could become the middlemen in job printing. I didn’t pay much attention. All I noticed was that he signed the letter, “Love, Tom.”
And I still did.
Perhaps I’d give his proposal some thought. After Loggerama. I might even consider his suggestions about the paper. Certainly I would think about having dinner with him if he came up from the Bay Area in the fall.
One thing I would not do: I wouldn’t crumple up the letter and throw it across the room. But I did swear like a sailor.
Cha p ter Five
M Y DINNER WITH Reid Hampton was a dud. The food at the Café de Flore was excellent as always, the wine list was extensive and impressive, and the service was superb. But the company was definitely second-rate.
To be fair, I suppose a lot of women would find Reid Hampton fascinating. Certainly he had traveled a lot, read widely if not deeply, and knew everyone who had graced the covers of
People
magazine in the past year. But by the time the main course arrived, I was already full—at least of Reid Hampton, who was so full of himself. It’s an occupational hazard of journalism that much of one’s career is spent listening to other people tell you the stories of their lives. So maybe just once, I was hoping that in my off-hours, I’d find someone who might want to hear mine. As it turned out, Reid Hampton didn’t. He didn’t even ask any questions about Alpine, which struck me as strange—certainly a director who was setting a film in a small town should want to know what life was really like. But I gathered that Reid Hampton preferred to make up his own version.
It was no wonder that he didn’t ask to come in when he brought me home or that he made no romantic advances. I suspected that he was as glad to park me on my doorstep as I was to see him drive away. Most of the time he had talked about himself, his films, his ambitions, his philosophy. My efforts at steering him away from his ego and onto his coworkers came to naught. He remarked that the camera loved Dani Marsh, and that she was like an empty bottle,just waiting for him to fill her up with emotions. He appeared to know next to nothing about her background, except that she came from Alpine. “Cute little town,” he had commented. “We’ll do a couple of street scenes after all this Loggerama crap is out of the way. I should have some of those buildings repainted along the main drag. They’re not right for this picture. I need more blue, some green, maybe even a splash of red. Say, Emma, how would you like to have your newspaper office take on a coat of canary yellow?”
The Advocate
badly needed a make-over, but
yellow
coupled with
journalism
did not strike me as a suitable visual message. Somehow, I’d avoided a direct answer. Reid had waxed a bit more eloquently on the subject of Matt Tabor, praising the actor’s “brooding presence” and “unquenchable masculinity.” Matt was from Kansas and had started out as a dancer. I had refrained from asking if he’d worn ruby slippers or had owned a dog named Toto. My only revenge had been dessert, a marvelous confection of meringue and apricots and whipped cream topped with crystalized sugar.
If I had not turned Reid Hampton into a slathering beast, he had not stirred me to pulse-throbbing excitement either. It was strange, perhaps, since he was good-looking in his lion-maned, broad-shouldered way, and certainly had the trappings of power and success to provide the necessary aphrodisiac. As I slipped out of my plain black linen sheath, it occurred to me that the evening might have gone better if I hadn’t received the letter from Tom Cavanaugh just over an hour before Reid had picked me up. To my addled heart, Tom would have made Erich von Stroheim seem bland.
It was not yet ten. I put on my summer-weight cotton bathrobe and went back to the living room to check my messages. Carla had called to say she’d definitely be in on Friday. Francine Wells wanted to know if I’d like to look over her
And I still did.
Perhaps I’d give his proposal some thought. After Loggerama. I might even consider his suggestions about the paper. Certainly I would think about having dinner with him if he came up from the Bay Area in the fall.
One thing I would not do: I wouldn’t crumple up the letter and throw it across the room. But I did swear like a sailor.
Cha p ter Five
M Y DINNER WITH Reid Hampton was a dud. The food at the Café de Flore was excellent as always, the wine list was extensive and impressive, and the service was superb. But the company was definitely second-rate.
To be fair, I suppose a lot of women would find Reid Hampton fascinating. Certainly he had traveled a lot, read widely if not deeply, and knew everyone who had graced the covers of
People
magazine in the past year. But by the time the main course arrived, I was already full—at least of Reid Hampton, who was so full of himself. It’s an occupational hazard of journalism that much of one’s career is spent listening to other people tell you the stories of their lives. So maybe just once, I was hoping that in my off-hours, I’d find someone who might want to hear mine. As it turned out, Reid Hampton didn’t. He didn’t even ask any questions about Alpine, which struck me as strange—certainly a director who was setting a film in a small town should want to know what life was really like. But I gathered that Reid Hampton preferred to make up his own version.
It was no wonder that he didn’t ask to come in when he brought me home or that he made no romantic advances. I suspected that he was as glad to park me on my doorstep as I was to see him drive away. Most of the time he had talked about himself, his films, his ambitions, his philosophy. My efforts at steering him away from his ego and onto his coworkers came to naught. He remarked that the camera loved Dani Marsh, and that she was like an empty bottle,just waiting for him to fill her up with emotions. He appeared to know next to nothing about her background, except that she came from Alpine. “Cute little town,” he had commented. “We’ll do a couple of street scenes after all this Loggerama crap is out of the way. I should have some of those buildings repainted along the main drag. They’re not right for this picture. I need more blue, some green, maybe even a splash of red. Say, Emma, how would you like to have your newspaper office take on a coat of canary yellow?”
The Advocate
badly needed a make-over, but
yellow
coupled with
journalism
did not strike me as a suitable visual message. Somehow, I’d avoided a direct answer. Reid had waxed a bit more eloquently on the subject of Matt Tabor, praising the actor’s “brooding presence” and “unquenchable masculinity.” Matt was from Kansas and had started out as a dancer. I had refrained from asking if he’d worn ruby slippers or had owned a dog named Toto. My only revenge had been dessert, a marvelous confection of meringue and apricots and whipped cream topped with crystalized sugar.
If I had not turned Reid Hampton into a slathering beast, he had not stirred me to pulse-throbbing excitement either. It was strange, perhaps, since he was good-looking in his lion-maned, broad-shouldered way, and certainly had the trappings of power and success to provide the necessary aphrodisiac. As I slipped out of my plain black linen sheath, it occurred to me that the evening might have gone better if I hadn’t received the letter from Tom Cavanaugh just over an hour before Reid had picked me up. To my addled heart, Tom would have made Erich von Stroheim seem bland.
It was not yet ten. I put on my summer-weight cotton bathrobe and went back to the living room to check my messages. Carla had called to say she’d definitely be in on Friday. Francine Wells wanted to know if I’d like to look over her
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