Hustle Sweet Love Page 4

  Instead, she was finding that all the men she saw in Tulsa’s busy air terminal and on Pan Am’s 737 to New York looked strangely like malnourished refugee midgets from a war zone, compared with the great hunk she’d just left. When Lacy gazed out of the jetliner’s window, all she could see was the reflection of those storm-gray eyes looking down at her from that hard, virile face, reminding her of what it was like to be held in his arms. And all those stupendous earthquakes of passion, which she was positive were not your ordinary, everyday earthquakes of passion at all. At least not the kinds she’d been offered in the past.

  She found herself visualizing the sleek, beautiful body, with its gold neck chain, its big gold Rolex watch, until she was totally distracted and the plane’s copilot came back to sit on the arm of Lacy’s cabin-class seat and strike up a conversation and try to arrange a date with her. Which pilots or copilots usually tried to do when they saw her, especially on Pan Am, although Presidential, with all those smooth D.C.-area types, was worse.

  Mount Rushmore has a wife, dummy, Lacy tried to convince herself, finally getting rid of the essentially unappealing copilot and curling up in her seat to get some sleep.

  But she couldn’t sleep.

  Stop it, she fretted. Mount Rushmore has a wife and at least three beautiful children in Tulsa and an expensive house in the suburbs within commuting distance of his job as banker-gambler for the Mob, and everything else that goes with it. Like vacations in Europe, she thought with a lump in her throat, traveling by Concorde or the QE II, with every woman in sight hungering after him. And naturally a sixty-foot power cruiser and his own Lear jet, since he was apparently in his midthirties and obviously not living at poverty level. He’d certainly have earned it all by now. And at least three or four mistresses, she knew with terrible despair, the way he makes love.

  You’re just exhausted and you’ve had a bizarre experience, she rationalized. Try to forget it.

  She really hadn’t had much sleep. When the alarm clock had gone off in the penthouse, she’d opened her eyes to find that he was already awake, resting on one elbow beside her and looking down at her with the most curious, intent expression on his face. And of course he’d wanted her again, even though Lacy didn’t really think anyone could make love that many times. Still, he had been carefully slow and tender, perhaps just as tired as she was, his dark hair tousled, rousing her very gently one last time. And perhaps because it was the last time, it had been more devastatingly sweet, more wildly fervent than all the rest.

  “Take your shower,” he had murmured when the last earthquake had subsided. He held her closely and trailed kisses down the side of her face and into her throat as he said huskily, “And I’ll order the world’s biggest breakfast. We have to talk about this.”

  Lacy had known even then, still lying with his arms around her, that there was simply nothing for them to talk about. He wouldn’t believe her—he hadn’t believed her from the beginning that she wasn’t a hooker, and she knew there was nothing, really, that she could tell him to make him change his mind. It was fate, miserable fate, and she had to be resigned to it. Besides, with all that all-night lovemaking, she was so physically exhausted she could hardly think. And so she had crept out of the apartment while he was still loudly singing, “Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away,” in the shower.

  She was never going to sleep again, Lacy knew despairingly, unless she could manage to forget the whole thing. She sat up straight in her seat and waved down the Pan Am flight attendant. She had to stop thinking about creeping out of the penthouse in Tulsa, Oklahoma, before dawn, leaving some part of her strange, just-discovered passionate emotions behind. Otherwise, she was going to drive herself into a nervous breakdown.

  “I’ll have a martini,” Lacy told the flight attendant, even though it wasn’t even lunch time and she was well aware of the moisture-robbing effects of alcohol on the complexion and the real threat of thousands of wrinkles. “Make it a double,” she choked, closing her eyes.

  Lacy started work at Fad magazine a week later on a Monday, reporting to the editorial offices in the Fad Publishing Group’s skyscraper on Madison Avenue. After the lesson she’d learned on Basic Image and what had happened in Tulsa, she chose her outfit carefully, appearing before the managing editor, Gloria Farnham, at 9:00 a.m. in a crisp Geoffrey Beene navy shantung suit with a gray and white striped shirtwaist, navy string tie and matching navy kid gloves and shoes and purse. Her smoky-blond curls were drawn up in a severe topknot, with only a few errant strands escaping to fall gracefully over her temples and the creamy nape of her neck.

  Managing editor Farnham, who was wearing an Emanuel Ungaro sheath, took one approving look and said, “Very nice, sweetie, you’re on Seventh Avenue-garment-house assignments, anyway,” and took Lacy into a large, chaotic room that was the Fad magazine heartland.

  So this is the magazine business, Lacy told herself with a rush of excitement. She followed the elegant figure of the managing editor through acres of close-packed desks that seemed to cover the entire ninth floor of the Fad Publishing Group building. It was a busy place even early in the morning, with ringing telephones and both male and female figures hunched in front of computer terminals amid a clutter of styrofoam cups and Danish pastries.

  Lacy could see working for Fad was obviously going to be a thousand times better than runway modeling in hotels and convention centers across the United States. Now, at last, she was a member of the fourth estate, a journalist, something more than a body for wholesalers to hang clothes on, a part of the whole mysterious power of the Written Word. Even if in this particular case it confined itself mostly to beauty care and women’s fashions.

  She took a deep breath, backing up out of a cul-de-sac of promotion displays she had blundered into and hurrying after the managing editor. This was it. Her chosen career. Excitement. Creativity. Ideas. She hoped she never had to hear another model’s discussion on the advances of using adhesive tape under the bust line when there was no room to wear a wired bra, and what was the best cover-up for a large, determined hickey, as long as she lived.

  “Oh, it’s you,” a small, darkly pretty but very harried-looking woman intoned as the managing editor stepped into her glass-partitioned cubicle. She quickly put her hand over the receiver. “Whatever it is you want, Gloria, we did it yesterday, but we can’t find it. But someone’s looking for it, OK?”

  “Don’t be silly, sweetie,” the managing editor responded with a vague, silvery laugh. “This is Stacy Kingsley—she did those articles for Women’s Wear Daily, remember? It’s just absolutely marvelous to have her with us. Now, darling, you’ve got to find her a desk.”

  “No, I don’t remember,” the assistant editor said, staring at Lacy over the stacks of back issues of Vogue, Bazaar, Mademoiselle and Glamour that spilled over her desk and onto the floor. She kept her hand clamped over the telephone receiver but not tightly enough to smother the faint conversational noises that emanated from it. “God, Gloria, are we doing a photo shoot here in the office? And if so, what for? Take her away—I can’t do anything with her right now!”

  “Jamie, sweetie, she’s a junior fashion writer, not a model anymore. You’re going to put her on New York dress assignments with the rest of your juniors.”

  “Oh, my God,” the harried woman said under her breath, “not another one.” The assistant editor, without taking her hand from the receiver, lifted her elbow and used it to point awkwardly to the edge of her desk. “Find a place to sit will you, Stacy? I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  “It’s Lacy,” Lacy murmured, trying to keep in mind all the wonderful things about her new profession. “Lacy Kingston.”

  “Have fun,” managing editor Gloria Farnham said, drifting away out of the crowded glass cubicle, oblivious to the pile of Elle and Harper’s Bazaar magazines that fell to the floor behind her.

  The assistant editor watched the retreating figure of the managing editor with weary eyes. “Gloria the Space Q
ueen,” she muttered. “But she’s great reading off cards at board meetings. She makes everything sound like she did it all by herself.”

  “I’m really excited about working here,” Lacy began politely.

  “Are you still there?” the assistant editor said, turning her attention back to the telephone. “Philip, listen to me—don’t touch your brother’s chicken pox. They’re sacred, do you hear? No, I don’t care if he told you they itched. They’re his chicken pox—just let Terry and the doctor take care of them, OK?” There was a brief pause as the faint noises answered on the other end. “Right, and the same thing applies to your video games. Even Terry understands that. At least I thought he understood it before I left this morning.” The assistant editor groaned, using her free hand to cradle her forehead. “Philip, just try to hold things together until six o’clock, will you? I promise you I won’t be late. I’ll be there by the time Dr. Who gets the Tardis out of the time warp. I’ll watch it with you. Guaranteed.”

  When the assistant editor hung up, she pushed a pile of magazine proofs out of the way and gave Lacy an apologetic smile. “My youngest has chicken pox, and my oldest is baby-sitting. My sitter is out sick because she’s the one who gave him the chicken pox in the first place. It’s been hell for two days.” Her tired brown eyes traveled quickly over Lacy, who was perched on the corner of her desk amid the stacks of magazines. “Good Lord, brains and beauty this time—you double threats slay me! What’s wrong with fashion modeling—did they have a surplus of Christie Brinkley look-alikes this year?”

  “Ah, well, no—yes,” Lacy managed, blushing. “But actually, I did lose a Playtex bra ad once because they said I looked too much like Cheryl Tiegs.”

  The assistant editor snorted. “That’s a liability? The rag trade is a crazy business.” Her brown eyes flickered over Lacy’s face. “Heavens, you look like you were put together to music! It’s unbelievable.”

  “Actually,” Lacy said uneasily, wanting to drop the subject, “my bottom’s a little too big. Somebody always mentions it.

  “I really want to write,” she added. “I’m serious about that.”

  The other woman had to laugh. It was a nice, friendly laugh that immediately made her look younger and much prettier. “Ah, model talk! I never met a model yet who didn’t think she was rather ugly—it’s a professional disease. I bet your boyfriend doesn’t complain,” she observed dryly. “Your bottom looks pretty gorgeous to me.”

  Lacy froze. There was no reason, at that moment, for what happened in Tulsa to rise up in her mind vividly, but it did. She had a distinct recollection of the black panther’s tender, appreciative caresses in the very place they were talking about. It was going to haunt her forever, she knew with an inward shudder; that long night of fantastic lovemaking was burned into her brain.

  “Sorry about that,” the assistant editor said quickly. “I struck a nerve, didn’t I? It’s a man, isn’t it? Did you get out of modeling to forget him? Did the bastard do something rotten to you, kid?” she asked sympathetically. “Or was the jerk just married?”

  “Oh, no,” Lacy choked. She tried to pull herself together and knew she was blushing madly. Other women had romantic love affairs that broke their hearts. She was stuck with a story about being mistaken for a hustler in a downtown Tulsa, Oklahoma, hotel. “I’m really—well, yes, I’m trying to forget it,” she said truthfully.

  The assistant editor sighed. “You’ve come to the right place, kid, believe me. We’ve got four junior writers now and only one permanent job slot, so you can work yourself to death while competing—how’s that?” When she saw Lacy’s weak smile, she went on, “The money is lousy, and dress manufacturers never like anything you write about their clothes. You’ll be exhausted, your feet will hurt, your makeup will smear, and your hair will come down in the rain. When you finish a good story, nobody will notice. Only six months later Gloria will come back and want to know why you’re in such a slump when you were so great when you started. You see that snake pit out there, don’t you?” she said, nodding in the direction of Fad magazine’s editorial room. “The company makes its money renting out the rest of the building and cramming us in here. Our circulation’s off thirty percent, and we’ve been operating in the red for more than two years, with Vogue and Bazaar beating our time mainly because we refuse to admit they’re even out there. I’m Jamie Hatworth, and you report to me. I’m assignments editor, as well as four million other things around this place, and my kids have forgotten they have a mother. Well, almost.” She began to rummage around her paper-littered desk looking for something. “Can you really write, Stacy—Lacy?” she wanted to know. “More importantly, can you work like a dog? You’re going to be doing stuff for a section called Fashion Updates. It’s short features about manufacturers and wholesalers. You’ll hate it. Now, after all this, aren’t you getting a headache? Don’t you want to sneak out and freshen up your makeup? Don’t you want to quit right now and walk out of here?”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Lacy said quickly, beginning to catch on. She grinned. This was more like it. “And no, no, no, to the last three. It sounds exciting, honestly it does. I really like the rag trade. I just wanted to get out of modeling, that’s all. Besides, I’m getting pretty old.”

  “You’re practically dying of it,” the other woman said dryly. “Wait until you’re all of twenty-five.

  “Now,” she said, handing Lacy a typewritten sheet, “here’s a list of dress houses the junior writers are working on. And because you’re such a nice kid, I’ve given you all the turkeys nobody’s heard from in years. What you have to do this week is bring me two hundred words on each of them and why we should do a story in Fashion Updates.” She craned forward to look down the edge of the sheet. “Some of them may be dead,” she murmured. “It’s an old list of Gloria’s.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Lacy cried with enthusiasm. “I want to tell you how much I appreciate this. I’ll do a good job, you’ll see.”

  “You’re incredible,” the other woman said. “God, I feel like a baby killer!”

  “Just show me my desk,” Lacy told her, “and I’ll get to work.”

  “Oh, yes, the desk.” Jamie Hatworth frowned. “Actually we haven’t been able to find a free desk around here in years. But there’s a utility table over in the art department the junior writers are sharing. You’ll love it.”

  “It’s OK,” Lacy said in a rush. “I’ll work anywhere. After four years of journalism school and modeling, I just can’t believe this is finally happening.”

  The assistant editor groaned. “Wait, don’t run away,” she ordered as Lacy slid down from her perch on the corner of the desk, “there’s more. The company cafeteria closed in August, but you can brown-bag it in the ladies’ lounge if you don’t mind standing up while you eat—it gets pretty crowded in the john. You won’t get your paycheck for about three weeks because the personnel department’s out with bubonic plague. They don’t say they are, but at the rate they process your paper work, it’s the same thing. And don’t forget to make out a weekly petty-cash voucher for bus tokens. Taking cabs to your assignments is a no-no even with two sprained ankles, but Fad does pick up the bill for public transit.”

  “Good,” Lacy said determinedly. “I don’t mind riding the bus at all.”

  “You’re giving me a neurosis,” the assistant editor moaned. “Please close the door when you go out. I don’t want Gloria to come back with any more of you. Chicken pox is ruining my life as it is.”

  Five

  She’d gotten carried away, Lacy realized, somewhat depressed, as she sat cross-legged on a stack of dress boxes in the Thirty-second Street loft of Fishman Brothers Frocks and Superior Sportswear a few days later. She had had this weird conviction that everything was going to turn out better—and look what had happened!

  Poor Mr. Fishman’s clothes were really bad, she thought, resting her chin on her hand—there was no other word to describe them. Of course, if she had to model his spring lin
e for customers, she wouldn’t have anything to say about it. But she was on the other side of the fence now as a Fad magazine writer, and she could say that Fishman Brothers Frocks were a bomb, even though poor Mr. Fishman had dragged out nearly every piece in his spring line for her inspection.

  Lacy had to admit that nearly everything her boss, assistant editor Jamie Hatworth, had said about a junior fashion writer’s job was true, although she’d assumed at the time that the assistant editor was only trying to be funny. The list Jamie had given her of Seventh Avenue dress houses actually did include several elusive firms whose owners had gone out of business, were unavailable, missing or presumed dead. She’d spent weary hours trying to find the entrances to abandoned-looking loft buildings, back staircases and freight elevators to the sinister depths of some of New York’s oldest garment factories. Just getting into these places was a major achievement—only to discover the name on her list was a company that either had never been heard of by current tenants or had shut its doors shortly after World War II. Fad magazine’s back files, Lacy couldn’t help concluding, were a little out of date.

  Not only that, but since it had rained for the past two days, Lacy’s usually neat and lovely pale-blond hair was straggly and wet and most of her makeup had worn off. Her soggy feet were definitely beginning to ache. Fashion writing had one thing in common with runway modeling. It was tough on the body.

  Mr. Fishman, a large, unlit cigar in his mouth, held up yet another creation in mega-red and eye-popping orange and looked at her hopefully.

  I have to take responsibility for my own actions, Lacy thought, studying the dress. Her mother and father, who had seen a fearlessly headstrong streak in each of their three beautiful daughters, had tried to deal with it patiently, lovingly and with the omniscient wisdom of several volumes of Dr. Spock. But Dr. Spock, the Kingston parents had reluctantly concluded, had never known siblings like the free-spirited, independent Kingston girls of East Hampton, Long Island.