Roberta Leigh - Not a Marrying Man Read online

  'This is it,' he said proudly. 'Guaranteed not to come off on anything. An indelible lipstick.'

  Sara felt a stab of disappointment. How many indelible lipsticks had been presented to her and how many times had she been disappointed? Politely she took the lipstick, recognising the colour as Rosalyn Rose.

  'That's right,' the Scotsman nodded. 'When I knew I was going to show it to you first, I added a touch of showmanship to make it your company's special colour. Take off your lipstick and try mine.'

  'I'll try it on my hand.' She made a pink smear on her hand, then took a tissue from a packet in her drawer and pressed it against the mark. Lifting the tissue, she looked at it. It was virgin white. Startled, she lifted her eyes and looked at the Scotsman.

  'I told you it was indelible.'

  'I'll try it on my mouth.' She went into the washroom, removed the lipstick she was wearing and applied the new one thickly.

  'Leave it to set for fifteen seconds,' he called. 'Then you can do what you like with it.'

  She waited the suggested length of time, then blotted her lips. Again the tissue came away clean and she came back into the room and rang her secretary to bring in three cups of coffee. 'Get it from the vending machine,' she ordered. 'I don't want to wait for you to make fresh. I'm in a hurry.'

  Within a moment her secretary came in with three cups and Sara sipped hers slowly, letting her lips rest against the side of her cup. Again there was no pink mark to be seen.

  There's one test you haven't applied yet,' Nevil said, 'and for that one you'll need me.'

  He came behind the desk and, tilting up her chin, placed his lips hard on hers. This time she did not baulk at the pressure, knowing it was done to serve a purpose. Slowly he drew back.

  'Not a mark,' she whispered.

  'Only an indelible one,' he replied softly, and resumed his chair.

  'I knew you'd be surprised,' Hamish Roster said. 'Everybody is when they see it.'

  'You mean you've shown it to other people?' Sara asked.

  'No one in your line of business. Just some of the boys in the laboratory where I work. You are the first cosmetic company to see it. I was going to go to the biggest one. but I read an article about Madame Rosa in one of the Sunday magazines and she seemed such a character that she took my fancy.'

  Sara put the case back on the lipstick. 'Is there a special way to remove the lipstick?'

  'I've made a cream. It would take too long with soap or oil. Anyway, why should a woman want to remove it ? The one you've got on will last all day.'

  'That's the one aspect about it we might want to change.' Sara saw his astonishment and knew she would have to explain. 'Our sales depend on turnover and——-'

  'I've got you,' the Scotsman exclaimed. 'You want built-in obsolescence!'

  'Exactly.'

  'Then I'll have to use a colour that fades in four or five hours. Would that be suitable?'

  'Perfectly.'

  'Isn't that making it into an ordinary lipstick again?' Nevil asked.

  Sara shook her head. 'Ordinary lipstick leaves stains on everything; and what's worse than seeing a woman eat off her lipstick with her lunch? With this one,' she tapped the case in her hand, 'the colour fades on your mouth but no mark comes off on anything else. If you apply it at noon you can go out to lunch, kiss a hundred people and you still wouldn't need to re-apply it until four.'

  'I can get the colour to last any length of time,' the Scotsman said.

  'Madame Rosa will decide that,' said Sara. 'But first I'd like to have some idea of how you want us to proceed. Are you willing to sell us the formula outright?'

  'I want a royalty and a chance to work here. I have a few other ideas I'd like to concentrate on.'

  'We would be more than willing to take you on as a research chemist,' Sara said at once. 'And I suggest you let our lawyers deal with you on the question of royalties. We'll need to spend a great deal of money on promotion and advertising. You mustn't overlook that aspect. After all, a lot of companies have brought out indelible lipsticks and we have to get it across that this one is something special. If we——-' She stopped with an exclamation. That's it! That's what we'll call it—Something Special.'

  'Sounds great,' Nevil exclaimed. 'But you'll have to keep the colours simple.'

  That's easy. We'll have Something Special Rose; Something Special Honey—names like that.'

  "We still don't know how to take the lipstick off,' Nevil pointed out.

  'It doesn't look as if Rose Removed will do,' commented Sara.

  'What's that?' asked the Scotsman.

  'Rose Removed is the latest Rosa astringent and makeup remover. We will obviously need a special remover for the lipstick.'

  'You remove it with this.' Hamish Roster dug into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew another tube.

  Sara pounced on it. The casually referred to 'this' was an opaque stick of gloss. Quickly she smeared it on.

  'Blot it off with a tissue,' said Hamish Roster. 'There's no real need to rub!'

  She did so, amused to see the clear mark of her mouth on the paper and not a vestige of lipstick left on her lips.

  'We can market the two in the same case,' she breathed. 'Lipstick on top, remover at the bottom. But we'll sell them singly as well.'

  'You'll not be selling anything until I've met your Madame Rosa. I'm not prepared to work with anyone I don't like.'

  'You'll like her,' Sara promised and, equally important, knew Madame was going to like Hamish Roster.

  A lipstick that was genuinely indelible. At last Rosalyn had something with which to knock its rivals hard.

  CHAPTER TWO

  As Sara had anticipated, Madame Rosa and the blunt Scotsman went as well together as spaghetti and cheese and, a week after their first meeting, a contract was signed between them giving Roster his own laboratory and a royalty on all products he created and which were used by Rosalyn.

  The Scotsman had at first asked for shares in the company, but this had met with an instant refusal, as Sara had known it would. Madame would as soon dream of chopping off the arms and legs of her beloved nephew as she would give away any part of the concern she had built up over the years. It would be a pity, Sara thought, if Bruno Lyn, when he inherited the company, did not display the same fierce love for it. If rumour were true, he worked, ate and thought Rosalyn, but did not sleep it. That, according to those who knew him, was very much a personal affair shared with some of the most beautiful women on both sides of the Atlantic.

  'I intend to spend the bulk of our advertising budget for this year on the lipstick,' Madame announced when Hamish Roster was already working in the laboratory. 'We'll take double spreads in the glossies and newspaper supplements and do a T.V. campaign.'

  'Have you discussed it with Mr Lyn?' Sara asked, thinking of the astronomic cost.

  'Naturally. The lipstick is a winner. Tell Mr Maine to prepare a campaign for an autumn launch.'

  Sara did a quick calculation. Mid-autumn would give them four months to get the packaging devised and to build up stocks to meet the sales they hoped to achieve.

  If everything went well it could be done, but if there was any hold-up in the delivery of cardboard and paper, to say nothing of the ingredients of the lipstick itself, they might not be able to meet the launch date.

  'Christmas would be better,' she said cautiously. 'It would give us more leeway.'

  'Christmas is a time for Santa Claus and children's presents,' Madame Rosa said firmly, 'not for promoting sex and kissing.'

  'I don't see why we couldn't have a sexy Santa Claus.' Sara hastily took the smile off her face as black eyes snapped at her. She should know better than to joke when Madame was talking of her beloved business. Everything at Rosalyn was serious and had to be treated as such.

  'I want to discuss it properly with Bruno,' Madame muttered. 'I called, but he was tied up with some conference.'

  'Why don't you put in a call now?' Sara suggested, hearing the restlessne
ss in Madame's voice.

  It was Sunday afternoon and she was spending the weekend in her employer's sumptuous penthouse overlooking Hyde Park, a command she had been unable to refuse since it was to work out the company's approach to the new product they would be marketing. Yet even had she been given the option of refusing, Sara loved coming here, enjoyed both the magnificent surroundings where luxury was piled on luxury, and Madame's sharp mind which had opened up the world of business and finance for her. What a lot she had learned in the two years she had been the woman's confidante, she thought, as she crossed the Persian rug and picked up the yellow telephone.

  'Where will your nephew be?' she asked.

  'It's eight o'clock New York time. In his apartment, I should think.' The thick Italian voice was astringent.

  'Knowing him, he was probably up dancing half the night.'

  'Or doing some other hectic activity,' Sara concluded silently as she dialled the long series of digits that would connect her automatically to another penthouse overlooking another park some three thousand miles away. For half a minute there was a soft purring ring in her ears, then a clatter as the receiver was lifted, dropped on to some hard object and then lifted up again.

  'Sorry about that,' a feminine voice said throatily, 'but I was asleep. Who's calling?'

  'Madame Rosa from England. Is Mr Lyn available, please?'

  'England!' the voice squeaked. "What a time to call! It's the middle of the night.'

  'It's one o'clock here,' Sara said crisply. 'Eight o'clock your time. Could you please tell me if Mr Lyn is there?'

  'If he isn't,' the girl giggled, 'then I'm in bed with the wrong man!'

  The voice grew fainter, though Sara could still hear it.

  'Bruno honey, it's a call from England. Wake up.'

  'Well?' Madame barked. 'Is he there?'

  'Yes,' Sara said shortly, but kept hold of the receiver until she heard a male voice, also thick with sleep, make its apology.

  'Mr Lyn,' Sara just managed not to cut him short, 'I have Madame Rosa for you.' Silently she carried the receiver over to the little yellow-clad figure whose jewels even at this time of the day matched her outfit and were worth a king's ransom.

  'Bruno,' said the guttural voice, softening miraculously. 'When am I going to see you?'

  'Buon giorno, Aunt Rosa,' the man's voice was now crisp in the receiver and filled with warmth.

  Sara stepped hastily back. She remained in the room only because she knew it would annoy Madame Rosa if she left it. 'I have no business secrets from you,' the woman had said on one such occasion. 'If I wish you to leave the room I have a tongue in my head to say so.'

  Now Sara sat primly on the settee, long silken legs crossed at the ankles, as she looked through the wide picture windows on to a terrace ablaze with early spring flowers, all in variegated shades of yellow. It was a good thing Madame had not chosen silver as her colour; other- wise it would have given her florist and couturier considerable difficulties. Unwilling to listen to the conversation, she looked round the room. Luckily Madame's predilection for yellow extended only to her office, packaging, clothes and flowers; when it had come to the furnishing of her own apartment she had given her decorator carte blanche, not quivering an eyelash at the astronomical bill he had presented to her. Yet this woman could explode with rage if a letter heading was wasted or paper clips used unnecessarily.

  The receiver tinkled into place and Sara brought her mind back to the present.

  'Bruno can't come over until next Saturday,' Madame said. 'The sales conference doesn't end till Friday night.'

  'You went over for it last year.' Sara was annoyed she had forgotten the conference was taking place. 'I'm surprised you didn't go this year as well.'

  'I was too tired.'

  Sara had her astonishment. Tired was a word Madame never used, refused even to acknowledge.

  'Sometimes I even wish to stay in bed for a day,' Madame Rosa continued.

  'Then why don't you?'

  'It's bad for the circulation. Which reminds me, I must call Dr Kovaks and tell him I need another course of vitamin injections.'

  'I'll tell your secretary to do it in the morning,' Sara promised.

  'There was a woman with him, wasn't there?' Madame said. Sara was startled. 'With Dr Kovaks?'

  'Don't be a fool! With my nephew.'

  Without waiting for a reply Madame tapped her cane on the floor. It was teak, with a gold handle, and was the only concession she made to the arthritis that, in recent years, had made her walking painful.

  'It isn't unusual for a bachelor to have a girl-friend,' Sara murmured.

  'It's unusual when he's thirty-three years old and knows I wish him to marry and have a family. He is doing it to annoy me!'

  'He's probably doing it because he likes it!' Sara wondered why she should bother to defend a man she did not know and whom, from what she did know, she did not like. Perhaps it was because she objected to her employer's attempts to rule his private life. 'You can't blame him for wanting to stay single, Madame. After all, he's in a position where he meets some of the most beautiful girls in the world.'

  'I know full well what position he's in, and it is time he realised it too.' The cane rapped on the floor again. 'He can't go on like this. He must get married.' The black eyes narrowed. 'I can see you think I'm an interfering old woman.'

  'You are.'

  'Because I want to hold my great-nephews and nieces in my arms? Because I wish to see babies who look like Bruno? Ah, what a bambino he was! Pink and fat, even though he was born when food was still hard to come by. But you would never have known from looking at him. Such dimples!' The eyes glittered more brightly still. 'Yet he denies me the right to enjoy that experience again.'

  'If he marries one of those skinny models he seems to like he might not have plump babies,' Sara said reasonably.

  'I hope he has more sense than to marry a clothes- horse.'

  'A beautiful wife would be an asset for the business.'

  'A happily married man is an even greater asset. Bruno wouldn't be content with a wife who loves herself more than her husband.'

  'From what I've heard about him.' Sara said carefully, 'I don't think he'd be content with a homebody.'

  Madame sighed gustily. Talking about him makes me angry. Such a waste of a man!' She glanced at the window. 'Go for a walk in the park. You've been cooped up here all weekend.'

  'Why don't you come with me? We can take the car and stop somewhere quiet where we can put the hood down.

  'Fresh air no longer does anything for my complexion,' Madame said, ruffled. 'You go. But don't stay out too long. I want an early tea.'

  'We've just finished brunch!'

  'You ate more than me.'

  Promising not to be longer than an hour, Sara slipped on her mink jacket—last year's Christmas present from Madame—and went out into the early spring green of Hyde Park. She had to walk some way in order to leave most of the traffic behind, but even then its fumes still filled the air and she wished longingly for a cottage in the country and a dog at her heels.

  'I'm either getting old or broody,' she mused. 'Madame's talk of babies must be affecting me.' Yet she knew it was more than that. She had had dinner with her sister Joan a week ago, invited there to admire the newborn twins, and since then had been conscious of the emptiness of her own life. It was all very well to have a beautiful apartment and an excellent job with prospects of more money to come, but it was insufficient compensation for gurgling babies and a kitchen smelling of freshly baked bread.

  They were hardly the thoughts for a glamorous leggy blonde to be having, and she knew how surprised the few admiring male passers-by would be if they could read them. Her trouble was that she looked like mink and money when she was basically bread and honey. A smile lifted the corner of her lovely mouth and a passing young man took it for a greeting and smiled back at her.

  'Lovely day,' he said.

  'Yes,' she replied, and walked so
briskly on that he made no attempt to follow.

  It was slightly longer than an hour before she returned to the penthouse. Afterwards she always wondered how she could have had no premonition of what was to come when she opened the front door and walked towards the main living-room.

  'At last you're back!' The elderly Italian maid who had been with Madame Rosa for years came running from the inner hall to clutch Sara's arm. 'The doctor is still with her, but I don't know if——' She began to cry, ugly sobs that were painful to hear.

  'What's happened?' Sara demanded.

  'She fell. I was walking across the hall when I heard her. I ran in and found her lying on the floor.'

  'Is she hurt?'

  'She didn't break anything,' the maid said. 'But she was a dreadful colour.'

  Sara's heart seemed to miss a beat and she sped down the corridor to Madame's room. Dr Kovaks, a silver- haired man in his fifties, was by the four poster bed, bending over the woman lying inert in its centre. At sight of her Sara's fear ebbed, for Madame Rosa, apart from an unusually high colour, looked her normal self.

  'You were gone more than an hour,' Madame said.

  Happy to be reprimanded, Sara stood beside the doctor. 'You gave Anna a fright,' she said gently.

  'She's a fool! All I did was trip on a rug. I told that stupid decorator not to put rugs down. Ring him in the morning and tell him to get them out of here.'

  'You know very well your falling had nothing to do with any rugs,' Dr Kovaks said. Like Sara he was one of the few people who could speak to Madame Rosa with candour. 'You have had a heart attack. I warned you six months ago that it could happen. Now perhaps you will take notice of me.'

  'If I took notice of you I'd have retired years ago. Then I'd have died of boredom. At least my way I'll die happy.'

  There's no cause to talk of dying.' Dr Kovaks lowered his chin and stared at his patient. 'I want you to have a few tests. We can do them here or you can go into a private nursing home.'

  'And have it get into the newspapers?' Madame snapped. 'You know what will happen to the shares then? They'll plummet like rocks.'

  'Don't you think of anything except business?'