head. “It’s us.”
He smiled with bleary pleasure.
“Doc?”
“Hmmmm?” He sat up, his fingers tracing the profile of her face.
Her eyes were sparkling. “Can we do it again? Now?”
“Already!” he muttered with mock despair, and pretended to collapse.
She shook him by the shoulders. “Come on, Doc,” she cajoled huskily, her warm hand sliding across his penis. “We’ve got months and months of lovemaking to catch up on.”
He rose to the challenge and pulled her to him. “In that case,” he said softly, “we’d best get started.”
And they did.
Chapter 53
“Ma! I can’t go alone!” Hallelujah wailed, fixing her mother with giant, cajoling, tawny eyes.
The subject under discussion was a friend’s party, and Hallelujah had been waiting just inside the front door, ready to pounce.
Edwina kicked off her Bennis/Edwards heels, four-hundred-dollar shoes covered in a yellow fabric with giant magenta tulips, shoes guaranteed to turn Imelda Marcos chartreuse with envy, tore off her cinch-waisted yellow plaid jacket, and unbuttoned her yellow silk blouse halfway. Then, heaving a sigh of delicious release, she let herself fall backward into a sofa and sprawled there, legs and arms spread limply, like a life-size, slack-limbed, frazzled rag doll. She had just finished putting in eleven—or had it been twelve? . . . she was too tired to remember—grueling hours of work, and she was beat.
“Hal,” she begged. “Sweetie, supersweetie, please. Not now. I’m at my last gasp, at death’s very door.”
“So? I can’t be the only unchaperoned guest!” Hallelujah went on, pacing in front of the couch. “I mean, Maaaaa!” She stopped pacing and held out her arms beseechingly. “You’re gonna put me in a totally freakazoid position!”
“You?” Edwina said, unable to repress a smile. “No way.”
“I’m serious, Ma! You’ve got to say yes! An’ there’s no time to argue! The party’s like . . . tomorrow!”
“What kind of party is it, anyway? A get-together for the offspring of Parents Without Partners?”
“Fun-nee.” Hallelujah rolled her eyes.
“Hal, my love, give me time to think! I just walked in the door, and you know that at this late hour I can’t take more than one thing at a time. Tomorrow, you said. Now, let me see . . . tomorrow . . . tomorrow . . . I’m certain I’ve got something already planned for tomorrow. Damn—I don’t remember what. I’ll have to check my Filofax.” Edwina sighed feebly as she felt her entire body, from her limp frizz of hair to the aching soles of her feet, shutting down, bone-weary and bleary, for the night. “Tell you what. Why don’t you scare up your tuckered, overworked mother a nice ice-cold martoonie just the way she likes them? And then, while you’re at it, maybe you could give her cramping, callused feet one of your special toe-snapping massages too?” Edwina eyed her hopefully and wiggled her toes. “In other words, revive me, dear heart. Revive me.”
“You’re always tired lately,” Hallelujah accused.
“That’s right, pardner. That’s because your mother’s been slaving her tushie off, or haven’t you noticed?”
“Yeah?” Hallelujah tipped her head to one side and eyed her narrowly. “Is that why you don’t act like a mother when I havta come up with a parent?”
Edwina gazed at her with weary guilt. The trouble was, there was so much to do, and so little time to do it all in. Starting up and running your own business didn’t give you the luxury of dashing home at five and playing Supermom.
She yawned sleepily and felt her drowsy eyelids beginning to droop.
Hallelujah stood there shuffling her feet, waiting. She could outwait Godot if she had to. Not that she usually had trouble getting her mother to see things her way. Most of the time her ma had her act together—better than any of her friends’ parents. The thing was, this business kick she was on was getting totally out of hand. “Well?” she persisted after a while. “I mean, are you gonna be my Ma, or should I just write you off?”
“I know!” Edwina suggested. “Ruby can take you!”
“Maaaaa! Ruby’s not my mother!”
“Your Daddy, then?” Edwina suggested brightly. “What’s healthier than fathers and daughters doing things together?”
“Much as I love Daddy, lately I’ve been doin’ everything with him. And ‘sides, he’s busy tomorrow.”
“Then what if . . . if you don’t go with anybody? I’ll simply arrange for my car to get you there and back and wait for you while the party’s going on!”
“Thanks a lot, Ma.” Hallelujah picked morosely at her fingerless black lace gloves.
“Sweetie! I’m not saying you can’t go!”
“Look, why don’t we just forget it? Okay? It’s not s’if I’ve got a mother anymore anyway. Like she disappeared as soon as this Leo Flood guy came into her life, y’know?” Head hanging, she started moving dejectedly across the carpet, but her sly eyes slid alertly sideways.
“Hal! Wait!”
Hallelujah hid her smile. “Yeah?” She turned around slowly, too wily to show her triumph just yet.
“Here.” Edwina patted the couch cushion beside her. “What do you say you sit down next to your remorseful ma here and we’ll discuss this girl-to-girl.”
Hallelujah looked at her suspiciously. “What’s to discuss?”
“Well, for starters you could tell me about this party. For instance, which of your friends is having it?”
Hallelujah looked outraged. “What d’ya mean, ‘which’ of my friends? Ma! You don’t even know any of my friends anymore!”
Edwina blinked, and in a split second flashed on reality. It was true! She didn’t know any of her daughter’s friends anymore. In fact, she hadn’t met one in . . . Two months? Three? And this in the age of crack, AIDS, and teenage pregnancy! What was the matter with her? If mothers needed licenses, hers should be revoked.
“Aw, Sweetie, no wonder you’re upset. You have every right to be.”
Hallelujah looked at her askance. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. So tell me. Where’s this shindig taking place?”
“Oh, the Rainbow Room.”
Edwina burst into a coughing fit.
Hallelujah looked alarmed. “Ma! Are you gonna be all right? Did you swallow the wrong way?”
Edwina motioned her to be silent. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” she said weakly, gasping for air. “You did say the Rainbow Room? The one atop Rockefeller Center?”
“Like there’s another one in town?” Hallelujah demanded.
“But . . . but, Hal! You can’t go there!”
Hallelujah narrowed her eyes to dangerous slits. “Why not?” she demanded.
“Because it’s . . . well, I mean it’s ...” Edwina sighed resignedly. Whether it meant treading dangerous ground or not, there was simply no way to break the news gently. And break it she must. “Face it, cookie,” she said with solemn sadness, “they’d never let you in the door.”
Hallelujah looked outraged. “Why?”
“Well, look at you! Granted, your attire may be considered fashionable among a certain youthful downtown set, and even be appropriate for a Madonna concert at Madison Square Garden, but I’m afraid it’s just not a Rainbow Room getup.”
Hallelujah tossed her head with dignity. “So? Then I’ll wear a dress.”
“A dress? Did I hear the word ‘dress’?” Edwina sat bolt upright, suddenly wide-awake.
Hallelujah did another little shuffle in place. “I said,” she growled softly, looking down at the carpet, “I’d wear a dress.”
“An . . . appropriate dress?” Edwina asked, fixing Hallelujah with a disbelieving look.
“Whaddya think? Like I’m gonna show up there just to be turned away? Gimme a break, Ma. Okay?”
“After I’ve caught my breath, I might. Meanwhile, this is all too much for me to take in. Truly. Okay, I believe my heart is almost back to normal. Now, ab
out your . . . yolur hair.”
“My haaaaiiiiiir?”
“You must admit it does rather look as if you’ve stuck your finger into an electrical outlet.”
“You’re pressin’ your luck, Ma,” she grumbled warningly. “Spiky hair, for your information, is in. I mean, you of all people should know that, bein’ all wrapped up in the fashion scene the way you are.”
“Yes, but yellow, purple, and magenta streaks?” Edwina shook her head. “Despite its name, the Rainbow Room is just a mite conservative for that.”
“Uh . . . then I’ll just look geeky an’ not spray three colors in it tomorrow. That’s all.”
Edwina couldn’t believe her ears. Would wonders never cease? Popping happily to her feet, she literally threw herself at Hallelujah and smothered her in a crushing bear hug.
Hallelujah screwed her features up and tried to push her away. “Maaaa! Yuck! Will ya stop it?” She managed to duck and squirm her way free. “Like I thought you were tired!”
“I was, kiddo, I was! But how can I stay tired when you’re rejoining the ranks of humanity?” Edwina stood back, took Hallelujah’s hands in her own, and regarded her lovingly. “And yes. To answer your question, yes! I’ll go with you to the party tomorrow. I’d love to go!”
“You will?”
“I’ll even take you shopping for a new dress tomorrow. No. Make that two. Even three.”
“Hey, wait a minute! Let’s not get carried away.”
“I won’t. You have my word. Cross my heart and fingers and toes and eyes.”
“Brilliant!” This time it was Hallelujah’s turn to launch herself at her mother, and she did it with such spontaneous force and joy that Edwina had to fight back the moisture that sprang to her eyes.
“Uh . . . Dad?” Leslie Shacklebury squeaked after clearing his throat noisily. “Sir?”
He was standing in the doorway of R.L.’s New York study. His father, sitting in a green leather wing chair, was immersed in business reports at his desk. A single green-shaded banker’s lamp spilled yellow light across its baize surface, luminescent papers, and untouched snifter of brandy. The rest of the book-lined room, and his father’s craggy face, were in deep shadows.
“Yes, son?” R.L. looked toward the doorway over his reading glasses.
“We’ll still be in town tomorrow, won’t we?”
“Yep,” R.L. said. “We won’t be heading back to Boston until Friday. Just as planned.”
“Oh,” Leslie said disappointedly, and felt a wave of suffocating panic coming over him. Darn! Now there was no getting out of it. “I mean, good. What I mean ... er ...” He cleared his throat a second time, and although his glasses were slipping down his nose, he kept his fidgety hands concealed behind his back.
He didn’t know why he felt so guilt-ridden. He couldn’t help it, just as he couldn’t help the hammer trip of his heart or the sheen of sweat popping out on his forehead.
The trouble was, he wasn’t very good at intrigue; scheming didn’t come naturally to him like it did to Hal. He couldn’t even tell a white lie without getting all red in the face—which was always a dead giveaway, and one reason he liked hiding behind his glasses.
“Son?” R.L. said with a touch of concern. “Is something wrong?”
“No, sir!” Leslie tried a nonchalant smile. “If . . . if this is a bad time . . .” he began, backing away.
Fixing him with a frown, R.L. took off his reading glasses and said, “Come here, son.” He gestured, glasses in hand. “Pull up a chair.”
Reluctantly Leslie did as he was told, prudently sitting on both of his hands. If he left them in his lap, he’d be wringing them constantly.
“Now, tell me what’s on your mind,” R.L. said, pushing his reports aside. He clasped his hands together, leaned forward, and smiled encouragingly.
Fixedly studying a row of book spines in the shadows beyond, Leslie swallowed and said, “It’s about tomorrow, Dad. A friend of mine is . . . is having a little party.” His ears started to burn, and he was grateful for the dim lighting.
“I see,” R.L. said solemnly. “And you’re nervous because she’s a girlfriend?” His eyes crinkled knowingly. “Is that it?”
“No!” Leslie shook his head almost violently. “No. It. . . it’s just . . . well, I know you’re busy, but ...” His squeaky voice trailed off.
“But what, son?”
“I’m supposed to bring a chaperon!” Leslie blurted, and quickly looked away.
There. It was out.
He held his breath.
But his father only laughed. “Fine, count me in. Just tell me when and where, and I’ll be glad to go.”
Leslie turned to him in surprise. “You will?”
“Sure!”
“Gee, thanks Dad!” Leslie jumped up excitedly and dashed out, making a quick getaway while he was still ahead. He didn’t trust himself to answer any questions.
Jeez! he was thinking as he flew up the stairs to his room two steps at a time. Hallelujah was right. It was easy!
When he got to his room, he shut the door and headed straight for the telephone. He punched out the number rapidly.
“Yeah?” Hallelujah answered in a lazy drawl from across the park.
“It . . . it’s Leslie.”
“Les! What gives? Did you make a mess of it, or what?”
“No.” Leslie was too pleased with himself to take offense. “It went like a piece of cake.”
“Ecstatic! What’d I tell ya! Huh?”
“And your mom? She’ll be there?”
“Sure,” she responded quickly, not about to admit the compromising and cajoling it had taken. “Well, see ya t’morrow!”
“Uh . . . yeah . . .”
Leslie hung up slowly and chewed reflectively on his lower lip.
Now there was only one little hitch remaining—how his Dad and Hallelujah’s mother would take to being set up.
Chapter 54
“It’s called the ‘Attitude Sell’,” Jack Petrone, the smooth-talking, hip-shooting director of Carlisle/Petrone Associates, was telling Edwina. “It means you’re not selling clothes. Oh, you’re producing clothes, all right. But what you’re really designing and selling is Attitude. With a capital A.”
“I’m glad to hear we’re selling something,” Edwina commented dryly.
He grinned at her, showing incredibly strong, healthy white teeth. “Look. Lemme show you.” He got up quickly and headed across the room to the rolling garment rack against the far wall.
Edwina watched his bouncy step with an expressionless face. Jack Petrone, the darkly handsome co-founder of the advertising agency that bore his name, had come down to her office to give her his spiel.
He was a curly-haired thirty-four-year-old, a veteran of three other major ad agencies, and, in the two years since he and Peter Carlisle had struck out on their own, had helped Carlisle/Petrone rack up an unprecedented four Clio awards. Though small when compared with the Madison Avenue giants, Carlisle/Petrone had scored impressively while energetically representing a mere six clients— all six having reported a phenomenal twenty- to forty-three-percent increase in annual sales.
Now Jack grabbed the first dress that came to hand, took it off the rack, hanger and all, and held it high. It was short, narrow-cut, and white, and had big multicolored cloth pinwheels around the neckline. Like a spiky rainbow lei. “If you were a consumer, what would this say to you?” he asked her.
“ ‘I’m a dress’?” Edwina ventured in a murmur.
He smiled tolerantly. “Now tell me what it really says.”
“What it really says? I suppose it says, ‘I’m the product of a nut who’s either color blind or anally retentive or else is so regressive she has to stick her kids’ toys on her clothes,’ “ Edwina said despairingly. She raised her hands beseechingly, maddened by the way he was going about his presentation. “What else on earth could it possibly say?”
“You tell me.”
“Well.” Edwi
na frowned thoughtfully. “I’d like it to say, ‘Buy me!’ “ She looked at him hopefully.
He smiled. “Try again.”
“No, you try, Jack,” she said rather sharply. “You’re the expert. So you tell me what that outrageous little number’s supposed to be saying.” Her gray eyes had turned to frozen silver. “After all, isn’t that what you’re here for?”
“Are you always such a tough cookie?”
“Always.” She nodded. “It’s a way to get things done. So why don’t you stop beating around the bush, and above all, stop playing this infernal guessing game!”
He looked slightly taken aback. “Okay. Uh. Fine.” He cleared his throat. “Here’s what I think it’s really saying,” he said. “ ‘Buy my image.’ You see, potential purchasers who run across your ads are not supposed to think, ‘I want that dress.’ That’s going about it entirely the wrong way.”
“Then what, heaven help us, are they supposed to think?”
Now that he was back on familiar territory his grin reappeared. “Aw. That’s easy.” He hung the dress back up, but so that it faced out at them. Then he stepped a ways back. “They’re supposed to look at the model wearing it and say, ‘I want to look like that.’ “ He pantomimed it. “Or, ‘She’s having fun wearing Edwina G., and so will I.’ “ He acted that out too, by first pointing at the dress and then at himself.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Petrone, but—”
He did a little two-step and pecked a finger at her. “Jack. We’re on a first-name basis. Remember?”
“How could I forget? Now, correct me if I’m wrong, Jack, but why am I under the distinct impression that selling an image is what ads have been doing all these past decades?”
He returned quickly to the couch and sat back down opposite her. “You’re wrong. They haven’t been.” Resting his forearms on his knees, he clasped his hands and leaned forward sincerely. “You see, you’re getting persuasion and attitude mixed up. Ads used to persuade consumers to buy a certain product. Most of them still do. But our agency is more concerned with selling an image. Not that it’s such a new concept. Take Ralph Lauren, for instance. Those ten- or fourteen-page ad spreads you’ve been seeing in all the magazines over the past few years?”
