Absence lessens half-hearted passions, and increases great ones,
as the wind puts out candles and yet stirs up the fire.
—Duc de La Rochefoucauld
I STEPPED INTO THE elevator, zipped up 15 floors to the penthouse, and pushed through the glass doors with the name Faces International etched across them. It was two months into my new job—my first in Manhattan—and I loved the position, which combined entertainment, sales, marketing, and publishing.
“Dianne Minerva, Talent Consultant” had a great ring to it. Certainly a leap up the showbiz ladder from “Dianne Minerva, Mitsubishi Warranty Salesperson of the Month.”
“Good morning, Dianne,” greeted the receptionist in her singsong voice. “By the way, the vice president is coming in today.”
Off to the right was the waiting area, where large photos of actors hung on the walls, and only one magazine was fanned across the tables: Faces. The glossy magazine—that month featuring Jodie Foster on the cover—lived up to its name: page after page showed faces of hopeful actors and actresses, some displayed in head shots slightly bigger than a stamp, others splashed across full-page color spreads showcasing the talent in several poses, artfully arranged around their bios. The most prestigious spot in Faces was the “Publisher’s Page,” with several actors hand-picked by George Goldberg, founder, publisher and president, who worked out of the Hollywood office.
My job was to “discover” the talent—and then help market them by selling ads in the monthly magazine, which landed on the desks of thousands of casting directors, advertising firms, and talent agents. Faces International bridged the gap between hope and career. Dozens of staff members worked the phones, trying to connect clients with casting agencies. There were never guarantees in this business, but the magazine gave “hopefuls” exposure and a publicity tool.
That day, I darted into the snack room to grab a cup of tea, nearly colliding with my colleague Wendy as she swung around the corner, chatting with another talent consultant about the vice president. The phone was ringing as I walked into my office. My boss, Ellen, was on the line.
“Have time for a chat?” she asked.
She was talking on the phone when I got to her expansive corner office, so she gestured for me to sit in one of the leather chairs in front of her desk. Looking down over Fifth Avenue, with the taxis below looking like a thickly-coiled yellow snake, I recalled the first time I’d sat in this chair for my interview. I’d come to like Ellen even more since that day; she had eyes you could trust, and an ability to size people up quickly.
“I wanted to give you a heads up,” she said, clicking off and swinging her chair toward me. “The vice president is flying in from L.A.”
“So I heard.” I’d also heard the vice president was George Goldberg’s son-in-law—married to his stepdaughter, Kym, who also worked in the Hollywood office.
Ellen sighed. “Mark is a former paratrooper. A macho man. Aggressive in his tactics is putting it mildly.” She intimated that he was manipulative and dramatic, and nearly bludgeoned clients into sales.
I knew the type. They’d have potential buyers’ heads spinning so fast that they’d sign on the dotted line just to make the salesperson shut up. “Putting them under ether” is what they called it when I worked in car sales.
Ellen warned that he might want to oversee some meetings. “What do you have scheduled for today?”
I reminded her that one of my clients, Scott, was coming in that evening. I’d shown her his portfolio; like me, she thought he had star quality.
“Want me to sit in on that meeting, Dianne?”
“Sure.” Ellen was a pro—and we shared the philosophy that people should be happy with the investment they made in Faces.
Just as I was leaving for lunch that afternoon, the vice president stepped out of Wendy’s office. Clad in a designer suit, he was tall and dark-haired, and he had a nice smile. A Cartier watch was wrapped around his wrist; his shoes were polished to a high gleam. He was good-looking, but not overly so. I introduced myself, shook his hand, and we exchanged pleasantries, before I proceeded to lunch. That was the vice president who everybody was obsessing about? Whatever. But, I had to admit, his British accent sure was cute.
Throughout the afternoon, I met with prospective clients, interviewing them about their experience and goals, reviewing their portfolios, taking headshots, and auditioning them as they read lines for a commercial or performed a monologue. Many didn’t make the cut. But if they had potential, I offered them a spot in the magazine. I took the job seriously, and strived to be the best at what I did. Often, I was able to encourage clients to go from the placement of a small ad and headshot to a full-page spread, which gave them better exposure, and gave me a better commission. Helped to put their best foot forward, they left my office feeling great about themselves. It was a win-win situation for everyone.
At 7 P.M., most of my colleagues had left the office. My client Scott, dressed in a suit, arrived with his brother. We encouraged clients to bring in family members for moral support, and it underscored the importance of their career choice. I escorted Scott down the hall, and we left his brother in the waiting room thumbing through the latest issue of Faces.
“Our director of talent has taken a special interest in you,” I said as we walked to Ellen’s office. She was perusing his portfolio as we walked in.
“So, Scott, I understand you want to take your career to the next level,” Ellen began.
Twenty minutes later, we were discussing what package best suited his needs. Ellen offered him a “Silver” placement: a full-page color ad with five different looks. Scott responded that he was honored, but at $4,000, it was out of his price range. The full-page black-and-white for $2,500 was what he had in mind. Ellen amiably tried to convince him to take the Silver placement, but he remained firm in his choice. We were just about to sign the deal, when in strode the vice president.
“Mark Burnett,” he said, gripping Scott’s hand in a knuckle-crushing handshake.
“Mark is our vice president,” said Ellen. “He’s flown in from the Los Angeles office.” She gave a subtle roll of the eyes in my direction.
Mark opened Scott’s portfolio, dramatically flipping through the pages as I carried on with my closing pitch, running down exactly what was included in the full-page, black-and-white package. Mark loudly shut the portfolio. “Scott,” he said, “after looking through this, it’s obvious you belong on the Publisher’s Page.” Very few people were offered this prestigious placement, he added. I looked on amused: The price for the “Publisher’s Page” placement, $7,500, was nearly double the price of the Silver package that Scott had already nixed.
“I’m flattered,” said Scott. “But I’ll stick with the full-page black-and-white.”
Mark laid into him. Did he want to make it or not? Was acting just a little hobby? To make money, to get exposure with all the millions of struggling actors out there, he needed to seize the opportunity Mark was offering. If Scott didn’t take the offer, someone else would. Only an idiot would turn it down. Scott looked uncomfortable.
I jumped in. “Scott, you’re being offered a very prestigious placement. But the Silver package is attention-grabbing as well.”
“I’ll take the Silver,” he said, signing the contract. Mark continued hammering—insisting that Scott would kick himself tomorrow, but by then, the spot would be filled.
Scott put down the pen. Beads of sweat were breaking out on his forehead. It was the moment when ordinarily we would reinforce the sale, making the client feel he’s made an intelligent decision, but Mark wouldn’t let up, harping that Scott upgrade to the Publisher’s page placement.
Scott went pale, and fell on the floor.
“Shit!” said Mark. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s having a seizure!” I yelled. “Go get his brother in the waiting room.” I knelt on the floor beside him, stunned.
Mark ran down the hall, the brother ran into the office, and after a few minutes Scott stopped convulsing. Apparently, he was prone to attacks when under intense stress, and Mark’s badgering had kicked it off.
“You were sure right about the vice president,” I said to Ellen as we left the office. The vice president, I noted, had disappeared.
I took the 45-minute train back to the Syosset station on Long Island, then drove 30 minutes to my apartment, thinking how much easier it would be just to live in Manhattan. My sister Lisa and I had been talking about getting an apartment in the city, but I hadn’t yet broached the topic with my live-in boyfriend, Jake. I also hadn’t mentioned that I wanted to break off our engagement. The next morning when I told Jake about the ordeal with Scott, I might as well have been talking to a head of lettuce. He was entirely uninterested in my career, and by that point, I was losing interest in him.
At the end of June, Mark made another trip to the Manhattan office, and that day, he steered clear of my meetings. I scarcely saw him at all. That night I went out for drinks with my co-workers Wendy and Maria, first dropping by Wendy’s apartment, where I asked to borrow something more casual to wear.
Wendy handed me a pair of perfectly faded Levi’s with little rips in all the right places. She called them “the magic jeans” because she always met someone intriguing when she was wearing them. I slipped them on and they fit perfectly.
“It’s your turn for magic tonight,” she said.
We all squeezed into the cab, and headed to the Midtown neighborhood called Hell’s Kitchen to a multilevel bar called Spodiodies. It was an upscale dive that pulled in well-heeled sorts and the occasional celebrity—such as Bruce Willis—and it was the hot place back then. Our colleague Stephanie was to join us there.
When Stephanie walked into the bar, I was surprised to see Mark was with her. Oh great, that guy; I wondered who he’d reduce to convulsions that night. To my surprise, when Mark saw me, his face lit up and his eyes twinkled. I looked again, thinking it must be the light, but his eyes were literally sparkling. Thankfully, he’d left his puffed-up vice-president persona at the office. When we squeezed into a booth and order a round, he proceeded to crack us up with hilarious stories about the difference between Californians and New Yorkers—imitating both perfectly. Then he launched into tales about arriving in Hollywood from working-class England: the former commando took a job as a nanny for a well-to-do Malibu family. He told us funny story after funny story about his “nanny days” —from his bewilderment at American appliances like dishwashers to anecdotes about the kids, who were prone to stick peas up their noses. His adoration of children was obvious.
Just when I was thinking how handsome he looked that night, the music started and Stephanie pulled him upstairs, explaining she wanted to talk about business matters. After a while, I yelled up—“What are you guys doing up there?” Mark waved me up, and Stephanie took off.
I slipped into the booth. Then I noticed the lipstick on his cheek.
“Who’s been kissing you?” I asked.
“Maybe it was you,” he replied.
“If it was me, it wouldn’t have been on the cheek.”
The next second, he planted a hot kiss on my mouth, a real zinger that gave me goose bumps. Whoa, what a kisser! Then he kissed me again. Oh my God, I’d just kissed a married man—a definite no-no in my book.
“I’ve got to go,” I said, standing.
“I’ll get you a taxi,” Mark replied, walking me out—a gesture I appreciated, as Hell’s Kitchen was pretty dodgy back then.
The minute we were on the sidewalk, Mark took my hand.
“Um, Mark, aren’t you married?” I’d seen a photo of his wife: she was a real looker.
I shook my hand away. He took it back.
He described it as a marriage of convenience: Kym had been his friend as well as partner in a T-shirt business they’d started on Venice Beach; they’d gotten married because he needed his green card, he said. Mark described her as a great person, talented in business and incredibly smart. “But,” he added, “we’re not in love.” He said he slept in the guestroom, and added, knowingly, that she had a male “confidante.”
I wasn’t sure that I believed him, but I sure wanted to. We walked along for blocks, looking in vain for a taxi. At that hour, all of them had fares.
“Guess I’ll have to walk you to Penn Station,” he said. I didn’t protest.
“So, Mark, I don’t understand how you ended up in the U.S.”
“Motherly intuition,” he replied.
“What do you mean?”
“Mum never worried about me when I was a paratrooper with the British military, even when I was fighting in the Falklands War. But when I was leaving for L.A.—which was only supposed to be a quick stop en route to Central America—she told me something at the airport.”
“What?”
“She said she had a bad feeling about the ‘security’ job I was about to take in Central America. She urged me to reconsider taking it.”
“So you did?”
“Of course. I’m the sort of guy who listens to his mum. We’re really close.” He sketched out his upbringing—he was the only child of parents who worked at London’s Ford factory. His parents had instilled in him the idea that determination was the key to success.
Wow—a man who listened to his mother. And liked kids. And had an adorable accent. And was a knock-your-socks-off kisser—a skill he reminded me of yet again when he saw me off at the station. Too bad he was married, and too bad he lived on the West Coast.
I couldn’t get Mark out of my head during the whole ride back to Long Island. Maybe those jeans were magic.