"Too bad that rape does!" Savannah was furious.
Brent Colby, Jr., was not amused. "Lady, Gentleman. This discussion is becoming, ah, heated. Perhaps we should adjourn for the day, since all parties have met and made their cases on this unfortunate matter. Colby, Janos and Renaldi invites all of you, cats included whatever their state of, er, gender, to attend our annual Christmas party here tomorrow night. No gifts required, save that of your presence. Santa Claus will be the usual guest of honor, with tokens for employees and guests. Thank you all so very much for coming. Now, my children. Take up thy cats, and walk."
"What a smooth brush-off, huh, Louie?" Temple asked as she stroked him awake. "Makes you feel as slick as satin when you've really been handed the back of a boar-bristle brush. Santa and sacks of presents tomorrow night. Tomorrow, more cat spats."
Louie yawned hugely, then stared unblinking at the departing admen and women.
"Come on." Kendall had materialized at Temple's shoulder. "I'll get you two swathed and swaddled for the cold. I hope you can get out, Temple, for some New York fun tonight."
Temple smiled at the departing executives, then skedaddled before she'd have to acknowledge Savannah Ashleigh, who was still arguing with Maurice's handler.
"What do you think?" Temple asked Kendall under her breath as they hurried down the narrow maze to her office.
"Louie is a hunk and you've got that breathy-voiced witch beat by an Epsom Downs mile."
Temple appreciated Kendall being such a quick study. "Any advice for tomorrow?"
"Same time, same act, only with the client present. Just be yourselves and let us figure out the packaging."
"Speaking of packaging, what's with the Christmas party? Surely that's a company affair; we visiting cat people aren't needed."
"Ah, don't tell anybody, but the boss man loves to play Santa, and the bigger the audience, the better. Plus, he believes that people show their true colors under pressure. Maybe animals, too."
"Great! Another 'test' in Santa guise. Will Louie get a lump of coal in his cat-sack if he's not good? And is something solid really going to come out of this? It seems so . . . hasty."
"That's when advertising really gets cooking--on the run. Yeah, we're gonna snag that account, by hook or by crook, and we'll do it best by coming up with the most attractive package of cat and human. I kind of doubt it'll be Savannah Ashleigh and Midnight Louie, or Temple Barr and Maurice."
"But... if it is?"
"Everybody had better learn to live with it, and each other. Or the deal dies right there in front of us all."
Chapter 11
Red, Red, Whine
"And then she said--"
Temple perched on the rolled rim of Kit's leather couch and crossed her legs somewhere near the hip. Her diction was the over articulated prattle of the amateur actor. "Are you saying that the rape of my darling Yvette was just a little slip of the tongue? Actually, of something a lot worse than a tongue!"
Temple's laughter after delivering this line almost tumbled her sideways into Midnight Louie, who was disguising himself by sprawling on the camouflaging black leather upholstery as if to the Naugahyde born.
Kit finally finished laughing. "Do you think the Tramp of Savannahhas a prayer at getting your spokesperson job?"
"Thanks for the loyalty of that 'your' but advertising is just theater in a multimedia guise. Anything's fair, and anything's possible. Savannah's self-parodying ways may be just the shtick the client and the agency settle on."
"I can't believe they'd want that floozie, as we used to say before World War Two, to flog their products."
Temple dug in her tote bag. "Want to see a family portrait of my new maybe-bosses? They put together this jazzy booklet on the company."
Kit's burnt-auburn eyebrows rose as she fanned through the heavy glossy pages. "Spent a fortune. Looks like an annual stockholders' report for a two -hundred- dollar-a- share company."
"I wouldn't know, Auntie, the only 'stock' I've got is Louie, but I do know that this brochure showcases their graphic capabilities as well as the staff."
"Smart. An uptown audition book. What's this in the back? A family tree?"
"That's their real angle. Three generations of advertising-industry excitement.' They're so family-oriented that with that Italian name in their letterhead I should be reporting them to the FBI."
"Snitch, huh? Remind me not to trust you with my cannoli recipe." Kit flipped to a new page and frowned. "Looks like the family of man is running the place, though. I haven't seen such a collection of prosperous middle-aged white men since I attended an audition for the revival of How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying. Talk about an aging script showing its sexism . . . These guys could really go for a Central Casting bimbo like Savannah Ashleigh. Better tease your hair tomorrow and wear violet lipstick."
"Well, yeah, it does look like the typical middle-aged WASP operation, but then look at the firm's melting-pot names, and that family tree listing all the women, and the intermarriages. Even divorced in-laws seem to stick with the company."
"Profit is thicker than blood?"
Temple reclaimed the brochure, fanned through it again, then tucked it back into her tote bag. "Don't want to forget this. Might need to do a quick review in the ladies' room tomorrow. And I have to bring along a change of clothes for the Christmas party tomorrow night. No way am I going to tote Midnight Louie and all his stuff back and forth during rush hour."
Temple absently stroked Louie's solid girth. "Umph. Between toting His Majesty all over Manhattan and the tension of filming those mock interviews all afternoon, my shoulders feel like Atlas is standing on them, with the world only a little blue bonbon on the top."
"Poor baby! I forgot bow rough improvising can be. If you were trying out for a real play, you wouldn't have to make up your own lines over and over again. Try this."
Kit, attired in one of her elegant floor-length at-home caftans that were the antithesis of Electra Lark's blowsy muumuus that only reached the most unflatteringly wide part of the calf, bent over to fiddle with something under the couch.
A moment later she straightened, a weird small appliance in her hands.
Temple ducked defensively. "Don't tell me. You're an alien spy, and all that's left of my brain waves has been sucked into that demonic machine for E-mailing to Rigel Three. Good luck, traitor! All that's on my mind now is natural nutrition and the ash content of cat food."
Relax. It's just a Shiatsu machine. Put it behind your head like a pillow, turn it on and your sore muscles are being kneaded by the twin bouncing balls."
"Ooh. Weird feeling!"
"Hang in there. It'll feel good in a second. And you can reverse the action."
"First we rub the left brain, then we rub the right brain . . . Yeah, that does feel better. Maybe Louie would like to try it."
"He's as relaxed as a rubber glove. Cats don't sweat the small stuff."
"Cats don't sweat, period. No sweat glands. That's why dogs and cats pant in severe heat; they release all the poisonous stuff via their tongues."
"And don't people, my dear? Especially nasty critics. You are an animal expert! Bet Savannah Ashleigh doesn't know that. Here's an ottoman for your feet. We might as well stay in for a deli dinner. I want to hear all about what's been happening in your life since I saw you. I'll get a bottle of wine to start us off."