The Best of Everything (10 page)
her desk. She did it without question for a few days and then one day she asked Gregg, "Is this all from you? Not that I mind, but I have so much of my own."
"Miss Farrow puts it there herself," Gregg said. "Half the time I don't have enough to do. Either she really thinks I'm a moron or else she's just partial to your brand of typing."
"Partial?" said Caroline. "Now I wonder."
With her regular work and Miss Farrow's additions Caroline was rushed all day and exhausted at the end of the day, so that the manuscripts she read at night were no longer pleasure but almost a nuisance. She would have put Miss Farrow's work off as a matter of course but every pile carried a handwritten note: "Rush," or "Today, please," or "To be done immediately." Caroline knew she wasn't any better a secretary than any of the other girls in the pool and she began to wonder why she was the only one singled out for these extra jobs. One day at a quarter of five she was finishing up when Miss Farrow came out of her oflBce and dropped a sheaf of letters on her desk.
"These have been corrected. Will you type them please. Miss Bender, and put them on my desk before you go home?"
"I don't think I'll be able to finish them today, Miss Farrow."
Miss Farrow's eyes narrowed. She took a deep breath. "Listen, you little bitch," she said. "You think you're a reader, but you're not. You're just another typist here and don't you forget it. You are not an editor." She turned and walked quickly back to her office.
"What did she say?" Mary Agnes said. "What did she say? You look like she hit you in the face."
For a moment Caroline was so shocked that she didn't feel anything, then she felt like crying; and a moment later when she figured it out she felt like laughing. "I guess," she said to Mary Agnes, "she said I'm going to get to be a reader after all."
It was odd, she thought, how quickly one could become attuned to the undercurrents of office feeling: the fears, the jealousies, the connivings and the secret panics. It was not safe to think that anyone was unafraid; certainly if Mr. Shalimar was mistrustful of young ambition then Miss Farrow must be. The girls like Mary Agnes who had no ambition except to do their work satisfactorily, disappear at five o'clock on the dot, and line up at the bank on payday, were the backbone of the office, and the office could not run without
tiiem. But the company would not make money if every worker in it was like Mary Agnes, and everyone knew it from Mr. Fabian right down to Mary Agnes herself. It was the eager newcomer, the fo-menter, who set the panic wheels turning, and the people like Miss Farrow were so watchful that they knew who she was before the newcomer knew it herself. It was naive of me, Caroline thought, to think that I could become an editor without stepping on someone's toes—or perhaps even on his shoulders—and here I am without the least desire to or idea of how to begin.
"Gee, that's great!" Mary Agnes was saying. "And you here such a short time, too. You know, if you're going to be a reader you don't have to do all Miss Farrow's extra work like that. You won't even have time to read for Mr. Shalimar if she keeps piling it up on you. You ought to go and tell him. I wouldn't let her get away with it."
Did I say I don't have the least idea of how to begin? Caroline thought. Mary Agnes knows how to get along better than I. "You're right," she said. "Thanks, Mary Agnes."
She was planning what she would say to him the next day as she went down in the elevator, carrying the evening's manuscript. She would have liked to stop to talk to him right then, but his door was closed and she was in a hurry to meet Mrs. Nature's blind date, who had finally called. She vaguely resented this boy, Alvin Wiggs, whoever he was, because his presence and his plans for her stood like a barrier between her and something which had gradually become very important in her life. The hesitant voice on the telephone that afternoon had not warmed her, nor had it promised anything, but the manuscript she hugged under her arm promised a great deal.
"Now you mustn't do work every night," her mother had told her several times. 'Tou have to go out on dates too. All work and no play, you know . . ."
"I'd go out all right if anyone called me," she had answered. Well, now someone had called her, and he was waiting for her in front of her office building. She recognized him instantly even though she had never seen him before. He was the one person in the crowd who looked as if he didn't know where he was going, walking nervously in and out of the revolving door, looking anxiously at every girl who came out. He was about tliirty, of medium height and half bald.
"Caroline Bender?" he said in a loud voice as soon as she stopped. "Are you Caroline?"
Several Fabian girls turned to look at him and Caroline curiously at the sound of her name. Caroline wanted to shrink into her skin. *^es," she said quietly. She took his arm and began to lead him down the street to a safe distance.
He was looking at her from head to toe. He had moist, anxious eyes and he seemed terrified. She let go of his arm. "You must be Alvin Wiggs," she said pleasantly.
"That's me."
"Well," she said.
Now he was walking, leading her uptown. "We'll have dinner at SchraflFt's," he said.
Schrafft's? she thought. Where I have lunch with April and Gregg every day? A tomato surprise and a strawberry soda with all tliose ladies and Alvin Wiggs? "Oh, is that one of your favorite restaurants?" she said.
He seemed flustered. "I've . . , never been there. But my mother goes there all the time. Don't you want to go?"
"Well, I'd rather go somewhere a little more—well, darker, with music. If you don't mind."
"I thought girls liked SchraflFt's," he said hesitantly. "You know . . . small portions . . . We'll go anyplace you Uke."
Maybe he has no money, she thought. No, Mrs. Nature said he was in his father's business. They walked east toward Madison Avenue and after passing several restaurants Caroline liked they finally stopped. They were in front of a small, dark restaurant Caroline had heard of, which was supposed to be inexpensive and have good food. "How about this?" she said.
"All right." They went in, walked past the tiny bar, and were ushered to a table. They were the only people in the dining room.
"Cocktail?" the waitress said.
"Oh, no," said Alvin. "Not for me. You don't want one, do you?"
"It's only a quarter past five," Caroline said. "I'd like to have one first, unless you're hungry."
She ordered a Scotch and water and Alvin Wiggs ordered nothing. She felt a little self-conscious drinking alone, but she knew that if she didn't she would never be able to get through an hour with him. She looked at him and smiled brightly. "I should have brought you some of our latest books," she said. "Are you reading anything good lately?"
"I don't like books," he said. "It takes me about seven montiis to get through a novel. I like financial magazines."
She tried again. "It's a shame you haven't found any books you liked. What was the last one you read?"
"I don't remember."
What interesting ice cubes those were in her glass. They had tiny bubbles in them. She had never seen ice cubes that drew her attention so.
"Mrs. Nature is a nice woman, isn't she," he said.
"Yes she is."
"She's very nice. I like her."
"Have you met Francine's husband?"
"No," he said. "I hear he's very nice. I like Francine."
'Tes," she said.
"Francine's nice," he said.
Oh, we forgot Mr. Nature! Caroline thought. She wanted to laugh. It was all of five-thirty. "May I have another Scotch, please?"
"Are those good?"
"Yes, they're very good."
"Maybe I'll try one. I don't drink much."
"You'd better not."
"Well, I'll try one," he said.
Maybe he's just shy, she thought hopefully as Alvin downed his drink as quickly as if it were buttermilk and made a wry face.
"Do you live in Port Blair?" she asked him.
"Yes. I live with my parents."
"Do you like that?" she asked.
"Oh, I don't mind. My parents are very good. They don't even ask me any more what time I get home at night," he said proudly.
"How old are you? I don't think Mrs. Nature told me."
"Thirty."
She had to have another Scotch on that one, just one, and he joined her. Then they ordered dinner. The Scotch had made her brave enough to feel she could play Sarah Bernhardt, and she decided to have a terrible headache right after dinner.
"I met a famous author when I was in Em-ope," he said brightly, as if it had just occurred to him.
You see, she thought, I was wrong. I should have given him a
chance. He's probably got some gay, Continental life behind him that I never even suspected. "Oh? Who?"
"Ah . . . ah, what's his name? Oh, Ernest Hemingway. I was sitting in a little cafe in Spain with some friends and he was sitting at another table." He colored slightly. "I . . . asked him for his autograph."
"And what happened?"
"He gave it to me."
She looked at him expectantly, but it seemed that was the end of his story about the meeting with the author. Good grief, she thought, even Mr. Shalimar can do better than that.
The restaurant where they were was, unfortunately, an eflBcient one that specialized in getting diners out in time for the theater. Besides that, they had been the first ones in the dining room. When they were drinking their coffee Caroline looked at her watch expecting it to be at least nine o'clock (of the following week) and found to her horror that it was only six-thirty. The Scotch had worn off and she didn't quite have the courage to act sick. Could she say, Oh, I'm just in time for the seven-o'clock express?
"I guess anyone who had you working for him would be very lucky," Alvin was saying, with moist admiration in his eyes. She felt too sorry for him to dislike him, or at least, to hurt his feelings. All she wanted was to go home, go home, go home—home seemed like a refuge, a beautiful place where she hadn't been for such a long time—and to go home was such a simple thing, but impossible for her right now.
"I'd like an after-dinner brandy," she said.
"Oh?" He seemed startled. Then he rallied. "Two brandies, Miss."
They served the brandy in large, lovely double brandy glasses. "Tell me about the mannequin business," she said. "I've talked enough about publishing."
You would have thought she had asked him to stand up and give an address before a crowd of hostile hundreds. He seemed to be searching his mind frantically. "Well, it's just the family business," he said at last. "It's a . . . family business. Just the family."
"But what do you doF' Spy? Put microfilm in their necks? she thought.
"We make mannequins for store windows. It must seem very dull to you."
"Oh, no."
"Well, you have . . . such an exciting life and everything. All those authors."
"Whatever you really like is exciting," she said.
"Do you want to do that always, or do you want to get married?"
"Can't I do both?"
He looked nonplused. "I guess so. I never thought of it that way."
"I'd like another brandy," she said. "And then I have to go home because there's a manuscript I must read for the office tomorrow."
"It's so early," he protested.
"It's a very large manuscript."
"One brandy, please, Miss. And the check."
If there's anything I hate, she thought, it's drinking alone while someone looks at me the way he's doing now. If there's anything duller than drinking with someone you don't like it's drinking alone and being watched by someone you don't like. "Aren't you going to join me? Please?"
"Oh . . . all right."
He downed the entire glass of brandy in three gulps, with that same medicine-taking look on his face, and then suddenly the wry look smoothed out and he blinked several times. "The second one's not so bad," he said. "You get used to the taste." He raised his arm and with an astonishing show of bravado snapped his fingers for the waitress.
I hate people who do that, she thought, relieved to have something definite to hold against him that really was his fault and not just an accident of personality and upbringing. "I have to go now to catch my train," she said.
"I've never met such a nice girl as you," he said. "You're the nicest girl I've ever met." The waitress had appeared out of nowhere with two more brandies, and he drank his.
"I don't want any," she said, pulling on her gloves.
"We'll go," he said. "We'll go." He took her brandy and drank it too, looking a little self-conscious. ". . . Waste it," he murmm-ed, and then, unaccountably, giggled.
She stood. "Can we go?"
He fumbled with the change and then followed her closely to the door, almost treading on her heels, like an inebriated Saint Bernard. "Don't trip," he breathed, clutching her arm. She had never had less
intention of tripping but was not sure she could say the same for him. Just as they reached the front room she reahzed to her acute embarrassment that Mike Rice was sitting at the bar, alone and gazing solemnly into the mirror. She looked down into her collar hoping he would not see her with Alvin Wiggs—the only boy Mike had ever seen her with, and what an example! It was too late. He had caught sight of her in the mirror and was swiveling around slowly on the bar stool, his eyebrows raised.
"Hi," he said. He nodded at her and at Alvin, and completed the turn to the business end of the bar. But she could see that he was still watching her in the mirror, his face as deadpan as ever, just a touch of amusement in his eyes.
". . . That?" said Alvin.
"Shh."
"Who?"
"He's a writer."
"Oh, introduce me! I want to meet one of your writer friends." He was pulling her back now, to the bar.
"Alvin, please!"
"Can I buy you kids a drink?" Mike said. His pleasant tone and the reference to herself and Alvin as "kids" seemed to take away some of the onerousness of being here with a neurotic balding man ten years her senior who had gotten drunk on four double brandies and was determined to act ten years old.
