Chapter 6

As she dressed for her all-important date, Penny tried to make her mind a blank regarding the recent unpleasantness. But it was no use. Try as she might, she could not shake off the nagging sense of guilt that lay like a hot coal in her heart. It seemed all out of proportion with the incident that had prompted it; incredible that a few simple words, spoken in desperation and actually invited, could cause so much remorse.

After all, Penny reflected, thinking to place the guilt where it really belonged, Nellie-May asked to have her pretty ears pinned back. Somebody had to do it. It was just my bad luck to be around when she needed it most.

That did no good either. The miserable feeling persisted. It was small comfort to assure herself that nothing of any consequence could possibly happen to Nellie-May in the highly circumspect environs of Georgetown-birdbrain though the girl was, whatever her age. Never mind David Stewart's scare story about a crime wave. It was still daylight, though darkness would soon be coming on.

On the other hand, it helped a whole lot to mull over in her mind the many things she could do-would do-to right whatever wrong she might have done to Nellie-May's feelings. This Penny proceeded to do with such thoroughness, such complete abandon of self, that she was able to greet properly the impeccably proper Mark Graham when, promptly at seven-thirty, he arrived. By the simple process of thought transference, she was once more her poised, gracious self.

There was one awkward moment. That was when Penny closed her eyes briefly and indulged in the absurd hope that some kindly genie would come along and transform the very eligible Mark Graham into the not-so-eligible David Stewart. She could tell Dave about her run-in with Nellie-May and her fear of repercussions. Oh, he would laugh at her, tease her. But he would come up with a sensibly reassuring answer, and she would be able to forget the whole ghastly thing.

Then the moment was over, past mistakes and foolish fancies tabled for the moment, and the gala evening had begun.

It was to be a lovely evening-lovely and expensive, Penny opined-planned and executed by an attractive escort who had already "arrived," and therefore would not have to count the cost. True, Mark Graham was young only in heart. But he dressed beautifully, wore his clothes casually, his years lightly, and knew practically all of the important people in Washington by their first names.

He acts young, too, Penny mused, as Mark Graham raced his sports car through the city traffic en route to the glamour spot where they would have dinner, challenging Fate in an all-out effort to keep at the head of the line. A little too young for his age, maybe. And pushy, even opinionated....

They had dinner at the South Seas, a posh eating place where the decor was exotic, the food perfect, the service flawless. A smiling maitre d'hotel ushered them to a table marked "Reserved," where, according to Mark, they could be seen and see.

"You're so wonderful to bring me here," Penny exclaimed impulsively. "It's almost like being in Tahiti or some other colorful South Sea island. With all the traveling I've done, I've never been there. Now Dad's on leave, so we're back in the States, though we've lived just about everywhere. Dad's a journalist, you know, a foreign correspondent-and he's tops, even if I do say so myself."

Mark smiled and caught her hand, pressing it warmly.

"He's an important man-your father. He's known all over, especially in Europe and the Middle East. I must meet the great Philip Gilmore. Think you can arrange it, honeybun?"

Penny flushed and withdrew her hand as unobtrusively as possible. She thought she detected a note of urgency in her escort's voice, but could not be sure.

"Well, yes, I guess so," she said in answer to his question.

"Tomorrow? It's Sunday, you know, and I'm free. Shall we have lunch at the Mayflower-say, around one o'clock-then drive out to The Grove for a quick hello and good-bye?"

There was no mistaking the urgency now, but Penny, although she was puzzled, had no intention of exposing the poor little house to the lordly eyes of this living success story.

She shook her head vigorously. "I'm afraid not. You see-well, Dad's frightfully busy. He's writing a book."

"Some evening early next week, perhaps?"

There it is again-that urgency, Penny thought. She supposed she should invite Mark Graham to dinner with the family, if only as a thank-you for this handsome evening. But she simply could not see him seated at a kitchen table enjoying one of Erlene's Yankee pot roasts or Gena's TV dinners.

"I'm afraid not," she said again. "But I'll phone Dad and find out when he'll be coming into town."

"Good girl," Mark applauded. "Tell him we'll have lunch at the Jockey Club. You'll make it soon, won't you, my dear? Don't forget I'm a busy man, too."

"I-well, I'll try."

Penny stole a quick glance at her companion, as if by doing so she could find a reason for his urgency; she had a feeling that she was being pressured into something-what, she did not know.

But he was looking in the other direction. Evidently his thoughts had raced on to other, perhaps more immediate things. He was smiling and nodding to a group of youngish couples who had entered the dining room and were now being seated at various tables.

They were members of Washington's hound-and-hunt set, Mark said when he could tear his eyes away from the newcomers. Gratuitously, he gave a brief rundown on the affair of the various personalities-their interests, their financial and current marital status-referring to each by his or her first name, and beaming at his listener as though expecting high approval, if not actual applause!

"They're the 'in' people, I suppose." A sour note had crept into Penny's voice, and her fixed smile was growing a trifle thin at the edges.

"Only the young marrieds," Mark said. "You'll find the real bigwigs-and I'm on a first-name basis with them, too, if you'll pardon my saying so-at such places as...." He rattled off a list of names which Penny assumed to be the best restaurants in all of Washington.

"Then you really do know them all, don't you-big-time, small-time, two-time." If Penny's words smacked of sarcasm, it was not altogether coincidental.

"It's my business to know people," Mark said shortly.

Then, in a gentler tone, "That's public relations, my dear. Unless you know the right people, you don't have a chance. As a matter-of-fact...."

"Never mind. You don't need to tell me. I can guess. It's not so much what you know as whom you know." Penny grinned as she repeated the tired old cliche.

"Exactly."

Why, he's a phony and a stinker-a success-at-anybody 's-price sort of person, Penny decided.

Without quite meaning to do so, she flashed him an accusing glance. Their eyes met and held in a kind of wordless challenge. Penny had an uncanny feeling that she was looking straight into a mirror, and she did not like the image it reflected.

I'm almost as much of a stinker as he is, she reflected, her face burning.

There was something to be said, she supposed, for plodding do-it-yourself characters such as David Stewart, who chose to come through the hard way: on their own merits, and with no kowtowing to anyone. Something to be said, too, for Erlene and Dad, who lived according to the old-fashioned verities and wanted her, Penny, to do the same thing. And for Gena, who saw with her heart so many truths that other people, with perfectly good eyes, were too blind to see.

Never once did it occur to Penny that perhaps she was the blindest one of them all.

"Yes, it's a grab bag, a rat race," Mark was saying in the pompous tone of one who knew all the answers. "The trick is to get there first with the most ammunition."

"Could be you're right," Penny murmured when he paused for approval.

He nodded. "You're darned right I'm right. It's not only essential to know the right people; it's also important to be seen in all the right places."

It was impossible in a city like Washington, he went on to say, to separate business from pleasure. "You'd be surprised to know how many big deals are started-and consummated-over a luncheon or dinner table, or in a cocktail lounge."

"Is this a big deal?" Penny blurted, remembering Mark's peculiar insistence upon an early meeting with her father. Why, he had all but twisted her arm! Undoubtedly he had an axe to grind.

No sooner were the brash words out of her mouth, however, than Penny wished she could recall them. But there was no way of doing so. After all, it was only natural for Mark Graham to want to maintain his place in the sun, to forge ahead of the dropouts. It was not her prerogative to question his methods. Who was she to don a halo all of a sudden?

As she might have expected, Mark pulled a long face, looking genuinely hurt. "Certainly this is no deal. It's pleasure, pure and simple. My pleasure," he added, smiling again.

"Mine, too," Penny said, not to be outdone, and peace was restored.

One of these evenings, Mark promised, they would dress formally and dine in a place where socialites spoke only to Congressmen, or better, and the wall-to-wall carpet was deep, downy, and red. Tonight, he reminded Penny, was for fun, as she would see when they joined the young hipsters at Tino's discotheque.

"Too bad I can't give you a real treat, luncheon at the Inner Sanctum, one of these days," Mark regretted. "Unfortunately, that famed eatery is for men only-Senators, no less. Know what those bigwigs eat?"

"No, I'm afraid I wouldn't. I haven't been so long in the States."

"That's right." Mark answered his question: "They eat Yankee bean soup-and I do mean eat it. It's that thick. They eat hamburgers with raw onion, corned beef and cabbage, or New England boiled dinner with Southern corn pone, depending upon whom they wanted to impress, or what neck of the woods they come from. It's good business."

A sickly smile crossed Penny's face. With a painful sense of loss, she was remembering a roadside diner in Maryland where truck drivers ate; where David Stewart, bone-tired and weary of hospital fare, fed heartily upon hamburger and raw onion, frankfurters and beans, not because he was trying to impress anybody or had any axes to grind, but because he was hungry for a man-sized meal, was obliged to economize and was honest enough to say so.

She was conscious of Mark's eyes, steel-blue, fixed upon her. She knew he was expecting her to say something-well, if not clever, at least something worthy of her age and his importance. All she could think of was a facetious:

"Men are funny that way, I suppose. Under the skin, they're all a-like."

She supposed no such thing. Under the skin, Mark Graham, image-maker, and David Stewart, intern, were as unlike as night and day. The difference was not a matter of age, either, although Mark was considerably older than Dave.

Nor was it a question of environment or circumstances. They lived in the same century, the same highly competitive world. But underneath they were poles apart. Mark was the caviar-for-breakfast type of person, interested mainly in creature comforts and the art of getting ahead. Dave would be willing to subsist on pot roast and potluck for the rest of his life if, by doing so, he could minister more effectively to the needs of his fellow men.

In some respects, Penny admitted privately, she was a little like Mark. It seemed incredible that one's small shortcomings could loom so large, look so unbecoming, in someone else. Why, within the brief space of a few short hours she had seen-first in Nellie-May, and now in Mark Graham-traits that had more than a passing resemblance to her own. True, they were exaggerated, but....

Mark's voice broke into Penny's thoughts, sparing her any further exploration. "Something bothering you, my dear?" he teased.

"No. I was just thinking-well, about all the important people you know and how much fun it is being here," Penny heard herself babble.

Mark had the grace not to laugh. "We haven't had any fun yet," he said, and signaled to a waiter to bring the check-never mind the dessert. "We'll have espresso and apple pie at Tino's," he assured Penny, much in the manner of an indulgent parent appeasing a child.

Tino's a Go-Go, according to Mark, was a highly respectable place designed expressly for the purpose of keeping young people entertained and out of mischief. Therefore it was creating its own image.

It's also creating considerable commotion, Penny thought, as she and Mark paused in the doorway of the disco and looked inside. The place was a youth-quake of color, noise, and confusion. Penny was glad, when they entered, to have Mark's hand on her arm, grateful that he piloted her through the mob scene to a table in the farthest corner of the room.

"Are you sure this is a 'right' place?" she bantered when, finally, they were seated and her host had ordered espresso and pie. "Are all these people 'in'? If you came here on my account...."

Mark's quick frown was a reproof, as though Penny had stepped on one of his favorite images. Tino's a Go-Go was his client, he announced stiffly. Because of its worthwhile purpose, one did not ask whether the guests were "in" or "out." It was enough to know that they were young, off the streets, and having good, wholesome fun.

Penny, her ears pinned back for the time being, sat staring wordlessly at the fun explosion taking place in front of her, the likes of which she had never seen before-in Europe, Asia, or even in Africa, where tribal dances sometimes ran the gamut of torso gymnastics from mild spasms to near collapse. Those she had seen, purely in the interest of culture.

She had heard of such goings-on on the Continent, but due to her careful upbringing, she had never been a part of the night life. She was shocked.

Involuntarily, Penny pressed her hands to her ears in an effort to shut out the bedlam, but not too soon to hear Mark Graham's deep voice:

"Maybe you should go back overseas where you came from, Miss Nose-in-theAir."

Well, now look who's talking, Penny thought, but decided to let the unwarranted remark pass. With her hands still pressed against her ears, she returned her attention to the dance floor.

Wild youngsters, male and female, were gyrating this way and that, flailing their arms and otherwise asserting their inalienable right to behave and look as odd as they pleased.

They were getting considerable competition from a sprinkling of older people who evidently thought young, and were making an all-out effort to preserve the illusion. They were chaperones, Mark said. Nobody, even the young ones, looked happy. They were all too busy having fun!

"Me-I'll never be the same again," Penny groaned, removing her hands from her ears. "I never saw people work so hard to have fun. I feel tired for them."

Mark laughed heartily. "That's the hustle they're doing now," he volunteered. "That's old hat. Just wait till they go into orbit with one of the new numbers. I forget their names."

"Never mind," Penny said without thinking. "After all, what's in a name? Put them all together and they spell the world's eighth wonder. How's that for a title, Mr. Image-maker?"

Appalled by her effrontery, she waited for the reproof that her witless remark had invited. To her surprise, the public relations virtuoso beamed, took out his notebook, and wrote a few words.

"Lady," he chuckled, "you have just coined a slogan. You've gotten yourself a new job, if you want it. Something tells me you'll be needing one before the stars fall," he added cryptically.

Before Penny could respond to the loaded remark, Mark Graham pushed back his chair, rose to his feet, and held out a hand. "Now shall we dance, my dear?" He inclined his head toward the unmerry merrymakers. "Looks like barrels of fun."

Penny could think of nothing she wanted to do less. However, under the circumstances, she felt she had no choice other than to stand up and be counted as a working member of this strangely unfunny fun explosion.