Chapter 19
Staring at the bank statement he’d just received, Cutter indulged in a few fantasies of his own.
It was a new experience, but then, having a six-figure balance in his personal account was a new experience.
Barely nine months out of Timiny Cove, he had a steady income and a promising future.
Hard to believe, given the way he’d arrived in New York.
He was cold, tired, and slightly overwhelmed when he’d rung Hillary’s bell that night.
The trip from the airport had been a mess of bus changes and subway connections.
Even at night, the city was ten times louder, more crowded, and faster paced than Boston.
But New York was the place to be if a man wanted to make it, and Cutter did.
He didn’t know how, but being in the right place was the first step.
In hindsight, he realized that showing up at Hillary’s had been an act of daring. She had been close to John in Timiny Cove. Cutter had no idea whether she still was. But he had to take the chance that she’d let him in. He didn’t know where else to turn.
Besides, she and Pam were friends, and he needed to be in touch with someone who was in touch with Pam.
Not only did Hillary let him in, she gave him a bed and food. She seemed pleased that he was there, even when he told her that he and John were archenemies.
“Then it’s a good thing he isn’t here,” she said smugly.
“Is there a chance he’ll come?”
“Not much. He was here last week. Twice in a month and I might think he was serious. He wouldn’t let that happen.”
So Cutter stayed. There was a certain gratification in encroaching on John’s turf. He knew that Hillary felt it too. It created a subtle bond between them.
He slept for most of the first few days.
His back hurt, and he hadn’t fully regained his strength.
He didn’t tell Hillary about the beating; the trouncing he’d taken embarrassed him.
He couldn’t hide his overall anger, though, since it was largely what kept him going.
It also kept her aware that she was cavorting with the enemy. He wanted her to remember that.
Still she took him under her wing. She took him to the bank to deposit his savings, took him to Bloomingdale’s to buy job-hunting clothes, took him to an employment agency run by a friend to look for a job.
There was nothing, of course—at least nothing that he wanted to take.
He didn’t want to be a janitor or a short-order cook or a salesman.
“I think you should consider the chauffeur job,” Hillary told him as they walked back to her place.
“And wear a uniform and a cap?”
“Head too big for it?”
“Yeah. It is. I’ve got pride.”
“You also have no skill, no training, no job. If you took this one, you’d be working for the president of a large brokerage firm.
You’d be listening to high-power conversations involving some of the most successful businessmen around.
You’d be in a position to make contacts. The exposure would be incredible.”
“I’d be a chauffeur.”
“Play your cards right, and you’d be someone’s discovery. You’re a bright guy. Ask the right questions of the right people, and you could find yourself in a super entry-level job that you wouldn’t have been able to get without that personal contact.”
But Cutter doubted that things happened that way in real life. Besides, New York traffic unsettled him. He figured he could afford to wait around, looking, for a week or two before taking something just for the sake of the money.
The waiting depressed him. He slept late every day, then just hung around Hillary’s, hoping the phone would ring.
When the silence had him climbing the walls, he went out for long walks.
He immersed himself in the crowds. He timed his stride to match the businesslike gait of those around him.
He did his best to be part of the city’s hustle.
Deep down inside, though, he felt like an impostor. He wasn’t thinking New York thoughts as he walked those streets. He was thinking Boston thoughts. Pam thoughts.
He wondered how she was, what she was doing, if she was thinking of him.
He stared at every phone booth he passed, then walked on by.
Hearing her voice would hurt too much. He would want to see her.
But he couldn’t. It was too dangerous. As soon as he knew who he was and where he was going, he would call.
As soon as he had some hope of battling John and winning, he would be back in her life.
She was his. If she loved him as much as she said, she’d wait.
The problem was that he didn’t know how long the wait would be. He wanted her next week, next month. But that was asking for a miracle. He was at rock bottom—no job, no prospects, no training. He had so far to go to gain a foothold on John.
His mood darkened progressively as the days passed.
Hillary tried to cheer him with one success story or another, but he wasn’t interested in anyone else’s luck.
She tried to lure him to parties, but one raucous, strobe-lit encounter was enough to show him how alien he was.
Then, on a dark and rainy night, out of sheer desperation, he was sure, she dragged him to a lower Manhattan bar.
He went along with the sole intention of getting drunk.
Barely two beers into the process, he saw something that annoyed him.
“What’s their problem,” he growled under his breath.
“Whose problem?”
“Those two guys at that back table. They’re staring. Do I look funny or something?”
Hillary was on her second scotch and feeling mellow. She tossed an easy glance over her shoulder toward the men in question. “You’re imagining it. They’re not staring.”
His eyes didn’t leave the men. “They’re staring. Like I’ve got horns.”
“If they’re staring, it’s because you’re a gorgeous hunk. You really are, Cutter.” She grinned and raised her glass to her lips. “Maybe you turn them on.” She took a drink.
“Shit, here they come. I’m leaving.” He started to get up, but Hillary’s hand was suddenly like lead on his arm.
“Sit. We were here first. I refuse to be chased away by two ignominious creeps. If they cause trouble, I’ll hail the bartender. He’ll toss them out.” She grinned. “Create a little excitement. Might do us good.”
The men reached their table. One was taller, darker, leaner than the other. Both wore business suits with the jackets off, sleeves rolled up, ties loosened. They looked clean-cut, if hassled, and they continued to stare at Cutter.
“I wonder,” said the shorter of the two, “if we could talk with you for a minute.”
“What about?” Cutter snapped.
“Who you are,” the taller said, “where you’re from, what you do.”
Only two people had ever expressed as much interest in Cutter in as short a time—Eugene and Pam. Neither of the men struck Cutter as having the heart Eugene had, and neither of them in any way, shape, or form resembled Pam.
“That’s none of your goddamned business,” he answered. The men exchanged quick grins. Cutter didn’t like the looks of it.
“If you guys are queer, get the hell away from me and stay away.”
The taller man reached into his pocket and handed Cutter a business card. The name on it was Douglas Verrana, and it claimed that he was the vice president of a firm whose name meant nothing to Cutter.
He turned the card forward and back. “Nice feel.”
Hillary took it from his hand. Her response was more respectful.
“I’m not familiar with your name, Mr. Verrana, but I am with Wald, Newcomb.
” To Cutter, she said, “It’s one of the leading advertising firms in the city.
” She extended her hand to the man. “I’m Hillary Cox, and my friend is Cutter Reid. What can we do for you?”
“Your friend,” Verrana said. “Is he new around here?”
“Relatively.”
“Where is he from?”
“Maine.”
“Hillary …” Cutter warned, but she silenced him with a hand on his arm.
“What line of work is he in?”
Hillary hedged. “Why do you ask?”
The second man answered. “My name’s Pete Shorb. I work with Doug. We’re looking for a model. Your friend has the face we want.”
The face in question donned a look of distaste. “Model?”
“For an ad campaign we’re doing.”
“An ad campaign for what?” Hillary asked.
Cutter couldn’t believe it. She actually sounded interested. “Hillary—”
She tightened her hand on his arm. “What are you advertising, Mr. Shorb?”
“A collection of clothes by Girard Jondier. He works out of Paris. His line has a loyal following on the Continent, but he’s only now thinking of going for the American market.
” He regarded Cutter assessingly. “The idea is to get one man with the right look—the right American look for the clothes—and make that face instantly identifiable with the line. You look different. Independent. Like a rebel.” He lowered his gaze to Cutter’s shoulders and chest. The table cut off the rest. “How tall are you?”
Hillary spoke up before Cutter could tell him to get lost.
“What are his clothes like—this Girard Jondier?”
“Elegant. Expensive.”
Verrana elaborated. “He got his start in informal wear, but he’s recently branched into sportswear.
He’s introducing both lines in this country.
We’re talking high fashion. The man who wears Jondier’s suits is affluent and self-assured.
He’s a leader. His clothes make a statement, but it’s a subtle, classy one. ”
Cutter liked the sound of that hypothetical man. He was everything he wanted to be but had virtually no chance of in the immediate future unless something drastic happened. Being discovered in a bar and turned into a model, though, went beyond the drastic to the absurd.
“How tall are you?” Shorb repeated.