Ed Gorman: Cold Blue Midnight

Jill was able to rush from the reception area before the young woman came out of Eric's office. With the door partly opened, Jill had been able to hear the last minute of their conversation. She didn't want to embarrass the girl by being in the reception area.

Having once been half-owner of this agency, Jill knew exactly where to go. There was a nook that the art department used as a coffee hutch near the back of this floor. Jill went there and poured herself some coffee.

Her impulse was to leave. It had been a mistake coming here, of ever thinking she could work with Eric even if it was for the sake of the convent.

Eric hadn't changed at all.

For many years, she'd tried to rationalize his behavior. Men were under such pressure to be macho and studly. She'd told herself that Eric was simply a victim of these cultural forces, that within himself there was goodness and kindness and tolerance.

But the way he'd just spoken to the girl told Jill that nothing had changed at all. Nothing.

As she walked toward the front of the office, carrying her cup of coffee, she flashed on her old days in advertising. She'd never been suited to it. The number of awards ad people gave themselves was enormousand told you how important they deemed their work to be. The new generation of ad people, far from being apologetic for pushing products that were either useless or downright destructive, celebrated themselves as artistes. The ad magazines were filled with chest-thumping editorials about advertising being today's most important art form. It was a laughable premise, but ad people and clients alike had a vested interest in deluding themselves that they and their work mattered in the scheme of things.

She was glad to be gone.

No more laughing at lame commercials; no more dull meetings about cost-per-thousand and focus group research and test market results; no more enduring lightly-veiled propositions from clients, and palace intrigues led by young turks as full of themselves as ballerinas.

It was over; she had been released early for good behavior.

For all that, she had to admit that the offices were beautiful. Eric had leased an additional floor and it was gorgeous. There was custom woodwork throughout, with full-height solid wood doors, gray fabric-covered walls, and patterned and bordered carpeting. In the reception area, fluorescent downlights lightly tinted the plum-stained mahogany. The blue-green and plum and gray furnishings lent a final touch of elegance.

Eric sat on the edge of the reception desk. When he saw her, he cocked his head in the boyish way he knew that some women liked and said, 'You're still the sexiest woman I've ever known.'

'Oh God, Eric,' Jill said, 'knock it off, will you? I'm here on business, remember?'

He was crushed. He spent half his life being crushed. For all that he liked to pose with one foot on a dead rhino, he had a frightfully fragile ego. He looked at her now as if she'd slapped him.

'Eric, I came here because you said you wanted me to take some photographs. Let's just stick to the subject and everything will be fine.'

And she couldn't help herself. She smiled. Eric was a raving jerk but there was a teeny-tiny part of her that felt protective of him. He thought he was a killer but he was just a Chicago kid who'd gotten very very lucky. She knew a few real killers. Eric wasn't even close.

She put her hand out. 'Let's try and get along, all right?'

He laughed. 'Same old Jill. One tough cookie.'

She waved an arm around. 'I can see why you want to be photographed in here. It's beautiful.'

'You should see the bills from the decorator.'

'Mr Blandings Builds His Dream House.'

'What?'

'An old Cary Grant-Myrna Loy movie,' Jill said. 'About a couple who build their dream house and go broke in the process.'

'Why don't I give you a tour?'

'Great. I'd like that.'

As they started walking, he said, 'What was the name of that movie again?'

'Mr Blandings Builds His Dream House.'

'With Cary Grant?'

'Right.'

'I always heard he was gay.'

She laughed. No, Eric hadn't changed a bit. Try and talk about a movie you liked and he ended up reducing the subject to farfetched gossip.

It was like the time she'd told him that Mike Royko had written an especially good column in the Trib about babies being born drug addicts.

'Yeah,' Eric had said, not caring at all about the matter of drug-addicted babies, 'but I bet Royko doesn't make half as much a year as I do.'

After she left Eric Brooks' office, Cini Powell found a restroom on the same floor and went in and brushed her teeth. She wished she could throw up.

She'd actually gone through with it.

Actually gone to that creep's office and let him

As she stood there with rabies foam from the toothpaste covering her mouth, her blue eyes filled with tears and a lone silver drop traced down her perfectly shaped cheek.

Tonight she'd lost her virginity. Well, technically speaking, she'd actually lost her virginity two years ago, when she was twenty, in a beach house on a Wisconsin Lake, to a twenty-one-year-old named Chuck who kept saying, 'God, were you really a virgin till tonight?' Obviously ole Chuck was pleased with himself. Bagging a virgin these days was no easy task, not unless you made a habit of dating twelve year olds.

That was losing her physical virginity.

Losing her spiritual virginity, which is what she'd done tonight, was a far more serious matter.

All so she could get a part as a talking mannequin in a commercial for a trendy local department store.

All so she could make Michael Kenneth Laine, law student, basketball star and relentless woman-chaser, sorry that he'd ever dumped her.

At least, that had been her plan…

But now, for the first time since she'd seen the casting notice in the Tribune want ads, she realized that not since she'd walked in on Michael making love to that girl in his apartment had she been quite sane. Had she been quite herselfher real self.

Until now. Until she'd looked into the mirror and realized the enormity of what she'd done on the top floor of this building. Just twenty minutes ago.

She brushed her teeth some more.

She wanted to rinse out her mouth with alcohol.

She wanted to go to Confession, something she hadn't done since moving out of her good upper middle-class Catholic home four years ago. She wanted to find a closet somewhere and hide in there and never come out.

God, how could she have done that? Not even Michael was worth debasing herself for this way. All for what? So he might catch a little glimpse of her in a sexy body stocking on TV, pretending to be a talkative mannequin?

What could she possibly have been thinking?

She walked over to the third stall along, opened the door, sat down on the closed lid, and proceeded to sob.

The tour took fifteen minutes.

He told her the price of everything. Parquet flooring was this much. Track lighting that much. Custom-fabricated niches this much… And so on.

Good old Eric.

When they were back in his office, he said, 'So what I want are some really sexy shots of me in various departments. You know, looking cool as usual.'

'Cool. Got it.'

'But businesslike.'

'Cool but businesslike. Check, boss.'

He glanced at her. 'You know what?'

'Here it comes.'

'Can you take a nice boy-girl compliment?'

She sighed. 'What particular compliment did you have in mind?'

'That you look sexy as hell in that aqua blouse.'

'All right. Compliment accepted. Now let's get back to work.'

The hurt look again but this time Jill felt no pity for him. He was letting his lust run way ahead of his reason. She sensed he was about to put the serious moves on her again, and hoped she was wrong. Because if he did try anything, she was likely to get very angry.