style="font-size:15px;"> Brooke Neuman was taking a nap in Bettie’s dorm room, face down and ravishing on Bettie’s little bed, in pegged blue jeans, black ankle boots and a black cashmere cowl neck sweater. Her dark hair streamed down her back, thick, straight and long. Her face was turned to one side, pillowed on her arm, young, lovely and peaceful. Then Gilbert Rush walked in, jolting the girl out of her dream state, causing her to sit up with a start and stare at him.
“Oh, hi Gilbert,” Brooke said.
“You know me?”
“Bettie showed me your photograph.”
“Where is the little termagant anyway? She’s been harder to get an appointment with than a grown up lately.”
“I’m expecting her momentarily. We’re going shopping,” Brooke reported, frankly though carelessly appraising Gilbert through her sophisticated, 19 year old, UCLA freshman’s eyes. “You are good looking,” Brooke declared, granting him a quarter of a smile.
“You make it seem as though I haven’t a single other valuable quality,” Gilbert bristled at the superior tone Brooke had adopted but was instantly attracted by her tall, elegant form and charming face. Brooke shrugged and gave him the second quarter of the smile. “What’s Bettie been telling you about me?”
“Only the truth, I expect,” said Brooke. “That you’re a soulless, grasping businessman whose been running around lately with dyed blonde silicon jobs.”
“That was a passing obsession. It’s over and done with now,” said Gilbert cheerfully.
“Interesting. Well, I’m sure that someone as attractive and upwardly mobile as yourself will have no problem acquiring a new one.”
“I don’t want a new one. I just want Bettie. But she’s been almost impossible to track down these past few weeks. What’s going on?”
“Well, she does have a part time job you know.”
“Shelving library books.”
“No, freelance editorial work. It’s been keeping the both of us busy. Of course, I’m not the writer she is. I’m in the film school.”
“Oh, are you the one who videos everything?”
“Yes. You should let me video you. I could document a day in the life of a young realtor.”
“No thanks,” replied Gilbert emphatically.
“Why not? It would be ever so useful to me.”
“Why should I want to be useful to you?”
“Gallantry?”
“Strange things are passing for that these days,” he returned.
“The more I look at you the more I see what a marvelous subject you’d be. I don’t only film journalistically, you know. I could create a scenario for you instead.”
“What sort of scenario?”
“I’d have to think about that.”
“And what would I get out of this venture?” Gilbert smiled.
“The chance to work with an important filmmaker to be.”
“You’re pretty confident for a freshman.”
“I’ve always been that way. I think it has to do with being tall,” Brooke replied, still look at him with the eyes of a hungry casting director.
“What’s the freelance connection all about?” Gilbert changed the subject abruptly.
“Erotic magazines. We’ve been writing copy for a publisher called Augie Rose in Beverly Hills. He pays us well and the work is easy. Augie Rose said I could video him for my businessman in L.A. documentary.”
“What’s this you say? Bettie’s writing stroke books?”
“Don’t sound shocked. We got the introduction through her uncle Hugo,” Brooke revealed pointedly.
“What? You mean to say this publisher is also a player?”
“As I understand it,” said Brooke.
“As you understand it from whom?” Gilbert was beginning to feel sick with apprehension that an older, more successful male had annexed Bettie for his own plaything.
“Who do you think?”
At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Gilbert opened it to confront a delivery boy bearing an enormous bouquet of Birds of Paradise surrounding a heart of crimson roses. Gilbert dismissed the boy and tore open the card.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Brooke cried.
“I see I’m too late,” said Gilbert, the color draining from his face as he slipped the card back in the envelope. “How old is this Augie Rose, anyway?”
“Oh, forty, I suppose. Hey, you’re not really upset, are you?” Brooke asked with some perplexity.
But Gilbert had no chance to reply because Bettie walked in at that moment, gave a start at the occupants of her room, then smiled at the large bouquet. Gilbert noticed her carelessly toss the keys to a Volvo on the dresser before burying her face in the roses.
“What’s everyone doing here?” she asked, tucking the card into her pocket without reading it.
“You’re driving a Volvo?” Gilbert demanded, picking up the keys as his world went spinning around. Was he really losing his dream girl to a relic in his 40’s??? Why hadn’t he thought of helping Bettie get a car?
“It’s fifteen years old and I’m only borrowing it,” Bettie explained.
“I’ll meet you downstairs, okay?” Brooke said, tactfully disappearing.
“So I’m out, am I?” Gilbert said caustically as soon as they were alone. Bettie blushed, her heart pounding.
“I never promised I’d be yours forever,” she replied. “I told I was looking for a different kind of man right from the start.”
“So all those nights you spent in my arms meant nothing to you? You don’t care for me anymore?”
“I’m very sorry. You’re a good lover, but we don’t want the same things out of life. Mr. Rose is more my type.”
“You’re going out with man old enough to be your father?”
“I’m sorry, Gilbert,” Bettie said, her eyes filled with sympathetic tears.
Stabbed in the heart, Gilbert stumbled out the door, choked by emotion. Bettie joined Brooke downstairs, still dashing tears from here eyes.
“What’s the matter? Did he yell at you?” Brooke demanded.
“No. He just seemed devastated.”
