Michael Hemmingson - Seven Women - An Erotic Private Investigation

“Yes—” he said, sounding rushed.

“It’s me.”

“Who?”

“Tasha Ticknor.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, and then his voice lowered: “So what can Frederick do for you?”

She thought his referring to himself in the third person was strange. “I thought,” she coughed, “I thought maybe we could get together when you get off work.”

“Umm,” he said, “no, but I will put in a good word for you with personnel.”

“A job there?” she said.

“Yes, of course.”

“As your assistant?” She perked up.

“No, no, I have one of those. But thanks.”

“Oh.”

“There are plenty of departments here, plenty of imprints. This is a goddamn conglomerate, as you know.”

“Oh,” she said, disappointed.

“Look, so much to do, I have to let you go.”

She asked, “When — when will we see each other again?”

He said, distantly, “Dear, I’m a married man.”

“That didn’t seem to concern you yesterday.”

“I’ll call you,” he said.

“You don’t have my number here.”

“Give it to me.”

She recited her number and wondered if he was actually taking it down.

“I could call you later,” she offered.

“Do that,” he said, and hung up.

She didn’t hear from him for a week so she took a day off from the program and went to the publishing house Slater was at. It was near a lot of other publishing houses.

Slater’s assistant was a young woman, maybe two or three years older than Tasha. Tasha felt jealous. She wondered if Slater did nasty things with his assistant. She felt awful. Slater agreed to see Tasha, ushered her into his office, although he looked uncomfortable about it. His suit was rumpled.

“You should’ve called first,” he said.

His desk was cluttered with manuscripts, magazines, galleys, other odds and ends. There were boxed and twined manuscripts all around his office. She wondered where he found the time to handle all of it.

“I mean,” he added, “I’m always quite busy, but—” He smiled.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll go if you want.”

“No, no,” he said, looking at his desk.

“I was just passing by, I thought—” No, she couldn’t lie.

“Why aren’t you at the school?” he asked.

“I can afford to miss a day.”

“Could be an important day.”

“I’ll take the risk. I’m a — risky person.”

“I’m meeting with an agent for lunch,” he told her. “Do you want to come along? It could prove interesting, from the standpoint of your education.”

She nodded.

The agent was a man in his thirties. He talked about several of his clients to Slater with fervor. Slater seemed uninterested, but nodded his head and went, “Yes, yes, wonderful, yes, let old Freddy take a look, I’d be happy to.” Tasha felt excluded. These men were talking a different language. She started to wonder if she’d ever fit into this business, wondered if she shouldn’t just go back to Colorado.

After lunch, the agent shook her hand and said, “I do hope we meet again.”

“You should come to my dorm,” Tasha suggested in the cab she and Slater shared.

He shook his head. “I have to tell you. The other day — well, last week — was it last week? — was a mistake.”

“Why do you say that?” she asked, too loudly. She saw the driver look at her briefly in the rearview.

“Hush,” he told her. “I was in one of my moods that day. You were there, so pretty. It was great, my dear, great; you’re a marvelous young woman. But I’m a married man, I have two kids in college — well, from my previous marriage, but I have kids almost your age, a daughter who’s twenty. Not that that means anything. I love my wife.”

“You do this a lot, don’t you?”

“What?”

“You like to ravish girls, don’t you? Give them one beautiful time and never come back.”

He laughed. “I’m hardly the Svengali type.”

She bunched up her nose.

“I’d like to see you,” he said, “but I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“No platitudes, please.”

She sneezed.

“Come to my home for dinner,” he said abruptly.

“Tonight?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Why? I—”

“Do you accept or decline?”

“Accept.”

*****

“So I went,” Tasha said.

“Was his wife gone?” I asked.

“No, she was there.”

Tasha took a cab to Slater’s uptown condo. He was on the eleventh floor. She knew these were very expensive homes; she thought one day she might own one, too.

She was nervous. She wore a short black skirt and blue blouse, overcoat and scarf. She’d spent an hour on her make-up and hair, wanting to look her best for him, her long legs in black stockings. Slater answered his door. He was in khakis and a turtleneck. She liked him out of the suit. “Ms. Ticknor,” he said loudly, “Come in, come in,” and he quickly whispered to her, “Follow my lead, play the game.”

Always a game.

She nodded, but didn’t understand.

A woman came out from another room. Tasha’s heart sank; she’d hoped to have Slater all to herself. This other woman was in her early forties; she had a grave air of elegance — Tasha knew she’d come from some well-off bloodline, had probably been educated at Vassar or Sarah Lawrence. So this was Slater’s wife, the woman she had to compete with.

“Adrienne dear,” Slater said, “this is Tasha — Tasha Ticknor. Our new junior publicist. Ms. Ticknor, I would like you to meet my wife, Adrienne Slater.”

Adrienne’s grip was firm but feminine. Tasha felt like a child in her presence.

“Ms. Ticknor,” Adrienne said. Vassar.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, and looked at Slater.

“As I was saying,” he said, “Ms. — Tasha here, she’s going to be handling some of the promo for my acquisitions, getting those writers, those little rascals, those decrepit scalawags, to their readings and interviews. We’ll be working closely together to make sure all my wonderful little storytellers get the attention they so richly deserve.”

“So their books will sell,” Tasha said emptily. “Sell, sell, sell.”

“Yes!” Slater looked pleased; she was playing along.

Adrienne Slater was a marvelous cook. This didn’t make Tasha feel any better. No wonder Slater had no intention of leaving this lady. Tasha didn’t know how to cook anything beyond a hot dog or a can of soup. The wine she served was rich and strong, and after a few glasses, Tasha’s head began to feel light. She actually felt happy, as if she didn’t give a damn anymore. She felt she didn’t care whether or not she received the affections of Frederick Slater, the worldly lover.

*****

“He led the conversation at the dinner table,” Tasha went on, her voice monotone. “Telling jokes and anecdotes about the publishing business and what he called his ‘nasty writers.’ ‘Those rascals,’ he would say of them, some of whom were famous, ‘those scoundrels!’ He talked and talked and talked, he just wouldn’t stop.”

“Maybe he was nervous having you there with his wife,” I said.

“No. He’s always like that. I didn’t know it at the time, but maybe he was afraid that his wife would ask me a question I wouldn’t be able to answer. She was quiet the whole time; I noticed she looked at her husband with endearment; each time she and I traded glances, she gave me a warm smile.”

“She had to have known,” I said.

“I don’t know; I was getting drunk.”

After dinner, they had some more wine. Demurely, Mrs. Slater yawned, said to Tasha she was an early retiree, and that it had been nice meeting her. Mrs. Slater excused herself and went off to bed.