The next afternoon Fitz and his wife had to sit down together and review a batch of advertising prints.
Ever since the success with the soda waters, he’d charged Millie with formulating and improving the messages, visual and verbal, that the company conveyed to the public. And she had proved to be an enormous asset. He kept the factories and the chains of supply shipshape and efficient. But without her golden touch, Cresswell & Graves would be nowhere as successful as it was.
Today’s tête-à-tête was but a routine meeting between two partners, discussing business matters. Why then did he again feel overwhelmingly bashful, as if he’d never been alone in a room with a girl?
“These are for the autumn campaign for preserved vegetables and fruits, no?” she asked.
“They are.”
She pulled her chair closer to the desk and bent over the prints. Her afternoon calls over, she’d changed into a powder blue tea gown. He’d peeled away any number of tea gowns in his time—ladies often devoted the hour between four and five in the afternoon to entertaining their lovers. Hers was rather ordinary, made of a sturdy broadcloth, with none of the seductive drapes and shimmers he’d seen on some of his former paramours. Yet he itched to undo the buttons and expose her beautiful body. He knew what she looked like now, every inch of her skin. And if he closed his eyes, he’d see her head thrown back, her eyes shut tight, her lips parted, as he brought her to pleasure.
He forced his gaze away from her face, onto something safer: the advertising prints spread before her, which they’d already assessed once before.
The first, done in the style of a Punch’s cartoon, depicted a hostess in pearls and plumes instructing her daughter, “Now, when our guests compliment us on the crisp asparagus and the beautiful strawberries, under no circumstances will you reveal that they come courtesy of Cresswell & Graves. No, they arrived fresh this morning from our estate in the country.”
The second, aiming not so much to amuse as to reassure, showed a woman dressed simply but respectably, gazing with both contentment and relief upon her children, who tucked enthusiastically into a dessert dish of pears. The caption on top read: This winter, let Cresswell & Graves, always top quality, always affordable, be your greengrocer. The bottom caption stated: All fruits vacuum processed and solid packed.
“What do you think?” he asked, unscrewing the cap of his fountain pen.
She did not like for their secretary to be taking notes during these discussions, as she did not want her participation in the business to become public knowledge.
“The wording is fine on both,” she said slowly. “But the ladies’ gowns”—she pointed at the first print—“we last saw the artwork in April, before it had become quite obvious that sleeves would collapse this Season. They must be reduced. I’ll send along a fashion plate so that the artist will know what they ought to look like: with only very small puffs at the shoulders, none of that leg-of-lamb ballooning.”
She examined the print further. “And their hair needs to be dressed higher. There is no such thing as a coiffure that’s too high these days.”
He jotted down her instructions. Strange, he never quite thought of it this way before, but these private meetings of theirs were his favorite part of his involvement with Cresswell & Graves. He relished listening to her talk about how she wished their products to be perceived. She became impassioned—and wickedly shrewd.
They moved on to a color lithograph advertising poster for preserved cream, fresh cream being a luxury out of the reach of a large swath of the population. This one was straightforward, showing simply a crystal dish of strawberries drenched under lovely, thick cream.
Summer is more summery with Cresswell & Graves Potted Cream.
“They finally have the color right,” he said.
First the cream had been the white of leaded paint, then it had been almost currylike. But now it was a pale yellow, full-throttled richness.
She regarded the poster with a critical eye. “I suppose I’d better let it go. Or we won’t be able to use it until next summer.”
They dispatched several other posters—for jams and jellies, ox tongues, and curried chicken—and now it was time to discuss ideas for advertising the new chocolate bars, several of which sat on a plate on his desk.
He handed her an orange crème, her favorite, and chose a raspberry delight for himself. They sat in silence for a minute, busy eating.
“We could do something like this,” he said, the tart sweetness of the raspberry delight lingering on his tongue. “A man and a woman, sharing chocolate.”
Immediately he regretted the suggestion. Of course she’d guess what he really wanted was to kiss her with the chocolate still melting in her mouth.