From Part 1:
The small crowd that had gathered around Lois’s desk quickly dispersed. Even Jimmy hurried off in the general direction of the file room. When Perry was the last one within earshot of Lois, he leaned toward her and drawled in a conspiratorial tone, “He’s in town, you know. Cat just heard from her source at the Jade Inn.”
Lois gave her editor a confused frown. “Who?”
“Clark Kent. Arrives this evening. He’s got the Presidential Suite booked for the next three weeks. His new book comes out next week and he’s doing the round of publicity interviews—Good Morning America, Today, all the local morning shows, you know the drill. I bet he’ll be at Luthor’s White Orchid Ball. You can’t hold the social event of the season and not invite Clark Kent if he’s in town. I know you’ve been chasing an interview with Lex Luthor for months, but if you managed to land a one-on-one with Clark Kent—not a PR puff piece, but a real, in-depth interview—well, *that* would be something to see.” With a last parting wink, Perry strode off toward his office, bellowing for Jimmy as he went.
************
Part 2
************
Friday came, and Lois Lane was a woman on a mission. Months of calls hadn’t gotten her as much as one telephone conversation with the elusive Mr. Luthor, but tonight she’d be an invited guest at his own ball. There was no way he could avoid her. The trick was to make that first impression count. She had to grab his attention from the start and not let it go until she had what she came for.
Perry wanted her to change targets, from Lex Luthor to Clark Kent. But why? Kent was a brilliant disguise artist—every one with a pulse knew that—but so what? What had he done with his talents? Written a few page-turners for popular consumption? Made a mint on story rights for movies aimed at your average fourteen-year-old male? What was so special about that? Okay, so he made the rounds of the morning talk shows and threw in a few comments about education for poor kids in India -- in between flashing that famous smile and fielding questions about his latest rumored celebrity hook-up. What was that compared to all the good that Lex Luthor did right here in Metropolis? No, even without having read his books, Lois was pretty sure that Clark Kent was about as deep as the average morning television viewer. Lex Luthor was the real prize, and she was going to land him tonight .
*****
The air was thick with ozone as Clark stepped from the hansom cab in front of the LexTower that Friday night. He scanned the sky briefly before turning to help Lana from the cab. The storm would break any minute now, but not before they made it inside. The light flashing around them at the moment came not from the sky, but from the dozen or so photographers who crowded the velvet rope at the edge of the red carpet leading to the LexTower’s front door. Clark noticed that Lana had tucked her left hand into the crook of his arm. She never missed a beat, did she? Between Clark Kent’s patented smile and the mysterious red-head in the Vera Wang gown on his arm, their picture was sure to grace at least one society page. And no one would be able to see Lana’s wedding ring when it did.
“Mr. Kent! Who’s your lady friend ?” “Miss, over here! Look this way!” “Clark! What happened to the blonde you were with in Gotham?” “What’s your name, Red?” “Never the same girl twice, eh Kent?” The paparazzi bombarded the couple with questions, clamoring for their attention with such a cacophony that no one would have been able to hear any answer they might have chosen to give. Not that it mattered in the least; everyone there knew that no answers would be forthcoming anyway. What they really wanted was for Clark and his date to turn their faces in their directions . Fighting off the urge to duck as if they were dashing through a downpour of rain rather than questions, Clark simply smiled down at Lana and guided her gently through the door. The sudden quiet as the doorman closed the door behind them was a welcome relief.
A second doorman quickly showed the couple to the express elevator, which deposited them directly in the foyer of Lex Luthor’s penthouse. A servant stepped forward to take Clark’s overcoat and Lana’s cashmere shawl. As was his habit in any new environs, Clark quickly memorized the layout of the entire floor. In addition to the elevator they had arrived in, there were three more, including a hidden one in Luthor’s private office, and one fire-proofed staircase in the building’s central core. Dozens of windows would have offered easy egress, except that only the ones overlooking balconies—of which there were four on this level—actually opened. The penthouse included a gourmet kitchen, dining room, four bedrooms, several sitting areas, an office with a prominent display of ancient weapons, a library, and, of course, the ballroom, where Lana was leading Clark gently by the elbow.
Leaning in with a mischievous half-smile, his date whispered, “So tell me, Clark, did you happen to note the location of the powder room? Or is that on a need-to-know basis?”
Clark smiled back and answered, “Since you might need to know, I suppose I can tell you; take the hallway just past the buffet table. First door on the left.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind for future reference. Now let’s find the bar. I wonder what Zinfandel Luthor’s serving tonight?”
“Really? I’ve never known you to drink on the job.”
“Who’s on the job? Pete’s got his feet up, spilling popcorn all over the Jade’s designer sofa as we speak. I’m just out on the town with my high school crush.” And with that, she poked Clark in the ribs and headed for the bar. Clark quickly caught up with her and joined her in the short line there.
“So you’re telling me that I’m just a fill-in to wile away the time while your true love has abandoned you for the boys of summer.”
“You got it, farm boy.”
Ten minutes later, having procured two glasses of wine and a plate of hors d’oeuvres, the couple was slowly making their way to a table near the dance floor. Slowly because they were constantly detained by ‘gentle readers,’ as Clark called them in the privacy of his own mind, who were eager to make small talk with their favorite adventure writer. Clark had a polite smile plastered on his face and was running on conversational autopilot while a matronly lady in pale pink rhapsodized about the beauty of the Taj Mahal. He was trying to formulate something suitably amusing to say in response when his attention was suddenly and inexplicably hijacked.
A woman had entered the room. She was medium height, slender build, with dark hair swept up into some kind of twist, except for spiraling tendrils that framed her face. She was dressed in dark blue, and her head had a confident tilt. She was beautiful. Clark had a strange sense of déjà-vu. It was just like the window that first night in Metropolis. Clark had seen many beautiful women in his life, and, objectively speaking, this one was by no means the most glamorous or refined woman he’d ever seen, but something about her drew his gaze, and he couldn’t turn it away. And then she spoke.
“Lex Luthor! Why haven’t you returned my calls?” Her strong, confident voice carried over the buzz of conversation and music that filled the room. From his place at the bottom of a spiral staircase, their host turned at the sound of his name. Luthor’s look of surprise quickly turned to one of admiration.
“Lois Lane,” the woman said by way of introduction, “Daily Planet.”
“I can assure you,” Luthor replied smoothly, “I’ll never make that mistake again.”
Wow. She had moxie, Clark had to give her that. It had been a risk, calling Luthor out like that in front of all his guests, but it looked like it was paying off. He’d read her work, of course, but now Clark was getting a first-hand glimpse of what made Lois Lane a top-notch reporter. He was fascinated.
Clark never returned to that conversation about the Taj Mahal. He just kept watching Lois Lane and Lex Luthor dance, and, without consciously realizing it, even listened in on their conversation. Which was why Clark was acutely aware of Lois Lane’s discomfort when Luthor made a move that surprised her . Luthor drew Ms. Lane close with a motion that was more of a grab than a caress, and spoke into her ear in a predatory growl. “Why don’t we make it dinner?” Luthor was saying, and Clark couldn’t help muttering, “That’s close enough.”
Without thinking through the consequences of what he was about to do, Clark found himself tapping Luthor on the shoulder. At least he managed to suppress the scowl that wanted to form on his face and give a charming smile instead. “Do you mind if I cut in?” he asked in his most ingratiating high society manner.
If Luthor was angry about the interruption, he hid it well. But then, hiding things was what Lex Luthor did best . He stepped gracefully away from Lois Lane and motioned for Clark to take his place, meanwhile cordially introducing, “Lois Lane, Clark Kent. Clark Kent, Lois Lane.” Giving Lois’s hand a kiss in parting, Luthor remarked, “It’s been a pleasure, Ms. Lane. One I hope to have again soon.”
As Clark gathered Lois into his arms and turned her smoothly into the dance, he favored her with his most winning smile. At least, it usually won. At the moment, however, it was being met with a recalcitrant glare.
“Mr. Kent, do you have any idea what you’ve just done ? I was *that* close to landing an interview. Do you realize how long I’ve been trying to gain access to Lex Luthor?”
Clark was taken aback. This wasn’t the reaction he normally got when he danced with a beautiful woman. “I’m sorry. It looked to me like he was getting a little too close for comfort. I didn’t mean to interfere with your scheme.”
Ms. Lane made a visible effort to calm herself. “It wasn’t a scheme. It was a…plan.” The calming didn’t seem to be working very well, though, because her next words were laced with frustration. “And now it’s shot to hell.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Clark soothed. “I’m sure he’ll be delighted to have the next dance. You can pick up right where you left off.”
“No, I can’t.” She spoke with the exaggerated patience of a person explaining the obvious to an imbecile. “I’ve lost the element of surprise. He might dance with me all night, but he’ll never agree to an interview now. He’ll have his guard up.”
Oops. She had a point. He didn’t know what had made him want to come riding in to her rescue, but she obviously hadn’t needed it, and now she was short one high-profile interview. On impulse, he offered, “Let me make it up to you.”
She raised a skeptical brow. “How?”
“By offering a substitute. I know I’m no Lex Luthor, but I can at least give you an interview myself.”
Ms. Lane’s mouth twisted into a wry half-smile. “You know, that’s almost funny. My editor’s been after me to try to get an interview with you. I chose to go after Mr. Luthor instead. And I had a good reason to.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. You see, no offense, Mr. Kent, but your interviews are a dime a dozen. You’ve given at least eight of them this week alone.”
“Not to you,” Clark persisted, giving the charming smile another try.
She looked at him thoughtfully. “You’re serious? You’re offering me a real, in-depth, Lois Lane interview? You should know I don’t do puff pieces.”
“I’ve read your work, Ms. Lane. I know its caliber.”
“You’ve never given a serious interview before.” The look she gave him was in transition from skeptical to appraising.
“I’ve never met Lois Lane before.”
The music ended and Clark released her from his embrace. Just as their arms lost contact with each other, Ms. Lane gave a decisive nod. “Mr. Kent,” she said, holding out her hand for him to shake, “you’ve got yourself a deal.”
As she strode away across the room, Clark wondered what he had just gotten himself into.
On the opposite side of the dance floor, Lois wondered the same thing.
*****
By the next night, Clark was happy to be back in his blue jeans, unburdening himself to his folks over a simple supper in Smallville .
“I don’t understand,” Martha Kent said, lifting a third slice of meatloaf onto her son’s plate. “What’s so awful about an interview with Lois Lane? You must have done at least a hundred interviews in the last four years. What’s so special about this one?”
“It’s with Lois Lane.”
“So you’ve said.”
“She’s brilliant. Have you read her articles? She’s already stipulated that this is not going to be a typical PR puff piece. This woman asks questions that no one else would think of. She gets people to admit things that they don’t even realize they’re admitting until it’s too late. And when I’m in the same room with her, my tongue disconnects from my brain, which is how I ended up agreeing to this interview in the first place.”
“So cancel it. You can’t afford for an ace reporter like Lois Lane to dig too deep,” Jonathan Kent warned.
“No. I’ll be okay, Dad. I’ll just have to stay on my toes. I promised her an interview, and I’m not going to back out of it now.”
“Well, if it really worries you, why don’t you bring Lana or Pete along? That way if things get out of hand they can come up with some excuse to cut the interview short.”
“Actually, I was already planning on having both of them there anyway. I often do T.V. or radio promos in the studios, but the print media usually like to come to me. I think they’re looking for some insight into Clark Kent’s character by seeing him on his home turf. ”
“And they have no clue that his real home turf is this house and not the Presidential Suite at the Jade,” Lana put in.
“Clark,” Martha said in a half-teasing tone, “you do realize you’re talking about yourself in the third person, don’t you?”
“Maybe, Mom. Sometimes I’m not so sure.” Clark stirred his peas around with his fork as he spoke, not meeting his mother’s eyes. “I’ve spent so long creating this public persona, I’m not sure that Clark Kent is really me any more . Sometimes I wish I’d taken a pen name right at the beginning. Then I would still have my own name for the real me instead of loaning it to some cardboard cut-out.”
“Clark Jerome Kent! There is nothing cardboard or one-dimensional about who you are or what you do. You’ve brought important issues into the public eye. AIDS, immigration, child labor—these are issues that affect the poorest and most vulnerable people who have no one else to give them a voice. I am proud of what you do, and you should be, too.”
“I know, Mom. I am proud of it. I love going undercover and researching the background for my books. And the writing itself is a blast. And you’re right, the issues I highlight in my stories are important and I’m glad I can get the public thinking about them. But, if I’m going to reach enough people to really influence public policy, it’s not enough to have great stories about important issues. I’ve also got to have a certain public image myself. That’s what gets the movie deals and the publicity spots. Lana and Pete are terrific at knowing what sells. I just wish sometimes that I wasn’t selling off *me* in the process.”
“Oh, honey, I’ve never heard you so cynical. It’s just not like you.”
“He’s been Clark too long, that’s what it is,” Pete put his two cents in around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.
“What do you mean?” asked Martha.
Pete swallowed before answering. “I mean that when he’s in his Clark Kent persona, he’s actually the least able to be himself, and it makes him cranky.”
Martha and Jonathan were both giving him puzzled frowns now, so Pete explained, “Think about it. If Clark pulls one of his stunts when he’s undercover in India or Bangkok, he just disappears and no one is the wiser. Who cares what happens to some drifter dock-hand or migrant factory worker anyway? But if he pulls something as Clark Kent and gets caught, he has no way out. Everyone knows that face; he just can’t risk it. And that makes him cranky.”
“Hmmm. I see your point. Clark?” Martha turned to her son for his reaction.
“I’ve never really thought it through that clearly, but yeah. That’s pretty much it. It’s pretty ironic, but the times when I’m being the ‘real me’ are actually the times I feel the least like the real me, if that makes any sense.”
“Actually, it does,” Martha answered. Her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed in contemplation. “Now I’ll just have to see what I can do about that.”
“Mom? What are you cooking up in that crafty old head of yours?” Clark gave his mother a suspicious half-frown.
“That’s for me to know. Once I figure it out. And I’m not that old.”
“No, you’re not,” Clark agreed with a laugh. He gathered his dishes and stood to carry them to the sink. Then he returned and planted a kiss on the top of his mom’s head. “And you still make the best meatloaf in Lowel County.”
