intro. How to interest a Phoenix soccer mom in dresses that resembled trapezoids or Calder mobiles? She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to clear the decks. She pictured her mind draining like a swimming pool, becoming a clean, light blue space—one of her tricks for dealing with Donald when he got nosy. Dancing into the space came iconic images of Klieg’s dresses on Jacqueline Kennedy, Princess Grace, Catherine Deneuve. Maybe that was a way to go, Evethought. Maybe she should focus on the wearers to spark interest in the clothes. She spent the next hour fashioning and refashioning her copy till she couldn’t look at it another second.
She had to wait a good hour before Mark could see her; other writers had finished first. Eve used the time to read the papers and leave a message with Vadis, telling her that she had been hired after all and would do everything she could to make sure Spoilt Picnic would get a spot on the show. Not that she had the slightest idea how to do that.
• • •
Eve swung her crossed leg while Mark read her script, making the odd mark with his red pen as he went. When he was done, he looked up with what seemed like a hint of respect in his deep brown eyes. “Well. The booker said Klieg was a tough interview, but I guess not. This is good. The questions are fantastic. Quite scholarly, for a segment about dresses. Make these few changes and you’re all set.” He handed back her work.
“Thanks,” she said. “So do I get to come back tomorrow?”
“You get to come back tomorrow. And if you do well again, the day after that. But like I said on the phone, you’re freelance, which means no benefits, no contract, no nothing. After you’ve worked a certain number of days, I think it’s thirty, you’ll be eligible for the Writers Guild, which will give you some protection, but you still always want to be on your toes,” he said, leaning forward.
“Got it,” said Eve. All she had to do was do what she did today—thirty more times.
“Now get out of here,” he said, with a small but genuine smile. She turned to walk out, sensing his eyes on her. It was not a bad feeling.
It was nearly 10 p.m., but Eve felt so energized she walked home. Thirty blocks, in kitten heels.
• • •
The next morning, at exactly two minutes before seven, Eve sat up in bed as if pulled by a string. She padded into the living room and switched on the old black and white she’d found on the curb outside the tenement next door. For all its expense and toughness, New York could be extraordinarily generous. It coughed up regular goodies on stoops and sidewalks, ranging from books to blenders to dining room sets. She’d come across her love seat on Bank Street and a street person had even helped her carry it home. Some items came with droll signs attached. The television bore a Post-it reading, “A good slap turns me on.”
She watched the segments executed by the other writers, impressed by the evocative prose of their intros and how much information they worked into the three or four minutes of the interview. She made coffee but couldn’t drink it. She drummed her fingers on the bar, then did some stretches and jumping jacks as she waited for 7:48. Finally, the moment arrived. The commercial faded away and Hap McCutcheon appeared.
“Shall we begin ‘The Numbered Story’?” boomed Donald, with his impeccable timing.
“Shhhh,” said Eve, rotating her shoulders to burn off nervous energy. “My work is about to be televised to the nation.”
“What, my dear? Have you—”
“Shhhhh.”
( HAP :)
THIS WEEK, THE METROPOLITAN
MUSEUM OF ART CELEBRATES ONE
OF THE LEGENDS OF THE FASHION
INDUSTRY. HIS DRESSES HAVE
BEEN WORN BY EVERYONE
She had to wait a good hour before Mark could see her; other writers had finished first. Eve used the time to read the papers and leave a message with Vadis, telling her that she had been hired after all and would do everything she could to make sure Spoilt Picnic would get a spot on the show. Not that she had the slightest idea how to do that.
• • •
Eve swung her crossed leg while Mark read her script, making the odd mark with his red pen as he went. When he was done, he looked up with what seemed like a hint of respect in his deep brown eyes. “Well. The booker said Klieg was a tough interview, but I guess not. This is good. The questions are fantastic. Quite scholarly, for a segment about dresses. Make these few changes and you’re all set.” He handed back her work.
“Thanks,” she said. “So do I get to come back tomorrow?”
“You get to come back tomorrow. And if you do well again, the day after that. But like I said on the phone, you’re freelance, which means no benefits, no contract, no nothing. After you’ve worked a certain number of days, I think it’s thirty, you’ll be eligible for the Writers Guild, which will give you some protection, but you still always want to be on your toes,” he said, leaning forward.
“Got it,” said Eve. All she had to do was do what she did today—thirty more times.
“Now get out of here,” he said, with a small but genuine smile. She turned to walk out, sensing his eyes on her. It was not a bad feeling.
It was nearly 10 p.m., but Eve felt so energized she walked home. Thirty blocks, in kitten heels.
• • •
The next morning, at exactly two minutes before seven, Eve sat up in bed as if pulled by a string. She padded into the living room and switched on the old black and white she’d found on the curb outside the tenement next door. For all its expense and toughness, New York could be extraordinarily generous. It coughed up regular goodies on stoops and sidewalks, ranging from books to blenders to dining room sets. She’d come across her love seat on Bank Street and a street person had even helped her carry it home. Some items came with droll signs attached. The television bore a Post-it reading, “A good slap turns me on.”
She watched the segments executed by the other writers, impressed by the evocative prose of their intros and how much information they worked into the three or four minutes of the interview. She made coffee but couldn’t drink it. She drummed her fingers on the bar, then did some stretches and jumping jacks as she waited for 7:48. Finally, the moment arrived. The commercial faded away and Hap McCutcheon appeared.
“Shall we begin ‘The Numbered Story’?” boomed Donald, with his impeccable timing.
“Shhhh,” said Eve, rotating her shoulders to burn off nervous energy. “My work is about to be televised to the nation.”
“What, my dear? Have you—”
“Shhhhh.”
( HAP :)
THIS WEEK, THE METROPOLITAN
MUSEUM OF ART CELEBRATES ONE
OF THE LEGENDS OF THE FASHION
INDUSTRY. HIS DRESSES HAVE
BEEN WORN BY EVERYONE
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