The Nom de Plume Affair
ACT 1 Identity Crisis
"You are WHO?"
Napoleon hung his head and repeated, "I am Jessica Louella Teasdale."
His usually unflappable partner was quite flapped. "YOU wrote 'Love's Lingering Light'?"
Now it was Solo's turn to be surprised. "YOU read it?"
"Eh…in my efforts to stay attuned to popular culture I do, on occasion, mind you, select something from the best seller list." Kuryakin recovered his snobby superiority nicely.
"Well, y'see, that's my problem: success."
"How on earth-"
"You remember that affair in Cornwall—I was in traction for weeks—"
"Yes, well, the old bones don't heal as quickly as they used to," Kuryakin teased.
"So there I was, immobile, bored, and one of the nurses left a book on the chair. (actually, she chopped it into his ribs and exclaimed, "why can't you be romantic like this?" but Solo chose to remember it differently) "-and I read it with two thoughts in mind: 1. Do women really think this way and 2. I could write better than this with one arm tied behind my—well, in traction, anyway."
Kuryakin was not impressed. "You could always apply some of your literary magic to our mission reports, you know," he suggested ominously.
Solo ignored the critical interruption. "So, when I got custody of my laptop back, I pounded out this corny but credible story of Love Triumphant and posted it on a Romance site. Well, I started gathering fans, really great reviews, just the ego boost I was needing. Then some publisher's wife recommends it to him, he reads it and—"
"He loves it—" (damn Solo luck.)
"Actually, he hates it but he saw the market potential. Well, the offers come and I negotiate and the first printing is 100,000 copies, hardback The critics howled, the fans swooned, and now it's in its third edition." He paused for smugness' sake. " So, I get new inspiration—actually, a cash advance—for a sequel—"
Illya sighed. "Love's Eternal Ecstasy," he admitted uneasily.
"As dear ol' Jess's agent, the contracts are all sent to me."
"As are all the royalties." The Russian shook his head. "Really, Napoleon, I am not seeing your problem. And you owe me for that cab Tuesday, now that I am aware you have the funds." He wiggled his fingers in a "hand-it-over" fashion.
"Of course." Solo brushed that detail aside. " So, now the movie people are negotiating for the rights-"
"Congratulations. Who plays me?"
"But they insist on meeting Ol' Jessie Lou in person. You see my problem."
"Not really. Lots of writers use pen names. It shouldn't surprise them-"
"Not their problem, mine. Me, Napoleon Solo , writing Romance novels. Isn't that just a tad precious? Not to mention, all my best lines in public domain…"
"And all your former lady-loves comparing notes…?"
"Exactly."
"But, you're also unwilling to sacrifice the ego gratification of all that fan mail, and the extra income."
Solo waved his hand away. "The royalties aren't really that much. Turns out I'm a lousy agent."
"Ahem. Frequently, my assessment"
"Literary agent." Solo bristled.
"Exactly what do they want?"
"Lunch with the old gal."
The blond's brain geared up. "And do they know anything about her?"
"I've kept her pretty mysterious, no details, doesn't like publicity…"
"Then simply arrange for a Jessica Teasdale to show up. None of your harem willing to do you a vertical favor?"
"I can't even ask. Remember, the point is not to reveal Napoleon Teasdale at all."
Illya thought. "All right, you need someone unknown to play an eccentric fiction writer for an afternoon. Sounds like fun but I'm not your type. Hmmm… you need Sophie Cartwright."
Solo searched his memory. And then his bulging black book, volumes one through four. "So who 's Sophie Cartwright?"
"In Archives." Illya shrugged. "She owes me a favor."
"Yeah?" Solo gave a juicy grin. "Details, Man…"
The mysterious Russian merely smiled. Mysteriously.
ACT 2 The Sow's Ear
Sophie Cartwright struck Napoleon as an unlikely candidate to run a con on three sophisticated businessmen. Also, he began to question Illya's taste. Illya summoned her from the bowels of headquarters where she worked in isolation, recording, restoring, and destroying official secret documents.
She slumped. She wore plain, baggy clothes that fit her work, so it was impossible to tell if she had a figure. Her face was smeared with perspiration, her hair pulled back severely to keep it out of the machinery.
With a deep breath, Solo shook her hand graciously and explained the gambit.
Sophie kept casting nervous glances at Illya, who nodded back encouragingly. After some hesitation, the mousy archivist agreed to the charade.
# # # # #
Solo was waiting anxiously at the elegant L'etoile, a place that befitted the image he had manufactured for his alter ego. He was entertaining his/her publisher, Carlton Bluefield, and two producers from Los Angeles.
"So, Mr. Solo, you've known Miss Teasdale a long time?"
"Oh, yes, you might say I've made her what she is today. Encouraged her to publish, that is. Became her agent to help guide her career."
"Is she always late?" grumbled Barlow Jones of United Pictures.
"Gentlemen, it's a lady's prerogative, and to artists, mere time has little significance, don't you find?" Solo bluffed along.
"You met this babe yet, Bluesfield?" questioned Frank Winner of Winner Films, Inc.
Bluesfield hadn't, of course, but he was not going to play naked emperor in front of these West Coasties. "Yes, yes, charming little lady. Writes like a lil' dickens, too. Small D,' "he snubbed the movie men. "We get stacks of fan mail from her faithful readers. She's one hot property," he assured them.
A distinct hush fell over the afternoon crowd, then a palpable buzz. She swirled into the room, a silken vision in peacock blue. She was short, but her graceful carriage regal. Her sable hair, braided with astromeiria blossoms. She stood perfectly still, allowing her gaze to sweep slowly across the room. Her eyes—it was not the color, but the expression they cast. With perfect poise and timing, she granted her audience time to watch her being escorted to the table. All four gentlemen rose to their feet in competition to pull out her chair.
Solo was stunned. He never would have recognized her. In fact, he wondered if Illya had succumbed to his concerns and hired an alternate. Except that "Jess" gave him a long, warm wink
ACT 3 Queen of Hearts
She extended her hand to Solo for kissing He seated her. Her instructions had been to look dazzling, and leave the conversation to him.
"Gentlemen," she nodded graciously, and spoke in a cool contralto that caused them to lean forward to catch every syllable from her lips. "How kind of you to invite me."
"Our honor, Miss Teasdale. We understand you are usually reluctant to appear in public," Jones greeted formally.
"So true. I am a homebody. But dear Napoleon convinced me to leave my cat and my coastal cottage, and take flight. Much as he's encouraged my work." She gave Solo an adoring gaze and patted his arm.
"You live in Maine, maybe we're neighbors. I've got a little summer place—" Bluesfield began.
"Uh, Jess doesn't get out very much, isn't that right, Dear?" Solo gave his voice an edge, trying to telegraph to the woman, Don't talk, do not talk. I'm handling this.
"Oh, so true. I inhabit my dreams in my cozy lighthouse. The sea comforts me, and my dear little cat Phoebe. My needs are simple: a tea kettle, a rocking chair, blank paper and my trusty pen."
Shut up, shut up, shut up! Solo's eyes signaled.
Jones licked his lips. "May I ask you what inspired you to write?"
Exquisite sorrow shadowed her face. "Why, the great tragedy of my own lost love, " she cooed and cast her eyes downward.
Where was she going with this? Solo was getting nervous. "Uh, Jess, if this is too painful to share, we'll all understand," he said firmly.
"Oh, dear Napoleon, always so sensitive," she petted his sleeve. "Actually, it can serve one's heart good to unburden with such sympathetic souls…" and she proceeded to weave a tale of secrets and seduction, revenge and redemption and rapture, so that Solo could barely keep his mouth from falling open in amazement. All four sets of eyes around the table never left her.
She's bright! Napoleon realized with a shock. Up til then, he had been simply amazed by her physical transformation. He had not considered she might add some quick and cultivated chatter. What was this woman doing in Archives?
ACT 4 The Pen is Mightier
Lunch concluded with a lucrative contract for Solo, and the doe-eyed appreciation of J. L. Teasdale. Each man left the meeting convinced he was the only man in the world who could mend the heart of American's newest literary sensation. She agreed to be available for some very limited promotion, and they agreed that keeping her a mystery would be a twist on the usual publicity. Everyone parted happily.
After the businessmen left, Solo scooted his chair closer to hers, set his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand and stared in frank amazement and admiration at his marvelous mystery woman. "I don't know who you are," he began, "but you saved both my careers, my romantic reputation, turned a near-disaster into a personal triumph and accomplished it all in magnificent style. I'd really like to get to know you, Jessie. Over supper…over breakfast…?" he hinted smoothly.
"First of all, dear Napoleon, my name is Sophie, and much as I appreciate your kind invitation, I have a previous engagement." Sophie/Jessica paused, and Solo felt a lecture coming on. His instincts proved correct.
"I know how you looked at me when we were introduced…that insignificant little gray ragamuffin—how can she ever help me? You've never been down to Archives, Mr. Solo. Your partner, Mr Kuryakin, came down and rewired my computer. He's very observant. And quiet, and kind. He noticed all the clippings I keep down there, to remind myself of who I used to be. He had me spilling my life story, how I was an actress, froze one night and ran off stage. Never went back."
"I remember that story…" Solo kept up with entertainment news. "Some years ago, a promising young actress disappeared…"
"Ta-dahhh…" Sophie opened her arms in introduction. "I found this place, this dungeon of files and microfiche, where I would never have to face an audience again. Never risk failing. But your partner convinced me to try. His confidence and trust in me restored something precious that I feared was lost forever. I feel so alive! Thank you for the opportunity. And I'm flattered you find me attractive. Now."
Solo accepted her gentle rebuke. "What will you do now?" he asked, genuinely interested.
"I'm off to New Jersey— a dinner theater production of "I Do, I Do". Mr. Kuryakin tracked down my old agent, and my cut of Jessie's contract ought to finance me into the start of a whole new life!"
Once again, Solo was surprised by the woman's good sense. Her part of the lunch had been billed as a favor; neither man had discussed money with her. But it was only fair, since without her, there would have been no contract at all.
"You're a remarkable woman, Sophie," he kissed her hand again, "And I'm sorry I met you too late. I wish you every success and happiness," he said sincerely. "But if Jessica's ever back in town…." He said that sincerely, too.
Illya joined them at the table. "Napoleon, I'm certain your little masquerade went well. Ready, my dear?" He offered his arm to Sophie. "Roscoe Lee Brown is reading Yeats at NYU…"
"Oooo—I used to know this little jazz club near there, had the best expresso…"
"The Alley Cat Club!" they chimed in unison.
They strolled into the city sunset, and in Solo's mind he was twisting a new plot for "Love's Exquisite Agony."
finis
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