"Hold it! Hold it!" The agency director of photography, a small, round man with a thin voice, waved the photographer off his camera impatiently and scowled at Jeanne. "You're a nice girl, Miss Peterson. That's a nice nightgown, filmy, but not so filmy it won't get by the censors. You got a nice figure and the country will love you. So why don't you be a nice model too?
"That ain't just a mattress you're on, Miss Peterson. How many times I gotta tell you that's the mattress you're waiting for Tom on? 'I miss Tom so, I'd never sleep, thinking of him so helpless and far away, the first Man in the Moon. Except for my Beautysleep mattress which induces sleep with its special inner-spring construction.' I ain't no copy-writer, Miss Peterson, but it will be something like that. So, cuddle up on that mattress like it will have to do till Tom comes home from the moon. Cuddle nice, Miss Peterson, cuddle nice."
It took Jeanne exactly fifty-five minutes longer before she could cuddle nice. They then took the picture in a matter of seconds, and Jeanne was allowed to change into her street clothes. Hurrying, she was only fifteen minutes late for her luncheon engagement with Lubrano.
"Three months," Lubrano said, after they'd settled themselves over cocktails. "Not bad, honey. Know how much we grossed, including the Beautysleep account?"
"Yes," Jeanne told him. "Twenty-eight thousand, three hundred and four dollars."
"Not bad," said Lubrano. "It takes the right kind of press, naturally. That's me, honey, the right kind of press."
"Yes," said Jeanne. "We're a good combination, Dan. You're right, it can't miss."
"Funny, you never sound excited about it."
"Maybe that's the way I am. I don't excite easily. So what?"
"So nothing." Lubrano began cutting his pork tenderloin.