Jan Freed - Talk To Me

Like produce a sleazy lingerie catalog.

Oh God.

Kara battled her flush of chagrin with righteous rationalization. Desperate circumstances called for desperate measures. And Mystery Woman merchandise wasn’t sleazy. Sexy, yes—to both sexes. At least, it was according to the catalog’s photographer, Lisa Williams. Kara would have to continue to trust her best friend’s judgment about the fantasies of men.

She would never in a million years comprehend the male psyche.

Women, however, she understood perfectly.

And the delicately feminine, exquisitely detailed lingerie in her catalog would make any woman who wore it feel sexy and beautiful. Results from her first secret experimental mailing had exceeded her wildest hopes. Especially since almost half of the orders had come from men.

If a second city-wide drop pulled the same ten percent response, she wouldn’t have to worry about paying double the current rent when Taylor Fine Foundations’ lease expired in three months. She wouldn’t have to liquidate stock and close the last remaining store in the family’s once-thriving chain. She wouldn’t have to admit she’d failed to make up for her mother’s unforgivable sins.

By the year 2000, she would beat back the wolves from her family’s estate and ensure her grandmother’s happiness. At least she would if a miracle occurred and those catalogs got mailed out soon.

Yet here she sat in early October, wasting precious hours she couldn’t spare, because Gram refused to drive on the freeway, and Major McKinney had bailed from escort duty at the last minute. Wimp. So the retired army officer was running a little fever? He should try running a store with walking pneumonia, the way she had last year, and then complain.

A squeeze on Kara’s forearm captured her attention. She glanced down at the hand, as fragile and spotted as a quail’s egg, resting on her navy wool sleeve.

“I’m so nervous,” Esther Taylor confessed, her pale blue eyes anxious. “Last week a woman in the audience had a big piece of spinach or something in her teeth. It was so embarrassing.” She wrinkled her brow. “Do I need more lipstick? Did my hair get mussed in the parking garage?”

Kara’s irritation dissolved in an overwhelming rush of affection. Her grandmother was supremely vain.

She checked the vivid pink of Gram’s lips, the crisp edges of youth fissured by time and yearround gardening. Her helmet of silver-blue curls hadn’t budged, of course. No puny gust of wind could penetrate two coats of Final Net.

“You look wonderful, Gram. Quit worrying.”

“You’re right. It’s not as if Vanessa will pick me out of all these people to ask a question on camera. But don’t you think this is exciting?”

About as exciting as a bass-fishing tournament. “Hmm-mmm,” Kara hummed vaguely, the best she could manage without choking on a lie. Together with a pat on bony knuckles, the sound appeared to satisfy her grandmother.

Just then a frazzled-looking man wearing headphones broke apart from the camera and lighting crew to walk center-stage. He picked up a microphone lying on one chair and tested the sound level, stirring up a buzz of speculation.

“Ladies and gentlemen, could I have your attention, please?” he asked, then repeated the question until the large room quieted. “Ms. Allen will be out shortly. But I’d like to go over a few rules before we start taping.”

Kara then learned she was to stay in her seat at all times, applaud and even laugh on cue, listen carefully to each couple’s dialogue on stage without shouting comments—as if she would do such a thing—and raise her hand, rise calmly and state her viewpoint succinctly into the microphone if Ms. Allen singled her out of the audience for an opinion.

For the first time since entering the auditorium, Kara experienced a flutter of anxiety. She reached up casually, patted her sleek chignon and tucked a few errant strands into place.

Unnecessary. Vain and silly. She had no intention of raising her hand. Gram was the star-struck fan who’d be thrilled to share the spotlight with her idol.

“All right folks, let’s get started,” the prompter concluded. “Everybody please give a warm welcome to... Va-nes-sa Al-len!”

The familiar theme music swelled. Kara clapped on cue. A tall striking redhead in signature blueframed glasses entered stage-right carrying a cordless microphone. Her olive-green silk jacket and pants were stylish, but Kara could think of two Mystery Woman camisoles that were prettier choices than the one Vanessa wore.

Smiling warmly, the forty-something celebrity waved and shouted, “Howdy, Houston!”

Cheers erupted. Gram warbled a loud, “Howdy!”

“Gosh, I love this city! People here are so friendly. This is my first visit, can you believe that? I thought you’d all have oil wells and, you know, horses and stuff in your backyards, but you don’t. You guys have something better.” She paused impishly. “Great shopping.”

As laughter broke out she grabbed her knees and hitched up both pant cuffs. “Look what I bought today. Ernie, can you get a close-up of these babies?”

Two large screens mounted high on each side of the stage showed the studio audience what the television viewers at home would see. The camera zoomed in on taupe ostrich-skin cowboy boots.

“Aren’t they beautiful? Rodeo Drive eat your heart out!” She grinned delightedly.

The crowd roared its approval. Vanessa had acknowledged the city’s cosmopolitan status and Texas pride in one fell swoop. No wonder the country loved her. The woman had natural charm and showbiz poise to spare.

Too bad the show’s guests often seemed dredged from the bottom of America’s barrel of apples. Watching rotten characters unpeeled and exposed on TV was not Kara’s idea of entertainment.

Viewing the same process—live and unedited in her naive past—had been bad enough.

“We have some interesting guests for you today,” Vanessa was saying. “Each of the couples you’ll meet is at the brink of breaking up because of a communication problem in their relationship. Let’s see if we can help these people out. What do you say, folks?”

Kara squirmed through the audience’s enthusiastic response and Vanessa’s introduction of Bill and Dorothy, an overweight, middle-aged couple from Rosenberg, Texas.

The two settled in their chairs, his finger prying more space between red neck and shirt collar, her fists tugging less space between knees and skirt hem. They fidgeted self-consciously while Vanessa headed down the stage steps and into the center aisle. Two men bracing cameras on their shoulders followed, as well as the stage manager who’d opened the show, carrying a second microphone.

Esther squeezed Kara’s arm and drew in a sharp breath, then released a disappointed sigh when Vanessa passed by their row.

About halfway up the aisle the TV host stopped and turned.

“Now then, Dorothy, let’s start with you. You told our producer that your husband hasn’t talked to you in twenty-seven years of marriage, and that you can’t take it anymore. Do you honestly mean to say he hasn’t spoken to you in all that time?”

“Oh, he’s spoken, all right. He just hasn’t talked to me,” Dorothy clarified in an unpleasantly shrill voice.

“Can you be more specific?”

“Well, like about a week ago? He comes home from work and I ask him how his day was. ‘Okay,’ he says, like it was business as usual. So later I’m watching the news, and there’s a story about a chemical leak at the plant where he works.”

She flicked a resentful glance at her husband, who gazed stonily ahead. “He could’ve been hurt bad, and I have to find out about it on Channel 2! Does that sound like an ‘okay’ day to you?”