Spa Page 2

  Chapter 3

  Destiny magazine occupied the twelfth floor of the Condé Nast building. It shared its prestigious Madison Avenue location with the likes of Glamour and Mademoiselle, two other women’s magazines which Joyce liked to think of, not as The Competition, but more as The Prelude. As far as she was concerned, as soon as girls became women and women became adults, they were supposed to switch from the fashion and beauty rags to something with a little more meat. And Destiny was a magazine with meat. It was, as she had only recently observed to Fredo, what Esquire would have been, if it had been a woman’s magazine. In other words, in the eyes of the magazine-buying public, it fell somewhere between Ms. and Cosmopolitan.

  As senior editor, Joyce was listed second on the masthead, right beneath the executive managing editor, Harry Kraft. But though her title may have looked impressive and was some kind of solace to her mother who at least had something to show her friends when they trotted out the latest pictures of the grandchildren, it didn’t carry much weight. Harry Kraft was the only boss, the last word, the head honcho, and the reigning point of view. And he controlled his Destiny accordingly.

  Joyce wasn’t too surprised, therefore, to see an URGENT!!!!!! memo taped to her door when she got in. The exclamation points were Harry’s little way of letting you know that he really thought it was urgent and that he had not just succumbed to the gratuitous use of an over-used word.

  She pulled the taped message off the door and, crumbling it into a small pink paper ball, flipped it into the garbage can beside her desk. Then she opened the bottom drawer which had a lock on it that had been broken ever since she had moved into the office nine years ago, and threw in her purse and her scarf. Next, she picked up the phone and dialed her assistant, Michelle.

  “Coffee.”

  “You’re in? Did you know that Harry’s been puffing and panting for the last half-hour waiting for you? He’s built up a real head of steam. Says he’s got to see you right away. It’s.…”

  “I know—URGENT!!!!!! First the coffee, then I’ll deal with Harry.”

  “It’s your funeral.”

  Joyce sat down and opened her appointment book.

  Today she had two interviews and a lunch. The first interview was with a woman who was running for Congress, raising five children, and teaching at her local college, and who wanted to talk about how to have it all and still be a good wife, and perhaps garner a few extra votes for her efforts. Joyce had read over her material the night before, became tired just thinking about the woman’s “average” day, and decided that the secret to having it all was simple. You gave up sleep.

  Next there was lunch at Jake’s with a new literary wonder from the Midwest who had made it to the top of the New York Times best-seller list by writing about life in his hometown—someplace called Culpepper, Kansas—which had, of course, touched numerous deep chords in everyone who had never visited there or lived in a small town in Kansas. In short, the entire literary intelligentsia.

  And, in the afternoon, she had scheduled a two-hour session with a tennis pro who was renowned for both her backhand and her bankbook, and who rarely gave interviews. Joyce felt she had made a real coup on this one, and was already well into planning her piece.

  Mixed in with this was the usual day-to-day stuff that went into creating, on schedule, an original and hopefully buyable, 200-page, four-color magazine by the first of every month, no excuses accepted.

  In addition, she also had two in-house meetings. One with the art department and one with her own staff to discuss the August issue, even though it was only March. And now Harry and his URGENT!!!!!!

  Michelle arrived a few minutes later with a large mug of coffee—no styrofoam cups at Destiny—two sugars, one cream, and the message that Harry was aware that Joyce was in and wondered if she knew what the word URGENT!!!!!! meant.

  “Tell him I’m just looking it up now.”

  Michelle started for the door, but Joyce stopped her.

  “Michelle, do you ever have weird dreams?”

  “Weird dreams? How weird?” asked Michelle cautiously.

  “Not really weird. Just.… Look, last night I had this dream, alright. It was kind of like that old movie, you know, ‘Waterloo Bridge’?”

  Michelle nodded.

  “Well, it was like that, except that there was this suit of armor, and Harry was … oh, never mind.” It sounded more silly than weird, now that she was trying to tell it to someone else.

  “You dreamed about Harry? Must have been a nightmare. Maybe it was something you ate. My mother always says, if you eat cheese before you go to bed, it’ll give you nightmares.”

  “It was Chinese food.”

  “I guess Chinese could do it, too.” Michelle paused by the door.

  You know, I have this cousin who used to dream about being in the Olympics.”

  “The Olympics?”

  “Hmmm-mmm. She kept having this same dream over and over about winning the 500-metre race, until finally she went to a shrink to find out what it meant.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said that it was probably her subconscious mind telling her she needed to get more exercise.”

  “More exercise? What did she do?”

  “She joined a fitness club and the dreams stopped, so I guess either the shrink was right, or she was too tired after working out to dream anymore.” Michelle shrugged and opened the door. “Don’t forget about Harry.”

  “O.K. O.K. I’m going. But I’m taking my coffee with me.” Joyce picked up the white mug with the shocking-pink Destiny logo splashed across one side, avoided spilling some on her dress by mere millimetres, and made her way to the corner suite, complete with shower and bar, that was Harry’s home away from home—literally.

  When she got there, Trixie, his secretary, placed one index finger over her well-proportioned lips, went “SSSSHHHHHH,” and motioned in the direction of Harry’s inner sanctum. It was evident that Trixie didn’t want any pre-emptive interruptions in her eavesdropping. But the “Sshhh” was completely unnecessary. Even if a brass band had been playing in the reception area, Harry’s voice would have transcended its music.

  “Whaddaya mean you want more money!”

  “He’s on the phone.” She mimicked holding a phone to her ear.

  “No kidding.” Joyce sat down and sipped her coffee. Harry’s voice grew louder. She wondered if his face had started to turn purple yet.

  “A vacation! What do you need a vacation from—shopping?”

  “It’s Maxine.” Trixie’s voice was just above a whisper, and she nodded as she spoke and raised one eyebrow.

  Joyce nodded back. Everybody at Destiny knew about Harry and Maxine, thanks in part to Trixie, who felt it was her duty to keep all employees informed of essential company news.

  “What’s up?”

  “The usual, money and Bradley.”

  “Again?” Bradley was Harry and Maxine’s son. Maxine had been holding Bradley over their relationship for years, refusing to divorce until her baby was old enough to understand. Baby was now twenty-two and Maxine still showed no signs of giving up the ghost of their marriage. Joyce had to admit she felt sorry for Harry. He could be a tyrant at times, but he really wasn’t a bad guy. There were times when she almost liked him. Times when.… Suddenly, the shouting stopped and the phone could be heard being slammed down into its cradle. Joyce counted to herself.

  “One … two … three.…”

  The door to Harry’s office flew open.

  “Where the hell have you been? Didn’t you get my message? When I say ‘URGENT!!!!!!’, I mean ‘URGENT!!!!!!’”

  Harry’s face was only red, not purple. It gave him a healthy, outdoor look and Joyce reflected, not for the first time, that, unlike most women, a lot of men got better-looking as they got older. In Harry’s case, his weight had finally caught up with his height, making him look even larger and more threatening than when he had hired her, but also more attractive. If yo
u could call a grizzly bear on the rampage attractive. He stood in the doorway clenching and unclenching his fists.

  “Good morning. Harry.” Joyce stood up. “I understand you wanted to talk to me.” Trixie suppressed a smile, and Joyce followed the still-steaming Harry into his office.

  “Sit down.” He waved an arm in the direction of the chair opposite his desk.

  Joyce sat on the couch and crossed her legs. Harry was pacing up and down muttering to himself, running his hand through the thinning top of his hair. Joyce waited for him to get to the point and, while she waited, she flicked the tip of her tongue over the cold sore. It felt like it was getting bigger. Stress, probably.

  “How come you always sit on the couch?” Harry stopped pacing and turned to face her. She noticed he was wearing the same suit and the same shirt he had been wearing the day before. If it had been anybody else she would have guessed a one-night stand but, in Harry’s case, she knew that it meant he had slept in his office again.

  “I like the couch, Harry. It’s not so formal. Besides, if I’m going to get hauled over the coals for something. I’d rather be comfortable.”

  “Who said anything about hauling you over the coals? You done something I should know about but don’t?” Harry sat down behind his desk and lit up a cigarette.

  “No. But I counted the exclamation points after your URGENT. Six means it’s something big, right?”

  “Cute, Joycee, very cute. But, as it happens, this time you’re right. Except it’s not about something you’ve done. It’s about something you’re going to do. I got a story for you that I want done ASAP. It’s got to go to bed with the May issue. I can hold the space, but I need the story researched and written in two weeks. Understand?

  “I understand. I’ve got that piece on the tennis player skedded for the May issue. It’ll be a squeeze, but I only got the go-ahead for the interview yesterday. It’s tight, but I can do it.

  “Cut it.”

  “Cut it! What for? She’s news, Harry. Everybody’s been after an exclusive with her.”

  “What’s news about some dyke tennis player who couldn’t even get to Wimbledon last year? She’s history. Besides, spring is self-improvement time. Everybody wants to get themselves straightened out. That’s why I want this piece in the May issue.”

  “What piece? Aren’t you going to tell me what it’s about before I tell you it’s impossible?”

  “Don’t be smartass. If I thought it was impossible, I wouldn’t ask you. But because I am asking you and not somebody else means I know you can do it.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Harry. Now, how about telling me just what it is that you think I can do.”

  “You know what a spa is?”

  “A spa? Of course I know what a spa is. It’s one of those ritzy places that rich, bored women go to, to lose weight and look younger. If that’s what you’re thinking of for a story, Harry, forget it. It’s been done, lots of times … La Costa, The Golden Door, Main Chance. Besides.…”

  The telephone rang. Harry grabbed the receiver. “Yeah?… Who is it?… Mrs. Kraft? My sister-in-law?… Maxine! Tell her I don’t want to talk to her, and if she calls again tell her I died or tell her whatever you like. Just keep her off my phone.” He slammed the receiver down again. Joyce wondered how many telephones he went through in a year. They didn’t make them like they used to.

  “Not the way I’m gonna do it, or rather the way you’re gonna do it.” He picked up the thread of his idea without missing a beat. “What I want you to do is go and stay at this new spa they just opened in the Caribbean and write me a real gut-wrenching, in-depth, investigative piece about the women who go there. You know the kind of stuff I like. Get right down to the nitty gritty. Why are they there? What do they think it’s gonna do for them? Are they hiding from something? Afraid of something? Do they really think it can stop them from getting old? You know, get into the psychology of it. I want a piece that tells me all the details of their desperate struggle to ward off old age. The tyranny of the beauty industry feeding off the paranoia of an aging society. That kind of thing. You get my drift?

  “Yes, Harry, I get it, and I don’t like it one damned bit. This is something for Paula to do. She’s the fashion and beauty editor. This is her territory, not mine. Or get Naomi. You can treat it as a food piece.”

  He shook his head. “Naomi is still on maternity leave.”

  Joyce searched for another angle, any other angle. She really didn’t want to get caught up in this piece of fluff. It offended her impression of herself as a serious journalist. “But Harry, I covered Geneva, remember? I was in the Philippines getting the goods on Imelda Marcos just before Ferdy got the boot. I interviewed Margaret Thatcher—for six hours! This spa thing is too light-weight for me, Harry. It’s not my style at all.… And I’ve got to tell you I think you’re reaching. A spa is a spa. You exercise. You eat veggies for a week, lose six pounds, come home and revert to your old self again. Big deal.…” She shrugged, palms up, to show the meagreness of the idea. “Besides, I’ve got a full calendar for the next six weeks. I can’t go anywhere.”

  “You did a terrific job on that Thatcher piece, and your exposé of Imelda Marcos as the real power was great. But.…” He was trying the old schmooze play, and they both knew it.

  “That’s why I want you on this, Joyce. You are the only one on this goddamn magazine that really writes. You know what I mean? I don’t want all that cutesy-pie shit about what goes in the facial masks and how many times you have to do situps before you get a tight ass. I want the real stuff. I want to ‘feel’ it.” He put five or six extra e’s into the word “feel.” “The human element, Joyce, that’s the key. It’s people, Joyce, their fears, their joys. That’s what makes Destiny what it is. Anyway, who knows, you might run into a few celebs, get a little inside dirt.…”

  “You fake. So that’s it.…”

  Harry ignored her, and continued. “Oh, and I think it would be better if the other guests didn’t know you were writing about this. So make up something else about what you do. You know, tell them you’ve got a husband who’s got money. Whatever you like; just make it sound convincing.” He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper.

  “Here’s your itinerary. And a cheque to cover your expenses. Don’t go wild on the spending, Joyce. Remember, you’re not the wealthy. You’re just there to write about the wealthy.”

  Joyce took the paper and glanced over it. Her hands were trembling. Where did he get off sending her on this hare brained assignment? The “human element,” my ass. He didn’t want to know about the human element; he just wanted some gossipy National Enquirer piece to boost his circulation and keep the advertisers happy. Whatever happened to journalistic integrity? Well, he could just get somebody else. She was going to tell him a thing or two, and then.…

  “Your flight leaves next Saturday morning at nine.” He handed her the tickets. “B.W.I.A. direct to Barbados. You can catch an island hopper to St. Christophe from there.”

  Joyce took the tickets. “St. Christophe?”

  “It’s an island. The spa is the only thing on the island. That’s why they call it ‘The Spa at St. Christophe’.” He said it with exaggerated patience. “I expect to see you two weeks from today with the completed story.”

  Harry got up and came around from behind the desk and looped a fatherly arm around her shoulders. “You’ll enjoy yourself. Think of it as a working vacation, that’s all. You look like you could use a tune-up. Got a little cold sore there, I see.” He smiled. His anger had receded. He looked pleased with himself.

  “Thanks, Harry. Your concern overwhelms me.” She ran her tongue over the offending spot one more time.

  “You know I always have your best interests at heart, Joyce.”

  “What can I say?”

  “How about ‘goodbye’? I’ve got another meeting, five minutes ago.”

  He walked her toward the door. She caught a whiff of his cologne
. What was that? “Brut”? It seemed appropriate.

  Still clutching her tickets and her expense check, she hesitated and turned to face him. If she was going to stand up to him, now was the time. All she had to do was say, “No. I’m not going.” It was that simple.

  “Well, have a good trip. I know you’ll do a great job.” And she was back in the waiting room staring at the closing door.

  “Harry. Wait.”

  “Yeah, what is it?”

  “I.… Goodbye, Harry.”

  “Goodbye, Joyce.”

  Chapter 4

  Cliff

  Cliff Eastman was waiting for the telephone to ring. He had been waiting since yesterday afternoon, and it was past the point where he could ignore its smug silence any longer.

  Last night and this morning he had passed the time reading from the stack of scripts that forever seemed to be piled by his chair and on his desk. None of them were any good—at least not for him. He had thrown the last one across the room in utter disgust. It was absolute bullshit, and would probably be a big hit.

  Now he sat by the pool, a portable phone and a large vodka and tonic on the wicker table beside his chaise lounge. He sipped the drink. Put it down. Stared at the telephone, remembered that a watched pot never boils, or whatever idiotic saying was supposed to explain moments such as this, and then sipped his drink again.

  Why didn’t Alvin call? Why hadn’t he called yesterday? Was it a case of no news is good news? Or, was the news so bad he couldn’t bring himself to make the call? What kind of an agent was he, anyway? Didn’t he know that Cliff’s whole career was hanging in the balance? Cliff knew he had a chance to be box office again if he got this part. Otherwise, it would be a gradual downhill slide until he ended up on some fatuous TV sitcom playing father to some obnoxious ethnic brat who earned more money than he did.…

  The telephone rang. He grabbed the receiver.

  “Hello, Alvin?”

  “No, Cliff, it’s Marty. Just wanted to know if you were going to come to that little soiree we’re throwing for Paul tonight. It’s his last night before going back East. You know he got that part in ‘Two For The Road’?”