artists were busily creating, painting and sketching images for upcoming Mammoth releases. Alan greeted the two men with slaps on the back and then dipped in front of an older woman. She didn't smile at first, but he said something that broke through her barrier. It was fascinating to see him work his magic.
Alan took the carnation from his lapel, pretended to smell it and dramatically handed it to her with a courtly bow. The woman, taciturn just minutes ago, blushed and giggled like a schoolgirl. With a sweep of his hand Alan bid her adieu and shuttled them all out of the office. “One down,” he said.
Peter approached them and held out the basket of carnations. Alan took another and slipped it into his buttonhole. “Purchasing next, I think.”
Alan repeated the same scene to several women in different departments. From the steno pool like set-up of purchasing to the lone woman manning the stacks and stacks of scripts in the script department, he greeted them, made them smile and “spontaneously” gave them the flower from his jacket. Each of them felt special and positively glowed when he left.
Between giftings, he dutifully explained what each department did.
“Aren't you afraid they'll compare notes? The women?” Elizabeth asked. “Realize they aren't the only one?”
“Ah, but that's the beauty of it,” Alan said as he escorted them into yet another building complex. “Each and every flower is sincerely given. In that moment, they are the only woman.”
Simon rolled his eyes and Elizabeth took his hand as they followed after Grant.
The final flower was delivered to a tall, buck-toothed woman in the wardrobe department, which was amazing. Racks upon racks of every imaginable type of clothing filled an enormous warehouse. Clothes were hung three levels high and Elizabeth could hear the hum of sewing machines in the adjacent room. People hurried down the aisles and used long hooks to bring down clothes from the upper levels. A woman with an armful of 18th century French silk coats hurried past and a man pushed a cart with Roman Centurion helmets on it.
They emerged into the sunlight again and Alan led them back between towering sound stages. Extras and bit players in every imaginable costume hurried past. The trio rounded a corner and was nearly swallowed whole by a dozen dancing girls. They flocked to Alan like birds to a nest, their feathered headdresses and bustles and boobs bouncing as they took turns saying hello and cooing over him. Elizabeth jostled around inside the crowd, a cloud of feathers obscuring her vision.
And like a flock of birds, they swept on past, leaving the three of them in their wake. Alan took out a handkerchief and grinned after them. His face was covered with lipstick. He happily rubbed it off. “Never let a woman see you with someone else's lipstick on your face.”
He turned to Simon. “You have a bit…” he said with a broad grin.
Simon's cheeks were nearly as covered with bright red kisses as Alan's had been.
Elizabeth cleared her throat and Simon reached up and touched his cheek, surprised when his fingers came away covered with lip rouge. “It happened so fast, I didn't even realize…”
“Uh-huh.”
Alan laughed loudly. “And now to the lion's den.”
Chapter Nine
It had been years since he'd seen her, but he'd never forgotten her. Could never forget her. Betty. She'd broken his heart in 1938 and he was never a whole man again. And yet here she was.
His mouth went dry and his heart beat out a conga against his ribs. Years ago, when he'd gone to war, he'd given up any hope of seeing her again. But he'd never forgotten her, not an inch of her. Not her smile or her hair or her kindness.
“You idiot!” Betty glared at him before maneuvering around him and going to check on the man Jack had almost clocked. She touched the man's arm and looked up into his unshaven face. “Are you all right?”
The man gave Jack an uneasy glance before nodding and pushing
Alan took the carnation from his lapel, pretended to smell it and dramatically handed it to her with a courtly bow. The woman, taciturn just minutes ago, blushed and giggled like a schoolgirl. With a sweep of his hand Alan bid her adieu and shuttled them all out of the office. “One down,” he said.
Peter approached them and held out the basket of carnations. Alan took another and slipped it into his buttonhole. “Purchasing next, I think.”
Alan repeated the same scene to several women in different departments. From the steno pool like set-up of purchasing to the lone woman manning the stacks and stacks of scripts in the script department, he greeted them, made them smile and “spontaneously” gave them the flower from his jacket. Each of them felt special and positively glowed when he left.
Between giftings, he dutifully explained what each department did.
“Aren't you afraid they'll compare notes? The women?” Elizabeth asked. “Realize they aren't the only one?”
“Ah, but that's the beauty of it,” Alan said as he escorted them into yet another building complex. “Each and every flower is sincerely given. In that moment, they are the only woman.”
Simon rolled his eyes and Elizabeth took his hand as they followed after Grant.
The final flower was delivered to a tall, buck-toothed woman in the wardrobe department, which was amazing. Racks upon racks of every imaginable type of clothing filled an enormous warehouse. Clothes were hung three levels high and Elizabeth could hear the hum of sewing machines in the adjacent room. People hurried down the aisles and used long hooks to bring down clothes from the upper levels. A woman with an armful of 18th century French silk coats hurried past and a man pushed a cart with Roman Centurion helmets on it.
They emerged into the sunlight again and Alan led them back between towering sound stages. Extras and bit players in every imaginable costume hurried past. The trio rounded a corner and was nearly swallowed whole by a dozen dancing girls. They flocked to Alan like birds to a nest, their feathered headdresses and bustles and boobs bouncing as they took turns saying hello and cooing over him. Elizabeth jostled around inside the crowd, a cloud of feathers obscuring her vision.
And like a flock of birds, they swept on past, leaving the three of them in their wake. Alan took out a handkerchief and grinned after them. His face was covered with lipstick. He happily rubbed it off. “Never let a woman see you with someone else's lipstick on your face.”
He turned to Simon. “You have a bit…” he said with a broad grin.
Simon's cheeks were nearly as covered with bright red kisses as Alan's had been.
Elizabeth cleared her throat and Simon reached up and touched his cheek, surprised when his fingers came away covered with lip rouge. “It happened so fast, I didn't even realize…”
“Uh-huh.”
Alan laughed loudly. “And now to the lion's den.”
Chapter Nine
It had been years since he'd seen her, but he'd never forgotten her. Could never forget her. Betty. She'd broken his heart in 1938 and he was never a whole man again. And yet here she was.
His mouth went dry and his heart beat out a conga against his ribs. Years ago, when he'd gone to war, he'd given up any hope of seeing her again. But he'd never forgotten her, not an inch of her. Not her smile or her hair or her kindness.
“You idiot!” Betty glared at him before maneuvering around him and going to check on the man Jack had almost clocked. She touched the man's arm and looked up into his unshaven face. “Are you all right?”
The man gave Jack an uneasy glance before nodding and pushing
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