That's a terrible idea, Leslie thought. They were all staring at her, and to her horror, Leslie realized she had spoken aloud.
"Would you mind explaining that, young lady?"
"I..." She wished she were somewhere else. Anywhere. They were all waiting. Leslie took a deep breath. "When people eat meat, they don't want to be reminded that they're eating a dead animal."
There was a heavy silence. Jim Bailey cleared his throat. "Maybe we should give this a little more thought."
The following week, during a meeting on how to publicize a new beauty soap account, one of the executives said, "We'll use beauty contest winners."
"Excuse me," Leslie said diffidently. "I believe that's been done. Why couldn't we use lovely flight attendants from around the world to show that our beauty soap is universal?"
In the meetings after that, the men found themselves turning to Leslie for her opinion.
A year later, she was a junior copywriter, and two years after that, she became an account executive, handling both advertising and publicity.
Oliver Russell was the first real challenge that Leslie had had at the agency. Two weeks after Oliver Russell came to them, Bailey suggested to Leslie that it might be better to drop him, because he could not afford to pay their usual agency fee, but Leslie persuaded him to keep the account.
"Call it pro bono," she said.
Bailey studied her a moment. "Right."
Leslie and Oliver Russell were seated on a bench in Triangle Park. It was a cool fall day, with a soft breeze coming from the lake. "I hate politics," Oliver Russell said.
Leslie looked at him in surprise. "Then why in the world are you - ?"
"Because I want to change the system, Leslie. It's been taken over by lobbyists and corporations that help put the wrong people in power and then control them. There are a lot of things I want to do." His voice was filled with passion. "The people who are running the country have turned it into an old boys' club. They care more about themselves than they do about the people. It's not right, and I'm going to try to correct that."
Leslie listened as Oliver went on, and she was thinking, He could do it. There was such a compelling excitement about him. The truth was that she found everything about him exciting. She had never felt this way about a man before, and it was an exhilarating experience. She had no way of knowing how he felt about her. He is always the perfect gentleman, damn him. It seemed to Leslie that every few minutes people were coming up to the park bench to shake Oliver's hand and to wish him well. The women were visually throwing daggers at Leslie. They've probably all been out with him, Leslie thought. They've probably all been to bed with him. Well, that's none of my business.
She had heard that until recently he had been dating the daughter of a senator. She wondered what had happened. That's none of my business, either.
There was no way to avoid the fact that Oliver's campaign was going badly. Without money to pay his staff, and no television, radio, or newspaper ads, it was impossible to compete with Governor Cary Addison, whose image seemed to be everywhere. Leslie arranged for Oliver to appear at company picnics, at factories, and at dozens of social events, but she knew these appearances were all minor-league, and it frustrated her.
"Have you seen the latest polls?" Jim Bailey asked Leslie. "Your boy is going down the tubes."
Not if I can help it, Leslie thought.
Leslie and Oliver were having dinner at Cheznous. "It's not working, is it?" Oliver asked quietly.
"There's still plenty of time," Leslie said reassuringly. "When the voters get to know you - "
Oliver shook his head. "I read the polls, too. I want you to know I appreciate everything you've tried to do for me, Leslie. You've been great."
She sat there looking at him across the table, thinking, He's the most wonderful man I've ever met, and I can't help him. She wanted to take him in her arms and hold him and console him. Console him? Who am I kidding?
As they got up to leave, a man, a woman, and two small girls approached the table.
"Oliver! How are you?" The speaker was in his forties, an attractive-looking man with a black eye patch that gave him the raffish look of an amiable pirate.
Oliver rose and held out his hand. "Hello, Peter. I'd like you to meet Leslie Stewart. Peter Tager."
"Hello, Leslie." Tager nodded toward his family. "This is my wife, Betsy, and this is Elizabeth and this is Rebecca." There was enormous pride in his voice.
Peter Tager turned to Oliver. "I'm awfully sorry about what happened. It's a damned shame. I hated to do it, but I had no choice."
"I understand, Peter."
"If there was anything I could have done - "
"It doesn't matter. I'm fine."
"You know I wish you only the best of luck."
On the way home, Leslie asked, "What was that all about?"
Oliver started to say something, then stopped. "It's not important."
Leslie lived in a neat one-bedroom apartment in the Brandywine section of Lexington. As they approached the building, Oliver said hesitantly, "Leslie, I know that your agency is handling me for almost nothing, but frankly, I think you're wasting your time. It might be better if I just quit now."
"No," she said, and the intensity of her voice surprised her. "You can't quit. We'll find a way to make it work."
Oliver turned to look at her. "You really care, don't you?"
Am I reading too much into that question? "Yes," she said quietly. "I really care."
When they arrived at her apartment, Leslie took a deep breath. "Would you like to come in?"