What have I started? The faint question drifts across a corner of my mind while the sensations radiating from the movement of Kevin’s fingers across my body strengthen the tow of the vortex. The sound of his voice quiets, then stills, to be replaced by the soft movement of his lips as they scatter kisses on my face, emitting heat in their wake.
Fiery waves pulse in crests across my shoulders and arms, down my torso, to my legs. Hot, I’m so hot. I’ve never felt such burning before. My head twists back and forth, seeking a coolness that doesn’t exist. I pant for relief, push with my palms against his sides, but succeed only in pressing him nearer. Then I pluck at my sweatsuit, trying to get air under it, but Kevin’s solidity blocks the movement.
He continues his attention to my face, first simply rubbing his cheek against my features, wafting soft breaths over every cell. In response my entire body wriggles of its own volition. I have no will power, no control over limbs or head, torso or toes.
I fade further from reality when Kevin covers my mouth with his, not really a kiss, more a capture, sharing the air back and forth between us. A lack of oxygen must be causing this light-headedness, this inability to make a decision to move away. I’m trapped, too, by the angles of Kevin’s features, the slope of his nose (neither straight nor classic, but emphatic nonetheless), the definition of his cheekbones, the strength of his skull blurred by tawny, silky waves of hair.
Suddenly, blam!, I find myself jerked forward, then back, my head snapping on my neck, my shoulders gripped so tightly I can’t move my arms. And Kevin—Kevin!—is yelling right smack dab in my face like a madman.
“Is this what you want? Is it? A dangerous game, Joan. You’d get more than you bargained for. And I don’t know about you, but I value myself too highly to throw myself away on a night that would mean nothing to either of us. A physical connection with no emotional commitment brings humans down to the level of dogs or cats. When I make love, the woman I’m with knows she’s treasured. So, no, I won’t help you get experience.”
With one last shove, Kevin pushes me against the couch, releasing my shoulders at the same time. I lie there staring, while he, jaw rigid with anger, looks up and down, right and left, as if searching for a way out of this mess. He finds one in the door to the hallway and he takes it.
* * * *
Something’s tickling my ear. I brush at it without opening my eyes. The tickle continues, bringing me from sleep to half-wakefulness. I push the blanket away from my ear and the tickle ceases. Now my pillow, squished under my head as I curl in a ball, needs rearranging. I thump the pillow, trying to bring it to a better location, but something lumpy and hard lies underneath it. I flip from my side to my back. My feet hit a barrier at the end of the bed and my arm dangles over the side.
This isn’t my normal position. What’s wrong? My eyelids are glued together and I pry them apart to see a ceiling and walls distinctly different from my apartment’s. I run my palm along the side of the bed to touch a leathery texture.
Kevin’s couch. Kevin’s living room. Kevin’s apartment. How could I have forgotten last night? I cried so hard after Kevin left that I passed into sleep without realizing it. I groan and throw an arm over my eyes to block the sight. Here on this very couch he refused to make love to me. How humiliating. I never heard of such a situation. In all the annals of films, television shows, ballads, and romances, has a man ever turned down a semi-attractive woman’s offer of sex? Maybe if he were married or gay, but those are the only excuses. If I’m so repellent, how can I ever expect to win Scott? A guy like that, handsome as the day is long, an attorney with a brilliant future, women throwing themselves at him as he walks down the street, dangling who knew what sexual suggestions, intimations, and favors in front of him.
As a gleaming vision of Scott’s rugged yet somehow sensitive countenance rises in my mind, a cheerful whistle breaks the apartment’s silence. Kevin! Why am I lying here mooning over Scott when in a few minutes I’ll have to face Kevin? And how can I face him? I forced him into risking a long and treasured friendship in a quest for sexual seasoning. Humiliating! Maybe I can gather myself together and sneak home. I throw back the blanket and stand just as the whistler portends Kevin’s entry. A massive blush mounts up my throat to suffuse my entire face, even my ears. I can’t brave him, so I whirl around and pretended an intense interest in smoothing my sweatshirt over my hips.
“Ready for some breakfast?” Kevin asks from behind me. “I know we haven’t had our regular run, but I think we can take one day off.”
How blasé! Probably this kind of thing happens to Kevin all the time, women making passes at him, foolish girls placing him in awkward situations. No avoiding it. I owe him an apology.
I slowly turn back. “Kevin, I’m sorry if I...”
He steps to me, cutting off my sentence. “Joan, no regrets. I’ve got none. No apologies. Sometimes these misunderstandings just happen.”
I can’t raise my eyes past the button mid-way on his shirt. “You’re not mad? We still can be friends?”
“Sure thing. Let’s chalk it up to both of us being asses. You, for making a dumb request, me, for overreacting. We’re good enough friends to forgive each other.” He turns me around by the shoulders and gives a pat to my bottom. “Now, scoot to the kitchen for a lip-smacking meal of yogurt and granola.”
I comply. If he can be suave, I can be urbane. If he can ignore my bumbling moves, I can overlook his set-down. At the tiny table, sunshine spills, splatters on the polished wood, dapples over my robe, canceling the chill that lingers in my bones.
Kevin burrows in the refrigerator for the yogurt, resuming his previous, toneless whistling. For some reason, I can’t pull my gaze away from his long bare legs in baggy shorts that accentuate the chiseled hardness of his thighs and calves. He carries the food to the table and I notice the gliding of sinew in his forearms. He stirs granola into yogurt, takes a bite, and I see the clean line of his jaw running squarely from chin to ear. What’s wrong with me? Is the disappearance of regular married sex finally affecting me in a major way?
“Eat, eat,” he says and waves a spoon in my direction.
I pick up my spoon obediently despite my lack of hunger. As I eat, the granola crunches in my ears like gunshots. Kevin grins at the sound.
“We could chew a duet,” he says.
I smile back without a trace of ill will or embarrassment. He really is nice, I think as I thump my spoon into the bowl, doing everything he can to make me feel comfortable. I wonder why he’s never been married. The women he dates must be stupid or crazy.
Uh-oh, Randi. One woman who wants more from Kevin. And I usurped the role that my new friend wants to play. I can imagine the pain Randi would feel if she ever learns of last night’s episode. Well, a knife won’t force a word from my lips; and I suppose the same is true for Kevin since he’s so nonchalant about the occasion.
“What’s on the schedule for you today?” Kevin asks, tearing me away from these morbid thoughts.
I focus on him. “A new hairdo.”
“What kind?”
“I think I’ll go auburn.”
Kevin moans and throws down his spoon. “When are you going to give up these attempts to change yourself? Your hair’s fine the way it is.”
I purse my lips and blow upward where some wayward wisps dangle. “It’s like baby hair. The color is average blah. My stage career demands that my hair makes a visual statement. Something that attracts and excites.”
“Attracts and excites whom?” Kevin demands. His voice shows his disgust. “Scott again?”
My spoon dips up and down in my breakfast.
“You hold yourself too cheap, Joan,” says Kevin. He cuts himself off abruptly, pushes back his chair and carries his silverware to the sink. “Hop to it, then,” he directs. “I’ve got a busy day ahead, too.”
I start to gather my breakfast things together.
“Just leave them,” Kevin says without turning, his shoulders and back as uncommunicative as marble. “I’ll finish up. Just go on your way.”
I leave before Kevin’s indifference isolates him further from me.
* * * *
The final dress rehearsal proves to be less chaotic than any previous practice. Facing the inevitable, everyone relaxes and goes with the flow. Kevin has promised to accompany me, and I don’t let a little thing like his reluctance stop him. I need him for an honest critique.
His awe at the sight of my short curls, rosy as a sunset, bouncy as a squirrel’s tail, persists from home to rehearsal hall.
“I can’t get over it,” he comments as we walk from the parking lot to the hotel. “I thought I’d hate the change. But I have to admit you look terrific. I don’t know quite what creates the impression. All I know is that I can’t pull my eyes away from you.”
“I always felt I should have been a real redhead,” I reply with great calm and a hint of humor, although my heart beats like a child’s tin drum. “Underneath this drab exterior lies the soul of an emotional, passionate artiste. This dye job has freed me to take chances, try my wings. Quite a bargain for only sixty-five bucks.”
Kevin stops so short, his heels squeak. “Not too many chances, I trust.” He studies me narrowly. “Still pinning your hopes on Scott, I see.”
I put my fingertips on Kevin’s sleeve. We stand in the hotel entry, half-way up the steps covered with worn red carpet that leads to doors with tarnished brass fittings. Attorneys and other staff from law firms stream past us, hustling to make the final rehearsal on time.
“You can read me without a pause,” I say. “But for now, please keep your thoughts about my romantic leanings to yourself. I need your unbiased evaluation of my performance. You’re always happy to criticize me in other areas.”
“Okay, okay,” Kevin grumbles. “I’ll limit my comments to your presentation.”
As fate or a mischievous gremlin would have it, the first person we spy as we walk into the ballroom is Scott. I gasp and grabbed Kevin’s sleeve. “There he is. Don’t look. Pretend you’re watching the stage. The tall one with wavy, auburn hair. I said, don’t look!”
Kevin, like any red-blooded male, ignores my command. “Now I understand where the idea for curly red hair came from. What were you aiming for, twin appeal?”
My embarrassment colors my face as crimson as my hair. Turning my back on Scott helps until Kevin cranes over my shoulder for a closer look. He mumbles something under his breath.
“What did you say? Not a criticism, I trust,” I question.
“A comment only. I said that I bet he wears French-cut, burgundy bikini briefs.”
“I certainly wouldn’t know. Forget this. Let’s find something to snack on before my skit.”
Kevin returns his attention to me. “Hungry already? We only finished dinner an hour ago.”
“I’ve got a tremendous hollowness in my stomach. Chalk it up to nerves.” I head to the table marked off for my office where a potluck of soft drinks, chips, and fast foods clutter the surface. Before I can pig out, the master of ceremonies calls from the stage.
“Horowitz, Trimble, Hawkins & Jones. Final walk-through.”
I leave Kevin at the table. This time the rehearsal, primarily designed to time each scene, goes as poorly as I could hope. Props disintegrate, back drops fall over, actors trip, microphones lose power. The team from Horowitz, Trimble, Hawkins & Jones seem cursed—none of this happens to the other firms.
I see the bad luck as a good omen. I bow to the imaginary audience with the rest of the cast at the end of our segment. We don’t, can’t delay (the next group already is lining up for their entrance), but I catch a glimpse of Kevin flashing me the thumbs-up sign and Scott standing immobilized, staring in stupefaction at my wonderful auburn hair. I shake my curls like a happy terrier and exit.
Back on the floor of the ballroom, I rejoin Kevin. “What should I do differently?” I ask breathlessly.
“Absolutely nothing. I knew you could sing, but this time you sounded like a professional. Like our own little Sheryl Crow or something. You’re full of surprises tonight,” he answers. “And your heart-throb noticed, too.”
Here comes Scott, words full of congratulations and eyes glimmering with what I hope is lust since he doesn’t look anywhere except directly at me. “Another great performance,” he enthuses, his normal air of smooth superiority missing for the moment. “The scenery falling was a fluke. And your hair knocks me out.”
Somewhere along the way Kevin’s arm becomes draped loosely around my shoulder, giving Scott pause when he notices it. He waits pointedly for an introduction.
“Thanks. Scott, this is a friend of mine,” I say, emphasizing friend, “Kevin Bostwick. Kevin, Scott Clark.”
Kevin nods, neglecting the customary handshake. Some basic male thing is transpiring, I recognize, although I can’t give it further definition for the life of me. Scott recognizes the line over which he can’t pass without challenging the other man. He represses his concentration on me and retreats. “See you at work, Joan.”
After Scott walks away, I whirl on Kevin. “What was that all about?”
“What?” Kevin answers, all innocence.
“Pretending I was with you by putting your arm around me.”
“I was trying to help you. You become more desirable if he thinks he’s got competition.”
“My heart-felt thanks,” I say. I see my dreams disappearing along with Scott’s dwindling figure. “I’ll give that comment the attention it deserves—precisely nothing. You owe me, mister, for interfering.”
“Call on me anytime, Joan.”
* * * *
On my visit to the cafeteria the next day, I think longingly of Kevin’s offer of support after Dolores alerts me to a new development.
“He’s here,” my friend says.
“Who?”
“Scott. He asked me what time you usually dropped by. He’s been stretching out his soft drink so long that the ice melted. I guess your new hairdo did the trick.” Dolores counts some coins into the register to cover the conversation. “Move your butt in there. And act surprised.”
I obey, wishing I have Kevin’s advice, too. Unused to strategizing to attract a man, I feel lost. Should I show eagerness? Be cool and distant? Just friendly? Hyperventilation prevents me from making a decision. It’s all I can do to perform a slow, casual stroll out of the cafeteria line and into the dining area. Then fake a double-take as I spot Scott, giving him ample time to invite me to join him.
“I’m glad I caught you, Joan. I’ve had a hard time getting you outside the office. Either your ‘friend’ is with you or Kimberlee’s dogging my steps,” he says.
Immediately intrigued, I bite. I slide into the booth opposite Scott. “Dogging? I thought you and Kimberlee were a couple. You’re always together.”
“Not my choice,” Scott denies. “We were friendly for a while, but we don’t have much in common. She just won’t let go.”
My heart feels as if it’s leapt into my throat. I sternly suppress any sign of excitement or enthusiasm. Even I know too strong a reaction could frighten a male into showing his heels, like a hunter flushing a game bird into flight.
“Enough about Kimberlee,” Scott says. “I want to talk about you. I’d like to know you better. When can we get together?”
I want to scream and jump up. Or faint flat on the floor. The sequence of days in the week flip through my mind. I promised to attend another of Dolores’s at-home sales tomorrow. The day after, I have to prepare for the opening of the Revue. Then, Friday, premiere night. What if I miss this chance to be with Scott? Can I back out of Dolores’s party? Nope, my guilt over Kevin compelled me to invite Randi along.
My hesitation must show on my face, for Scott holds up a hand to stall my reply. “I know this is the final stretch before the Revue. You probably need to rest. How about opening night? You’ll want to relax after the pressure.”
Scott, uncertain about my response? Scott, minus his normal confidence? Scott, his façade of supercool cracked? Kevin was right, I muse. It doesn’t hurt to stall. Hesitation piques Scott’s interest and makes him unsure about my response. “That should work,” I say slowly, “if we’re not exhausted. I may have to take a rain check. Can we make it tentative?”
“If we must.” Scott’s intense gaze makes me dizzy. He covers my hand with his, nearly upsetting my coffee cup. “Any cancellation won’t be due to me.”
I manage a smile I hope is half-mysterious, half-promising, as I disengage my hand, stand, and say, “See you Friday, then.”
* * * *
Dolores’s parties, a never-ending succession of attempts to supplement her cash flow, have included a parade of plastic ware (guaranteed to preserve deviled eggs for up to a week), cosmetics (requiring purchase from the skin outward), home decorations that emphasize the “country look” (lots of straw, gingham, ribbons, and dried flowers), customized paper products (stationery to fit every mood and need), and miscellaneous gifts (mice and teddy bears were dominant themes). Out of a sense of obligation, I purchase something each time, even educational toys for non-existent nieces and nephews.
This affair is different and holds a great deal of attraction for me. “Luscious lingerie” the scented invitation purred in an elegant script. I think of my rag-tag undies and the practical sweatsuits that comprise my winter pajamas and shudder. Absolutely nothing to entice Scott past the first button on my blouse or a rumple of my bedspread. Although unconvinced that my upcoming initial date with Scott will lead me anywhere other than an ending at my own front door, I want to be prepared. The feel of sexy underwear against skin has stood many a woman in good stead as she teetered on the brink of an affair, I believe.
The party also offers an opportunity to sooth my conscience about Randi’s persistent efforts to build a friendship. The natural redhead phoned numerous times to suggest lunch, drinks, or coffee and I always put her off, having nothing to report on the Kevin front (in fact, all my attention had been centered on myself, but I don’t want to admit this fact). I figure the gathering to be an excuse to get together without indulging in heart-to-heart confidences.
Randi waves from the lobby of a shabby apartment house, then trips down the sidewalk, adroitly skipping over crumbling concrete steps. As a struggling entrepreneur, she prefers to invest in her jewelry business rather than her residence. “I’m so glad you called,” she bubbles as she gets in the car. “I’ve wanted to find out how Kevin’s doing.”
A guilty shudder runs up my arms, which Randi misses. “You see him, don’t you?” I ask. “I’m sure he’s mentioned that.”
“Oh, yes. In fact, he’s taking me to your debut on Friday. But he’s so reticent about his feelings. I thought maybe he’d opened up with you.”
“Nope. Nothing new to report,” I reply, ignoring my one rather huge, if unintentional, misstep, the seduction gone awry.
“Maybe tonight will change that,” Randi says. “I’ve never been to a private showing of lingerie. Makes me feel rather risque. This could change our lives entirely. Not to mention Kevin’s.”
Visions of yards of lace, red or black silk, plunging necklines fill my mind as I pull up to Dolores’s. How would Kevin respond to the sight? Of course, Randi would be the one undressed to kill in that instance. Scott, I suppose, is complacently accustomed to women’s underthings. I vow I’ll buy something to complement my new image and boost my self-confidence, as well as literally knock Scott’s socks off if the relationship progresses as I hope.
Dolores opens her door a smidge. When she sees me and Randi, she swings it all the way in welcome. A giggle escapes from her. “Had to make sure you were invited guests,” she admits. “The evening’s offerings aren’t geared for men or for straitlaced women.”
I wonder if the term applies to either me or Randi, but I enter anyway. Dolores’s working class house wears a definitely seductive ambience tonight. No overhead lights, but lots of chunky candles. An intense scent of potpourri wafts through the air, accompanied by the soft strains of a romantic ballad. Randi and I follow Dolores to the living room where a small group of women perch on sofa, armchairs, and straight-backed chairs moved in from the dining room. Instead of being relaxed by the low-key atmosphere, they clutch glasses of white wine and make nervous small talk, looking for all the world like a collection of teenagers waiting to audition for a porn movie.
Dolores introduces us newcomers to several ladies, then excuses herself. Before enough time passes to force conversation to lapse into silence, she returns, dragging a full length mirror, which she props against the wall.
“So we can see ourselves in the flesh, so to speak,” she says gaily as if she were a matchstick-thin anorexic. “The modest among you can simply hold the lingerie up in front of you. The more daring can model.”
With that she stations herself in the center of the room on a small settee next to two suitcases. She unsnaps them and draws out an armful of pastel froth. In an obviously rehearsed husky tone, Dolores begins.
“Ladies, we’re all desirable on the interior. Our passion, unbounded, our romance, unquenched. But sometimes we need assistance in showing our feelings on the outside. Lingerie is one way to indicate our emotions. Admittedly a prop, nevertheless lingerie can present us at our best. Tonight you’ll see the most flattering, most luxurious in intimate wear. Let’s begin with a mood of innocence.”
Dolores shakes out a pure white negligee sheer enough to allow a glimpse of flesh through it. An “ooooo” rises from the group. She stands and holds the straight, pale column at shoulder height, setting it shivering with slight tremors.
“Yes, in this gown your virginity is miraculously restored. You can play the coy maiden, hide behind its folds, all the while tempting your man to action with the promise of things to come.”
I shake my head. I don’t need the appearance of chastity with Scott. I favor blatant enticement since I, newcomer to the adult dating scene, still am not sure of the correct pattern to take the offense rather than the defense I always practiced before I married.
Dolores’s rehearsed monologue continues. Hyperbole succeeds exaggeration, word pictures as full of frills as the lingerie. Wine loosens the women’s inhibitions and some of them offer to display themselves as well as the merchandise. I can’t quite work up my nerve but I take a vicarious pleasure in their antics. Perhaps their figures aren’t perfect, yet they exude a collective, chattering feminine charm.
A form-fitting red sheath slithers down an exotic brunette’s svelte figure. Standing before the mirror, a plump blonde in a pale blue peignoir urges her friend into a matching buttercup yellow nightie. A woman on the better side of fifty looks down with a small smile at her figure disguised into midnight mystery by a stunning empire-waisted nightgown.
When all the lounge wear has been exhibited, Dolores calls the ladies back to order. “We’ll progress now into more revealing items. The lovable teddy, trimmed with mesh so fine it looks like spider webs.” Dexterous as a magician, Dolores extracts the flesh-colored fantasy. The women burst into enthusiastic, if rather satirical, applause. To exclamations of appreciation, a parade of tap panties, slips, and chemises pour from the cases.
No one seems quite as eager to try on these clothes. However, they are willing to hold the delicate pieces in front of one another, securing them with gentle fingers to a neighbor’s shoulders, or crossing a forearm over their own waists.
Dolores insists they put these articles aside and take a few moments for another glass of wine. Drawing a breath, she embarks on her narrative again. “Now for the grand finale.”
She reaches behind the settee for a hidden container. It flips open on all sides to create a self-contained show case, lined with velvet. All manner of dainty bras and matching panties flirt with the viewer’s eye, some prim, some daring, flowered or patterned, glittery or shadowy, like exotic butterflies perched momentarily on the contrasting cloth.
By their thin straps Dolores lifts the bras to show off their curves and supports, the way they caress and mold the figure. One appears to be nothing more than a wide band with a couple of smaller ribbons to cross over the shoulders.
I finger the smooth satin. “Must be a convertible style. Where’s the rest of it?” I ask.
“That’s all there is,” says Dolores.
“You mean it leaves your top bare?” I find the notion unbelievable. “What’s the point?”
“It’s erotic,” says Dolores. “But wait until you get a gander at this other one.”
The women shriek when Dolores withdraws the last flimsy bra and panty set. Strategically placed holes peek-a-boo in both the top and the bottom, leaving nothing to the imagination of the sharp-sighted.
“I wouldn’t dare,” one woman blushes.
“Yes,” agrees Dolores. “You need a great deal of self-confidence to wear this outfit.”
“Or a bag over your head,” jokes Randi. “No one would be watching your face.” The group roars in delight.
The contrast between the final lingerie set and the first, now pristine-appearing, gown gives the viewers a range of clothing and seduction styles that loosen checkbooks and purses. Everyone finds something to her taste, including me.
I opt for a moderate yet provocative duo—a short chemise pale and insubstantial as moonlight, coupled with a string bikini bottom. They can serve as undergarments or night things. No slap-in-the-face allure for me or Scott. Besides I’m still a little unsure of my figure’s quality when compared to the women Scott usually dates, so it’s best to cover up a bit.
The women wrap their packages and leave Dolores’s house in twos and threes, their heads together and giggling. Lots of happy husbands and boyfriends tonight, I think. When Randi precedes me to the car, I pause to give Dolores a quick hug as she stands by the door saying farewell.
“I can’t thank you enough for inviting me,” I say, taking Dolores by surprise.
“Why?” asks Dolores. “I’ve noticed you come to my sales reluctantly and you usually buy the cheapest item there.”
“You just may have started a romance with your goods,” I say.
“You’ve finally seen the light and decided to surrender gracefully to that gorgeous hunk you call a friend?” Dolores guesses.
“Kevin? No,” I deny without a blink, praying that Randi can’t overhear the topic of conversation. “I can’t imagine why you’d think I’m interested in him. You know very well it’s still Scott I’m after.”
“I must say that you’re working to deserve him. You’ve really trimmed down.”
“You can credit Kevin. He forced me into it.”
“The man is gone on you. Why lose the male in your hand for one in the bush?” Dolores just won’t drop the subject.
“Give up. He’s protective of me because he’s known me so long. He goes on automatic safeguard. Anyway,” I drop my voice lower, “Randi’s scheming for him. He’ll realize they’re destined for each other eventually. Scott, on the other hand, is my ideal. Sexy, romantic, charming, mysterious. I have a date with him on Friday,” I say as I walk outside.
Dolores leans against the door jamb and shakes her head in disbelief. “Your choice. Have fun. You can’t miss in the outfit you bought. With your height, you’ll look like a long, irresistible peppermint stick, one he’ll want to lick all night.”
* * * *
The entire office shuts down at two p.m. on Friday to prepare for the Revue. Like all the staff, I retreat home for an hour’s attempted rest. But the darkened bedroom appears and reappears between blinks of my eyelids before I surrender and get up to concentrate on insuring that every detail in my costume is perfect.
So immersed am I in pressing the skirt, top, and ribbons that the timer on the oven buzzes me into shock with its sound. The first in a series of alarms I set to insure I won’t be late. But the next ringing is the doorbell.
Somehow I expected Kevin to drop by. He’d never let me face this challenge without giving me a proper send-off. A big bunch of daisies waves in my face when I crack the door to hide my partially clothed body behind it.
“Hey. Aren’t these supposed to come after the performance? When I’m taking my bows on stage?” I joke. But I grab the bouquet and let Kevin enter regardless, checking to make sure the top of the bath sheet wraps firmly around me and drapes a decent amount down my thighs.
Kevin tracks after me to the bathroom, props himself against the counter when I pick up the blow dryer to finish my hair. “They’re to soothe your nerves,” he says.
“I’m numb, not nervous,” I holler over the blowing.
“What about the hundreds of eyes that will be trained on you? The idea of that doesn’t shake you up?”
“Pul-eeeze,” I protest. I turn off the dryer and pick up a huge jar of cold cream, slathering a handful on my face. “You’re supposed to put me at ease, not terrify me.”
“What on earth are you doing? You’ll slide off the stage before you have a chance to perform.” Kevin strokes a finger down my cheek.
I shake his hand away. “That’s to prepare for the stage makeup. Otherwise I’d never be able to scrub it off.”
With a final, satisfied pat to my face, I pivot to leave the bathroom and crash against Kevin’s arm stretched across the doorway. He drops the limb with excruciating slowness, as if waiting for some kind of response.
I brush away the idea (where has it surfaced from?) and dart into the bedroom where my costume lays smooth and ironed on the bed. Kevin sticks his head around the corner but whips it back behind the wall as I drop the towel to reveal a bustier and thong underwear.
“Joan!” he protests.
“What?” Mid-way pulling the blouse over my head, I glance down at my exposed torso. “Oh, sorry. I’m so used to you, I always forget you’re not a girl.”
“Thanks,” he mutters from behind the wall.
Now costumed, I frantically paw through closet and drawers. “I’m late, I’m late. Where’s that damn dress.” I tug a jersey shift off a hanger.
After a peek to check that I’m dressed, Kevin enters the bedroom. “If you’re late, what are you looking for?”
“My clothes for afterward. Ah, here they are.” I ball up my new lingerie and stuff it in a tote bag, somehow hesitant to let Kevin see the delicate pieces.
“You’re joining me and Randi when you’re done, aren’t you?”
“Actually, no.” I avoid his eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of barging in on your date.”
“Come on. With Randi? She’ll be disappointed.”
I make for the front door, automatically hitting each light switch on my way. “To tell the truth, I have an appointment,” I throw over my shoulder.
Kevin hardly can keep up with me. I shoo him out to the hall to lock the door, then hustle him to the elevator, my tote bag swinging from side to side behind me like a tail.
“An appointment on Friday night?” Disbelief is evident in Kevin’s voice.
A punch of the button for the parking level, a quick check inside the tote bag for makeup, an intense study of floor numbers as they flash by. I rub my throat with my fingertips. “Yes, with Scott,” I finally admit.
The elevator doors part and I step out, expecting Kevin to follow me to my car. Instead, he holds a door back to prevent its closing. “Finally. You’ve achieved the summit of your ambitions. Acceptance by your idol. Congratulations. Let me know about his underwear.” With a wave of his hand, Kevin steps back to allow the elevator to rise.
A rather abrupt departure, I ponder. I shrug—no time to ponder now. A few minutes drive brings me to the parking lot next to the hotel and a mad dash inside carries me to the large restroom serving as dressing room.
In the marble and porcelain retreat, where huge mirrors on every wall multiply each movement by a dozen, a kind of hysteria seems to grip women in the throes of final preparation. Shrieks, low moans, thuds as shoes and cosmetics are misplaced, then found, the cacophony of tempers on a short fuse ricochets from ceiling and floor until the stage manager knocks for the half-hour warning.
“The audience is starting to come in,” a woman alerts the group at large. Some attempt is made to quiet down by the amateur actresses in differing stages of undress.
I ignore the chaos to initiate breathing and singing exercises designed to warm up my voice. I follow with careful stretches of every muscle group, twisting left and right, a few knee bends, hands clasped behind me to bow my back, head rotations. A final check of my makeup in the mirror ends the sequence. Do I look like a clown? A strumpet? This is one arena completely new to me. Singing in a church choir, even solo, takes vocal talent. As long as your hair’s combed and your clothing decent, no one judges your appearance. But the Revue requires acting, at the minimum a smooth delivery of lines and lack of collisions with furniture. My body begins to ice from the fingers and toes inward.
A second knock resounds. This time, the stage manager sticks his head inside the room. “Fifteen minutes,” he says. “Time to go backstage.”
This is it, I think as I walk out between clusters of two and three women. I reject companionship—handclasps or brushing arms or even quick and light chatter—in favor of an enveloping stupor. It stays with me to cushion me against the disturbances of players from other acts tromping back and forth, allowing me to concentrate on my part. If I register their presence at all, I hear a faint murmur or buzz in my ears, see shadowy figures flit past.
As I breathe deeply and focus on a spot on the wall, Harold jiggles my elbow. Little that’s truly lawyerly about him, that is, subdued and elegant, remains. The typecasting of melodrama configures his costuming—dead black suit buttoned high to the collar of a pure white shirt. He’s applied his makeup more than generously and his black-encircled eyes glow in a pale, luminous face, while his hair is slicked back into a hero’s style. He holds a thumb upward. I surmise from this greeting that our act is about to start.
A wild round of applause indicates that the performance now ending has won the audience’s hearts. Can anyone else compete?
From the stage rings the master of ceremony’s sonorous tones. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Now the cast from Horowitz, Trimble, Hawkins & Jones, in ‘The Sound of Muzak.’” Polite clapping frames Harold’s entry.
Fifteen minutes isn’t much of a period to make a great impression, but for the employees of Horowitz, Trimble, Hawkins & Jones, it’s ample. As heroine-secretary, I warble optimistic advice to the staff on controlling and directing the office’s threatening computer. Assisted by a dashing Harold (playing an eager-to-learn attorney) and Trimble’s admin (in the role of motherly computer expert), I master the computer’s complexities to release its potential for the good of all mankind and the legal profession.
The grand finale sees the assembled cast advising in song, “Master every program, punch every key, study every manual, till you learn like we.” At this point, and on center stage, I feel building and rolling toward me a response from the massed crowd, an intangible yet encompassing approbation.
Gradually, from the dozens of rows occupied by audience members who all look interchangeable in their business apparel and lawyerly demeanors, I’m able to pick out individual members—my mother cheering, Kevin next to Randi holding his hands high, Dolores with several of her children woofing and circling their fists. Finally, ultimately, Scott who gives me a small, intimate wave.
The entire cast takes bow after bow and steps back to yield to the major players. Then I stand alone as the show’s star, basking in the adulation from the audience. The curtain drops to prepare for the next act and my co-workers and I clear the stage.
Too keyed up to retire, the group clusters in the wings behind the threadbare makeshift curtains, hugging one another in congratulation. Only one more entry remains in the Revue competition—twenty minutes until the winner will be proclaimed. No one doubts that Horowitz, Trimble, Hawkins & Jones will take all honors.
Sure enough, our act is proclaimed the winner. Mr. Horowitz, calm, dignified, moves with measured steps, precedes the mob from the office to accept the award. Hard on his heels and constrained only until he says, “Thank you,” come his employees, slapping one another on the back and cheering. They break to stream backstage and down into the audience.
Flush with success, I join my mother. Barbara squeezes my arm in delight. “I told you that a hobby would help. And now, here you are, ready to embark on a new career.”
“Hardly,” I demur.
I have no time to continue, for here come Kevin and Randi, followed by anyone else with an excuse to approach. Mr. Horowitz beams, shakes hands with my mother who beams, and congratulates her on her daughter’s performance. Even Kimberlee politely puts in an appearance.
In the chaos, Barbara maneuvers me to the side of the group to say in an undertone, “I’m glad to see Kevin here. Any progress?”
“What kind of progress do you expect, Mom? We’re neighbors and friends. We exercise together, sometimes eat together, he lectures me about my life, and generally makes a nuisance of himself.”
“You’re wasting time. If you don’t wake up and smell the coffee, you’re going to lose your opportunity,” Barbara warns.
“I don’t want an opportunity. Randi, the short redhead, is the woman for Kevin.” My frustration with Barbara’s matchmaking makes me terse.
“Oh, really?” Barbara cocks an eyebrow and stares over my shoulder. I turn to see Kimberlee wreaking havoc with her eyelashes on Kevin’s psyche. Not that Kevin appears uncomfortable. He’s beaming down at the blonde, and Randi’s nowhere in sight.
“Well!” I take off for Kevin’s side so fast that my skimpy costume gets wedged between my legs. I grab Kevin’s arm possessively. “I see you’ve met Kimberlee,” I say, never moving my eyes from the woman’s face.
“Yes,” says Kevin, grinning like a happy drunk. “She tells me you’re the firm’s mainstay when it comes to turning out work.”
“How nice of her,” I murmur. “Where’s Randi?”
“Hmmm?” Kevin’s distraction focuses on Kimberlee’s lanky legs, encased for the evening in some sort of glittery, silvery space-age fabric under a skirt approximately thirteen inches long. Kimberlee smoothes the mini over her nonexistent stomach.
“Randi? The woman you came with?” I don’t even try to suppress my sarcastic tone.
“She had to take off. Something about preparing for an early meeting. Kimberlee, how were you involved in this evening’s triumph?” Kevin leans toward Kimberlee so far that he breaks the connection of my handhold.
Kimberlee launches into a long but humorous story about writing the script. I tune her out when Scott sidles up to the still-chattering horde of Horowitz-ites collected by the door.
“I’m glad I didn’t lay any bets against your winning,” Scott comments, taking my hand in both of his.
My insides promptly turn to mush. Striving to disguise the fact, I shoot back, “The team effort is responsible.”
“But you are the key element. That’s what made the difference.” He leans closer and puts his lips right by my ear. “I can’t wait to be alone with you. Let’s go.”
“My car?” I squeak.
“It’s in a lot, right? Safe there overnight.”
I nod and slip away to get my things, all thoughts of Kevin, Randi or Kimberlee evaporating like smoke. In the hallway, I join Scott, and its emptiness shows that our escape is unnoticed. Scott leads me to a fancy, low-slung car (I don’t know the make), shining with metallic splendor, roaring with bridled power.
The ride makes no impression on me. The mush within me has turned into a churning mass. I struggle to control my clenching insides even as Scott and I park, climb a short flight of stairs, and enter his modern townhouse.
It seems Scott has three or four pairs of hands, for all at once soft music plays, a fire glimmers, candles flame, champagne chills, and I find myself propped against soft cushions. Scott offers me a flute of champagne as he seats himself next to me. One of his arms creeps behind me on the overstuffed sofa, and his fingers rub my shoulder.
“You’ve changed, Joan. You’ve become a total delight. You sparkle, you fizz like this champagne. I can’t resist you,” he murmurs.
My stomach pitches. God, I’m hungry. Feels like centuries since I’ve tasted a bite. “Got anything to eat?” I ask brightly.
Scott recoils. Does he take my statement as a rebuff? I can’t help that. Without nourishment, I’ll faint.
“I guess that’s understandable considering the energy you expended on stage. I wouldn’t want you to collapse on me.” He exits to the kitchen.
“I’ll go change and freshen up,” I call.
In the bathroom, I open my tote bag. I shake out my dress, reach for the new lingerie, feel instead something moist and squishy.
“Oh, no,” I moan. A quick tug reveals the peach-colored silk smeared with makeup. In my rush to pack, the lid of my foundation must have worked loose. Now I have no sexy underthings. How can I be seduced in the sweat-soaked bra and panties I sported throughout the performance?
A glimpse in the mirror reveals another miscalculation—stage makeup is too messy to retain in an intimate setting. My eyeshadow and mascara have been leaking down my cheeks. Scott will slide off my face, leaving a smeared mess on my skin behind him. I’ll have to remove the cosmetics.
“Joan?” Scott calls from the cozy retreat of the overstuffed sofa. “I’m ready. Come join me.”