Naked Came the Stranger - By Penelope Ashe Page 0,54
porch, and they swirled about the feet of Agnes Madigan as she climbed the back stairs. She had just put her key into the lock when she heard the shot.
She told the police she couldn't imagine why her husband killed himself. They had always been so happy.
EXCERPT FROM "THE BILLY & GILLY SHOW, " FEBRUARY 27TH
Gilly: Your back seems to be bothering you again today, Billy.
Billy: Yes, it's that old sprain. It's probably age creeping up on me.
Gilly: That's a shame. And just a few weeks ago, we were talking about physical conditioning.
Billy: Right. No more squash and tennis for Billy Blake for a while.
Gilly: Well, you do have to be careful. You wouldn't want your condition to be any worse.
Billy: Actually, I feel buffeted from all sides. Not only is my back acting up, but did you read this morning's Times?
Gilly: You mean the radio column?
Billy: Yes. I'm afraid that man doesn't like us, dear. Gilly: Wasn't it awful?
Billy: Pure vitriol.
Gilly: I'll tell you, I'm not even going to dignify what he had to say by discussing it on the air. I think that the wonderful people who listen to us can judge our show for themselves. They certainly don't need any nasty little man to tell them whether they like us or not.
Billy: I must say, darling, you're especially beautiful when you're angry.
Gilly: Thanks, sweetheart, I don't know what I'd do without you.
Billy: And I don't know what I'd do without you.
Gilly: I swear, Billy, you could pass for a southern gentleman, you're so courtly.
Billy: And I'm not even southern. Gilly: But you are courtly.
Billy: Seriously, that does seem to be a southern trait, doesn't it?
Gilly: Oh, absolutely. To tell you the truth, I think southern men are quite sexy. You know, like the character Marlon Brando played in Sayonara.
Billy: What do you think it is – the accent?
Gilly: That's probably part of it. But it's their whole approach. They know how to make a woman feel like a queen.
Billy: Ah do declare, Miz Blake. Ah've nevah seen you-all look more lovely.
Gilly: Oh Billy, you're too much.
TAYLOR HAWKES
From where he sat, looking out over Research and Accounting, Taylor Hawkes could see in all directions, except behind him. Behind him was wall, gun-metal gray wall, like the side of a battleship. Taylor Hawkes had wished for a long time that the wall was cyprus paneling, or leather, or maybe even burlap like some of the offices in the city, but he was a little uneasy about asking the Baron for that. Glass to his left and two secretaries; glass to his right and three secretaries; glass in front of him and the vast secretarial pool; long straight rows of girls with adding machines; rows of girls with typewriters; the alcoves housing two dozen account executives; the department switchboard girl with the fine round bottom.
Taylor Hawkes could see in all directions, all right, except behind him on this day, February 27th, at 4:20 in the afternoon, with four Beefeater martinis and three vodka and tonics under his belt. Taylor Hawkes was looking down, his sunglasses still on, looking down at his desk, picking through the papers and memos, picking at the spike with the yellow message forms, the forms that showed who had called while he was at lunch, the time of the call, the degree of urgency and, when possible, the message. Ringold (Research) 2: 10 p.m…. "Screw him," Taylor said out loud, "he didn't think I've got to eat?" Leonard (The Smellwell Account)
3:20 p.m. "Screw him, too." Mrs. Grace Belcher (a close friend of the Baron's, wanting some free advertising advice for Planned Parenthood in Roslyn) 12:50 p.m., 2:15 p.m., 3:55 p.m. "Well, the hell with you, Mrs. Belcher," Taylor said, wadding up the message form. The message forms were the real pain in the ass, the worst thing when you just got back. Who was trouble? And who wasn't trouble? At the sound of the buzzer on his desk, Taylor Hawkes picked up the phone. He looked as he always did, to his right, watching Emily, good lady, talk to him while he was listening to her voice on the phone.
"Taylor, there's a Mrs. Gillian Blake in the lobby."
"Bring her in, Emily."
As he said it, Taylor swung the swivel chair around, looking out over Research and Accounting, and Emily must have looked, too. She didn't buzz this time; instead, she came to the glass door of his office and opened it.
"The Baron, Taylor."
"I see him, Emily."
"He's rolling