When Eve finally dragged herself into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, she was aghast. Her face was bruised and discolored where he had hit her, and one eye was almost swollen shut. She ran a hot bath and crawled into it like a wounded animal, letting the soothing water wash away the pain. Eve lay there for a long time, and, finally, when the water was starting to cool, she got out of the tub and took a few tentative steps. The pain had lessened, but it was still agonizing. She lay awake for the rest of the night, terrified that he might return.
When Eve arose at dawn, she saw that the sheets were stained with her blood. She was going to make him pay for that. She walked into the bathroom, moving carefully, and ran another hot bath. Her face was even more swollen and the bruises were
livid. She dipped a washcloth into cold water and applied it to her cheek and eye. Then she lay in the tub, thinking about George Mellis. There was something puzzling about his behavior that had nothing to do with his sadism. And she suddenly realized what it was. The necklace. Why had he taken it?
Two hours later, Eve went downstairs to join the other guests for breakfast, even though she had no appetite. She badly needed to talk to Nita Ludwig.
“My God! What happened to your face?” Nita asked.
Eve smiled ruefully. “The silliest thing. I got up in the middle of the night to go to the loo, and I didn’t bother turning on the light. I walked right into one of your fancy doors.”
“Would you like to have a doctor look at that?”
“It’s nothing,” Eve assured her. “It’s just a little bruise.” Eve looked around. “Where’s George Mellis?”
“He’s out playing tennis. He’s one of the top-seeded players. He said to tell you he’d see you at lunch. I think he really likes you, darling.”
“Tell me about him,” Eve said casually. “What’s his background?”
“George? He comes from a long line of wealthy Greeks. He’s the oldest son, and he’s filthy rich. He works at a New York brokerage firm, Hanson and Hanson.”
“He’s not in the family business?”
“No. He probably hates olives. Anyway, with the Mellis fortune, he doesn’t have to work. I suppose he does it just to occupy his days.” She grinned and said, “His nights are full enough.”
“Are they?”
“Darling, George Mellis is the most eligible bachelor around. The girls can’t wait to pull their little panties down for him. They all see themselves as the future Mrs. Mellis. Frankly, if my husband weren’t so damned jealous, I’d go for George myself. Isn’t he a gorgeous hunk of animal?”
“Gorgeous,” Eve said.
George Mellis walked onto the terrace where Eve was seated alone, and in spite of herself, she felt a stab of fear.
He walked up to her and said, “Good morning, Eve. Are you all right?” His face was filled with genuine concern. He touched her bruised cheek gently. “My darling, you are so beautiful.” He pulled up a chair and straddled it, sitting across from her, and gestured toward the sparkling sea. “Have you ever seen anything so lovely?”
It was as though the previous night had never happened. She listened to George Mellis as he went on talking, and she felt once again the powerful magnetism of the man. Even after the nightmare she had experienced, she could still feel
that
. It was incredible.
He looks like a Greek god. He belongs in a museum. He belongs in an insane asylum
.
“I have to return to New York tonight,” George Mellis was saying. “Where can I call you?”
“I just moved,” Eve said quickly. “I don’t have a telephone yet. Let me call you.”
“All right, my darling.” He grinned. “You really enjoyed last night, didn’t you?”
Eve could not believe her ears.
“I have many things to teach you, Eve,” he whispered.
And I have something to teach you, Mr. Mellis
, Eve promised herself.
The moment she returned home, Eve telephoned Dorothy Hollister. In New York, where an insatiable segment of the media covered the comings and goings of the so-called beautiful people, Dorothy was the fountainhead of information. She had been married to a socialite, and when he divorced her for his twenty-one-year-old secretary, Dorothy Hollister was forced to go to work. She took a job that suited her talents well: She became a gossip columnist. Because she knew everyone in the milieu she was writing about, and because they believed she could be trusted, few people kept any secrets from her.
If anyone could tell Eve about George Mellis, it would be Dorothy Hollister. Eve invited her to lunch at La Pyramide.
Hollister was a heavyset woman with a fleshy face, dyed red hair, a loud, raucous voice and a braying laugh. She was loaded down with jewelry—all fake.
When they had ordered, Eve said casually, “I was in the Bahamas last week. It was lovely there.”
“I know you were,” Dorothy Hollister said. “I have Nita Ludwig’s guest list. Was it a fun party?”
Eve shrugged. “I saw a lot of old friends. I met an interesting man named”—she paused, her brow wrinkled in thought—“George somebody. Miller, I think. A Greek.”
Dorothy Hollister laughed, a loud, booming laugh that could be heard across the room. “Mellis, dear. George Mellis.”
“That’s right. Mellis. Do you know him?”
“I’ve seen him. I thought I was going to turn into a pillar of salt. My God, he’s fantastic looking.”
“What’s his background, Dorothy?”
Dorothy Hollister looked around, then leaned forward confidentially. “No one knows this, but you’ll keep it to yourself, won’t you? George is the black sheep of the family. His family is in the wholesale food business, and they’re too rich for words, my dear. George was supposed to take over the business, but he got in so many scrapes over there with girls and boys and goats, for all I know, that his father and his brothers finally got fed up and shipped him out of the country.”
Eve was absorbing every word.
“They cut the poor boy off without a drachma, so he had to go to work to support himself.”
So that explained the necklace!
“Of course, he doesn’t have to worry. One of these days George will marry rich.” She looked over at Eve and asked, “Are you interested, sweetie?”
“Not really.”
Eve was more than interested. George Mellis might be the key she had been looking for. The key to her fortune.
Early the next morning, she telephoned him at the brokerage firm where he worked. He recognized her voice immediately.
“I’ve been going mad waiting for your call, Eve. We’ll have dinner tonight and—”
“No. Lunch, tomorrow.”
He hesitated, surprised. “All right. I was supposed to have lunch with a customer, but I’ll put him off.”
Eve did not believe it was a
him
. “Come to my apartment,” Eve said. She gave him the address. “I’ll see you at twelve-thirty.”
“I’ll be there.” She could hear the smug satisfaction in his voice.
George Mellis was due for a surprise.
He arrived thirty minutes late, and Eve realized it was a pattern with him. It was not a deliberate rudeness, it was an indifference, the knowledge that people would always wait for him. His pleasures would be there for him whenever he bothered to reach out and take them. With his incredible looks and charm, the world belonged to him. Except for one thing: He was poor. That was his vulnerable point.
George looked around the little apartment, expertly appraising the value of its contents. “Very pleasant.”
He moved toward Eve, his arms outstretched. “I’ve thought about you every minute.”
She evaded his embrace. “Wait. I have something to tell you, George.”
His black eyes bored into hers. “We’ll talk later.”
“We’ll talk now.” She spoke slowly and distinctly. “If you ever touch me like that again, I’m going to kill you.”
He looked at her, his lips curved in a half smile. “What kind of joke is that?”
“It’s not a joke. I mean it. I have a business proposition for you.”
There was a puzzled expression on his face. “You called me here to discuss business?”
“Yes. I don’t know how much you make conning silly old ladies into buying stocks and bonds, but I’m sure it’s not enough.”
His face went dark with anger. “Are you crazy? My family—”
“Your family is rich—you’re not. My family is rich—
I’m
not. We’re both in the same leaky rowboat, darling. I know a way we can turn it into a yacht.” She stood there, watching his curiosity get the better of his anger.
“You’d better tell me what you’re talking about.”
“It’s quite simple. I’ve been disinherited from a very large fortune. My sister Alexandra hasn’t.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“If you married Alexandra, that fortune would be yours—ours.”
“Sorry. I could never stand the idea of being tied down to anyone.”
“As it happens,” Eve assured him, “that’s no problem. My sister has always been accident-prone.”
Berkley and Mathews Advertising Agency was the diadem in Madison Avenue’s roster of agencies. Its annual billings exceeded the combined billings of its two nearest competitors, chiefly because its major account was Kruger-Brent, Ltd., and its dozens of worldwide subsidiaries. More than seventy-five account executives, copywriters, creative directors, photographers, engravers, artists and media experts were employed on the Kruger-Brent account alone. It came as no surprise, therefore, that when Kate Blackwell telephoned Aaron Berkley to ask him if he could find a position in his agency for Alexandra, a place was found for her instantly. If Kate Blackwell had desired it, they would probably have made Alexandra president of the agency.
“I believe my granddaughter is interested in being a copywriter,” Kate informed Aaron Berkley.
Berkley assured Kate that there just happened to be a copywriter vacancy, and that Alexandra could start any time she wished.
She went to work the following Monday.
Few Madison Avenue advertising agencies are actually located on Madison Avenue, but Berkley and Mathews was an exception. The agency owned a large, modern building at the corner of Madison and Fifty-seventh Street. The agency occupied eight floors of the building and leased the other floors. In order to save a salary, Aaron Berkley and his partner, Norman Mathews, decided Alexandra Blackwell would replace a young copywriter hired six months earlier. The word spread rapidly. When the staff learned the young woman who was fired was being replaced by the granddaughter of the agency’s biggest client, there was general indignation. Without even having met Alexandra, the consensus was that she was a spoiled bitch who had probably been sent there to spy on them.
When Alexandra reported for work, she was escorted to the huge, modern office of Aaron Berkley, where both Berkley and Mathews waited to greet her. The two partners looked nothing alike. Berkley was tall and thin, with a full head of white hair, and Mathews was short, tubby and completely bald. They had two things in common: They were brilliant advertising men who had created some of the most famous slogans of the past decade; and they were absolute tyrants. They treated their employees like chattels, and the only reason the employees stood for such treatment was that anyone who had worked for Berkley and Mathews could work at any advertising agency in the world. It was
the
training ground.
Also present in the office when Alexandra arrived was Lucas Pinkerton, a vice-president of the firm, a smiling man with an obsequious manner and cold eyes. Pinkerton was younger than the senior partners, but what he lacked in age, he made up for in vindictiveness toward the men and women who worked under him.
Aaron Berkley ushered Alexandra to a comfortable armchair. “What can I get you, Miss Blackwell? Would you like some coffee, tea?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“So. You’re going to work with us here as a copywriter.”
“I really appreciate your giving me this opportunity, Mr. Berkley. I know I have a great deal to learn, but I’ll work very hard.”
“No need for that,” Norman Mathews said quickly. He caught himself. “I mean—you can’t rush a learning experience like this. You take all the time you want.”
“I’m sure you’ll be very happy here,” Aaron Berkley added. “You’ll be working with the best people in the business.”
One hour later, Alexandra was thinking,
They may be the best, but they’re certainly not the friendliest
. Lucas Pinkerton had taken Alexandra around to introduce her to the staff, and the reception everywhere had been icy. They acknowledged her presence and then quickly found other things to do. Alexandra sensed their resentment, but she had no idea what had caused it. Pinkerton led her into a smoke-filled conference room. Against one wall was a cabinet filled with Clios and Art Directors’ awards. Seated around a table were a woman and two men, all of them chain-smoking. The woman was short and dumpy, with rust-colored hair. The men were in their middle thirties, pale and harassed-looking.
Pinkerton said, “This is the creative team you’ll be working with. Alice Koppel, Vince Barnes and Marty Bergheimer. This is Miss Blackwell.”
The three of them stared at Alexandra.
“Well, I’ll leave you to get acquainted with one another,” Pinkerton said. He turned to Vince Barnes. “I’ll expect the new perfume copy on my desk by tomorrow morning. See that Miss Blackwell has everything she needs.” And he left.
“What do you need?” Vince Barnes asked.
The question caught Alexandra off guard. “I—I guess I just need to learn the advertising business.”
Alice Koppel said sweetly, “You’ve come to the right place, Miss Blackwell. We’re dying to play teacher.”
“Lay off,” Marty Bergheimer told her.
Alexandra was puzzled. “Have I done something to offend any of you?”
Marty Bergheimer replied, “No, Miss Blackwell. We’re just under a lot of pressure here. We’re working on a perfume campaign, and so far Mr. Berkley and Mr. Mathews are underwhelmed by what we’ve delivered.”
“I’ll try not to be a bother,” Alexandra promised.
“That would be peachy,” Alice Koppel said.
The rest of the day went no better. There was not a smile in the place. One of their co-workers had been summarily fired because of this rich bitch, and they were going to make her pay.
At the end of Alexandra’s first day, Aaron Berkley and Norman Mathews came into the little office Alexandra had been assigned, to make sure she was comfortable. The gesture was not lost on Alexandra’s fellow workers.
Everyone in the agency was on a first-name basis—except for Alexandra. She was Miss Blackwell to everyone.
“Alexandra,” she said.
“Right.”
And the next time they addressed her, it was “Miss Blackwell.”
Alexandra was eager to learn and to make a contribution. She attended think-tank meetings where the copywriters brainstormed ideas. She watched art editors draw up their designs. She listened to Lucas Pinkerton tear apart the copy that was brought to him for approval. He was a nasty, mean-spirited man, and Alexandra felt sorry for the copywriters who suffered under him. Alexandra found herself shuttling from floor to floor for meetings with department heads, meetings with clients, photographic sessions, strategy discussion meetings. She kept her mouth shut, listened and learned. At the end of her first week, she felt as though she had been there a month. She came home exhausted, not from the work but from the tension that her presence seemed to create.
When Kate asked how the job was going, Alexandra replied, “Fine, Gran. It’s very interesting.”
“I’m sure you’ll do well, Alex. If you have any problems, just see Mr. Berkley or Mr. Mathews.”
That was the last thing Alexandra intended to do.
On the following Monday Alexandra went to work determined to find a way to solve her problem. There were daily morning and afternoon coffee breaks, and the conversation was easy and casual.
“Did you hear what happened over at National Media? Some genius there wanted to call attention to the great year they had, so he printed their financial report in
The New York Times
in red ink!”
“Remember that airline promotion:
Fly Your Wife Free?
It was a smash until the airline sent letters of appreciation to the wives and got back a flood of mail demanding to know who their husbands had flown with. They—”
Alexandra walked in, and the conversation stopped dead.
“Can I get you some coffee, Miss Blackwell?”
“Thank you. I can get it.”
There was silence while Alexandra fed a quarter into the coffee machine. When she left, the conversation started again.
“Did you hear about the Pure Soap foul-up? The angelic-looking model they used turned out to be a porno star…”
At noon Alexandra said to Alice Koppel, “If you’re free for lunch, I thought we might—”
“Sorry. I have a date.”
Alexandra looked at Vince Barnes. “Me, too,” he said.
She looked at Marty Bergheimer. “I’m all booked up.”
Alexandra was too upset to eat lunch. They were making her feel as though she were a pariah, and she found herself getting angry. She did not intend to give up. She was going to find a way to reach them, to let them know that deep down under the Blackwell name she was one of
them
. She sat at meetings and
listened to Aaron Berkley and Norman Mathews and Lucas Pinkerton tongue-lash the creators who were merely trying to do their jobs as well as they could. Alexandra sympathized, but they did not want her sympathy. Or her.
Alexandra waited three days before trying again. She said to Alice Koppel, “I heard of a wonderful little Italian restaurant near here—”
“I don’t eat Italian food.”
She turned to Vince Barnes. “I’m on a diet.”
Alexandra looked at Marty Bergheimer. “I’m going to eat Chinese.”
Alexandra’s face was flushed. They did not want to be seen with her.
Well, to hell with them. To hell with all of them
. She had had enough. She had gone out of her way to try to make friends, and each time she had been slapped down. Working there was a mistake. She would find another job somewhere with a company that her grandmother had nothing to do with. She would quit at the end of the week.
But I’m going to make you all remember I was here
, Alexandra thought grimly.
At 1:00
P.M
. on Thursday, everyone except the receptionist at the switchboard was out to lunch. Alexandra stayed behind. She had observed that in the executive offices there were intercoms connecting the various departments, so that if an executive wanted to talk to an underling, all he had to do was press a button on the talk box where the employee’s name was written on a card. Alexandra slipped into the deserted offices of Aaron Berkley and Norman Mathews and Lucas Pinkerton and spent the next hour changing all the cards around. Thus it was that early that afternoon Lucas Pinkerton pressed down the key that connected him to his chief copywriter and said, “Get your ass in here. Now!”
There was a moment of stunned silence, then Norman Mathews’s voice bellowed, “What did you say?”
Pinkerton stared at the machine, transfixed. “Mr. Mathews, is that you?”
“You’re damned right it is. Get
your
fucking ass in
here. Now!”
A minute later, a copywriter pressed down a button on the machine on his desk and said, “I’ve got some copy for you to run downstairs.”
Aaron Berkley’s voice roared back at him. “You
what?”
It was the beginning of pandemonium. It took four hours to straighten out the mess that Alexandra had created, and it was the best four hours that the employees of Berkley and Mathews had ever known. Each time a fresh incident occurred, they whooped with joy. The executives were being buzzed to run errands, fetch cigarettes and repair a broken toilet. Aaron Berkley and Norman Mathews and Lucas Pinkerton turned the place upside down trying to find out who the culprit was, but no one knew anything.
The only one who had seen Alexandra go into the various offices was Fran, the woman on the switchboard, but she hated her bosses more than she hated Alexandra, so all she would say was, “I didn’t see a soul.”
That night when Fran was in bed with Vince Barnes, she related what had happened.
He sat up in bed. “The
Blackwell
girl did it? I’ll be a sonofabitch!”
The following morning when Alexandra walked into her office, Vince Barnes, Alice Koppel and Marty Bergheimer were there, waiting. They stared at her in silence. “Is something wrong?” Alexandra asked.
“Not a thing, Alex,” Alice Koppel said. “The boys and I were just wondering if you’d like to join us for lunch. We know this great little Italian joint near here…”