him a chance, only because the writer assigned to interview Penelope—she was known merely as Penelope, already famous enough to have dropped her last name—had come down with the flu.
It was an important piece, a cover story for the new magazine, and he wanted to get it right. He spent hours scrolling through the microfiche, reading up on her, although there wasn’t much he could find out, other than speculation and gossip about her romantic assignations.
These were, obviously, the days before the Internet. The days before a click of a button could bring up everything you would ever want to know, and more besides. They were the days when the press kept their distance, and celebrities had a private life, if they so chose.
The interview was scheduled at a photographer’s studio in the Village. Robert was a little early but he walked in, standing quietly at the back of the room while he took in the chemistry between Penelope and the photographer—Lee Stewart, also one of the hottest photographers around, mentioned in the same breath as Helmut Newton, David Bailey, Francesco Scavullo.
“You’re beautiful!” the photographer shouted as he moved around like a suntanned spider, crouching, standing, zipping from one side to the other. Janis Joplin blared from an eight-track in the corner, and various beautiful people stood around gazing as Penelope, posing in front of a white screen, pouted and smiled, and a wind machine blew her long hair in a stream of gold behind her.
She was, quite simply, gorgeous. Far more beautiful than in her pictures. He stood, mesmerized, watching her pose, and when it was over and she wandered over to him, grabbing an apple and biting into it, then grinning and introducing herself, he realized that, for the first time ever, he believed in love at first sight.
The interview moved from the sofa in the photographer’s studio, to a restaurant, to Studio 54. All the while they were surrounded by other people, friends, acquaintances of Penelope, all of whom were beautiful and fashionable, and accepted Robert as if he were one of them, even though he had never met people like this, never had a desire to be part of this world other than, perhaps, as a curious observer.
The entire night, Penelope didn’t take her gaze off Robert. What started out as a formal interview quickly became two people getting to know one another’s most intimate secrets, two people who couldn’t deny the extraordinary chemistry between them.
And from Studio 54 to Penelope’s loft.
“I think you’re my soul mate,” she murmured sleepily, after they made love for the second time, and he fell into a dreamless sleep, knowing that she was right.
They married three months later, a wedding filled with royalty from the worlds of music, modeling and movies.
Robert had already started to change, to become comfortable in Penelope’s world, and now that he was brushing shoulders with the Great and the Good, his own name became known. Less than two months after their wedding he signed his first publishing deal.
For a while, they were giddy with their luck. Two of the most beautiful people in New York, at all the right parties, with all the right connections. Robert went from being a jobbing reporter to a household name, mixing with Tom Wolfe, Paul Newman, friends with Philip Roth.
But the tint from the rose-colored glasses quickly faded, and Robert and Penelope found that once the excitement of their wedding had worn off, those few times they were ever alone together, they didn’t actually have anything in common.
He had thought Penelope was a free spirit, and was astonished to discover she was actually rather stupid. She had dropped out of school at fourteen, which everyone thought was wonderful, a hippie child who had chosen a freer way of life, but Robert came to discover she could barely read or write, showed no curiosity for the outside world, for anything in fact beyond her parties, her friends, and the ever-increasing drink, drugs and, eventually, sex.
She also had a temper that was truly terrifying. Fueled by alcohol, she would pick up whatever was at hand during one of her rages and throw it at him, as hard as she could. He learned to duck, to move quickly out of the way, but there were times when the side of a lamp would clip his cheek, or an encyclopedia would hit him with full force in the back, and he would be bruised and sore for days.