Copyright 1994(c)

                               RED
                          By B.J. Higgs

     The "Do Me Red" campaign made Lacy Avedon the hottest thing
going. From secretary to advertising mogul in six years, she'd
assured her future with her catchy ads. 
     Vanity Magazine, slowly building a reputation of its own for
cutting edge photo covers, spoofed the media blitz with a once-
again pregnant Dimi Moore, slathered in the lipstick and reclining
on a porch swing. That same month, "Do Me Red" lipstick broke all
sales records in history, and suddenly, everybody who had a product
wanted Lacy to write the ad campaign.
     The large billboard over Times Square with its stark white
background, its large black letters inviting "Do me" with a red
kiss, escaped no one. Sales people were reporting a run on the
product and production was behind, all of which heightened the
public's insatiable desire to have the latest lip color. 
     Lacy was interviewed on CBS This Morning and modestly insisted
that it was the product, not the ad campaign, which was superior.
No one believed her, and the product jumped off the shelves and her
phone rang off the hook. Which was good, because her private life
went right down the toilet.
     "Richard," said her assistant, Adrian, holding out the phone.
"Again."
     "Tell him... no, wait. Put it through to my office," she said,
striding into the corner conclave and closing the door.
     "Hi, hon," said the warm voice in her ear, "how'd you like to
have Avedon's famous spaghetti and meatballs for supper tonight?"
     "That will be fine, Richard," she answered, distracted by the
ad copy she was reviewing as she spoke. "I may be late getting
home, though."
     "You're always late," he complained, the whine resonating
across the wire. 
     "Richard, I don't have time for this..." she began.
     "You never have time for me," he interrupted. "You never have
time for anything anymore."
     How many times had they had this same argument, she wondered.
If only. If only Richard hadn't lost his job. If only he would come
into the agency and work with her as her boss had suggested. The
'if onlys' simply were too numerous; his refusals too adamant; the
fights too draining. She didn't know how much longer she could
endure.
     "I'll talk to you when I get home," she said abruptly, and
hung up on his protestations. "I didn't have children because I
didn't want them," she muttered to the telephone and returned to
the work room where Adrian was adding the finishing touches to the
latest campaign photos for the Do Me Red television spots. Lacy
watched the run-through rehearsal with half a mind, the other half
occupied with thoughts of ending her unsuitable marriage with the
least fallout. 
     Richard had been such fun once upon a time, she remembered.
Their sex life had been energetic and had, in fact, coined her now
famous phrase. Her auburn hair had inspired him to murmur and then
to shout, "Do me, red," during their most enthusiastic trystings
and she'd immediately latched onto the phrase when first shown the
product which had made her famous. It had been the best idea she'd
ever had... maybe the best one he'd ever had.
     One thing she didn't need right now was adverse publicity,
and Richard was no fool. He'd hinted at an expose' the last time
they'd briefly discussed calling it quits. All she needed was him
on the opposite side of the table with Donahue as a mediator. She
sighed and pushed the thoughts from her mind. Right now she had a
television ad to complete.
                               ***
     Lacy watched the videotaped playback as she unthinkingly
nibbled on cooling spaghetti across from a surly Richard. The light
play on the strawberries wasn't right, she noted, and the dalmatian
on the fire truck was far too large. Maybe a puppy, she considered.
     "... don't even listen to me anymore," complained Richard's
voice, making it impossible for her to hear the model's whispered
invitation.
     "Ssssh! Can't you see I'm working?" she snapped, immediately
regretting the tone which would send Richard into another paroxysm
of injured verbiage.
     "Do me... RED," breathed the glossy red lips on the television
monitor as Richard launched into a torrent. She sighed.
     "And for God's sake stop that deep sighing as though the world
were ending," he shouted, slamming his hand onto the table top, 
making the silverware jump.
     She looked up into his flushed face and knew what she had to
do. He followed her into the bedroom, ranted continuously as she
packed an overnight bag; tried to bar her way when she moved to
the door.
     He alternately cried and railed, but she pushed past him and
made good her escape. She went to a hotel. He called the office
repeatedly, and when she wouldn't take his calls, he showed up in
person. She gave orders to the security guard that he was not to
be admitted and he waited outside the building for her to emerge.
     "It's over, Richard," she told him, time and again. "It's just
over." She hired a lawyer; filed for divorce.
     Professionally, she continued to excel. Advertising Age
compared her campaign to the one Volkswagen had been so successful
with in decades past. Clients continued to pile up, queuing for her
attention. She worked 15 and 16 hour days, falling into the hotel
bed exhausted but happy. Richard wavered and finally capitulated,
signing the papers that made her a free woman.
     The first body turned up on a Tuesday night and television
announcers immediately connected the fatal tagline "Do me red and
dead," effectively ending the campaign and her success. Clients
weren't so anxious to have her design an ad campaign, and her phone
stopped ringing. The macabre splash of Do Me Red lipstick found
across the victim's nipples gave the gory tale momentum, and
victims two and three sealed her fate. There was no way she could
extricate herself from the sensationalism of mass murderer.
     Of course she suspected Richard. Who else? The police
suspected him, too. Nothing ever came of those suspicions, though,
and bodies stopped appearing almost the second her career ended
with a whimper. She took a job as a secretary using her maiden
name, and thought about moving back to Iowa.
     And her assistant launched "Nothing Falls Up," on behalf of
Everlasting Floors. The miraculous clean up of gooey messes with
a flick of the wrist caused Everlasting stock to skyrocket and made
her assistant's name a household word.
     But "Nothing falls up," wasn't an original idea. In fact, it
had been another of Richard's favorite sayings. His daddy had said
it, Richard told her one time in a relaxed moment long before his
failure and her success. It had been a joke preceded with his
father's advice not to look up every time something was misplaced.
Could it be, she wondered? Richard and her former assistant?
     She thought about it. A lot. Remembered some of Richard's
other stories. In particular, she remembered the one he told about
his father confiding in him about an extramarital affair. Richard
had relayed the information to his mother, who reacted badly. She
remembered him telling her about his father's anger when confronted
and how he had accused Richard of taking a confidence and 'bringing
it back like a dead cat on the doorstep.'
     She decided she didn't care about truth; made up her mind to
leave this city and start over. If Lacy Avedon could be a crack ad
executive, so could Lacy Fremont, she decided. Guardian had a new
home safety monitoring system that was voice-activated and she
thought she had just the idea to put it on the map. Richard's
father had also been wont to advise him to "call it" whenever he
lost something, she remembered, and she thought "Call it!" was a
perfect slogan for Guardian. After all, Richard owed her something,
didn't he? He'd been pretty slick, after all. She wondered how her
former assistant liked Avedon's famous spaghetti and meatballs.
     Or, for that matter, how Adrian felt about dead cats wearing
lipstick?
                              END