excolocrack | This month's star title: Set-Up For Scandal!

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pulp fictions

This month's star title: Set-Up For Scandal!

In the last installment...

June 1961 - Val flirts with James in front of Ted, but James manages to make it seem like he's after Val's job so Val shows him the door. James compounds his error by badmouthing Ted and Val to Beryl and Kate, and then seeming to hit on Genny. Bad day for James! Ted decides to ask out Genny to annoy James, and Genny, Val, Ted and Beryl all go out for dinner to discuss plans for a detective romance series. Meanwhile, Syl and Al go out for drinks and end up in bed together. And Kate and Tess go out dancing, where Tess is confronted by her ex-girlfriend - but Kate doesn't seem worried by what this tells her about Tess.

Friday, July 7th, 1961, the office

So Monday started with hearing that Ernest Hemingway had died on Sunday, and that's set the tone for the week. I've had a headache for two solid days that's only just starting to fade, mostly due to a printing crisis with one of our runs. Let's just say that in three places the word "duck" didn't start with a d... The censors are getting pretty strict about obscenities these days, so that started my headache, and then I had the usual author-induced stresses.

At least this detective romance we're putting together seems like it's got legs. I'm looking at the cover Genny's drawn. The streetlamp's got a good glow to it, and she's managed to make the lady sexy and wholesome at the same time - not easy. The guy's just your average lantern-jawed gumshoe, but that's fine. And Beryl's put together a good story, though I've got a few suggestions for amendments. She's a cooperative sort, though, so I don't mind meeting with her, unlike some of our writers. And I have to admit she's easy on the eye, which is a good distraction from my other emotional woes...

I loosen my collar, because it's a hot day. I'm dreading August. Hope I'll get away for a couple of weeks because the city will be unbearable. It's not the best night for black tie, but I'll be sweating in a tuxedo anyway because this evening there's the Popular Fiction Publishing Awards, which everyone in the pulp game in NYC goes to - less for the prizes and more for the canapes and the gossip. There's always gossip. Me, I'm just going to enjoy the free champagne.

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"Friday, yeah," Anderson says, and I spare him a glance in time to see him smile at Al and I. "These can wait. Just more robots." The robots can be burnt in the trash for all I care, but I just nod, trying not to watch Al as he looks over the art.

"Sultry," he says after a glance. "And no, not especially," he adds. "Hello, Anderson. Robots? I suppose that's a change of pace from this." I force a smile. Just some boys sharing a bit of salacious drawing, right? It's what everyone would prefer, so long as it's a woman on the cover. "The robots don't really have the same draw, do they?" I ask, trying to match Al's dry tone.

There must be some curse on me, besides the obvious, since Miss Desmet follows Al here, like a bloodhound with the scent. "Mister Shairan," she says in a coy scolding way that makes my neck go tight, "this is the third time Mr Richards has called for you now, and I find you down here hobnobbing with - artistic types."

I can hear her disapproval, and so I smile at her and reach over to ruffle Anderson's hair. "Oh, I think I'm the only artistic one," I tell her, "despite Sherman's taste in carpeting, or Anderson's decided need for a trim."

Of course everyone has something funny to say about robots. I roll my eyes, nodding toward the cover Mr. Levi's showing me. "If you'd draw them with tits like that, we'd sell twice twice as many copies. Sex Robots from Mars?" I suggest to Mr. Sherman. Not that a rack does much for me, but still.

His secretary pokes her head in and asks after him shrilly. Well. Maybe she'll take him away with her and I can have my gin and a chat with Mr. Levi, who, oh, is mussing my hair. I give him a sheepish smile. "Keep meaning to get it trimmed." Which is a lie. I like it this way. And maybe he does, too. Well.

If you'd draw them with tits like that, we'd sell twice twice as many copies. Sex Robots from Mars?"

"Last year," I say, "we put out Astronauts of Love, and there was a robot lady in that. You should ask Mitchell if he kept any copies of the cover art. I imagine he did. Mitchell... enjoys his work, doesn't he?" I say to Isidore, raising my eyebrows. If you can't get a girlfriend, draw a robot one, apparently.

Parras bustles into the office and berates me playfully.

"This is the third time Mr Richards has called for you now, and I find you down here hobnobbing with - artistic types."

I don't think Parras approves of my friendship with Isidore, though why that's her business I don't know.

"Mr Richards is very tiresome," I say, "because he always asks me the same questions about his royalties, and I always have to direct him to Accounting. Really, I'm sure you can field that," I say, mildly reproving, because she really shouldn't suggest I'm not doing my job when I'm in front of my colleagues.

"Keep meaning to get it trimmed," says Anderson, about his ridiculous hair, but he's giving Isidore a warm sort of smile and - hmm. I wonder.

"Perhaps you could grow it out properly and Isidore could use you for one of the Viking romance covers," I suggest, mouth twitching up.

I simply raise my eyebrows at Mr Sherman. I know perfectly well he doesn't want to speak to Mr Richards. "Accounting have already directed him back to us," I say, quite mildly. "Apparently no one else will do."

Mr Levi is ruffling that young man's hair. It all strikes me as very inappropriate. Perhaps he's one of Mr Levi's...proteges...but really, I don't think they should carry on like that in the office. Perhaps some of the staff are oblivious, but I am a woman of the world. And, of course, you can hardly be oblivious to - that sort of thing - working in our department. I give them both a very chilly look. I do wish Mr Sherman would spend less time with him.

And least he doesn't seem to think terribly well of the young man. "Perhaps you could grow it out properly and Isidore could use you for one of the Viking romance covers."

"Or one of his rampaging Scotsman," I sniff. All those bare-chested Highlanders in kilts.

"Apparently no one else will do."

"Everyone wants me," I say, raising my eyebrows. It's clear Parras won't rest until I'm back at my desk, and it's also clear that Anderson isn't planning on going anywhere. I wonder if I can ask around about him discreetly. Hm... Ted, perhaps. We've got on better since we went to the jazz club, and he knows most of the gossip.

"Alright, Miss Desmet, I shall call the dreadful Mr Richards, for which I hope I shall be rewarded in heaven," I say. "Levi, I'll see you at the party later, yes?" Maybe he can tell me then what is wrong.

I roll my eyes at Anderson's preening. "Last year," Alex tells him, "we put out Astronauts of Love, and there was a robot lady in that. You should ask Mitchell if he kept any copies of the cover art. I imagine he did. Mitchell... enjoys his work, doesn't he?" I for a grin and chuckle. "A bit too much, yes. I suppose it's good for an artist to have that kind of, ah, enthusiasm."

Alex looks a bit frosty when his secretary uses that disapproving tone, and sets her down a bit for it. It doesn't seem to deter her, though. Another reason to occasionally switch up secretaries. After a while they start to think they can take liberties. "Perhaps you could grow it out properly and Isidore could use you for one of the Viking romance covers," Alex suggests, and I shoot him a warning look. "Or one of his rampaging Scotsman," Miss Desmet adds with a sniff.

I smile. "You wouldn't do too badly yourself, Miss Desmet. One of those English governesses from, what was the name... those Harriet Marwood books?" I raise an eyebrow. "And I'd have to see what sort of shape Anderson's in before I could think of having him model bare-chested, Alex." I glance over at Anderson. "Do you execise, Anderson?"

Alex seems to have been properly badgered, and rolls his eyes at me as he leaves. "Levi, I'll see you at the party later, yes?"

I grimace. "If I can find someone to take, then yes."

They're making fun of my hair but not being terribly mean about it, and anyway there's not much I can do but stand there and pretend I don't mind. And I don't, not too much. Parras is giving all of us a disapproving look, and being told she'd make a good governess doesn't help anything. She clearly hasn't read those books, but I have and I blink at Mr. Levi, wondering.

He's still talking about using me as a model, and surely he can't be serious, asking me if I exercise. I open my mouth to say I don't know what, but Mr. Sherman is letting his secretary drag him away, so I close it until they're out the door. "I grew up milking cows," I tell Mr. Levi, when they're gone. It's the stupidest thing in the world to say, of course.

But Mr. Levi reads those kinds of books and there are rumours about him. I reach up and loosen my tie, which is nothing unusual. Half the ties in the building are loose. And nothing wrong with undoing the top button of my shirt. I can still smell the gin in the office and maybe this'll get me some. "Do you...really need models?" And let my voice sound sort of doubtful and shy.

Miss Desmet practically drags Alex out by his ear, and I'm left frowning as they leave. I can't understand why he lets her badger him like that.

"I grew up milking cows," Anderson says, apropos of nothing, and I stifle a sigh and I roll my eyes. I turn my head to look at him, and now he's undressed a touch. I raise an eyebrow. I can't imagine he knows what he's doing.

"Do you...really need models?"

Well, maybe he does at that. I feel another surge of anger, that he's treating this so casually. No wonder he's building the sort of reputation I've heard Irons mention. "Oh, your tie's come undone," I tell him, walking casually over. "Here," I say, my voice soft, "let me get that for you."

I slip my hands along his chest to his tie, and pull it up tight against his throat, my smile dropping off my face. "Who do you think I am?" I ask him coldly, my lips pulled tight against my teeth. "And who do you think you are?" Part of me knows I'd better not hurt him. But then, what could I expect myself if I made these kinds of moves without even trying to figure out how they'd be taken? And at work, of all places!

His face has gone red, and I push him away. "There are times and places for your attitude, Mr. Anderson. If you ever approach me like this again at work, I shall call the police." We'll see if Management sends someone to get him out of a cell.

It isn't as though I haven't had a look at work, or maybe helped pose a model more than necessary, but he's not just being risky, he's being... vulgar.

I can't think he's ever milked a cow in his life, so he probably doesn't know how much work it is. I'm not going to go on and on about farming, though. I'm thinking about going for another button when he comes over to me, puts a hand on my chest. My eyes flutter closed, only half an act.

They open again soon enough, though. I gape at him, at the cold fury that was absolutely the last thing I expected. I feel my face get hot and my eyes prickle. He shoves me away and I stumble back, dropping my head. And that's a lecture, and a threat, I guess. Harder to take, somehow. "I-I'm sorry," I gasp. "I thought-" But somehow I was wrong. And now I've fucked it all up.

I look at him, fine mouth and angry and here. And really, what's there to lose? My pride's somewhere on the floor, "I don't suppose--I mean, not at work?"

His face goes red and his eyes water as I push him away. I don't really feel bad. "I-I'm sorry. I thought-" he cuts off his stammering and tries to catch his breath. "I don't suppose--I mean, not at work?"

I'm not even in a mood to appreciate his audacity. Here I've just been lectured on acting properly, and he sees fit to throw himself at me. I can't even tell if he's trying to ingratiate himself or just wants to see what he can get away with. The former, probably.

"If you missed it when Sherman was here, I have somewhere to be tonight." I settle my jacket and begin to clear my desk. "I suggest you find somewhere else to be - no doubt you'll manage to find yourself some company."

I don't suppose I really thought he'd give me another chance then and there. I don't know if I've ruined things permanently of if there's anyway I could redeem myself. I take a deep breath, trying to find the wherewithal to at least sound calm. "I know that there's...something tonight."

I watch him gather his things, the lines of his back as he bends. It's very clear that he is leaving, dismissing me. "I doubt I'll see you there, but if I do, I won't--I mean, you won't have any...trouble from me." Although at this point I imagine I'm the one doing most of the worrying. He seems satisfied that he's set me in my place.

And he has, and I won't be able to put him out of my head because of it. "Any more, I suppose." I consider telling him I'm sorry again, but wait.

"I know that there's...something tonight. I doubt I'll see you there, but if I do, I won't--I mean, you won't have any...trouble from me."

My back stiffens at the implied threat. "I doubt very much I'll see you there, Mr. Anderson," I reply. I don't look at him. "I must ask you to leave my office." I look at him then, the key in my hand as I take my hat. "I'm leaving for the night," I explain, slowly. Maybe he'll pick up on that cue, if he doesn't get any other.

I should warn Sherman, and a couple of the others I know of. Discretely. If Anderson wants this sort of thing he can pick it up in the city, not here.

He's all but telling me to get out, so I gather myself up. Want that gin more than ever, now, but I'm not going to get it. Can't see that I'm going to get anything I want, just now. He's not looking at me, but I turn and look at him as I go out. "I apologize for the inconvenience." There, as polite and bland as anything. "Good afternoon."

Syl leaves (http://excolocrack.livejournal.com/19979.html?thread=3425803#t3425803), and I'm feeling much more cheerful about this party now. I tell Parras I'm leaving for the night, and she's a bit frosty with me but I don't really care. It's not my problem she doesn't like Syl.

On the way out I bump into Isidore, and he looks even more miserable.

"Hello," I say. "Are you walking to the subway?"

I take my time leaving the office. I have no real desire to be home, trying to figure tonight out, but I suppose it would free me from this feeling of scrutiny.

Alex calls out to me as I'm stepping out of the elevator. "Hello," he says, as I reach him. "Are you walking to the subway?"

I nod. "I'd rather not sit in a cab," I tell him. "The subway feels more anonymous." I should tell him what's wrong, but it's everything, and there's nothing he can do about that.

"The subway feels more anonymous."

I raise my eyebrows a bit at that.

"I'll walk with you," I say, "if that is alright with you." The street is crowded, press of people all around us. "I haven't seen much of you lately," I say quietly. "We should catch up."

Alex looks a touch surprised. "I'll walk with you, if that is alright with you." I nod, only now really feeling the gin I drank earlier. New York rushes around us, more faceless than usual, and he keeps close to my side. "I haven't seen much of you lately. We should catch up."

I smile, trying to keep a touch of bitterness out of it. "You've been busy," I reply. "Did you find someone to bring with you tonight? Or were you not ordered to acquire a companion?" I might as well move from one sour topic to another. It might be the less painful.

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This month's star title: Set-Up For Scandal!

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