For All the Wrong Reasons (16 page)

*   *   *

Diana stumbled as she pushed open the door that divided her tiny cubicle from Susan Katz's small, neat office. Oh bugger, bugger! There went another strap. That was a five-hundred-dollar pair of shoes ruined, just ruined! She looked down at the nail of her right forefinger and saw that it was damaged. Chipped! What was the point of finding the best manicurist in town and waiting for weeks on an appointment and then walking around with a chipped nail? She felt like crying. Her mascara had smudged so badly from her perspiration she'd had to wipe it off, her ankles were swollen from all this ridiculous running around, and she was up and down fetching everybody's coffee like some sixteen-year-old waitress.

The phone on her desk trilled annoyingly.

“Just a minute,” Diana called out toward Susan Katz, who had just buzzed her—again. She snatched up the phone. “Green Eggs, Mr. Cicero's office.”

Damn. It was so humiliating, having to say that. Michael Cicero acted like he was Julius Caesar. Of course assistants did do that but not her, not Diana Foxton. Being a working woman was more work than she was used to.

“Diana! Darling, it's me, Claire.”

Diana bit her plump lip as a new blush rocked over her. Oh, man. Claire at least ran her little design business. Now she would know just how lowly a position Diana had taken.

“How are you? I heard you got a new job.”

“If you can call it that.”

“Don't be silly.” Claire chuckled warmly, in a way that reminded Diana of Milla. “Practically everybody starts out as a secretary. It can lead on to great things, you know. And the top assistants make a lot of money. Josh would be lost without his.”

“Well, it's only temporary.” Just until Ernie starts to miss me. “I was getting a bit bored,” Diana lied furiously.

“Good for you. I knew you had too many brains to be out there as a professional shopper, like those wretched Miller-girls.”

Diana's fist clenched. She had done just fine as a “professional shopper.”

“That's so sweet of you, Claire, but I've got to dash. My boss is buzzing me.”

“Take care. And congratulations,” Claire said warmly.

She hung up and hurried into Susan's room.

“You buzzed me, Susan?” Diana asked, annoyed. She was in the middle of filing endless vacation rosters. Susan had buzzed her five minutes ago, too. What could be so important?

“Yes,” Susan said, coolly, and with evident enjoyment. Bitch. Bitch! Diana thought, but not out loud, as that loathsome Michael had told her Susan Katz was her immediate boss. More like Catty than Katz. Susan Catty. Kit-Catty, Diana thought. “I wanted another herbal tea when you're ready.”

“I'm just doing this filing, right now. Why don't you get your own tea?” Diana snapped.

“Do you have a problem you'd like to discuss with Mr. Cicero?” Susan asked sweetly.

“No. That's fine.”

“Whenever you're ready then. That'll be all,” Susan said, waving her away dismissively.

Diana glanced at her watch. Could it really only be two
P.M.
? Was it worth it? There had to be some better way to get Ernie's attention.

FIFTEEN

Susan watched Diana go and scowled at her departing back. Unbelievable. She had worked for Michael day in, day out, before they got these flash new offices and the sales reps and the commissioning editors, and she had been indispensable. She'd done more than filing and typing: she'd organized his entire life. She'd dressed so carefully, too, and never once protested at the long hours and the total lack of flirtation from him, the handsome bastard. And now this.

Who the hell was Diana Foxton that she should just swan in here? Who ever heard of a twenty-nine-year-old Girl Friday? Susan hated her already. That marvelously sensual shirtdress with the lining—pure silk, of course—beautifully belted, a sort of forties look, like a feisty World War II heroine. Did anybody have the right to be so lovely?

Susan didn't kid herself about Diana's beauty. She knew exactly the kind of girl Diana was—not model perfect, because despite the evident amounts of hard cash that had gone into making her skin, teeth and hair as shiny as a prize racehorse's, she would never fit the rail-thin Gwyneth Paltrow ideal of boyish beauty. But the old-fashioned kind of man, the type, in fact that, despite her boyfriend, Susan was becoming more and more afraid she really liked—that kind of man would be attracted to Diana like a nail to a magnet.

As a woman considering a rival, Susan watched Diana move down the corridor, stumbling on her silly heels, and assessed her. Great ass. Susan went jogging in the park for hours and lifted weights with her heels and she would never get a high, tight rounded butt like that. Did Diana have to walk with that wiggle? At least that was probably the heels. And her cheeks and lips! Susan wore neutral make-up, too, but she never managed to make it look like Diana's, like there was just a whisper of color on her cheeks, like her skin was just naturally, softly glowing …

I'd have assumed Michael was fucking her, Susan thought angrily, except that he doesn't screw around in the office, and that now there's that Iris chick—oh yeah, and Lady Diana here is married to the big boss of Blakely's.

Of course, that had to be it. It wasn't that Diana was Michael's latest toy, it was that her husband had given them all this extra cash and clout. Michael was doing some kind of favor for Ernie Foxton.

Susan resented Iris—but there were obvious reasons for that. She didn't really know why she loathed
this
stuck-up little madam so much. At least Diana no longer looked quite as polished, quite as perfect, as she had prior to all the filing Susan had her do. She lifted the neatly printed-out dress code that Diana had written up, pointing out her own violations. Flat shoes. Minimal make-up for female employees. Suits and ties for men. No jewelry other than a watch, class and marital rings, plus any religious items. Skirt length was to be on or below the knee. Judging from that shirtdress, Mrs. Foxton was a fashion plate. There was no question but that she'd quit. Flat shoes? Fat chance.

Susan worked hard and shared an apartment with four other girls, and Diana was doing this job solely to pose and—

The buzzer on her desk sounded.

“Susan, could you bring me in the bookseller reports, please?”

“Coming, Mr. Cicero,” she said, her spirits rising.

*   *   *

Diana sat in the file room and brushed angry tears off the end of her nose. No way was she going to let the vile Susan see her like this. Or any of the other people in the office. Jake Harold was the new commissioning editor, and there was Rachel Lilly, the distribution chief, and Felix Custer in business affairs, and Michael. Diana cordially detested all of them; barking orders at her, telling her to do this and do that, no matter what else she was trying to finish. Rachel, Felix and Jake all had assistants and all the assistants were absolutely hateful too. Well. Diana dabbed the end of her sleeve to her eyes and put down her load of filing. Filing was really beastly, nasty stuff; but it would have to wait, because Susan Katz wanted her herbal tea.

The kitchen wasn't empty; Kara and Helen, Jake and Felix's assistants, were in there eating yoghurts and lounging against a wall. They stopped talking as soon as Diana appeared. She pasted a smile on her face.

“How's it going?” Diana murmured.

“Oh, not bad.” She had the definite impression that redheaded Helen had just been talking about her. She did not enjoy that nasty smile that was hovering on the girl's lips. “We're just discussing…”

“… the traffic,” Kara said, hastily.

“Oh, it's dreadful. Insane.” Diana tried to be friendly. “Excuse me, I have to get Susan a herbal tea.”

They drew aside.

“Where do you guys live?”

“East Village.”

“Alphabet City,” they said, exchanging looks. Who did the limey broad think she was? Everybody knew she lived on Central Park West in a place that was bigger than their entire apartment buildings.

“I have to go downtown tonight,” Diana lied manfully. “We could give you a lift.”

“Your
husband's
coming to pick you up?” Helen asked. Helen tugged down on the navy Sears suit she'd bought on sale last week. She was thirty-eight, and the chances of finding a suitable man seemed to plummet with every month that went by. She was a new hire to this company, but she didn't like Diana either. Young women who married older men meant older women couldn't find a decent man to save their lives.

“Oh no. Ernie works late usually. No, I'll send for my driver when I'm ready to go.”

Send for my driver?
Kara thought. She was still paying off her student loan.

“I think we'll manage,” Helen said dryly.

“Excuse me,” Kara snapped.

Both women turned on their heels and marched out, shooting Diana nasty looks.

Hell,
she thought,
what's got into them?

*   *   *

Tired, exhausted, and horribly messy, Diana struggled through her first day. Her cubicle was tiny and windowless, Susan was on her back all day, she had paper cuts on her fingertips and snags in her nails, and the work they did ask her to do was boring in the extreme. Her shoes were broken, her sheer make-up had not survived and she felt wiped out. On top of which, everybody in the office was sneering at her. Sneering! At her!

Diana tried to console herself with the thought that her beauty budget would have eaten up about half Susan's salary, but she felt ugly and heavy and klutzy, and that didn't much help, either. Outside Karla's window, across the hall, light, miserable rain was starting to fall and gray clouds obscured the tops of the skyscrapers. Diana sighed and looked at the clock for the millionth time that afternoon. Only four fifteen. Time must run on a special slow schedule in offices.

Her phone buzzed and she wearily depressed the button.

“Hi, Susan. Herbal tea or coffee?”

“It's not Susan, it's me.”

Just what she needed. Diana bit down on her lip.

“Yes, Mr. Cicero.” Ooh, that hurt. Mr. Cicero. She wanted to slap him, but that probably wasn't wise. Damn him for offering her this lousy job, and damn him for smirking at her so that she was too proud to quit! “What can I get you?”

“Nothing. You can get in here. Bring a notepad.”

“OK,” Diana grunted. There was a low chuckle from the phone.

“Careful, you're sounding a little too enthusiastic,” Michael's disembodied voice said.

Diana hung up on him and marched into his office. She shut the door behind her, and the whirring sounds of the Xerox and their constantly ringing fax machine were silenced. Almost involuntarily, she drew in a long, shuddering sigh of breath.

Michael was standing looking out of his window at the wet, crawling traffic marching slowly up Seventh Avenue. Diana regarded the stocky, firm set of his back, the muscles visible even through the newly tailored cloth. He turned around and gave her a broad smile, tilting his head and showing her his busted-up nose.

“I read your dress code report,” he said. “Take a seat.”

Diana flopped into the chair in front of him and scowled. “There's something wrong with the report? I do think, Mr. Cicero, you might have said something before now.”

“I only just got around to reading it,” Cicero said flatly. “I had more important things to get to.”

Of course you did, you patronizing jerk, Diana said to herself. “I see.”

Cicero lifted her two pieces of paper in one large paw and waved it at her. “I read this. I was quite surprised.”

“It can't have been
that
bad,” Diana protested, angrily.

Hell, Michael thought, look at that girl. He told himself not to start thinking about how a female employee looked. She'd annoyed him when she swanned in this morning looking so gorgeous and polished and disturbing, and now that she seemed to have gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson, she was … stunning. Undeniably. And still, so arrogant. The aristocratic, upward tilt of her head, the soft, defiant slight pout of her lips … Cicero had an intense desire to crush her to him and kiss all that rebelliousness away.

“It wasn't,” he said, as coldly as he could manage. “Why don't you let me finish before you interrupt me?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Cicero.”

“It was actually quite well done. I gave you very spare notes and you produced something clear and businesslike. You've got a crisp turn of phrase.”

Thanks for the English lesson, Diana thought. “I'm glad you were pleased. Does this mean I get a promotion?”

She crossed her legs, the wrong way, to hide her busted strap as best she could, and tossed her blond hair behind her shoulders.

“No, it doesn't. You need more than one job done well to get promoted. It might mean that I increase your workload, though. Give you some other basic duties and rosters to type up. Such as guidelines for ordering in office supplies. We don't have an office manager here, so all my executives take care of that stuff themselves.”

“Sounds thrilling,” Diana grunted.

“Don't be sarcastic, please, Diana. Everybody starts at the bottom.”

“I suppose you started at the bottom, did you?” Diana demanded. She knew she should drop it, but somehow her mouth was no longer listening to her brain.

“That depends.” Her boss lolled back in his chair in that confident way of his. His dark eyes on her made her shift in the chair. “If you call working eighteen-hour days and cycling for miles with two boxes of books, going door to door trying to shift them, starting at the bottom, then yes, I qualify.”

Diana shrugged. She didn't particularly care to hear about Michael Cicero's struggles. Nobody here gives a damn about me, she thought. Why should I care about them?