I'm Your Man

by Timothy James Beck

Genres: LGBT Gay

Synopsis

Gay fashion advertiser Blaine Dunhill has everything he wants in life except for a family, but when his friend Gretchen offers to help him out, Blaine finds himself on a wild ride of baby names and fashion gossip. Original. 10,000 first printing.

Release date: December 1, 2004

Publisher: Kensington

Print pages: 352

Sample

I’d never been the kind of man who’d break a date, even one that was made over a month earlier in the previous millennium, before my life changed in ways I could never have predicted. But I wasn’t thrilled about leaving my warm, dry Hell’s Kitchen apartment to go forty rain-sodden blocks on a Saturday in January Y2K to a Woody Allen film festival in SoHo.

Still, a promise was a promise, and I waited as long as I could outside Film Forum for my friend Gretchen to show up before I finally bought my ticket. Feeling damp and a little surly, I made my way into the small art house to find Gretchen already there, sitting in her favorite place, just to the left of center, about midway between the screen and the door. My bad mood evaporated instantly. I should have known that Gretchen was even less likely to break a date than I was, and she gave me a bright smile when I slid into the seat next to her.

If I had to sum up Gretchen’s appeal, I’d give it a yin-yang quality. She had a brisk, no-nonsense male energy, but eyes that communicated feminine compassion and intuition. She was solidly built, but moved with a woman’s fluidity and grace. She was a woman’s woman; it was a mystery why she spent so much time at the movies with me. She claimed to be unlucky in love. I suspected she always chose the wrong woman because she really loved nothing more than her work and her friends. Often she combined the two, to the satisfaction of anyone who wanted to be financially stable.

I’d been told that when she was in her early thirties, Gretchen was stocky because she tended to grab fast food on the run between endless meetings, spending the rest of her time at her desk eating takeout while she helped build financial empires for her clients. She’d also endured a series of unhappy love affairs, consoling herself with her favorite vanilla bean ice cream.

By the time I met her, she’d invested in Happy Hollow, her retreat /resort in upstate New York, where she spent a lot of time outdoors renovating the property’s old hotel. She’d also cut back her workload and dedicated her energy to a healthier lifestyle. She’d remade herself into a svelte, stylish businesswoman, with tousled chestnut hair cut short and streaked with blond highlights.

“Hi, Blaine! I wasn’t sure you’d make it,” she said, affectionately patting my knee as a welcome. “Is it still raining?”

“Yes,” I said. “What’s gay about Woody Allen?”

The question wasn’t as strange as it sounded. For a couple of years, Gretchen had arranged dates for us that were meant to improve my cultural awareness as a gay man. Although many of these involved parties celebrating the Oscars, Pride Week, and Halloween, they often centered around movies I hadn’t seen. I’d never heard that Woody Allen was a gay icon, however, so I wasn’t sure how today’s event fit into the gaying of Blaine Dunhill.

After thinking it over, Gretchen finally said, “Woody’s synonymous with Manhattan, and Manhattan . . .” She trailed off and laughed when she saw my dubious expression. “Okay, I confess. I like Hannah and Her Sisters because it’s quirky and sweet, but hardly anyone I know watches Woody Allen. Especially after the scandal sheets got finished with him.”

“I never pay attention to that crap. If you like the movie, that’s good enough for me,” I said, meaning it. In the three years that I’d known Gretchen Schmidt, she’d never steered me wrong, either in her role as my financial advisor or as my friend. I’d been asking myself a lot of questions about the changing nature of my friendships. It was comforting to feel that this one was intact in spite of what it was originally based on: our mutual connection to my ex-boyfriend, Daniel Stephenson.

When the lights went down and the movie began, I became absorbed in the intertwined love stories. I refused to think about Daniel, even when Woody’s character reminded us that love was “really unpredictable.” Nor did I shift in my seat over uncomfortable reminders of love affairs in crisis. I knew I’d think about it later, when sleep eluded all my best efforts. But for a few hours, I could be happy to see a movie with a friend and go out afterward for good food and conversation.

After the movie, we walked down slushy sidewalks to Herban Kitchen, one of Gretchen’s favorite restaurants. Though Gretchen was a vegetarian, she never inflicted her dietary beliefs on others. Herban Kitchen offered meat, poultry, and fish on their menu, all of which were organically raised. I could rest assured that my steak had lived a better life than I ever would.

After Gretchen decided on something called the Harvest Plate and relinquished her menu to the waiter, she turned to me and asked, “What did you think of the movie?”

“Carrie Fisher sang. What’s not to love?”

“Wow. You almost sounded gay that time,” she teased. “But you’re right. I’ve had a crush on her for years. Women have that Princess Leia fantasy, too, you know.”

“It was nice to see Barbara Hershey stay alive,” I said. “After watching Beaches so many times, I assumed she died in all of her movies.”

“No. You’re thinking of Mary Louise Parker.”

“Oh. She was in Fried Green Tomatoes, right? Or was that Maria Conchita Alonso?”

Gretchen laughed, then said, “You were right the first time. With Mary Stuart Masterson.”

“How do you keep all those three-named women straight?”

“I know my girls,” Gretchen said with a salacious grin. She suddenly switched gears, leaned forward, and said, “Was it awful of me to take you to a movie about love?”

“Oh, please,” I groaned. “Don’t pussyfoot around me. I’m a big boy. I’m fine.”

“What, no rending of garments? You break up with the love of your life, and you’re fine? Come on, Blaine,” Gretchen urged, “this is me you’re talking to. It’s okay. Fess up.”

“I think the worst thing about breaking up with someone is how everyone who knows you asks, ‘What happened?’ Then you end up repeating a condensed version of the story ten to twenty times. It’s like issuing a press statement to your friends and colleagues,” I complained.

“That’s not the worst part of breaking up, and you know it.”

She was right. There was no worst part. The arguing, going to bed together angry, the silent dinners, the final fight, the loneliness the morning after; it was all pretty awful. I felt my eyes start to well up with tears and said, “Maybe I’m not ready to talk about it.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s just that I’m concerned,” Gretchen said, reaching across the table to place her hand over mine. “I want to make sure you’re okay. The circles under your eyes are darker than Sarah Jessica Parker’s roots.”

“Or do you mean Sarah Michelle Gellar? Seriously, I was happy that you kept our date tonight,” I confessed. “When I was waiting outside the theater, before I found out you were already inside, I thought you ditched me out of loyalty to Daniel.”

“That’s absurd,” Gretchen admonished and lightly slapped my hand.

“You were his friend first,” I reminded her, “before he and I ever got together. He’s known you for a thousand years. I’ve only known you—”

“Long enough for me to know that I like you and value your friendship,” Gretchen interjected. “I know what it’s like to have well-meaning friends get in the middle of your relationships. Or breakups. If you want to talk about how you’re feeling, that’s fine. What you say to me stays between us. The same goes for anything Daniel and I talk about.”

“Have you talked to him?” I asked.

“Until tonight, this is the first time I’ve seen either of you since we were together at Happy Hollow for Thanksgiving,” she said. “After that, you went to Europe on business. By the time you got back, I was in Barbados.”

“That’s right. Your trip. Did you have a good time?”

“Terrific,” she said. “First chance I’ve had to relax in years. I spent most of my time alone. It helped me make some major decisions about my life.”

“Such as?”

“We aren’t talking about me. We’re talking about you,” she said. “When I got back, Daniel had gone to spend Christmas with his family, and you were in Colorado, undoing all my gay lessons with your straight friend. How was your ski trip?”

“Being with Jake was exactly what I needed,” I said. Jake Meyers had been my best friend since we were kids growing up in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. It had been a relief to spend time with someone who didn’t know Daniel except through me and didn’t ask any questions about the breakup, letting me decide how much I wanted to say. However, I understood that Gretchen wasn’t merely being curious. She genuinely cared about Daniel and me, and I valued her opinion. I went on. “Like you, I needed time away to think things over. If you haven’t talked to Daniel about the breakup, who told you?”

“Sheila,” Gretchen said. Whatever expression flickered across my face prompted her to say, “You’re mad at her, huh?”

“Not really. I don’t know. Maybe.”

Our waiter came with our food, giving me a chance to consider Gretchen’s words. Sheila Meyers was Jake’s younger sister, and there was a lot of history between us. More than ten years before, we’d even dated for a while, when I was a high school senior and she was a freshman. But we’d been friends long before then.

“Sheila would never do anything to hurt you, Blaine,” Gretchen said, reading my mind and picking up where we’d left off when the waiter was gone. “She can be impulsive and flighty, but her heart’s always in the right place.”

We spent a quiet few minutes eating while I thought about Daniel and Sheila. It was strange that she’d been a part of our breakup, since she’d helped get us together in the first place.

I could still remember the first time I’d seen him. My fifth-floor apartment overlooked the alley between my building and Daniel’s. His apartment was first-floor rear and had a patio, where he’d created a garden. While he labored over his plants, I’d watch from my window and try to figure out a way to meet him. From a distance, I couldn’t see how handsome he was. Since it was summer, he was usually dressed in nothing more than a pair of shorts and sometimes a T-shirt, so I knew that he had a good, if slender, body.

But it wasn’t his looks that made me return to my window to watch him every day. I liked the graceful way he moved; the way his hands so lovingly and gently tended to his plants and flowers. I felt like I was secretly sharing in something sweet and intimate with him. Sometimes it even seemed like he knew I was there and returned my interest.

Eventually I found out that was true. A few months after I moved to New York in 1997, Sheila followed and became my roommate. Daniel had contrived to meet her so he could find out about me. They became best friends; and he became my boyfriend.

Three years later, our breakup didn’t require a moving van, since our only baggage was emotional. Like Woody and Mia, we had maintained separate apartments. Unlike them, however, our rift didn’t rate a mention in the tabloids, so I had no idea what was going on with Daniel. When I came back from Colorado, I noticed that his first-floor apartment stayed dark every night. Nor was he ever outside in his patio garden during the day. Even in the dead of winter, Daniel took painstaking care of his plants, using heaters, lights, and plastic to keep things alive until spring. Evidently, most of his plants had been moved inside, and I’d seen no sign of him. It had started to worry me.

“Did Sheila by any chance tell you where Daniel is?” I abruptly asked Gretchen.

“Yes,” Gretchen said. “He’s in L.A. in preproduction for a TV movie. Then he’ll be filming.”

“He got the Lifetime movie?” I asked, feeling a mixture of relief, happiness, and pride.

“Uh-huh.”

“It wasn’t too long ago that he got a better contract with his soap,” I said. Daniel played America’s favorite daytime villain, Angus Remington, on the daytime drama Secret Splendor. “I’m surprised they gave him time off so soon.”

“Angus Remington is sending videotapes to terrorize the residents of Splendor Falls while he’s away on a sinister mission,” Gretchen said. We both laughed, considering that Daniel’s Lifetime movie would feature him as an angel sent to help three of America’s sitcom sweethearts: Meredith Baxter, Valerie Bertinelli, and Jasmine Guy. “Daniel shot the videotapes before he left. That’s how they’re keeping his storyline moving.”

“That’s great. He must have been thrilled when it all worked out.” Gretchen gave me a strange look and I said, “You’re surprised that I’m happy for him? Daniel deserves the best.”

“I’m not surprised,” she said. “You’ve always been supportive of him. He had the best. I don’t understand how he let it slip away.”

“I’m not sure I understand it, either,” I admitted. “I don’t think I realized how many problems we had until after the Maddie Awards.”

Gretchen sat back to indicate that she would listen while she ate.

The Maddie Awards were held at a gala dinner and recognized people who’d done outstanding work in Manhattan advertising. I’d been nominated for a campaign I did for my advertising firm that featured Sheila as our model. Sheila’s fiancé, photographer Josh Clinton, was nominated for a Prada spread he’d shot for Ultimate Magazine. We were all excited about the nominations and, at Daniel and Sheila’s request, broke tradition and sat with one another rather than at tables with the other nominees and executives from our respective employers. When both Josh and I won our awards, the night was declared a triumph, and we partied until dawn.

During that evening, I’d experienced a vague uneasiness, but I didn’t have time to analyze it because Sheila and I took an extended business trip to Europe immediately afterward. We came back to endless photographs of Sheila and Daniel looking like a radiant couple in publications like People, W, and Variety. When an entire paragraph of Lola Listeria’s gossip column in the Manhattan Star-Gazette described Daniel and Sheila as the coming century’s first supercouple, I hit the roof.

I agreed with Daniel when he pointed out that my work in advertising should make me understand the value of publicity, even when it was contrived or false. But I was furious about feeling used and managed to that end, reminding him that he’d not only capitalized on an event that was meant to be for Josh and me, but he’d been more than a little deceptive in how he’d turned the situation to his advantage.

After I explained all that to Gretchen, she said, “I guess I can see why you were annoyed with Sheila and Daniel. But it doesn’t sound serious enough to break up over.”

“It wasn’t,” I agreed. “There’s more. Over the past year, he and I made a lot of plans for our future. The big ones were moving in together and eventually having kids. The whole package. I think as his part on Secret Splendor got bigger and more demands were made on him to promote the show, our goals stopped being a priority for him. I didn’t get that until one night when we were already having a bad fight. He started talking about problems that I didn’t even know we had. The stuff he said . . .” I looked at her. “I don’t want to get into that. We both said awful things to each other. He told me it was over. I walked out. I haven’t seen him or talked to him since.”

“You’ve both been traveling,” Gretchen reminded me. “Maybe when he comes back, the two of you can talk more rationally about your problems.”

“I think it’s beyond that, Gretchen. But I don’t want it to hurt my other relationships. Like with Sheila. I hope it doesn’t cause problems for you to be friends with me as well as Daniel.”

“Are you kidding? You and I will always be friends,” she assured me. “Who else would sit through Woody Allen movies with me? Plus you never give me unsolicited advice about my love life. You always heed my recommendations about your investments. You’ve given me free advertising expertise on my various Happy Hollow ventures. You’re my only gay friend who doesn’t tell me when my hair is a disaster. You can call me anytime. Except, of course, when Lou Dobbs Moneyline is on CNN.”

I laughed and shifted the conversation to more neutral topics. After we split the check, we walked outside. It was no longer raining, so once I saw Gretchen into a cab, I decided to walk, hoping to exhaust myself. I’d been having trouble sleeping, which I attributed not only to the breakup with Daniel, but to a slowdown in my workload. I wasn’t being challenged enough, which gave me too much time to think about the wreck my personal life had become.

I briefly considered stopping at a bar and finding someone to divert me for an hour or two. There’d been a few of those after I became single. I decided against it. Maybe if I went to bed early enough, I’d sleep in spite of myself. At least I no longer had to look down at Daniel’s dark apartment and wonder where he was.

Over the next couple of weeks, cold, gray days continued to dampen my mood. True to her word, Gretchen and I talked every few days. We made tentative plans for our next Gay Day, a screening of the movie The Women in mid-February. Gretchen insisted it was mandatory viewing for a gay man. I ended up having to cancel on her because of a business trip. I wasn’t sure I regretted missing the movie, but I definitely wasn’t sorry that work was kicking into high gear as we finished getting ready for spring and summer.

My focus was all business as yet another soggy day found me boarding a flight to Baltimore with Sheila. She was behind me in line, yelling into her cell phone. I tried to ignore her conversation, but it was next to impossible. Especially when she slid into her seat next to mine.

“Bob,” she said into the phone, “you’re not listening to me. The point is, I’m presenting an award for best costumes on national television, and Claude Martrand called with an offer to dress me from his couture line . . . Yes, well, you can imagine my surprise when he wondered why I had ignored his invitation to be in his spring runway show . . . Oh, really? He said you were the one who ultimately declined for me, since I was under obligation to Lillith Parker and couldn’t do any shows . . . You know that’s not true, Bob! I don’t want to hear your excuses, either. Lillith may have me on a busy schedule as her Zodiac Girl, but my contract clearly says I can do other jobs as time permits . . . Oh? You think? Well, I’ve got news for you, honey, I’m on my way to meet with Lillith. I’m on a plane even as we speak . . . No, I don’t need you with me. Blaine Dunhill is with me . . . No! Don’t call Lillith! It’s a personal meeting, Bob . . . Just don’t lie to me again. Bye.” She closed her cell phone and tucked it into a highly polished, black leather purse.

“Rough day at the office, dear?” I asked.

“Blaine,” she said, turning to me, “I swear I’m going to leave Metropole if they don’t give me another agent. Bob’s a fascist. He thinks he owns me or something.”

“Maybe you should talk to your lawyer, Sheila,” I offered. I didn’t know much about the hierarchy of modeling agencies, so it was the best advice I could think of.

“Maybe you’re right.” I watched as she bit her lower lip. It was odd how the little overbite never corrected by braces could now earn upwards of fifteen hundred dollars an hour. “It’s not even noon and I already have a headache.”

“Excuse me,” a woman seated across the aisle from us said. Sheila and I both turned to look at the magazine in her hands. “Is this you?”

The magazine was open to an ad for Zodiac’s Aquarius line by Lillith Allure Cosmetics. Spread out over two glossy pages was a photograph of Sheila dressed as a mermaid, being carried by a buff man in a Speedo on a sandy beach.

“Gosh. Look at my hair. It’s huge,” Sheila pointed out.

“It looks great,” I observed. “You look fantastic.”

“I look like the chicken of the sea.”

“Sorry, Charlie,” I quipped.

“Would you sign this for me?” the woman asked. “It’s for my daughter. She wants to be you when she grows up.”

“Aw, that’s sweet. I’d be happy to.” Sheila took my Mont Blanc pen and signed the magazine. “How old is she?”

“Nine.”

“When I was that age, I wanted to be Barbie,” Sheila said. “Looks like I made it.”

“If you start singing Barry Manilow, I’m getting off this plane,” I said.

“You stay right where you are, mister,” Sheila ordered. “There’s no way I’m facing Lillith the wacko on my own. Besides, she wants to meet with you, too.”

“I don’t know why I had to cancel two days of meetings to fly to Baltimore for one meeting with her,” I said. “If she could just use a phone, or e-mail, like a normal person, my life would be so much easier.”

“She can,” Sheila said. “Just not while Mars is interfering with her communication planets.”

Lillith Parker was my number one client in my role as an advertising executive at Breslin Evans Fox and Dean. In fact, Lillith Allure Cosmetics was my only client. As Lillith Allure’s Account Planner, I oversaw all packaging, product development, and promotions. There was a lot on my plate, but I thrived on it. The only hitch was dealing with Lillith’s penchant for all things astrological. Her every waking moment—and possibly her dream state, as well—was guided by a series of charts, readings, and courses designed to keep her personal and business lives in harmonious balance with the universe.

Most CEOs had a personal assistant to organize their business lives. Among Ms. Parker’s staff were people who read tarot cards, threw rune stones, communed with “the other side,” and kept meticulous astrological charts. If there was one star or planet out of place, her life was in turmoil and an entire ad campaign might have to be reworked. During the three years I’d worked with Lillith, I’d had my aura fluffed, my palms read, and my chakras balanced. While I never felt different after these exercises in faith, and whether or not Lillith knew I was only going through the motions, she trusted me with her product line.

“Speaking of Zodiac,” I said and opened my briefcase, “I have the final prints for the Taurus line.”

I handed Sheila a set of color prints which featured her in a boxing ring. In the photos, she wore bright red boxing trunks, gloves, and a simple tank top. Her eyes were “bruised” with Zodiac’s Taurus eye shadow as she charged her opponent in the ring with gloves raised.

“These are terrific, Blaine,” Sheila praised, flipping through the pictures. “You’ve got a great mind for this stuff.”

“See how your ‘trainer’ is whipping that red towel off your shoulders as you’re charging into the ring?”

“So it also looks like a bullfight,” Sheila observed.

“Taurus is the sign of the bull,” I reminded her.

“Such a crafty ad exec, you are,” Sheila continued. “I never know how these things are going to turn out when I’m posing. I just trust that you know what you’re doing.”

“Funny,” I said, returning the photos to my briefcase, “that’s exactly what Lillith always says.”

“She never would’ve entrusted her business to you if she didn’t think you were the right man for the job.”

“The same could be said for you, you know. Out of hundreds of women, she picked you to represent her biggest line.”

Sheila nodded thoughtfully, her silence giving me time to remember how I’d ended up with a client as bizarre as Lillith Parker. I would never have been able to handle her at the beginning of my career.

Fresh out of college, I’d been hired by Trueluck and Frost, a Wisconsin advertising firm. One of their clients was Frank Allen, the founder of Allure Cosmetics, which sold a line of products that embraced simplicity and classic beauty, yet never went beyond the drugstore and beauty supply market. I’d gotten my shot at the account because Frank wanted to change the direction of Allure Cosmetics’ advertising, hoping to appeal to a younger market, and I was the youngest member of the firm. Rehashing an old idea, I launched the “Lady in Red” campaign. We repackaged his line in bright red boxes with black letters and did a series of ads featuring a model with a Grace Kelly appeal. She had a patrician beauty, but somewhere beneath her surface, one sensed a temptress. One of the first ads featured her in a red dress, clinging to the back of a tuxedoed man on a motorcycle. She traveled in style, but she did it dangerously. She never checked a coat, only a helmet.

Allure Cosmetics’ sales rose ten percent, and Frank wanted to keep me and the Lady in Red. But he’d also decided Trueluck and Frost was too provincial to deliver the kind of audience he wanted his ads to have. He was courted by Breslin Evans Fox and Dean, a powerhouse agency in Manhattan. When he signed with them, it was with the stipulation that the firm hire me.

My early days at Breslin Evans were brutal. With the move, Allure Cosmetics became a little fish in a big pond, so I wasn’t much more than plankton. The competition for accounts was intense. It was only thanks to Frank’s loyalty that I held on to Allure during a time when I was given every third-rate, undesirable project that my superiors—which included basically everyone, since even the administrative staff got more respect than I did—could throw at me.

Through it all, the Lady in Red never waned in popularity. But what did she smell like?

Frank had no experience with perfume, so he asked me to find a line that would mix well with his company. I would never have thought to merge Allure Cosmetics and Lillith Parker Designs if it wasn’t for my then-assistant, Sharon. We’d been holed up in my office for a week with Allure samples and hundreds of bottles of perfume, trying to find a good match. My office smelled like the main floor of Bloomingdale’s, and we were giddy from the fumes.

“For Pete’s sake, open a window, Sharon,” I barked. “It smells like my Aunt Gladys in here.”

“Believe me, I would,” she said, “but we’re on the twenty-third floor, and the windows don’t open. Where’s that can of coffee? It’ll cleanse your nose. Here you go.” When she passed me the coffee, the can knocked over an open bottle of Halo by Lillith Parker. My desk and several Allure compacts were saturated with the smell of verbena and lilac. “No! Not the eye shadow! I was going to wear it at my bridal shower!” Sharon screamed.

“My desk! You got perfume all over my desk!” I hollered.

“Me? You got perfume in my compact!”

“Hey, wait a minute. Which perfume was that?”

“Lillith Parker’s,” Sharon answered. “Why?”

“She’s the one with those wacky names, right? How about, Allure Has a Halo?”

Sharon found the file on Lillith Parker and read aloud, “Lillith Parker Designs manufactures perfumes with celestial imagery in its bottles and titles.” She scanned the file. “Aura, Halo, Saturnine, Balance. You could work with these names, Blaine. They’d go well with Allure.”

“I think we found it. Where is Lillith Parker located?”

“Baltimore.”

“Book us on a flight tomorrow.”

“I’ll book a flight for you and a temp,” Sharon said. “I’m getting married and moving to Connecticut, remember? You need to learn to live without me.”

“Whatever, Sharon. Just do it. And send a memo to purchasing that I need a new desk. This one reeks.”

Over the next few months, I’d lost Sharon, but Frank Allen gained Lillith Parker as a partner in their joint venture, Lillith Allure Cosmetics. Lillith had all the clout with Breslin Evans that Frank lacked, and she was able to see to it that Blaine Dunhill, new kid on the block, was appointed to handle their account exclusively. In some ways, my life got easier. In others, Lillith definitely was not the easiest client in the world to satisfy.

As the company grew, Lillith decided to try her hand at a subsidiary line of cosmetics based on her passion for astrology. Once Mercury was out of retrograde and it was safe to delve into new ventures, Lillith Allure launched Zodiac. Zodiac’s beauty products were based on sun signs. There were twelve different “looks” to the line, which meant a full year of ad campaigns. Lillith wanted one new face to represent the whole line. The Zodiac Girl would be an “All-American,” freshly scrubbed beauty transformed by Zodiac’s vividly glam colors.

I didn’t think about Sheila when Lillith asked me to find the Zodiac Girl. During our first months in New York, Sheila was a relative newcomer to the world of modeling, and her photogenic clock was ticking. She was twenty-two, just out of college, with a degree in liberal arts and a few letters of recommendation to some Manhattan modeling agencies. Because no one told her how impossible her dreams were, she made them come true, getting a contract with Metropole. She owed it to luck, chutzpah, and a few other assets, including flawless skin, legs that wouldn’t quit, and a winning disposition. Even the most jaded people in the industry found Sheila irresistible.

In 1998, more than a year into Sheila’s career, everyone wanted to be the Zodiac Girl and enjoy