Never Too Rich (53 page)

“
Uh . . . Dad?” Leslie Shacklebury
squeaked after clearing his throat noisily. “Sir?”

He was standing in the doorway of R.L.’s New York
study. His father, sitting in a green leather wing chair, was
immersed in business reports at his desk. A single green-shaded
banker’s lamp spilled yellow light across its baize surface,
luminescent papers, and untouched snifter of brandy. The rest of
the book-lined room, and his father’s craggy face, were in deep
shadows.

“
Yes, son?” R.L. looked toward the
doorway over his reading glasses.

“
We’ll still be in town tomorrow,
won’t we?”

“
Yep,” R.L. said. “We won’t be
heading back to Boston until Friday. Just as planned.”

“
Oh,” Leslie said disappointedly,
and felt a wave of suffocating panic coming over him.
Darn!
Now there was no getting out of it. “I mean, good. What I mean ...
er ...” He cleared his throat a second time, and although his
glasses were slipping down his nose, he kept his fidgety hands
concealed behind his back.

He didn’t know why he felt so guilt-ridden. He
couldn’t help it, just as he couldn’t help the hammer trip of his
heart or the sheen of sweat popping out on his forehead.

The trouble was, he wasn’t very good at intrigue;
scheming didn’t come naturally to him like it did to Hal. He
couldn’t even tell a white lie without getting all red in the
face—which was always a dead giveaway, and one reason he liked
hiding behind his glasses.

“
Son?” R.L. said with a touch of
concern. “Is something wrong?”

“
No, sir!” Leslie tried a
nonchalant smile. “If . . . if this is a bad time . . .” he began,
backing away.

Fixing him with a frown, R.L. took off his reading
glasses and said, “Come here, son.” He gestured, glasses in hand.
“Pull up a chair.”

Reluctantly Leslie did as he was told, prudently
sitting on both of his hands. If he left them in his lap, he’d be
wringing them constantly.

“
Now, tell me what’s on your mind,”
R.L. said, pushing his reports aside. He clasped his hands
together, leaned forward, and smiled encouragingly.

Fixedly studying a row of book spines in the shadows
beyond, Leslie swallowed and said, “It’s about tomorrow, Dad. A
friend of mine is . . . is having a little party.” His ears started
to burn, and he was grateful for the dim lighting.

“
I see,” R.L. said solemnly. “And
you’re nervous because she’s a girlfriend?” His eyes crinkled
knowingly. “Is that it?”

“
No!” Leslie shook his head almost
violently. “No. It. . . it’s just . . . well, I know you’re busy,
but ...” His squeaky voice trailed off.

“
But what, son?”

“
I’m supposed to bring a chaperon!”
Leslie blurted, and quickly looked away.

There. It was out.

He held his breath.

But his father only laughed. “Fine, count me in.
Just tell me when and where, and I’ll be glad to go.”

Leslie turned to him in surprise. “You
will?”

“
Sure!”

“
Gee, thanks Dad!” Leslie jumped up
excitedly and dashed out, making a quick getaway while he was still
ahead. He didn’t trust himself to answer any questions.

Jeez! he was thinking as he flew up the stairs to
his room two steps at a time. Hallelujah was right. It was
easy!

When he got to his room, he shut the door and headed
straight for the telephone. He punched out the number rapidly.

“
Yeah?” Hallelujah answered in a
lazy drawl from across the park.

“
It . . . it’s Leslie.”

“
Les! What gives? Did you make a
mess of it, or what?”

“
No.” Leslie was too pleased with
himself to take offense. “It went like a piece of cake.”

“
Ecstatic!
What’d I tell ya!
Huh?”

“
And your mom? She’ll be
there?”

“
Sure,” she responded quickly, not
about to admit the compromising and cajoling it had taken. “Well,
see ya t’morrow!”

“
Uh . . . yeah . . .”

Leslie hung up slowly and chewed reflectively on his
lower lip.

Now there was only one little hitch remaining—how
his Dad and Hallelujah’s mother would take to being set up.

Chapter 54

“
It’s called the ‘Attitude Sell’,”
Jack Petrone, the smooth-talking, hip-shooting director of
Carlisle/Petrone Associates, was telling Edwina. “It means you’re
not selling clothes. Oh, you’re
producing
clothes, all
right. But what you’re
really
designing and selling is
Attitude. With a capital A.”

“
I’m glad to hear we’re selling
something,” Edwina commented dryly.

He grinned at her, showing incredibly strong,
healthy white teeth. “Look. Lemme show you.” He got up quickly and
headed across the room to the rolling garment rack against the far
wall.

Edwina watched his bouncy step with an
expressionless face. Jack Petrone, the darkly handsome co-founder
of the advertising agency that bore his name, had come down to her
office to give her his spiel.

He was a curly-haired thirty-four-year-old, a
veteran of three other major ad agencies, and, in the two years
since he and Peter Carlisle had struck out on their own, had helped
Carlisle/Petrone rack up an unprecedented four Clio awards. Though
small when compared with the Madison Avenue giants,
Carlisle/Petrone had scored impressively while energetically
representing a mere six clients— all six having reported a
phenomenal twenty- to forty-three-percent increase in annual
sales.

Now Jack grabbed the first dress that came to hand,
took it off the rack, hanger and all, and held it high. It was
short, narrow-cut, and white, and had big multicolored cloth
pinwheels around the neckline. Like a spiky rainbow lei. “If you
were a consumer, what would this say to you?” he asked her.

“ ‘
I’m a dress’?” Edwina ventured
in a murmur.

He smiled tolerantly. “Now tell me what it really
says.”

“
What it really says? I suppose it
says, ‘I’m the product of a nut who’s either color blind or anally
retentive or else is so regressive she has to stick her kids’ toys
on her clothes,’ “ Edwina said despairingly. She raised her hands
beseechingly, maddened by the way he was going about his
presentation. “What else on earth could it possibly
say?”

“
You tell me.”

“
Well.” Edwina frowned
thoughtfully. “I’d
like
it to say, ‘Buy me!’ “ She looked at
him hopefully.

He smiled. “Try again.”

“
No, you try, Jack,” she said
rather sharply. “You’re the expert. So
you
tell
me
what that outrageous little number’s supposed to be saying.” Her
gray eyes had turned to frozen silver. “After all, isn’t that what
you’re here for?”

“
Are you always such a tough
cookie?”

“
Always.” She nodded. “It’s a way
to get things done. So why don’t you stop beating around the bush,
and above all, stop playing this infernal guessing
game!”

He looked slightly taken aback. “Okay. Uh. Fine.” He
cleared his throat. “Here’s what I think it’s really saying,” he
said. “ ‘Buy my
image.
’ You see, potential purchasers who
run across your ads are not supposed to think, ‘I want that dress.’
That’s going about it entirely the wrong way.”

“
Then what, heaven help us,
are
they supposed to think?”

Now that he was back on familiar territory his grin
reappeared. “Aw. That’s easy.” He hung the dress back up, but so
that it faced out at them. Then he stepped a ways back. “They’re
supposed to look at the model wearing it and say, ‘I want to look
like that.’ “ He pantomimed it. “Or, ‘
She’s
having fun
wearing Edwina G., and so will I.’ “ He acted that out too, by
first pointing at the dress and then at himself.

“
Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr.
Petrone, but—”

He did a little two-step and pecked a finger at her.
“Jack. We’re on a first-name basis. Remember?”

“
How could I forget? Now, correct
me if I’m wrong, Jack, but why am I under the distinct impression
that selling an image is what ads have been doing all these past
decades?”

He returned quickly to the couch and sat back down
opposite her. “You’re wrong. They haven’t been.” Resting his
forearms on his knees, he clasped his hands and leaned forward
sincerely. “You see, you’re getting persuasion and attitude mixed
up. Ads
used
to persuade consumers to buy a certain product.
Most of them still do. But our agency is more concerned with
selling an image. Not that it’s such a new concept. Take Ralph
Lauren, for instance. Those ten- or fourteen-page ad spreads you’ve
been seeing in all the magazines over the past few years?”

She nodded.

“
Those ads are what we in the
business call life-style ads, and are all part of the Attitude
Sell. Just like Guess jeans. Or Calvin Klein’s
perfumes.”

“
In other words, all those ads that
look as though the products are incidental,” she said slowly,
beginning to get a glimmering of understanding.

“
Oh, they’re not incidental. Not by
a long shot. But what really sells Ralph Lauren and Guess is not
the products themselves. It’s the
images
they portray.” He
paused. “Take a moment to think about it. How much can one really
say about a pair of blue jeans? Or, for that matter, why should
anyone want to choose Jordache over Guess? Is there really any
difference between the two?”

“
Not much,” Edwina agreed, “if
any.”

“
That’s right.” He smiled broadly.
“Now, you might not be consciously aware of it, but the clothes on
that rack?” He nodded across the room.

She kept her eyes on him. “What about them?” she
asked suspiciously.

“
You’ve got to see them the way I
do, that’s all. As more than just clothes. Because they’re more
than just attire. They’re your particular vision of a carefree,
perfect young life-style. They’re for kibitzing around, for leading
a life of romance, sensuality, and sheer unadulterated fun! And
have no doubt about it:
that’s
what will make them sell. And
that’s
the direction I’m proposing the Edwina G. ads should
take.” He sat back to gauge her response.

She looked thoughtful. “I suppose you’re right,” she
said with a wistful sigh, and rubbed her chin. “Dresses decorated
with pinwheels or rayon roses aren’t exactly one of life’s
necessities, are they?”

“
No, but they’re fun! They’re
kicky!”

“
Which, need I point out, was my
intention?”

“
And, boy oh boy! Are they salable!
You know, with the right image, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if
you’re unable to produce them fast enough to fill the demand. In
fact, Edwina G. just might turn out to be the biggest fad since the
Swatch watch!”

“
Jack?”

He looked at her questioningly.

“
Do me a favor?”

“
What?”

“
Stop trying to sell me on my own
designs. I know what they are and what they can do. Now, let’s get
on with selling them!”

Chapter 55

Edwina hadn’t been to the Rainbow Room since it had
reopened to much fanfare after its multimillion-dollar renovation.
Now, her ears still popping from the sixty-five-story elevator
ride, she could see what all the brouhaha had been about. The words
“extensive renovation” had been an understatement.

Everything was luxurious and soft. The music. The
carpeting. The lighting. Even the breathtaking watercolor wash of
the sunset. The view out the soaring windows was spectacular, with
the metal deco trim on the edges of the Empire State Building
reflecting the last rays of the setting sun. Far beyond, the twin
towers of the World Trade Center rose up hazily from the tip of
Manhattan.

Couples and small parties of six or eight were
already seated all around the spacious dining room, enjoying the
view along with their cocktails. Above the murmur of voices and the
clinking of silverware and china she could hear the orchestra
playing “Three Coins in the Fountain.” But the gleaming parquet
dance floor was still empty. Later, it would doubtless fill up—not
with the wildly jerking, strobe-flashing beat of the downtown
clubs, but with the more dignified sounds of fox-trots and waltzes,
and maybe a few racier tangos and cha-chas.

Edwina regarded Hallelujah with pleasure as they
waited for the maitre d’ to return from showing an elderly couple
to a table. “I
knew
there was a very, very pretty girl
hiding under all that goop and gel.” She pinched Hallelujah’s chin
affectionately. “Didn’t I tell you, sweetie?”

Hallelujah rolled her eyes. “Only a hundred times,
Ma, okay? Maybe a hundred and
one
now?”

Edwina smiled. “Still, you look very nice.”

“
Yeah? Then why do I feel so
weird?”

“
Hard to say, kid. You look
terrif.”

Hallelujah was wearing black tights and a
shocking-pink leather micro with a black Danskin top. She wore a
poisonous-green plastic belt and an assortment of plastic earrings
in primary colors, none of which was paired. Her hair was, at least
in Edwina’s opinion, almost human in appearance and texture, worn
in a short ponytail that went straight up from the top of her head.
Like Pebbles Flintstone’s, only without the bone.