Gloss

by Marilyn Kaye

  A long table laden with bottles of champagne and trays of little canapés magically appeared. The room became quickly animated as people rose from their chairs, headed to the table and formed small groups to chat. Mr Simpson joined one of these groups, and David was still huddled with his fellow photographers.

  Sherry stayed in her seat and went over her scribbles, realizing she could write a really cool article about this show. It was all here in her notes — high fashion that demonstrated trends that could easily be translated into junior apparel. And with David’s photographs to illustrate her words, she could create something any Gloss reader would appreciate.

  The more she considered the possibilities, the more elated she became. And suddenly she couldn’t wait to go back to the office and get started on it.

  David appeared before her with a little plate of treats.

  ‘Help yourself,’ he offered, and she picked a canapé at random.

  He sat down beside her and looked at the pad on her lap. ‘Wow, you took all those notes for George?’

  Fighting the urge to tell him they weren’t for Mr Simpson, she just smiled and nodded.

  ‘He’s lucky to have you,’ the photographer commented. ‘I wish Caroline would give me an intern.’

  ‘To do what?’ Sherry asked.

  ‘Assist in setting up equipment, maybe even learn something about basic photography so she could take preliminary shots. And it would help a lot if she knew something about styling.’

  Sherry looked at him with interest. ‘Styling?’

  ‘You know, what goes with what. Adding the right accessories to an outfit, that sort of thing. Belinda gives me some directions of course, but she’s not there for the shoots.’

  A brilliant idea began to form. ‘She wouldn’t have to do any writing, would she?’

  David shook his head.

  ‘I’m going to talk to Caroline,’ she told the photographer. ‘There’s an intern who just might be perfect for you.’

  The reception was breaking up, and Mr Simpson came over to them. ‘

  ‘We’re leaving now,’ he declared.

  During the ride back, Sherry tried to strike up a conversation with the editor.

  ‘What did you think of the show?’ she asked.

  Mr Simpson shrugged. Either he wasn’t impressed or he just wasn’t interested. In any case, he said nothing and they rode in silence.

  Until they reached the Hartnell building. Just as they were getting out of the taxi, Mr Simpson patted the breast pocket of his jacket, and groaned.

  ‘Damn, my cigarette case. It must have dropped out of my pocket at the hotel.’ He motioned for the taxi to wait, and turned to Sherry.

  ‘You’ll have to go back and find it.’

  The dismay must have shown on her face, because he raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Do you have something more important to do?’ he asked in a tone that clearly said this wasn’t possible.

  ‘I just wanted to get started on the article,’ Sherry said.

  A look of disdain crossed his face. ‘About the fashion show? You’re not writing it. In fact, give me your notes now so I can decide what to do with them.’

  Sherry was aware that her mouth was open, but she was speechless. She could only stare at him in disbelief.

  ‘Your notes?’ he demanded.

  She took out her notebook. At least she had enough presence of mind not to hand it over. There was other stuff in it — notes on conversations with Caroline, ideas for stories. Carefully she tore out only the notes she’d taken at the fashion show and silently handed them to the editor.

  ‘Now get back in the taxi, the meter’s running,’ he barked. He reached in his pocket, took out a wallet and handed her a bill. ‘This should take care of the fare.’

  Automatically, like a robot, she took the money and got back into the taxi. And in the back of her mind she wondered how the driver would react if his passenger suddenly burst into furious tears.

  Where the hell’s that photographer?’ Mr Connelly fumed.

  ‘Here he comes,’ Allison said, looking out into the bullpen from the entertainment editor’s office. Seconds later, a breathless David Barnes stood in the doorway.

  ‘Sorry to be late, folks, I was covering a fashion show uptown. Refresh my memory. What am I doing now?’

  ‘You’re going back uptown,’ Mr Connelly informed him. ‘Shooting Bobby Dale at an apartment on Park and 73rd.’ He turned to Allison. ‘This session is mainly for taking pictures. For you, it’s just a preliminary meeting with the guy. You’ll do the real interview in a couple of weeks, when he’s back in New York. So you won’t need a tape recorder today. Just take a notebook and jot down any observations you make.’

  It was while she was in the taxi that Allison realized she’d picked up the notebook filled with the comments she’d been writing about Sam. Just last night he’d offered up another one of his brilliant observations, and she hoped she’d gotten it down precisely. Here in the taxi, she read it over and savoured the words.

  Until we connect with the inner spirit, we’re no better than robots, and our lives have no meaning.

  How true, how incredibly true! She thought about her parents, their friends, their trivial, meaningless lives. She marvelled at the way Sam could capture the essence of humanity in just a few words. How lucky was she to have found a boy like this? To love a boy like this?

  Love … she was almost certain that was what she’d come to feel for him. It was hard to be sure, since she’d never had a serious relationship before. How could she? All the boys she’d known were so shallow, so ordinary.

  She hadn’t used the word with Sam yet. She wanted him to say it first. But after that kiss in the subway a week ago, she’d been pretty sure there were feelings on his part too.

  Since then, they’d gone way beyond kissing.

  Leaning back in her seat, she closed her eyes and memories of the night before came rushing back. Having just been turned down at an audition for a gig, Sam wasn’t in a very good mood. And as they were cutting through the park, a sudden summer storm broke through the clouds. They’d run under a tree, and he’d slumped against it with a grim expression. Taking his hand, she raised it to her mouth and kissed it.

  He grabbed her, roughly, and then they were on the ground. In the darkness of the park, with the rain as an almost musical background, they moved together in rhythm with the downpour. He didn’t say anything, there were no romantic exchanges, but it didn’t matter — his body spoke for him, and her body responded. She’d never felt such physical excitement before in her life …

  ‘So, what do you know about this guy?’ David Barnes asked.

  She was about to say she thought he was amazing until she realized that of course he was talking about Bobby Dale.

  ‘Twenty years old, born and raised in New York, now lives in Los Angeles,’ she recited from memory.

  ‘Didn’t we do a piece on him last year?’ David asked.

  ‘No, that was Bobby Vee.’

  ‘This Bobby … is he the one who sings “Blue Velvet”?’

  ‘No, that’s Bobby Vinton.’

  ‘So this is the Bobby who’s in that movie with Ann-Margret.’

  ‘No, that’s Bobby Rydell,’ sighed Allison. ‘This is a brand-new Bobby.’ She looked back at her notes. ‘Discovered on an episode of The Original Amateur Hour in 1961. First hit song, “Let Me Love You”, went to number three on the Billboard Charts. Second release, “Love Me Again”, made it to number one. He’s here in New York to appear on The Ed Sullivan Show on Sunday and to kick off a national tour.’

  Her tone must have revealed her lack of enthusiasm. The photographer grinned.

  ‘Not a big fan, huh?’

  Allison shrugged. ‘He’s just one more Bobby.’

  The taxi pulled up in front of a Park Avenue building where two doormen in uniforms covered with gold braid approached the car. One of them opened their door, while the other, clutching a clipboard, eyed the
m sternly. As they stepped out on to the red carpet that led under an awning to the front door, the second doorman blocked their way.

  ‘May I help you?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re here to see Bobby Dale,’ David Barnes said.

  The doorman eyed him suspiciously and looked at his clipboard. ‘Your names?’

  Allison supplied hers while the photographer handed over a business card. Finally the doorman allowed them to move down the carpet, where yet another uniformed man opened the doors into an ornate lobby whose walls were covered in gilded mirrors.

  The doorman escorted them into an elevator and rode with them to the penthouse floor, where the apartment door was opened by a pudgy, harried-looking man.

  ‘These are the people from Gloss magazine,’ the doorman announced.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, come in,’ the pudgy man said. ‘I’m Lou Mareno, Bobby’s manager.’

  They entered a room that was positively palatial. From the heavy velvet curtains, the cream-coloured matching furniture and the enormous chandelier that hung from the ceiling, it screamed money and was exactly the kind of place where a fllthy-rich teenage heart-throb would live. While a real talent like Sam was crashing on sofas. It was all so wrong, Allison thought

  While David busied himself setting up a tripod, the manager turned to Allison. ‘This must be a big thrill for you, young lady,’ he said, with a smile that was so patronizing it almost made her gag.

  ‘I’m looking forward to conducting the interview,’ she managed to say.

  He looked alarmed. ‘But not today! I haven’t prepped him yet.’

  Allison fought back the urge to smirk. Of course, the young heart-throb would have to be prepared by his manager with his answers to any questions she might ask. Most likely, the singer was an idiot who couldn’t think for himself.

  But again she responded politely. ‘No, the interview will be in two weeks. I’m just here to observe.’

  The manager was clearly relieved. ‘Fine, fine. And do you have a theme for the article?’

  It was embarrassing to say the words aloud. “Could you be Bobby’s girl?”

  The manager looked pleased. ‘Excellent! Did you come up with that all by yourself?’

  She was spared having to admit she had by the arrival of the star himself.

  Bobby looked exactly like his photos. Medium height, slender, wavy brown hair, perfect features, and when he smiled he revealed dazzling straight white teeth. Clean, wholesome, non-threatening. The only surprise was his eyes. She knew they were blue, but she wasn’t prepared for how bright they were. In all fairness, she had to concede that Bobby Dale was extraordinarily handsome.

  He turned straight to Allison. ‘Hi, I’m Bobby.’

  She allowed him a brief, polite and professional smile, and shook the offered hand. ‘Allison.’

  ‘You’re my interviewer?’ he asked.

  The manager broke in. ‘Not today. She’s just watching you today. You don’t talk to her at all.’

  ‘Not even if I want to?’ the boy asked. He smiled at Allison.

  Oh, for crying out loud, was he trying to snow her? To get her to write a positive article? ‘

  ‘This is your photographer,’ the manager declared. ‘What’s your name again, fellow?’

  ‘David Barnes.’ He put out his hand and the star shook it.

  ‘Where do you want me?’

  ‘Let’s start over by the window, the light’s good.’ David positioned the singer and then moved his tripod. Looking into the camera’s lens, he frowned. ‘I have to make a few adjustments.’

  The manager turned to his client. ‘You can go back to the bedroom, Bobby. I’ll call when he’s ready for you.’

  But Bobby didn’t budge. ‘It’s OK, I can wait.’ He looked at Allison. ‘You seem young to be a journalist,’ he commented.

  ‘Actually, I’m an intern at Gloss,’ she told him. ‘This is just a summer job.’

  The manager’s face went red. ‘They sent an intern? To interview Bobby Dale?’ From his tone he could have been saying ‘President John F. Kennedy’. ‘I’m calling your magazine right now.’ He started in the direction of a telephone on a coffee table.

  ‘Hold off, Lou,’ Bobby said. ‘They wouldn’t have sent her if they didn’t think she could do the job. Give her a chance.’

  It was clear who called the shots around here. The manager backed away from the phone, still looking peeved.

  Bobby turned back to Allison. ‘So you’re kind of a journalist-in-training, huh?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Allison replied. ‘I haven’t decided what I want to do.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Boston.’

  ‘How do you like New York?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘I love this town,’ Bobby said. ‘It’s great being back here.’

  Allison nodded. ‘That’s right, you’re from here, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, and I really miss it when I’m away. I like being able to look out a window and know where I am.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The manager looked at her sharply, and she realized her last two comments had been posed in the form of questions. She was just being polite for crying out loud!

  Bobby must have caught the man’s look too. ‘It’s OK, Lou, we’re making conversation!’ He turned back to Allison. ‘What I mean is, New York has a look that’s all its own. Some cities, they all look alike.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve been travelling so much lately, half the time I don’t know where I am. It can be kind of, I don’t know … depressing.’

  Sam’s words came back to her. ‘Where you’re going is no better than where you are,’ she told him.

  His eyes lit up. ‘Quincy!’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Walter Quincy! You’ve read The Free Spirit.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Wait a sec.’ He left the room and returned seconds later with a battered paperback in his hand. ‘One of my all-time favourite books. You sure you never read it?’

  She shook her head again.

  ‘“Where you’re going is no better than where you are,”’ he said. ‘It’s a famous line. Maybe you just heard someone quote it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘I’ve been trying to read everything he’s written. He’s got this way of summing up big ideas, whole philosophies, in these brief sentences.’ He glanced at his manager, and lowered his voice. ‘I’m not supposed to talk about this, but I’ve been thinking I’d like to write my own songs. And Quincy’s been a real influence.’

  ‘How so?’

  Again, he looked to make sure Lou Mareno wasn’t listening.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Allison assured him. ‘I’m not recording this. I’m not even taking notes.’

  ‘Well … you know the kind of stuff I’ve been recording. “I love you madly, I want you badly …”’ He made a face. ‘Quincy says, “What you sing is who you are.” And what I’m singing now, well … it’s not really me.’

  Allison stared at him, and not because he was being so open with her. ‘Quincy wrote that? “What you sing is who you are?”’

  He handed her the book. ‘Here, you can borrow this. And maybe we can talk about it when we meet for the interview in a couple of weeks.’

  ‘OK, we can get started now,’ David called out.

  For the next twenty minutes Allison was only dimly aware of the activity in the room. Flashbulbs went off, David called out directions, and Bobby’s manager hovered. Allison’s mind was elsewhere.

  So those weren’t Sam’s original words. Well, so what? People did that all the time. Her mother, for example. She was always saying stuff like ‘A penny saved is a penny earned’, and ‘A place for everything and everything in its place’, without adding, ‘Benjamin Franklin said that.’

  So Sam must be an admirer of this Quincy person. Funny how he hadn’t mentioned it. But she chalked it up as just one more interesting observation that she c
ould put in the article she would write about him. She put the book in her bag and hoped she’d find some time to start reading it tonight, if she didn’t get back from the Village too late.

  As it turned out, she didn’t have to wait that long. Just after five o’clock, when she was on her way downtown, the train stopped between Herald Square and Twenty-third Street. The usual garbled voice mumbled something over the speaker system about a brief delay. Since everyone on the train knew it wouldn’t be brief, there was a chorus of groans. Allison opened The Free Spirit.

  The introduction was pretty interesting. It seemed that this guy, Quincy, had always been on the fast track, trying to become a big shot in his career. But even though he was pretty successful, he wasn’t happy. He made a lot of money, he held a high position, but deep inside, he hadn’t advanced at all.

  ‘I see people running, rushing, trying to catch a bus or a train, trying to be first in line,’ she read. ‘And I want to say to them, what’s your rush? It doesn’t matter where you go, it’s not going to be any better than where you are.’

  The words rang a bell, and she realized this was something Sam had said.

  There was a jerk, and then the train starting moving again. She closed the book and put it back in her bag.

  Were all of Sam’s profound comments taken from Walter Quincy, she wondered. It was a good thing she’d discovered this before writing the article about him and claiming all the remarks were original.

  This didn’t mean Sam was less than brilliant, she assured herself. He was still a deep, intellectual person. He’d have to be, to appreciate these lines.

  But it was funny, to think that a shallow, no-talent, run-of-the-mill pop star would appreciate them too …

  Sherry was fuming. In the deserted petite salon, on her hands and knees, she searched under the chairs still in the semicircle formation. She found a comb, a freshly sharpened pencil, and a lipstick — Revlon, Cherries in the Snow. No cigarette case.

  But there were still three rows to search. Gritting her teeth, she crawled around to the next level.

  Damn Mr Simpson. Damn him! The show had really excited her, and she wanted to write about it. She could visualize her piece in print, in Gloss’s typeface, accompanied by David’s photographs, read by millions of teenage girls …