Whatever Comes

“Jamie, you’re one of the reasons I have no use for men. You never give it up.”

“Now, now.” He settled in to enjoy their word exchange. “What have I ever done to you?”

“Since I am careful, you’ve done nothing.” She looked as if she was being very tolerant, but it was a trial.

He grinned. “You are a challenge.”

“Forget it.” She went back to the zipper.

“Why don’t you interview me about Sean?” He took the purse from her, opened the zipper, stuffed a head scarf deeper and zipped it closed.

She hesitated. “How well do you actually know him?”

“You could find out.” He handed her the purse as if it was a rose and his smile was wicked. “I have a nice little place up at Big Sur, just below Monterey. We could go there and lock...heads for a couple of days and see how things go.” He gave her his honest look.

“There’s a limit to the things I’ll do for my job. I would welcome the opportunity to quiz you, but a weekend is out of the question.”

He laughed, his eyes twinkling. “There was always the chance you’d be an eager young reporter prepared to give her all for the cause. Frankly, my dear, I hardly know the man.”

Mab was taken with the thought that it sounded very like Clark Gable’s classic reply to Scarlett’s plea.

* * *

Mab had never done the “other people” format for an interview. It wasn’t uncommon to seek out the opinions of acquaintances of well-known people. Or she could raid the files stored in the newspaper morgue for involvements and speculations about anyone in the news. It seemed the lazy cop-out to only interview the friends or relatives or co-workers of a personality...such as Sean Morant.

But Jamie had planted a seed, a root. And it grew and would have to be dealt with, for it would change Amabel Clayton’s life.

* * *

From her meeting with Jamie Milrose, Mab did glean one little item that set off a furor. Among the personality briefs, in Adam’s Roots, she reported there was some question about Sean Morant’s vocal cords being in jeopardy. Would he lose his voice? If he did, what would happen to his group? What would become of Sean Morant?

With her succinct words, panic erupted among the Rock devotees. The item was picked up and spread. It was mentioned in turn on MTV, Music Television, who hoped the rumor wasn’t true.

After a week had passed, Jamie called Mab. “You darling! His records are being snatched up—everyone thinks his vocal cords are doomed. Beautiful! I owe you.”

So, quite naturally, Mab leaped on that. She quickly asked, “How about an interview?”

His voice a purr, Jamie reminded her, “There’s always Big Sur.”

“Jamie, you just said you owe me. What about an interview with Sean?”

“Would you like an autographed copy of his Timeless album?” Jamie inquired in a generous manner. Then he added smoothly, “There’s a woman in ‘She Rocked Me’ that could well be you.”

But Mab ignored the chatter and stuck to reality. “Jamie, you said you owed me. Try for the interview.”

“‘Tis hopeless, my love.” Jamie was regretful, but that finished the conversation.

* * *

Several days later, Amabel got the autographed Timeless album, and played “She Rocked Me.” She had never listened all the way through any of Sean’s recordings. His roughened voice was what a woman wanted...she’d heard. The woman Jamie said could well be Mab used the man like a vampire, sucking him dry of innocence and love before she discarded him. It made Mab mad.

So the album was still on Mab’s desk when her boss, Wallace Michaels, walked into her cubbyhole. He picked up the album and asked, with some startled interest, “You get autographed albums from Sean Morant?”

Automatically correcting his leap to an erroneous conclusion, she replied, “From his publicity agent, Jamie Milrose.” Mab went on typing. She was allergic to computers.

Wallace asked her, “You got an in with Jamie?”

“Wally,” she explained to an innocent, “Jamie probably signs the albums himself. He’s that tricky.”

He asked quickly, “Could you get an interview?”

Wallace Michaels was VP over all the people news of Adam’s Roots. Since his job dealt only in personalities, he felt like a third-class citizen and was sensitive about it. He wanted to be in the mainstream of news and happenings and actually he was only involved in...gossip. He adjusted to the only way to handle gossip. He took it seriously.

“Wally, you know I have been trying to get an interview with Sean Morant for you for three years. I speak with Jamie Milrose several times a year in that effort. I have tried to waylay Sean Morant, and so far I’ve been unsuccessful. So has every other reporter. We get only the publicity handouts. You are aware of all that.”

Wally pushed up his lower lip thoughtfully and declared, “We need an interview.”

“Good luck.”

“Now, Mab— It was your little squib about his gold-plated vocal cords that caused all this hoorah. Now’s your time. And nothing is going on right now! So, unless some other country blows up another, we could get a cover story out of it! Do it.”

Mab was disgusted and told Wally seriously, “It would have to be with interviews of others who know him or who’ve worked with him.”

Wally was firm. “Do it.”

“It’ll kill my reporter’s soul.” Closing up her desk, Mab lifted the pull-out typewriter shelf to release the holding, spring catch in order to swing it down into the desk. It stuck. She tried again.

As if an oracle, Wally observed, “You don’t like Sean Morant.”

She temporarily abandoned her desk’s problem in order to stand up and look at Wally. She was kind. “I haven’t met a whole lot of men I do like.” She became gentle. “I find men are overrated.” She gestured. “The ones I’ve met tend to be petty, self-serving, egotistically immature and quite ruthless.” She scowled. “They’ve fouled up the world. Both politically and chemically.” She became logical. “And with Sean Morant, we have the ultimate in uselessness.”

“You are the perfect foil to find out if there’s a man under all that hype. Do it.”

She sighed impatiently and went back to fiddle with her stubborn desk mechanism as she said, “You are one of the few men I can tolerate. This isn’t really an assignment for me. I’m not into MTV, or Rock concerts, or that type of music and I believe it’s a...” She was distracted by her examination of the desk mechanism and she jounced it.

“He is involved with the Feed the World’s hunger programs.”

“Who isn’t?” She bit her lower lip and strong-armed the stubborn, probably male, desk’s unmovable typewriter tray.

“You know, Mab.” Wally had turned soothsayer. “You’re a genuine man hater. I’m glad I’m safely married. If I wasn’t, I might try for you and you’d shrivel me up.” He reached over and effortlessly swung the typewriter and its shelf down into the desk.

She considered him thoughtfully. “I could live next door to you.”

“Ah, a magnificent concession.”

“But spare me Sean Morant.”

But Wally directed, “Do the interview any way you can make it.” With that comment out of the way, he added, “Chris would like you to come to dinner on Saturday. She is having her cousin over, and she’d like to expose him to you.”