“People describe it as formal. I hired an interior designer. I need the house to be presentable for business entertaining. It has to look purposeful. Tasteful.”
“Controlled?” I suggested. He nodded. “How much entertaining do you do?”
“I host a Christmas party. Two or three dinners a year for specific client cultivation.”
“You had your house professionally laid out for one party and a couple dinners a year?”
“Entertaining is not what I love best about my job, but it’s necessary. It builds trust among the people I do business with, and at my own dining-room table I can control who’s sitting next to whom. It’s easier to manage a lot of variables.”
“You sound like your dinners need a stage director more than a good cook.”
“You of all people should know that some things in business are theatre. I’ve read about your conferences.”
“Lilly does the theatre in our business. Not me.”
“Well. Theatre.” His head made a dismissive little twist and dip. “Not the real point of any business that matters, really.”
“Don’t underestimate theatre, Mr. Helbrun. The stuff Lilly pulls off is the beating heart of our business.” I started to pull on a coat and he took it gently from my hands, stepped behind me, and eased me expertly into it.
“Charles. Please. You look very lovely tonight, Miss Terhune.”
“Neave. Please.”
“Neave and Charles it is, then.” He smiled and dipped into a tiny and very endearing bow. I bowed back. The tone of the evening softened.
Even though my early training for Be Your Best parties had given me some competence with makeup, I’d still let Lilly give advice on wardrobe. She’d been disgusted that I hadn’t asked him where we were going. “The ladies’ room at Locke Ober needs an entirely different look than the benches at Durgin Park. I don’t think this is a clam-shack kind of guy, but he could surprise you and nobody wants to walk into a high-heel kind of place wearing flats.” She’d compromised and put me in a pair of pleated wool slacks with a white broadcloth silk blouse and low heels. She’d stuck diamonds in my ears. “There you go—very Marlene Dietrich.”
“Not Rosie the Riveter?”
“Absolutely not. The diamonds make the tailored slacks look tongue-in-cheek: smart. The blouse is expensive and, more important, it looks expensive. A classy combination. Put those pearls down. Too conservative.”
“But the outfit’s conservative,” I pointed out. “Diamonds jump out at you.”
“Exactly. That’s what they’re supposed to do. You’ve got to get the knack of being two contradictory things at once and selling both, honey. Makes people look twice. Wear this necklace of mine. Small stone, but it’s a good one. He’ll know the difference. There you go. That’s an outfit that can straddle different worlds.” She sighed. “Better on a first date to under-dress than overdress. Keeps you from looking eager.”
“You mean I’m trying to sidestep stupid or trampy.”
“That’s what I was trying to say. And you’re borrowing my fox coat. You’ll walk outta here looking sexy and when you whip it off in the restaurant: the most confident outfit in the room. You’ll see.”
It turned out he was more a men’s club than a clam shack kind of first-date man—a white tablecloth, heavy cutlery, and cut crystal kind of room that specialized in steak. I was in a sea of black dresses that threw my pearl-gray slacks and ivory blouse into sharp relief. But I could feel Charles Helbrun III’s satisfaction in the contrast when he slipped off my coat to hand to the ma?tre d’. He made a point of stopping to introduce me to several tables on the way to our seats. Lilly’s judgment had been dead-on accurate: he was perfectly pleased with the unfrilly look of me. He ordered our drinks with only a quick glance at me for contradiction. And when I didn’t contradict, he went on to order for us during the rest of the evening. Instead of feeling irritated, I felt flattered. I felt taken care of. I was in his world, and I was happy to sit back and watch while he navigated it gracefully. I settled back in my seat and looked around. It had begun to rain and the city streets reflected the lights from passing cars as if they were skimming along on black mirrors. From where I sat the outside world seemed far away, and we were in a fire-lit room full of tinkling crystal and glittering silver.
“This is lovely,” I said, and I meant it, entirely.
“Tell me about your company. Please. I’m really interested.”
He was. Unlike most listeners, Charles Helbrun didn’t fidget or interrupt with observations and leading questions. He was patient. I told him about Lilly’s early days at the corner spa and her faithful following. I told him about the first salesgirl conference—a half dozen young women eating pie in a warehouse on folding tables and chairs we snagged from our mother’s church by forging her name. But I left out what had distinguished us from competitors and doubled our sales: the “bad girl” lines—the Vixen lipsticks and Fast Girl eyeliners.
The effect of concentrated interest is very powerful. I forgot myself, talked on and on to this handsome man in the expensive suit who gave me his complete attention. When the evening ended he walked me to my door and held out his hand. I took it. No kiss. And I realized when I closed the door behind me that I’d been thinking hopefully about that kiss for the last half of the evening.
“So how was it?” Lilly hadn’t waited for the next day—the telephone had rung about ten minutes after I got in.
“What do you have? Date radar? How did you know I’d be back yet?”
“Just guessed. I figured a nice place, slow service, eight o’clock reservation, fairly reserved good-night scene…”
I told her where we’d gone, and she declared the restaurant choice a victory for me. “You can tell how serious a man is by where he takes you on the first date. If he’s pretty sure he’s going to want to see more of you, he tries to impress you.”
“Wouldn’t that just depend on how much money the man has or whether or not he thinks you’d like a clam shack?”
“Could. Usually doesn’t. So how was the kiss?”
“No kiss.”
“Really?” She considered. “So he’s taking things very slow. Being a gentleman. That could also be a good sign. Or a bad sign. Sweetie pie, you just may have gotten yourself a serious boyfriend.”
And so it seemed, for that was the beginning of Charles Helbrun III and me. He’d call on Wednesdays and ask for Friday or Saturday—the serious nights. Before Charles, I thought of wine as the drink that came in two colors. After Charles, I entered a whole new universe, a place where I put clothes out on a bed and thought about their effect on a man whom I very much wanted to interest. My whole center of gravity leaned over and tipped onto a nipped-waist skirt with fifteen yards of fabric in it. It was new, and heady.
“You got it, girl.” Lilly nodded when I tried on the new skirt for her to inspect. “That’s the spirit.”