“Your limo is here Ms. Hendricks.”
“Thank you, Ainsley.”
I hang up the phone. One last look in the mirror—make-up and dress fine. A little spritz of hair spray and I’m good to go.
Brock hates me appearing disheveled, even when he’s not here. He’s in New York today but will be back tonight.
I take the elevator to the lobby, passing the newsstand on the way out. The attendant leers. How gauche! Brock wouldn’t tolerate it, and if I told him, the man would be fired in an instant. But I wouldn’t want that. The man might have a wife and children —not that Brock would care.
Ainsley greets me with a warm smile, holds open the door and walks me out to the limo. He always seems genuinely glad to see me—as if he has a soft spot for me—but of course, that’s impossible. Still, the thought makes me feel warm and I give him a sunny smile.
“You have a nice day, Ms. Hendricks,” he grins affectionately. He’s an older, white-haired man—the kind you’d like to have for an uncle, or a grandfather—but I’m just daydreaming, being foolish, as Brock would say.
Garrett, the chauffer, is waiting. “Where are you heading today, Ms. Hendricks?”
“Today is clothing shopping—Brock wants me to buy a new outfit.”
“So, Mendocino’s, I suppose?”
“Oh no!” I gasp horrified. “Brock would never allow that. He prefers Holt Renfrew.”
“Yorkville it is,” he smiles, grinning good-naturedly at me in the rearview mirror.
I’m still frowning, dubious about his taste.
“I was only teasing, Ms. Hendricks. I know Mr. Hamilton prefers the retro sixties look—and you can certainly carry it off. The other day I swore you looked like a young Jackie O.”
“Thank you, Garrett. But I’ll make a note of your penchant for ‘teasing’ and try not to be so gullible in the future.”
A look of genuine concern clouds his features. He reminds me of a contrite choirboy.
“Aw, no Ms. Hendricks—I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I really like you—I honestly do.”
Garrett’s regretful face makes me laugh. “It’s fine, Garrett—I’m not embarrassed. It’s just that Brock gets annoyed when I act dumb—slow on the uptake, as he puts it.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know, Ms. Hendricks—I mean no disrespect to Mr. Hamilton, but I don’t see you being slow at all.”
I reach over and pat his shoulder affectionately. “I appreciate that, Garrett—it’s very kind of you to say that.”
Almost immediately, I blush and realize my faux pas. Don’t act too familiar with service people. I make a mental note and try to calm myself and not show I’m feeling overwhelmed.
But things go well from there, thankfully, and in a few hours I’m back at the Savoy and the safety of our penthouse suite.
I listen to a voice mail from Brock reminding me the caterers will arrive at seven and to plan cocktails for eight.
I notice there’s a second message from him: “Wear that little black number you had on the other night. I want to see Elle and Sara’s faces when they see you in that.”
So much for my shopping trip—and I followed all the rules. No swing dresses or pleats—keep it elegant—a simple shift dress or form-fitting gown.
Can’t complain, really. I’m living out a fantasy, and appreciate the life I have.
I really do enjoy listening to cool Jazz, dancing sambas in moonlight, and going on shopping jaunts for jewelry and designer gowns. It’s just—well, I wish Brock would listen to me now and then. I’d like to talk to him about things that interest me.
But I’m being selfish again. I need to be constantly reminded of my place.
I’ll do better tonight—I really will. Brock deserves it.
Precisely at seven the doorbell rings. I admit the caterers. Finger foods and a hot buffet, Brock specified. Most people will prefer to drink. Circulate. And speak only when spoken to.
I nurse a martini and try to look elegant.
Brock arrives a few minutes later. His eyes light up. “You look spectacular. You’ll make a big splash tonight. Just remember—be understated, and pay attention to Jon Draper—even if he gets randy after a few drinks. It’ll drive Elle and Sara crazy.”
“I don’t want them to be angry at me, Brock.”
“Let them eat their hearts out. Don’t worry about them.”
“What about your other guests?”
“Stay aloof—keep the mystery—especially, with men. Be polite to the women, and circulate. It’s all small talk anyway—nothing of significance will be said.”
I nod taking it all in, but inwardly, I’m feeling overwhelmed.
The guests begin arriving and the room is full of moving shadows—men in tuxes and women in black elegant gowns. The lighting is subdued and bodies are gently swaying in slow motion, like seaweed in shallows.
Out of the half-darkness, men’s eyes glare momentarily as I pass—large fish eyes that follow me as if magnified in aquarium glass.
I feel on display, but part of the scenery—as necessary to the ambiance of the gathering as muted jazz, and the retro furniture.
A man with wavy gray hair approaches me and guides me by my elbow to a small gathering of men.
“So, what did I say, gentlemen—is this not the epitome of Sixties beauty?”
The men all murmur their assent.
One grumpy, overweight man is unconvinced. “I still say it’s risk, Draper—you’re basing this whole campaign on a hunch. Sure, Audrey Hepburn here is elegant, but where does she fit into a world of on-line dating and booty calls?”
“Excuse me,” I say, “I’m Audrey Hendricks—not Hepburn.”
The man guffaws, “Oh, and bright to boot—remarkable!”
I feel another hand on my elbow gently guiding me away. I turn and see Brock’s stern face.
“Speak only when spoken to,” he hisses in my ear. “What’s so difficult about that rule?”
“But the gentleman was clearly mistaken, Brock—he mistook me for someone else.”
“There are no exceptions to the rules, Audrey—not for corrections—or even mistaken identity. Is that clear?”
I nod, feeling humiliated.
“Now, go back and circulate—and you can begin by joining that group over there.” He points to a small circle of men formed around Ella and Sara.
I dutifully head toward the women, being careful to stay politely aloof, but two of the men spot me as I cross the room and invite me into their group.
The attention shifts to me, and away from Elle and Sara.
A drink is offered, along with several compliments and the occasional sly snicker. Several men compete for my attention.
Elle brazenly stares at me with undisguised hatred. Sara feigns disinterest. I try to reach out and include them in the conversation, but Sara acts as if I’m not there and Elle is bristling with electricity.
I want the floor to swallow me up, or Brock to gently take me by the elbow and guide me to safety—but no such luck.
“So, you belong to Brock,” one of the men leers, “lucky guy.”
Sara looks askance.
“I suppose he wants you in that dress,” she whispers, “because he’s still carrying a torch for Vanessa.”
At the mention of the name, Elle’s eyes grow dark and malevolent. “Don’t mention that bitch—Brock’s just stuck in a time warp trying to exorcise a ghost. Mind you, he’s got the money and means to indulge his angst.”
The atmosphere in the room is energized.
“Say,” one of the men says to his friend, “I think we have the makings here of a good cat fight—these two tigers are spitting mad and want to take back their turf.”
Elle is incensed. She turns upon the man, eyes flashing. He wilts under her withering gaze and slinks away into the shadows.
I watch the poetry of gestures closely, trying to discern the significance. Why is the man so afraid?
My ruminations are interrupted by a curious change in Sara’s demeanor. Her face unexpectedly brightens as if it were a dull neon sign suddenly flickering and springing to life.
“Brock! I was wondering where you were.”
Her voice has a strained, nervous gaiety. I turn in the direction of her gaze and see Brock emerge from the shadows.
At his approach, Elle’s face shifts from an expression of pure hatred to a blank look of indifference. She appears as blasé as a fashion model.
I’m reminded of the way actors in a Greek tragedy use masks to hide their personality.
“So, are we all getting along—or at least managing to be civil?” Brock asks testily.
“Of course, we’re getting along,” Sara pouts in a little girl voice. “I was just remarking on Audrey’s dress.”
Brock’s eyes are fierce. “Really? I’m sure you were.”
The bitterness in his voice causes Sara to tremble. A nervous smile keeps flickering across her face, making her ruby lips twitch.
Elle tries to feign nonchalance, but even she is intimidated, and averts her eyes to avoid his stare.
I feel trapped in a film noir full of menacing shadows—and lit only by a flickering red neon sign.
Brock shakes his head in exasperation. Whatever reaction he expected, he didn’t get.
“Come along, Audrey, we have to do the meets and greets.”
He takes my elbow and guides me away pausing only briefly to call back over his shoulder, “Enjoy the party, girls.”
I glance back at Elle—she’s regained her composure. Her eyes flash back at me in simmering hatred.
I would not want to be alone with her in a midnight alley.
Thankfully, the rest of the night passes uneventfully. Brock is pleased—he’s managed to secure the backing of several investors who have bought into his retro Sixties campaign and new line of male cosmetics.
It’s three a.m. when the suite is empty again. Brock and I are alone and he sits opposite me in his black leather chair, staring.
He appraises me as if I were a painting—studying each nuance, each detail of my dress and appearance.
Sara’s voice comes back to haunt me.
I suppose he wants you in that dress because he’s still carrying a torch for Vanessa.
I want to ask him about Vanessa, but can’t. I’m frozen—caught in the amber of the moment.
In half-darkness Brock’s eyes glare—his large fish eyes pass over me and I’m magnified in aquarium glass.
“You did well tonight, Love—you were almost perfect.”
“I tried Brock—I really did.”
He sips at his wine. “I know. You did very well.”
He gets out of his chair and leans against the large picture window, staring out at the Toronto skyline. He seems to be searching for something in the colored jumble of lights.
He’s staring into the distance, talking in a sleepy, far-away voice—barely audible, as if he’s thinking aloud.
“I’m a lucky man. Not many get a second chance–Vanessa be damned! I’ll eventually get it right–it’s just so hard to predict all the variables.
He turns back to face me.
“Well, at least people keep investing in me and make the dream possible.”
He smiles. “We make a good team.”
A sensation of warmth passes through me.
He comes over, and pats my shoulder affectionately.
I squeeze his hand, and watch as he picks up the remote and gently presses a key.
Fireworks burst and fall slowly as I slide into the cool oblivion of machine sleep.
