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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It's been a good month, but this week is hard. Yesterday my daughter would have been six years old. We never got to have a birthday party for her. I thought about Lily all day yesterday; we haven't spoken in over a year, but I picked up the phone to call her a couple of times and then hung up. Eventually I phoned up a florist and had them send her over a bunch of lilies. I'm a coward, I guess. I miss them both, so much. Not every day, but this week - yes.

At least work's been keeping me busy. I've always found that a comfort.

No desire at all to go to this shindig tonight. Just want to go home and sit in front of the fan with a cold beer or several. Wouldn't even want to go out on the town with Val after the week I've had, though I wouldn't say no to him stopping by. Weather's not bad enough yet that the thought of sweaty fucking is unbearable.

Needs must as Management drives, though. Scratch my jaw - I'll need a shave before I go anywhere, and a good shower too. Look respectable for the company and my date. Just get through tonight and I can take it easy the rest of the weekend.

Edited 2011-09-23 00:57 (UTC)

I feel like I've worked harder this month than I ever have.

At first I didn't even want to look at "My Sister, My Love." It was so embarrassing even just to think about it being in my bag! All through dinner and all through the subway ride home. I didn't work up the courage to read it until Sunday. But then I just kept reading. And reading. And reading. I couldn't look away.

They weren't sisters. They felt like they were, because they'd known each other for so long, but they had actually fallen in love and didn't know it.

I was up all night and I read the whole thing and cried at the end because they could never ever be together. And I went to sleep and had the most beautiful dream about Daisy…

I went into the office on Monday just knowing that everyone was staring at me. They had to know that I loved that book. That I had that dream. Couldn't they tell? I felt like a different person - I must look different too, right?

But nobody said anything. Maybe they couldn't tell?

Still, every time anyone passed my desk, I tried to make sure they saw the sketches for the Mystery cover first. I really liked it, too - Miss Graves had a great story, and her heroine was almost as much fun to draw as the Duchess. I was really proud of the way the light looked in the darkness, and the rain on the street, and the expression on the woman's face.

I know that the awards dinner is coming up, and maybe next year it'll be my work up there in the Art division. Maybe? They say that it's a great way to make connections, going to the dinner, and I'm really grateful to Mr. Irons for inviting me - I'd never have been able to go otherwise!

And I can hope that next year I'll be there for my own work. The cover for Miss Graves's book is really good and…the one for "My Sister, My Love" is even better. I can tell it's good. I wanted to make it better than anything I'd ever done before. I wanted everyone to be able to see in their eyes how much they loved each other. I spent hours just on the eyes, trying to get it right. I think it worked.

I only finished yesterday, and today I'm going to go see Miss Thorn. I want to show her this one myself.

The last of the so-called "artists" scrabbles out my door, and I slam it shut before sitting back down, my lips pressed in a tight line. I stand back up all at once and go to the cabinet, still clenching my jaw, and pour myself a gin and tonic, tossing it down all in one go. The bitter taste of juniper makes me wince, and I work my jaw loose, trying to take a deep breath. I hate the stuff, and so it's the only liquor I keep in my office. I only drink it when I really need it.

That cold-faced bitch's face pops into my mind, and I pour myself another drink, swallowing it down more deliberately, focusing on the taste. Better than the sourness that keeps threatening to creep back up. Management's heard comments, have they? The censor board's just looking for an excuse, is it? That bar should never have been raided. They pay their bribes.

So not only did I need to face the indignity of a police station, and then that thuggish Slav coming to collect me discretely, now I'm being put on notice for the awards. "You shall act properly, Mr. Levinson," and I snarl silently, "and you will bring a female companion."

The third drink helps more than the first two. I bet Al hasn't had to face any of this, not with how he's been spending time with that gangly harridan. I pour a fourth and throw myself into my chair, the comfortable one rather than my desk chair, and stare at the wall. I'm going to have a good honest sulk, and then I'll figure this out.

I know exactly how I managed to end up making the rounds again, returning the copy-edited proofs to their respective editors. All of the girls seem to have found excuses to leave early, since it's Friday and there's an event tonight. Not sure if I'm going or not. It's been a longer week than usual.

Which is why I'm headed over to Art with some proofs that Mr. Levi might want to look at but certainly doesn't need to. I happen to know he keeps a bottle of gin handy, and I've relaxed my policy of not drinking at the office somewhat. Not going to think about those glasses of whiskey in Mr. Lackford's office and that terrible Friday last month.

Well. Mr. Levi might not be so...unsympathetic, and I'd rather drink with him, anyway. I knock on his door and then stick my head in. "I've got some things you might--" Oh, he's not at his desk, and he looks...unwell. I can't think of anything to say for a second. "Is something wrong, sir?" Well, of course it is, but it's a way to start.

It occurs to me, as I stroll down a floor to Art, that I haven't seen Isidore this week at all, which isn't like us. I have been quite preoccupied, though, but I'd have expected him to stop by my office.

His secretary buzzes me in, and I go in to see him looking - rather miserable. The office smells of gin, and James Anderson is here for some reason.

"Levi," I say. "hello. I was just wondering if you had the art for Lend Me Your Wife ready to look at."

Someone knocks, and before I can tell them to go away James Anderson sticks his shaggy head through the doorway. "I've got some things you might -" he breaks off. "Is something wrong, sir?"

I look up, my mouth twisting wryly. I've heard he's a bit of a backscratcher, Anderson, though there might be nothing but office gossip to it. I'm hardly going to take him into my confidence, for all he's not bad looking. "What is it, Anderson?" I ask him. "I thought you'd have left by now, with it being Friday."

And then Al steps inside, hardly glancing at Anderson. "Levi, hello. I was just wondering if you had the art for Lend Me Your Wife ready to look at."

I push my hair back and give my head a shake. "One of my reprobates dropped it off, yes," I tell him as crisply as I can. I stand up and sort through the folders on my desk, pulling one out and handing it to him. Ironic sort of title - but then, he could hardly lend me his, now could he? "Looking forward to the awards tonight?" I ask him, stifling the quick flare of anger. No one ever questions Al.

I didn't hear anyone behind me, but I definitely catch the name. Shit. I sidle away from the door. "Friday, yeah." And force a smile. "These can wait. Just more robots."

Mr. Sherman pays me absolutely no mind at all, which is all right with me, even though he's a fine looking man. He's all business, and I think Mr. Levi's trying to be, but something's still wrong, despite all the gin it smells like he's poured on it. Hope there's some left for me.

There's been enough said about Mondays, I'm sure, and I don't think I will add to it. The weather's edging towards sweltering, the sun is littering the building windows with arrows of light, and it's a relief to get into the offices. I just dropped off an outline for Kincaid with his secretary, and since I've got nowhere else I must be, for the moment...

"Hello, Genny," and it is always nice to see her; she's a very sweet girl, although I can't quite imagine explaining Walter to her the way I can to Kate, and then I push that thought firmly away. "How was your weekend?"

I have the office door open because it's sweltering in here and it helps the air circulate, and I hear familiar voices at the other end of the corridor. Well, I could do with a break, and maybe I can kill two birds with one stone...

I stroll out.

"Genny, Beryl," I say. It seemed silly to keep calling them miss after we've been out to dinner together. "Nice to see you. I was just working on your manuscript, Beryl. Genny's finished the art - it looks swell."

"One of my reprobates dropped it off, yes. Looking forward to the awards tonight?"

I look at the art (http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v-3gbtENGj8/SuyMmMqew6I/AAAAAAAAF9c/5kOHMLTGZCQ/s400/Lend+Me+Your+Wife-1.jpg) briefly.

"Sultry," I say, nodding approvingly, and then look back at him. "And no, not especially," I say dryly. I want to ask him what is the matter, but Anderson's here. "Hello, Anderson. Robots? I suppose that's a change of pace from this," I say, showing him the artwork.

Hemingway died Sunday. Can't help feelin' kinda sad...man wuzza sexist dickhole, but some ovvis work wuz real good. I liked The Old Man and the Sea, and some ovvis short stories, an'e sure's hell did lots fer lit'rature. So't's a loss.

Anyway, I head inta th'office wit' more chapters fer th'Victor'an novel'm workin' on. So far't's comin' long real good. Think't could be a real hit, an'I wanna see what Alex hasta say 'bout't.

Speakin'a Alex...well, ain't been a repeat performance. Wouldn't say no, but Alex's been a bit standoffish. Think'e's worried 'bout 'ppearances 'n all. An'at's fine. We's still good friends, an' we still go ferra drink ev'ry so often...'e's jes' been careful. Which's too bad, but I c'n understand't.

Heft m'folder under m'arm an' head inta th'office. Know Alex's in t'day.

Edited 2011-09-24 00:53 (UTC)

Mr Shairan has been particularly quiet this week. It's not as if I haven't noticed it before, at this time of year, though of course. I do try to step round him a little, but he really does need to return these calls.

"Mister Shairan," I say, and my sharpness is more teasing than scolding, "this is the third time Mr Richards has called for you now, and I find you down here hobnobbing with - artistic types." I look at the artwork in his hand and shake my head. I do hope, when he finally sees sense, that he moves into something a little more respectable.

I'm sure I'd know if he'd invited someone else to the event tonight. He's been spending time with that dreadful Thorn woman, and he has to know how that looks, but there's never any discouraging him from something once he sets his mind to it. Of course, once I can use - other wiles - on him, I'm sure he'll be far more malleable.

"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.

I'm working on another Romance cover, a girl riding a horse. I'm trying to get the mane and tail just right…

"Hello, Genny."

"Oh!" I jump a little, and my hand jerks out to start shuffling papers. Where are the My Sister, My Love sketches? Are they covered up? Where are the - oh. They were on the bottom of the pile anyway. "Hi, Miss - Um. Beryl." I still can't get used to calling her by her first name, even if she did say that I could. "It's nice to see you." I really do like her.

"How was your weekend?"

"It was pretty good. We went to Coney Island again. I think it might be the only place in the city where it isn't hot!" Gee, I must sound dumb, talking about the weather and silly kid stuff like roller coasters! But I can't tell her what I was working on or thinking about...

And then Mr. Lackford's there, too! "Genny, Beryl. Nice to see you. I was just working on your manuscript, Beryl. Genny's finished the art - it looks swell."

"Hi, Mr. Lackford. Good to see you, too." I haven't been near his office in about a week 'cause I'm never sure what to do about Daisy. I want to see her! But I don't want to see her because what if she can tell what I'm thinking about her! What if he can tell what I'm thinking about Daisy? So first I went over by his office all the time and then I didn't go and then I did again and now I'm not going at all because I can't stop thinking about Daisy. I didn't even drop off Miss Graves's cover myself.

But I can't help smiling when Mr. Lackford says good things about it, because I know it really was good. "Thanks," I say, grinning up at them. "I liked doing that one. Have you seen it?" I ask Beryl.

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 get back (http://excolocrack.livejournal.com/19979.html?thread=3424523#t3424523) to my office to find Syl waiting outside. Oh, thank God, a legitimate excuse not to call Mr Richards.

"Syl," I say warmly. "Do come in."

Hey Alex," I grin attim. 'least'e ain't gone all weird'n avoid-y, like somma th'folks I slept wit've done. 'e invites me in, an'I walk inta'is office'n close th'door.

"Got some new chapters fer you t'look at," I says, settin' th'folder onnis desk. "But first off, how ya bin? Seems like ev'rybody'ere's inna bit ovva stir."

"Oh, good," I say. "I've been - fine," I say, because I don't want to lie to Syl but I'm also not really in the mood to explain how I've been feeling. "Busy. And yes, people are getting ready for the party tonight. The Publishing Awards, you know. Fearfully boring ceremony but the food's usually good," I say. "If you'd be interested in being my date, you would be saving me from the meaningful glances of my secretary," I add, dropping into my chair.

"I've been - fine. Busy," 'e says, an'I raise m'eyebrows, cuz'I c'n tell'ere's more b'hind'at'n'e's sayin'. But I ain't gona push'im, I guess. If'n'e wants t'tell me, 'e'll tell me. "And yes, people are getting ready for the party tonight. The Publishing Awards, you know. Fearfully boring ceremony but the food's usually good. If you'd be interested in being my date, you would be saving me from the meaningful glances of my secretary."

Raise m'eyebrows. "A date, Alex, now really?" I grin. "Will y'buy me a corsage 'n kiss m'hand?" I laugh. But't's weird, really. 'd say I wuzzis beard, if'n we hadn't already bloody fucked. "I don't gotta dress, though. Ain't never been one ferreze kind thin's. An'I guess th'tux won't do, will't?"

"Will y'buy me a corsage 'n kiss m'hand?"

"We're about eighteen years too late for my senior prom," I say, amused, "or of course I'd get you a corsage."

"I don't gotta dress, though. Ain't never been one ferreze kind thin's. An'I guess th'tux won't do, will't?"

"Much as a tux suits you," I say, "definitely not. This is not a, hm, groundbreaking kind of evening at all. If you did want to come, I'd be happy to help you find a dress. My ex-wife always did say I had an eye for these things."

"We're about eighteen years too late for my senior prom, or of course I'd get you a corsage." 'e smiles, an'I laugh.

"Di'n't never go t'm'own prom," I smirk, leaning back 'gainst th'wall, "Least we won't hafta bother wit' spikin' th'punch."

"Much as a tux suits you, definitely not. This is not a, hm, groundbreaking kind of evening at all. If you did want to come, I'd be happy to help you find a dress. My ex-wife always did say I had an eye for these things."

Well, wuzn't th'way I planned on spendin' th'night, 'at's fer sure. But'en, I know Alex wouldn't've asked me if'n'e di'n't want me t'come. 'e ain't allat much ferrese bowin'n scrapin' affairs...might jes' want some comp'ny. Annat's th'sorta thin't friends do fer each other, ain't't? "Y'might havva bit ovva time wit' me. No tits, no hips...an'I ain't been dress shoppin' since....well, I jes' ain't." Smirk attim'n fish a cig outta m'pocket. "But sure, Alex. 'll got witcha."

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

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