Gloss

by Marilyn Kaye

  ‘You don’t happen to have a gown I could borrow, do you?’ Sherry asked without much hope. Allison was a good four inches shorter and at least a size smaller. Nothing she owned would fit her. And Pamela’s taste wouldn’t suit her at all.

  ‘Maybe this is the kind of special occasion Caroline was talking about when we saw the samples closet,’ Pamela suggested. ‘You could borrow something from there.’

  ‘You’ve got something else to think about too,’ Allison said. ‘I’m assuming there are two tickets in that envelope.’

  Sherry looked. Allison was right. ‘Great! I could take one of y’all. You could flip a coin or something.’

  ‘It’s all yours,’ Allison told Pamela. ‘I’m not sitting through that garbage again.’

  Pamela shook her head firmly. ‘No, she needs a date, an escort.’

  Sherry drew in her breath. ‘Mr Simpson!’

  ‘You want to take him?’

  It was Sherry’s turn to roll eyes at Pamela before dashing back to her desk. By the time Mr Simpson passed, she was busily typing away.

  For one fleeting moment she considered calling Johnny and summoning him to New York. But she knew this was out of the question. They’d discussed the possibility of visiting over the summer, and he’d informed her, sadly of course, that it was impossible. The congressman he was working for was up for reelection, and Johnny was expected to work all the time, even to be on call at weekends.

  Michael Dillon … no, that was crazy. She knew nothing about him. Except for the fact that he was writing a novel and that he thought popular music was a four-letter word. Which meant he’d probably turn up his nose at the mere idea of watching a movie like Beach Blanket Kisses. Would he even own a suit to wear to the premiere?

  But on the other hand … hadn’t she seen a tiny flash of something in his dark eyes when they were talking? In her experience, if a boy was interested, he’d be willing to do what a girl wanted to do just to be with her. She thought back to all those times she’d easily coaxed Johnny into going to the roller rink, when he wasn’t crazy about skating at all.

  Pamela had said she thought Michael looked a little like a hood. That was such an exaggeration. True, he wasn’t a ‘pretty boy’ in the fashion of Troy Donahue or Richard Chamberlain as Doctor Kildare. And so what if he did look a little like a hood? Elvis looked like a hood, but he always turned out to be a good guy in his movies. And Michael had those smouldering eyes …

  Oh, this was terrible! How could she be thinking about a boy in this way when she was in a completely committed relationship with Johnny? Guilt drove the picture of Michael out of her mind. But even so, at quarter after four, she ducked out of the offices and went to the ladies’ room. There, she teased up her hair a bit with a comb, reapplied some lipstick and dabbed some of her precious Shalimar on her wrists and behind her ears. Back at her desk, she kept an eye on the entrance.

  At four thirty on the dot, the doors opened, and Michael wheeled in his cart. She was encouraged by the half-smile and nod that be aimed in her direction. As he was passing her desk, she rose and spoke in a low voice.

  ‘Michael, could you stop by before you leave? There’s something I want to ask you.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, and moved on.

  She went back to typing Mr Simpson’s correspondence, but she found herself dipping into the little bottle of liquid paper more frequently than usual to correct errors. Very silly to be so nervous, she told herself. It wasn’t as if she had a crush on the guy or anything like that. She had a boyfriend, for crying out loud.

  Mr Simpson came by and dropped a file folder on her desk. ‘Give this to Miss Davison,’ he ordered.

  She picked up the folder and hurried towards Caroline’s office. She guessed it would take Michael about ten minutes to make the rounds of the Gloss offices, and she wanted to be sure she was at her desk when he was on his way out.

  ‘Hey, where’s the fire?’

  She’d practically collided with Ricky Hartnell.

  ‘Oh, excuse me, I’m sorry.’

  He flashed his I’m-so-sexy smile. ‘I’m not. No, I take that back, I am sorry. If you hadn’t stopped, we’d be cheek to cheek by now.’

  He certainly had lines. She smiled politely, and moved to walk around him. He stepped to the side.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said again.

  ‘Hold on, honey child, I’m about to do you a favour.’

  ‘A favour?’

  ‘A little birdie told me you need a date for a film premiere Friday.’

  Her stomach dropped. ‘A little birdie with platinum hair?’

  ‘So I am offering you the pleasure of my company,’ he said, with a small bow.

  Sherry Ann Forrester had never uttered a four-letter word out loud in her life, but she mentally ran through a few of them. Now what? Did she dare turn down an invitation from the boy whose name was on the building she worked in?

  ‘Thank you,’ she said politely, and managed a smile.

  Ricky acknowledged this with a wink, and sauntered away.

  Immediately Pamela came tearing over. ‘Well?’

  Sherry nodded.

  ‘So don’t I get a “thank you, Pamela”?’

  ‘Thank you, Pamela.’

  The girl frowned. ‘You could sound a little more enthusiastic. You’ve got a date with Ricky Hartnell!’

  ‘Yes, and I’m glad I’ve got an escort. But don’t get excited, Pamela. I’ve got a boyfriend, remember? And Ricky’s really not my type.’

  ‘Rich and handsome isn’t your type?’ Pamela did her eye-roll thing, shook her head in bewilderment and moved on. Sherry went into Caroline’s empty office and placed the folder on her desk.

  Back at her own desk, she resumed typing. A moment later Michael came back with his cart.

  ‘Did you want to ask me something?’

  Sherry looked up. ‘Um … I was just going to ask, I mean, say, that if you’d like to talk about your novel sometime, I’d like to hear about it.’

  He cocked his head to one side and looked at her.

  ‘Maybe we can take a coffee break together.’

  ‘Yes, that would be nice,’ she said.

  She gazed after his departing figure. It would be interesting to talk to him, she thought. She’d never known anyone who called himself a writer.

  And suddenly she recalled one of her favourite Elvis movies — Wild in the Country. Bad-boy Elvis wanted to be a writer in that one.

  A coffee break … not something she imagined Elvis suggesting, but it was better than nothing. But oh, what would Johnny say if he knew she was having Elvis fantasies about another boy?

  With a sigh, she went back to the keyboard.

  Pamela gazed across the bullpen at Sherry, typing away furiously with an expression that didn’t express jubilation, excitement or any of the feelings Pamela would have if she was in her situation. Sherry was going to a film premiere with the only eligible young guy at Gloss. Pamela would be over the moon!

  Her eyes moved to the office entrance, where Doreen, the beauty editor, and Darlene, her assistant had just returned from wherever they’d been all afternoon. They were both swinging identical tote bags labelled Lovely Lady Cosmetics. That wouldn’t help Pamela with her endless attempts to tell them apart. Not only did they have similar names, they were almost the same height and shape, and they both wore their light brown hair in the same bubble shape, with the only distinction being the fact that one of them had fluffy bangs and the other had little spit curls at her ears. Today even their dresses were similar — sleeveless sheaths, one in blue, the other in green.

  At least they didn’t seem to have a huge wardrobe of pocketbooks. One of them carried a yellow patent-leather bag over her arm, the other held a smaller beige woven pocketbook that she carried in her hand, the same ones they’d held the day before.

  Ever since being assigned to the beauty department yesterday, Pamela had been mentally chanting, ‘Doreen, bangs, yellow,’ and, ‘Darlene, spit cu
rls, beige.’ Or was it Doreen, bangs, beige?

  They both smiled brightly and wiggled their fingers as they passed Pamela and she wiggled her fingers in response. Then she went back to work.

  The beauty editors had given her a simple assignment — to go through a stack of rival magazines — Seventeen, Ingenue, Calling All Girls — and make a list of all the beauty products they’d recommended in recent months. It had sounded like a fun way to pass a couple of hours, but she was starting to get bored. It was as if every magazine was recommending the exact same looks to their readers. Eyeshadows so pale she could hardly tell what colour they were. Lipsticks so light they were barely visible. And the hairdos! Page after page of the same feathered layers, the same bubble cuts, the same little flips.

  Where were the Cleopatra eyes, the slash of dark red on the lips, the rouge applied so high it created cheekbones? Where were the beehive hairdos and enormous bouffants? Where were the directions on how to properly tease hair or put on false eyelashes?

  It wasn’t to Gloss, or any of the others now resting on her desk, that Pamela had ever turned for beauty ideas. Movie magazines — Photoplay, Modern Screen, Movie Life — that was where her style came from. Liz Taylor — now that was a woman who knew how to wear make-up. Of course, Liz Taylor was a lot older, but Pamela could certainly take cues from Natalie Wood, who was younger. Kim Novak! She was the best, and Pamela secretly thought she looked a bit like her.

  Armed with the carefully cut-out photos from the magazines, Pamela liked to go to a five-and-dime and try to replicate the looks by purchasing cheap versions of the cosmetics. Or occasionally by lifting them.

  She smiled as she recalled how Sherry had looked when Pamela told her she’d swiped that lipstick at Woolworth’s. Now Sherry probably thought she was some kind of serious criminal. Back home she’d never been a major shoplifter, not like some of her friends. But every now and then, just to go along with the others — and for the little thrill of course — she would slip something very small into a pocket or a handbag. She really shouldn’t do it here in New York though, she decided. If Gloss thought she was a crook, she could get sent home — and she had too many plans for the summer to risk it all for the sake of a lipstick.

  And it was going well. So far, so good. Well, maybe not good, but this was only her third day at Gloss. The work didn’t seem like it was going to be too hard. The room at the residence was OK, and she was used to sharing. Growing up with five siblings, none of them had rooms of their own in the little three-bedroom cottage outside Pittsburgh where she’d lived all her life.

  ‘Pamela!’

  She turned to see Doreen — or maybe Darlene — waving her into the big office the two women shared. She picked up the list she’d created from her review of the magazines, and left her desk.

  They both smiled identical bright smiles at her, and one of them pointed to the tote bags they’d carried in, which now rested on one of the desks.

  ‘We got oodles of free samples at the launch of this new cosmetics brand,’ one of them told her. ‘Help yourself!’

  ‘Thanks,’ Pamela said, and began rummaging through the bags. ‘Ooh, turquoise eyeshadow! I’ve never seen that before. Are you sure you don’t want it?’

  The two women exchanged looks. ‘No, dear, it’s all yours,’ Darlene said.

  ‘This would suit you,’ Doreen said, and took another eyeshadow from the bag. It was a very pale tan, almost flesh-coloured. Totally unappealing, but Pamela accepted it politely.

  Doreen then announced that it was five o’clock and she was dismissed for the day. With her sack of samples, Pamela trotted back out into the bullpen and headed over to where Allison was standing by Sherry’s desk.

  ‘You guys want to go out for something to drink?’ she asked.

  ‘You could come with me to a coffee shop in Greenwich Village,’ suggested Allison. ‘That’s where I’m headed.’

  Pamela wrinkled her nose. ‘Actually, I was thinking about that cocktail lounge just across the street.’

  ‘I think you have to be twenty-one to go in a cocktail lounge,’ Sherry said.

  Pamela’s eyebrows went up. ‘Don’t you have a fake ID?’

  From Sherry’s expression, Pamela could have been asking her if she had a gun. ‘Actually, I don’t.’

  Pamela glanced at the desk where Donna was sitting, staring into space. She seriously doubted that Donna would be interested in a visit to a cocktail lounge. Besides, she wouldn’t be any fun.

  But there were other interns, and she overheard two who might be candidates for companionship. They were both talking about their day, and not happily.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m stuck in food,’ Diane complained. ‘So boring.’

  ‘I thought fashion would be a great place to work,’ Vicky said, ‘but all I did today was address envelopes. I need something to cheer me up.’

  Pamela boldly entered the conversation. ‘How about a drink?’

  Vicky brightened. ‘Ooh, a hot-fudge sundae! We could go to the diner down the street.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I had in mind,’ Pamela murmured, and backed away.

  She went back to Sherry.

  ‘Listen, I’ll bet they don’t check for IDs. Come with me?’

  Sherry shook her head. ‘Not this time, thanks anyway. I need to plan my outfit for the premiere.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ Pamela said. ‘And think about what you’re going to do after the premiere. Maybe Ricky’s a member of Le Club.’

  ‘What’s Le Club?’ Sherry asked.

  The poor girl really must be from the boondocks, Pamela thought. ‘It’s this private members-only place where all the society people go,’ she told her. ‘Or maybe you should ask him to take you to the Peppermint Lounge. That’s the dance place where the Twist was invented. You do know how to Twist, don’t you?’

  Sherry smiled. ‘Yes, Pamela, even in Georgia we do the Twist.’ She got up from her desk. ‘Well, I guess I’ll go ask Caroline if she’ll let me into the samples closet.’

  Donna suddenly looked up. ‘You’re going into the samples closet?’ she asked Sherry. ‘

  ‘If I’m allowed. Would you like to help me pick something out to wear?’

  Unbelievable, Pamela thought. Well, Donna was her roommate; she had to be nice to her.

  So she was on her own. But maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. She might have better luck that way.

  The lounge across the street was called ‘Charlie’s’. It wasn’t one of the famous places she’d read about, but it looked like it could be. There were plush velvety-looking purple banquettes, a gleaming bar, and a handsome bartender standing behind it. The banquettes were already filled, but there were a couple of empty places at the bar, so she made her way over there.

  Perched on a stool, she smiled brightly at the bartender. ‘A martini, please. Extra dry, with a twist.’

  The bartender didn’t smile back. ‘Could I see some identification, please?’

  Pamela uttered a little laugh, as if the question was absurd, but she nodded. ‘I know, I look young for my age. That will be an advantage in a few years, won’t it?’

  The bartender said nothing. Pamela pulled out her wallet and extracted the card she’d paid twenty-five dollars for just last month. It was an exact replica of her driver’s licence, with a slight change in the year of her birth date.

  The bartender examined it and shrugged. ‘Dry martini, with a twist.’ ‘

  ‘Extra dry,’ Pamela corrected him. Twenty-five dollars had seemed exorbitant for a little square of laminated paper, but she realized now it had been well worth the price. Realizing that the bar stool had a seat that twirled, she gave a little spin of exhilaration. This was a good way to check out the scene too.

  Charlie’s had a nice-looking clientele, she thought. Lots of prosperous-looking businessmen, in suits and carrying briefcases. Well-groomed women in nice dresses and moderately high heels. Not particularly glamorous, but that made sense, since it was only just a
fter five o’clock and they’d probably come straight from work. For the first time since she’d arrived in the city, she was at the kind of place she’d planned on frequenting. And any doubts she’d had about applying for this internship vanished.

  Months ago, when she saw the double-page ad in Gloss inviting girls to work there for the summer, she’d barely noticed it. She didn’t have any particular interest in magazines, and besides, she’d already made her post-graduation plans — a one-week vacation at the shore with a bunch of girlfriends who would pitch in for a hotel room where they’d sleep four to a bed. After that, she’d enrol in the local secretarial school for a twelve-week course to learn shorthand and improve her typing skills. Then, in the fall, she’d start looking for a job, maybe in Pittsburgh.

  But the ad came at around the same time Pamela discovered Sex and the Single Girl. If Helen Gurley Brown, this woman who wasn’t beautiful, who didn’t go to a university, who had been actually poor rather than just working class, could make a fabulous life for herself in New York City, then why couldn’t she?

  At school, she hated writing book reports. But this time she had a book that actually inspired her. She wasn’t stupid — she knew that all the author’s advice on having affairs wouldn’t impress her teachers. So she concentrated on the chapters where Miss Brown wrote about single women taking care of themselves — finding jobs they enjoyed, making their own money and spending it carefully, getting an apartment and fixing it up, and not seeing marriage as the only option for the future.

  She’d gotten a B-plus from her English teacher. But more importantly, she was accepted as an intern at Gloss on the strength of that same essay.

  Out of the corner of her eye she thought she recognized someone sitting alone at the other end of the bar. Yes — it was that good-looking advertising-sales manager from Gloss, Alex Parker. She stared at him, willing him to look in her direction. Finally he did — but his eyes passed right over her.

  ‘Another martini, miss?’

  She hadn’t even realized that she’d finished the first one.

  ‘Um … how much does a martini cost?’