Harlequin Books, the publishers of Harlequin Romances, recently gave a luncheon for two hundred women readers of Harlequin Romances in the large dining room of a large hotel in New Jersey. The women, each of whom looked freshly coiffed, sat at tables in the middle of which were large bowls of yellow and gold chrysanthemums. The women seemed very excited. Ahead of them: a chat by the director of consumer relations for Harlequin, a chat by a vice-president of Harlequin, a chat by a new writer of Harlequin Romances, a “bridal” bouquet to be tossed into the roomful of women by the vice-president, the cutting of a cake baked in the shape of an open book.
“I watch the Phil Donahue show when I can,” said Grace to her friend Dolly. “But mostly I like to read.”
“I like to read, too,” said Dolly. “TV is too explicit.”
“I like to read, too,” said Maralyn, a friend of Dolly’s but not such a good friend of Grace’s. “But I don’t like things to be explicit. I like an innocent girl.”
“I like an innocent girl, too,” said Gertrude, a very good friend of Maralyn’s, though she hardly knew Grace or Dolly. “But I don’t like a Barbara Cartland type of girl. They are way to the right.”
“I send my children out the door,” said Nora, the best friend of Gertrude and a very good friend of Maralyn’s. “I do my housework, then I make myself a sandwich and curl up with one of my romances.”
“A lot of men object to women reading this kind of book when they are alone,” said Joanne, a good friend of none of the women sitting at the table with her. “But I say it’s better than getting into mischief.”
“According to a poll taken among you women,” said the director of consumer relations, standing on a dais and speaking to the room at large with the help of a microphone, “the most romantic man in America is Robert Redford. The second most romantic man is ‘My Husband.’”
“Hi,” said the vice-president, standing on a dais and speaking to the room at large with the help of a microphone.
“Hi,” said the new writer of Harlequin Romances. “They say writing is a lonely business, but I don’t feel so lonely now. This is so nice! I have not been to a party like this before, and after years of being chained to the typewriter it is nice to get out and meet some real-life readers.”
“hat was delightful,”said the vice-president to the new writer. Then, turning to the women, he said,”The first person to ask a question from each table gets the centerpiece from her table.”
“Why are the men in Harlequin Romances always six feet tall and virile and in their forties and the women small and thin and seventeen?” asked a woman seated at a table in the back of the room.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” laughed the vice-president.
“How do you get the authors to write only a certain number of pages?” asked another woman.
“Sometimes the type is larger, sometimes the type is smaller,” said the vice-president. “We don’t like to cut out an author’s beautiful words.”
Then everybody sat down and ate a lunch of salad, baked chicken, potato puffs, and baked broccoli with bread crumbs. The food wasn’t very good, but nobody said so.
—November 3, 1980