The note attached to the enormous bouquet of damask-colored roses read simply: “To go with your hair. Alain.”
Janie stared down at the card and realized that her hand was trembling with excitement. She tucked the note away in her handbag and, when Melina asked where the flowers had come from, she murmured something vague about a late birthday gift. Long after the roses had wilted, she carried the card around in her wallet, fingering it whenever she was feeling down, as though it were a talisman, a good luck charm. He didn’t mean anything by it, Janie warned herself from time to time. It was just Alain’s way of thanking her for her work. European manners, she told herself, nothing more. And then one day a book arrived via Federal Express for Janie from Paris. It was an oversized, full-color, extravagantly produced tome about Bordeaux, its vineyards and countryside, famous chateaux and families.
“Homework,” the handwritten note on the inside cover said. “With affection, Alain.”
She hauled it back to her apartment that night and proceeded to devour every word, though she was disappointed to discover that it was not nearly as informative or detailed as some of the texts she had studied for the presentation. And, she admitted only to her innermost self, the four-color work was slipshod. Still, she told herself, it was the thought that counted. But just what was Alain thinking? She kept telling herself that he was only being kind, considerate. For some reason he had taken an interest her. He probably sent a dozen gifts a day to various women around the globe.
She finally drummed up enough courage to casually mention to Melina one morning, “Alain sent me a book.”
“Oh?” Melina had replied vaguely.
“Yes,” Janie continued. “A very pretty one about Bordeaux. Thoughtful of him, don’t you think?”
“Hmmm,” Melina murmured. “He’s very generous. Just how much thought’s involved, I couldn’t say.”
But Melina’s words did nothing to dampen Janie’s mounting anticipation. She was exhilarated. She was scared out of her mind. She wasn’t sleeping well. And she wasn’t eating. Janie would wake up each morning counting the days: three more weeks until the trip to France, two more weeks … and now it was five days away…
“Lord, Janie,” Melina exclaimed one morning, “are you on a diet or something? You’re losing a hell of a lot of weight all of a sudden. You’re okay, aren’t you?” She looked fine, Melina told herself—in fact, she looked more than fine. Not only was Janie slimming down, but she had started to wear her hair loose around her shoulders, rather than in that messy bun she used to affect. Heavens, was she still pining away for Alain? Well, whatever the reason, Melina decided, her partner was at least starting to look reasonably well turned out.
“I feel just great,” Janie assured her, leaning back on Melina’s new white leather Italian couch. They were waiting in Melina’s office for the reporter from New York magazine who was coming to do a follow-up interview for her piece on the emerging trend toward women-owned advertising agencies. “I guess it’s just all the excitement … I haven’t had time to eat.”
“I know what you mean,” Melina replied irritably. “Now where the hell is that damned Denise? I’ve got to get up to Ramona by four. We’re cutting this close.”
“You’ll be fine,” Janie told her. “If we start to run late, then you can take off, and I’ll finish the interview.”
“We’ll see,” Melina replied, stealing another quick glance at the couch: Janie had started to dress better too. Gone were those tentlike jumpers and overalls. Gone were the ankle boots and leotards. In their place were classically tailored trousers and vests. Silk blouses in muted colors. A simple string of pearls. She was starting to look like she’d just stepped out of some goddamned Calvin Klein spread, Melina thought. Melina had given Janie and herself juicy bonuses when the new accounts came on; it was amazing, wasn’t it, Melina told herself, what a little money could buy?
Even Alain had noticed that Janie was looking less tacky. Last time she had met him at the Plaza, he kept bringing up her name. “Where does she come from?” Alain had demanded after he had once again told Melina how pleased he was with Janie’s new work. It was not, Melina decided, a subject she particularly wanted to explore at that moment. Her body was still glistening from their recent exertions in bed.
“Who?” she had replied, sitting up on the pillows and trying to smooth back her hair.
“Jane,” Alain repeated, “Jane Penrod. Where does she come from? She has a rather odd accent. Clipped and very schooled.”
“How could you tell? She’s usually so tongue-tied when she talks to you,” Melina answered snidely. “You just like her because she adores you so. But—just as a warning—I doubt she’s ever been fucked, let alone in the places you prefer.”
“Don’t be vulgar,” Alain snapped. “I despise this American tendency to say anything one wants in the name of frankness. And how would you know what my real style is, Melina? I merely do what is appropriate for the occasion. And with you … well…”
“Okay.” Melina sighed. “Let’s drop it. I spoke out of line. Janie’s from New England. Massachusetts, I think. All I know about her is that her father’s a schoolteacher, and she has a million older brothers and sisters. I’ve always thought of them as the kind of family who would, you know, darn their own socks and make bread from scratch.”
“Frugal is the English word, yes?” Alain asked, and then he seemed to lose interest in the discussion as he started to massage Melina’s breasts. Leaning down to kiss one of her nipples, he murmured, “Not like our extravagant little Melina.”
He was by far the most generous lover Melina had ever known. He’d already presented her with a heavy gold Picasso broach from Tiffany’s. A double string of pearls from Mikimoto. He brought her gifts in Paris—a brocade Kenzo jacket, the sheerest of silk negligees—and then draped them over her side of the bed as a surprise. And yet, Melina admitted, she felt no real affection in the gift-giving. Because she knew he didn’t see her as a person, as a woman; he saw her as yet another object he had acquired. Sometimes she felt as though Alain were merely decorating one of his possessions—her—with these other beautiful things. Even the gold broach, which she adored, and in fact had on that day for the interview, felt like something on loan to her. The way his interest in her—she could hardly term it love—was a temporary thing. But what did that matter? He had given the agency a major boost when they badly needed it, and that’s what she cared about more than anything. Would she, Melina wondered, really miss him when he moved on to his next lover?
As the reporter from New York magazine hurried into the room, apologizing profusely for being late, Melina concluded that, no, she wouldn’t mind losing Alain. Not the way she minded letting go of Zach. And, dammit to hell, Zach’s name was one of the first words out of Denise’s mouth when she sat down.
“I must say, girls,” Denise began as she clicked down on her tape recorder, “that your alma mater is being extremely polite about the recent defections of their clients to your roster. Zachary Dorn—Lord, what an attractive man, don’t you think?—had only the most glowing things to say about Janie, here.”
“I’m sure Zach’s very discreet on the record,” Melina replied evenly. “Too bad he’s so awful about all this in private. He nearly attacked me—physically, I mean—on the sidewalk the other day.”
“Melina, you never told me that!” Janie interjected. “When did you see Zach?” She’d been feeling increasingly guilty as the weeks slipped by and the news of Ramona and then Chanson leaked out through the trade press, that she hadn’t phoned Zach. Each day when she woke up she promised herself that she would call him, but then there was always some handy excuse not to. She was so busy. Or she was too tired. But the truth of it was she still had no idea what she would say, how she could explain away her role in what had happened.
“I didn’t want to worry you, Janie,” Melina replied soothingly. “He was most insulting. And this is not for the record, Denise, but it was just after the Ramona announcement—and I’m afraid he was just a little unhinged by the news. Zach’s brilliant and all, I’m the first to admit, but he’s also so damned explosive. Quite honestly, if it weren’t for his awful temper, I’d probably still be in his employ. He practically threw me out on the street right after Janie and I had just about single-handedly landed the City Slickers account. Admit it, Janie, he was pretty abusive.”
“Yes, well, Zach can sometimes be difficult,” Janie agreed, then turning to Denise added, “but that’s not what you came to talk about, right? And you won’t use any of this in your article, will you?”
“My goodness,” Denise replied, “don’t worry. You’re hardly the first woman in the world to call Zachary Dorn difficult. Now, let’s see,” she continued, flipping through her notes, “tell me about your plans for Ramona and how you’re getting on with dear, sweet-tempered Madame…”
The meeting lasted until three-thirty, when Melina rushed off to her appointment at Ramona. Janie saw Denise out and then sorted through the stack of messages that had piled up during the interview.
“Did you tell Melina about this call?” Janie asked Tina, holding up a pink slip. It recorded a long distance number, no name or business given, but with the words “Urgent. Call Immediately” rendered out in Tina’s round, careful hand.
“I tried,” Tina explained, “but she told me she was too busy. To have you handle everything.”
“Did it sound like a business matter or something personal?” Janie asked, as usual not quite sure if Tina understood what she was saying.
“It was important, the woman said,” Tina replied with conviction. “She sounded upset, nervous. She said to call right away.”
“A woman, not a man,” Janie replied. When Tina nodded her head, Janie asked, “But did she want to speak only to Melina … or did they say anyone could call back?”
“I don’t know,” Tina began helplessly. “I don’t remember. Was I supposed to ask? Did I make another mistake? Ms. Bliss said she would fire me on the spot if I…”
“No, no,” Janie reassured her, “don’t worry. You did just fine. I’ll call back and see what I can do.”
The phone rang six times, and Janie was about to hang up when a female voice answered, the accent deeply Southern.
“Hello,” Janie replied, “I’m calling from Bliss & Penrod. Someone at this number called earlier leaving an urgent message. I was wondering if I could be of any help?”
“And just who are you?” the woman demanded shrilly.
“Janie Penrod. I work with Melina.”
“And where’s she?” the woman retorted. “She too important these days to come to the phone?”
“No, of course not,” Janie answered, trying to keep her patience. “She’s out at a meeting. I’m only calling because I thought maybe I could help. What was your call in reference to?”
“It was in reference to the fact that Melina’s ma has died,” the woman stated, “and we were hoping that she would drum up the decency to get down here for the funeral.”
“Her mother?” Janie demanded. “But that’s not possible. Melina’s an orphan. She doesn’t know who her people are.”
“Ha!” the woman cried. “Is that the story she’s handing you folks up there? Well, let me tell you maybe that’s what she wishes. But it sure ain’t so. I’m her older sister, for heaven’s sake. I helped change her diapers when she was a kid. I think I should know.”
“Oh…” Janie murmured. “I’m terribly sorry. I’ll have Melina get back to you immediately. Really … I’m so … sorry about your mother.”
“Well, I’m sure that’s more than Melina will be,” her sister replied bitingly.
“I’ll … I’ll have her call you,” Janie replied, uncertain how else to respond to the woman’s raw anger, “as soon as she gets in.”
It was after seven. The rest of the staff had gone home. Janie heard the elevator door swish open and Melina’s muffled steps on the carpet.
“You still here?” Melina said as she pushed through the doors and saw Janie. “Lord, I’m beat. Madame was in her element this afternoon, chewing everyone out. But she liked the final boards, so at least we’re okay. Anything new here?”
“No,” Janie replied. “But … Melina … I have some news. I think you better sit down.”
“What?” Melina demanded. “What is it?”
“Here, sit,” Janie said, getting up and pushing her chair forward. “I mean it.”
“Janie, honestly,” Melina answered, but when she saw Janie’s expression, she felt a sudden rush of concern. She did as she was told, perching on Janie’s chair and declaring, “You’re being awfully dramatic, honey. Now what the hell is going on?”
Melina didn’t say anything for several seconds after Janie told her. She looked down at her perfectly manicured hands that were resting in her lap. Recently she’d changed to a French manicure, liking the simpler, classier look of the sheer polish against the white crescent tips. She spread her palm out against her dark green gabardine skirt, pleased with the effect. Then she let her thoughts turn, ever so carefully, toward the news about her mother. Dead. Actually, physically dead after all these years of willing her to be. And her sister—which one? Melina wondered—calling her. She hadn’t thought of any of them for so long, and yet she suddenly recalled, as vividly as if she’d seen it just that morning, the macramé tea cozy that used to hang on a plastic hook by the stove. Such a silly, ugly, inconsequential thing, and yet with that one memory Melina could feel the floodgates straining with the weight of her long-suppressed, unhappy past. She looked at her fingertips again and shook her head sadly.
“You know, Mama would have thought paying seven dollars for a manicure an outrageous expense.” Melina sighed. “She worked so damned hard, and yet I can’t once remember her buying anything pretty for herself.”
“So, it’s true?” Janie asked gently. “You do have a family after all? Why … why did you lie to me, Melina?”
“Oh, for a million reasons, honey,” Melina countered. “Because I hated the dreary little town I came from. Because I despised my father and felt only disgust for my mother and sisters. Because I wanted to be different. I wanted to be better. Didn’t you ever want to change, Janie? Didn’t you ever wish you could remake yourself? Well, that’s what I wanted. That’s what I’ve done. And the funny thing is, I somehow guess I came to believe my own story. Lordy, to think my mama’s actually been working away in that shitty little backwater all these years. It just breaks my heart. It just seems such a waste. Poor woman, she probably died of boredom.” Melina turned and saw Janie and really focused on her for the first time since she sat down. “I’m shocking the bejesus out of you, aren’t I?”
“Actually, no,” Janie told her honestly. There were a lot of parallels between Melina’s and her own past that Janie was finally beginning to see. And there were also plenty of similarities in their current motivations. Is that what caused them to work so well together? Because they were both trying so desperately to invent themselves? For the first time in many weeks, Janie felt a wave of the kinship that had initially drawn her to Melina. She smiled across at her.
“What I’m wondering is,” Janie continued, “what you’re going to do now? Despite your reasons for leaving, shouldn’t you go back for the funeral?”
“It’s odd,” Melina told her. “It’s not really even a matter of should I go or not … I think I actually want to go. I want to show them all how different from them I’ve become.” Melina sat in silence again for a moment, then added, almost to herself, “Or, is it that I want to reassure myself I really am?”