Mr. Love: A Romantic Comedy by Sally Mason Page A

step shakily into the spotlight that should be his.
    Serves him right , Jane thinks, dismissing this unproductive train of thought.
    The taxi pulls up outside Marcel’s, one of Midtown’s fanciest hairdressing salons.
    Somehow Jonas Blunt, through his society connections, has leapfrogged them over the peons on the wait list, securing them a 9:30 A.M. appointment with Marcel himself.
    “Lizzie, we’re here,” Jane says, but the woman doesn’t reply.
    “Lizzie!”
    At last Bitsy turns and says, “Gosh, I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this name thing.”
    Jane pays the cab driver and leads the way into the salon, assaulted by a toxic brew of perm lotion and hairspray.
    A girl who could’ve just flounced off a catwalk stands behind a rococo desk, staring down at Jane and Bitsy.
    “Yes?”
    “We’re from the Jonas Blunt agency. We have an appointment.”
    The girl sniffs, then uses a long-taloned finger to check an appointment book.
    “Yes,” she says, astonished, “with Mr. Marcel.”
    On cue something straight out of La Cage aux Folles appears: a short, plump man with a shock of teased red hair, squeezed into a pink jumpsuit.
    “And who is zis ?”
    He looks at Bitsy, dismisses her, then flicks at Jane’s bob with a beringed finger.
    “Mnnnn, mnnnn. That was done with a guillotine not a scissors.”
    “The appointment’s not for me,” Jane says, “it’s for Ms. Rushworth.”
    The man steps back and stares at Bitsy in horror.
    “Holy mother of God, I am a hairdresser not a magician! What ees zat on your ’ead? Last week’s linguini?”
    He flounces off and Jane nudges Bitsy in the side.
    “Go with him.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yes, go on.”
    “He’s terrifying.”
    “He’s just French,” Jane says, although she’s sure this guy is more familiar with the Bronx River than the Seine.
    The mousy little woman sighs a s she shuffles into the massive salon, the eyes of the society bitches sitting under hairdryers lasering her as she passes.
    Jane perches on a spindly legged chair by the door and thumbs through a fashion magazine.
    This is going to be one very long day.

22
     
     
     
     
    After hours of aimlessly wandering the streets of Manhattan, Gordon—never an eager tourist—finds himself in Barnes & Noble on Fifth Avenue.
    The smell of books is reassuring and he spends an hour browsing, entertaining a little fantasy of seeing Too Long the Night on shelves like these in the not-too-distant future.
    The fantasy sours a little when he remembers that the literary opus he has toiled over for the past decade is riding piggyback on Ivy and when Too Long the Night is published there’s no guarantee bookstores will buy it.
    B ut what is certain is that the shelves will be thick with his unacknowledged piece of trashy chick-lit.
    There is no justice.
    Suddenly he feels sapped of energy and leaves the bookstore, making his way along the crowded sidewalks to The Pierre and the mini bar that awaits him like an oasis.
    Gordon nods when the doorman salutes him and is crossing the lobby when he hears somebody call his name.
    He turns and sees Jane Cooper coming toward him.
    “Hi , Jane. Where’s Bitsy?”
    Jane laughs and Gordon realizes that the editor is accompanied by another woman, who walks a few steps behind her.
    A woman in her mid-thirties, with short, modishly cut hair, dressed in a very chic suit—the skirt showing off a pair of shapely legs.
    The woman is laughing , too, and Gordon wonders what he has done to deserve being the butt of their joke.
    Then his mouth sags open as he stares down at Jane’s companion.
    “My God, Bitsy, is that you in there?” he says.
    “Lizzie,” his sister says. “I’m Lizzie now.”
    She hooks an arm through his and says, “Come on, let’s all go up and have a drink in the suite. I’m parched.”
    Gordon, staring at this stranger in the mirror of the wood paneled elevator, feels a little lightheaded as the cabin zooms