hung lightly, temporarily, on a body well aware of its value—and even in a room packed with the fashionable and rich, he never lost sight of her.
When she arrived at the Pump Room, off the hotel lobby, he was sitting in a booth, surrounded by men wearing white dinner jackets and deep in conversation. That was two hours ago, and though they’d both flitted from table to table—saying hello to acquaintances (people she’d met at parties, or through her husbands; others who admired her and merely wanted to touch her hand), occasionally accepting invitations to dance—they had not yet spoken.
What the old studio bastards called procrastination, she called patience. This was the essence of performance. She would never shout for attention when she could wait and draw it to her. Occasionally Jack glanced in her direction. Then she looked at him, looked away, lowered her lashes, let her shrouded eyes roll lazily back in his direction. Other women might have worried that they were losing their mark. Not her. She could feel the tension building, and knew the moment he made his move. He rose from the booth—the steaks his party had ordered for dinner lay half eaten on platters,and the ashtrays overflowed—and began to maneuver through the crowd. She rested an elbow on her table, lifted her chin, relaxed her posture, held steady.
“Marilyn Monroe,” he said, when he was standing before her. He said her name low, emphasizing all five syllables, as though it signified some gorgeous stretch of landscape that he was appreciating for the first time. Then he thrust his hand forward and flashed his grin. “I’m Jack Kennedy. I hope I’m not interrupting. I wanted to tell you I enjoy your pictures.”
“Thank you, Senator.” A silly, suggestive wink as she dangled her fingers in the vicinity of his. “Any picture in particular?”
“All of ’em.” He caught her hand and pulled. “Will you dance?” Glancing in the direction of her publicity man, he added: “If that’s all right.”
She’d worn her publicity man down—he only waved his hand indifferently as she allowed Jack to draw her onto her feet. The evening dress she wore was black, spangled with jet, and though the neck was somewhat higher than usual, the back was open down below the narrow of her waist. As Jack led her to the dance floor, he put his hand on the naked skin of her lower spine. One of her straps slipped, and she left it resting there, halfway between elbow and shoulder.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said, leaving one hand on her back and using the other to draw her into a gentle sway. The band was playing mild jazz from a slightly raised stage in the corner, and she smiled at him mistily, as though she might have been thinking about him, too, or might not have. “You’re dangerous. They shouldn’t let you out looking like that.”
“They?”
“The government, I guess.”
“But you are the government.”
Neither had blinked since they began dancing. His face was lit with his gaze, and though he was not quite smiling anymore his mouth hung open. “I guess I’d be a hypocrite if I tried passing any laws against you.”
“Please don’t. I make people happy, you know.”
“I only care whether you make me happy.”
“How am I doing so far?”
“Grand.” Others in the room had noticed them, but he didn’t seem to mind. “I haven’t felt this happy in months.”
“Good.” She let her heavy lashes kiss the skin of her cheeks. “I think I’d enjoy making you happy.”
They were quiet for a while after that. Now she saw that he wasn’t really so handsome—it was the combination of tanned skin and confident, intelligent eyes that made him seem so. In fact, his features were rather piggish. But he was more appealing for it, more original. He was a good dancer, too, and she enjoyed being led. Though he gripped her loosely, she could feel the energy of his body—its heat was concentrated on her.
Time passed before
When she arrived at the Pump Room, off the hotel lobby, he was sitting in a booth, surrounded by men wearing white dinner jackets and deep in conversation. That was two hours ago, and though they’d both flitted from table to table—saying hello to acquaintances (people she’d met at parties, or through her husbands; others who admired her and merely wanted to touch her hand), occasionally accepting invitations to dance—they had not yet spoken.
What the old studio bastards called procrastination, she called patience. This was the essence of performance. She would never shout for attention when she could wait and draw it to her. Occasionally Jack glanced in her direction. Then she looked at him, looked away, lowered her lashes, let her shrouded eyes roll lazily back in his direction. Other women might have worried that they were losing their mark. Not her. She could feel the tension building, and knew the moment he made his move. He rose from the booth—the steaks his party had ordered for dinner lay half eaten on platters,and the ashtrays overflowed—and began to maneuver through the crowd. She rested an elbow on her table, lifted her chin, relaxed her posture, held steady.
“Marilyn Monroe,” he said, when he was standing before her. He said her name low, emphasizing all five syllables, as though it signified some gorgeous stretch of landscape that he was appreciating for the first time. Then he thrust his hand forward and flashed his grin. “I’m Jack Kennedy. I hope I’m not interrupting. I wanted to tell you I enjoy your pictures.”
“Thank you, Senator.” A silly, suggestive wink as she dangled her fingers in the vicinity of his. “Any picture in particular?”
“All of ’em.” He caught her hand and pulled. “Will you dance?” Glancing in the direction of her publicity man, he added: “If that’s all right.”
She’d worn her publicity man down—he only waved his hand indifferently as she allowed Jack to draw her onto her feet. The evening dress she wore was black, spangled with jet, and though the neck was somewhat higher than usual, the back was open down below the narrow of her waist. As Jack led her to the dance floor, he put his hand on the naked skin of her lower spine. One of her straps slipped, and she left it resting there, halfway between elbow and shoulder.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said, leaving one hand on her back and using the other to draw her into a gentle sway. The band was playing mild jazz from a slightly raised stage in the corner, and she smiled at him mistily, as though she might have been thinking about him, too, or might not have. “You’re dangerous. They shouldn’t let you out looking like that.”
“They?”
“The government, I guess.”
“But you are the government.”
Neither had blinked since they began dancing. His face was lit with his gaze, and though he was not quite smiling anymore his mouth hung open. “I guess I’d be a hypocrite if I tried passing any laws against you.”
“Please don’t. I make people happy, you know.”
“I only care whether you make me happy.”
“How am I doing so far?”
“Grand.” Others in the room had noticed them, but he didn’t seem to mind. “I haven’t felt this happy in months.”
“Good.” She let her heavy lashes kiss the skin of her cheeks. “I think I’d enjoy making you happy.”
They were quiet for a while after that. Now she saw that he wasn’t really so handsome—it was the combination of tanned skin and confident, intelligent eyes that made him seem so. In fact, his features were rather piggish. But he was more appealing for it, more original. He was a good dancer, too, and she enjoyed being led. Though he gripped her loosely, she could feel the energy of his body—its heat was concentrated on her.
Time passed before
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