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He wanted to deny it, but he had been surprised she didn’t know something that seemed basic to him. Yet even Syd—who was a very sharp lady—hadn’t known about primer, nor her husband, who was a brilliant neurosurgeon. All at once Jordan was reminded of an editor he’d known when starting in the business. Fred had been fond of saying “intelligence and information are different beasts.”
“In case it’s too basic for you to understand, everybody has to start somewhere,” Nicole continued. “The clerk was frantically busy at the hardware store when I bought the paint and somehow he didn’t tell me about primer.”
“Did you get better advice when you went in this time?” Jordan asked, wondering if the clerk had been distracted by Nicole’s physical attributes. His own brain had short-circuited earlier that afternoon for the same reason, though he didn’t think he’d been obvious about it.
“I hope so. This time a woman helped me. She was very professional. Tell me, is it possible for a woman to be as smart as a man about painting?” Nicole’s voice dripped sarcasm.
Oh, Lord. Jordan felt a chasm opening at his feet. Not only had he opened himself to claims of journalistic bias, now she was challenging him about male chauvinism.
“Absolutely,” he said. But a measure of self-honesty made him wonder if he still possessed caveman attitudes on some level. His sisters teased him about it now and then, but he’d figured it was just sisters being sisters. After all, if he was a total caveman he would have run Chelsea’s latest boyfriend off with a bat and told him to stay away from her.
“I’d forgotten you were a runner,” he said, pushing the thought aside. He wasn’t crazy about doing emotional inventories at the best of times.
Nicole flashed a smile. “What’s wrong, didn’t the research department include my being a runner in their file on me?”
“What makes you think I have a file?”
“Jordan, no matter what some people assume about models, we have brains. A file comes with the territory. The PostModern research department must have worked overtime to get you all the available details.”
“Does it bother you to think I have a file?”
“Being a reporter makes you bothersome, the rest just goes with the territory. I’ll admit I wouldn’t mind checking it for accuracy. Reporters have gotten things wrong so often it’s laughable.”
“I don’t understand how you can complain about reporters when you’ve benefited from them making you even more famous. PostModern is also publishing these articles because of your fame, and your agency will profit by it.”
“Fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” she returned. “I haven’t sought out publicity and have always tried to have a private life, which the press seems to resent. Sure, I’ve modeled clothing, represented various products and said lines in television commercials—that’s my job—but I’ve never been on reality TV and haven’t cared if my name was known to anyone except photographers, agents and people wanting to hire me.”
“Don’t be a hypocrite. They wanted you in those ads because everyone knows who you are.”
“Not everyone. My face is known in some circles, but my name wouldn’t be familiar if it wasn’t for the paparazzi following me around and trying to dig up saucy little fictions to titillate their readers. Which, by the way, the legitimate press has often repeated without an ounce of proof. I hope PostModern won’t follow suit.”
Jordan closed his eyes, partly to collect his thoughts, and partly to shut out the impact of Nicole’s well-formed figure. For years—in the rare times he thought about her—he’d seen her as a face in a photograph. A face that reminded him of old annoyances. In person, she exuded a vibrant energy that sent his senses reeling.
“I’m doing a genuine interview,” he said, looking at her again. “PostModern doesn’t want sensationalistic stories. The editor demands in-depth material about real people. Right now she’s interested in individuals who make radical changes in their lives, what their challenges are and how they find fulfillment.”
