Three-Martini Lunch (18 page)

“Well,” he said, glancing at his watch with an air of finality, “I'd better be getting back to the office. You can follow along when you're through here.”

He stood up and straightened his tie while I blinked at him, uncomprehending.
When you're through here,
he had said . . . We had finished our meal; I couldn't think of what else there was to do or why I wouldn't simply follow along with him. But he spoke again and the mystery was dispelled.

“If you would, please let Barbara know she's no longer needed. When you've done that, come back to the office. You can pick up your
employment card from Personnel and get settled into your new desk this afternoon.”

“Me?” I asked. “Tell her?”

“Yes,” he said, ignoring the shock in my voice. “You can do that, can't you? Thank you, Eden. I'll see you in a little while, and we can get to work.” With a serious nod, he hustled across the room and slipped out the door. I dimly glimpsed him waving an arm to hail a cab.

I turned back, mustering my courage.
The whole point of a temporary girl is that you're only temporarily needed,
I told myself.
Barbara can't possibly be too disappointed.
What a strange day it was turning out to be!

The maître d' came over with a plate of crêpes suzette and set them on the table before me. “Mr. Nelson asked that we send you ladies out some dessert,” he said.

“How thoughtful,” I muttered in a flat tone. I was aware I sounded ungrateful. “Thank you,” I added.

I looked up to see Barbara returning from the ladies' room, her hair smoothed and her lipstick freshly applied.

“Where's Roger?” she asked, innocently peering around with bright, hopeful eyes.

“Barbara,” I said, “please have a seat.”

Feeling terrible, I slid the plate of crêpes suzette closer to her. Perhaps she had a sweet tooth and they would make her feel better. I took a breath and delivered the news.

B
arbara did not take the news very well. She tried to avoid making an out-and-out scene, bless her heart, but nonetheless she sniffled into the white cloth napkin until little rivulets of mascara trickled down her cheeks. I escorted her back to the ladies' room, where the two of us attempted to patch up the damage with the combined contents of our purses.

“I'm no dummy,” she insisted, accepting my powder compact and dabbing under her eyes. “I
know
I make a lousy secretary. I wasn't in it for that anyhow. It's only that . . . Oh, he left without even saying good-bye!
That
certainly sends a message.” Her face crumpled again and she let out a soft wail. “I suppose that's when you know you haven't the slightest chance of holding a fella's attention anymore.”

With a shock, I realized she'd been gunning to become his mistress. In fact, perhaps she already had—in some capacity or another—but she wanted to make it a regular habit. I decided the less I knew about that, the better.

Later, on the curb outside Delmonico's, Barbara and I said good-bye to each other. I think, had we been closer to midtown, she might've followed me back to the office, just to see if there was still a glimmer of hope. But we were about as far downtown as we could be. I was beginning to learn that Mr. Nelson did nothing by accident.

•   •   •

I
was soon to learn Barbara was not the only one who admired Mr. Nelson. In fact, Mr. Nelson's overwhelming charisma was perhaps the most defining characteristic of his personality. He was well-respected among his colleagues. He could calm the finickiest, most neurotic of writers with a single pat on the back. Agents loved him; other editors wanted to be him. His lunch-dates were notoriously long, and yet most people he lunched with expressed disappointment when it was finally over. I knew this was so because when they didn't want lunch to end they often made excuses to return with him to the building and have one more drink in his office. When they emerged, they shook hands with Mr. Nelson, still reluctant to go, and promised to have their girl set something else up again soon.

“Wonderful,” Mr. Nelson would say. “Have your secretary call Eden here. She's a whiz with my calendar.”

This was another clever ploy, because there was very little I could do with Mr. Nelson's calendar; it was perpetually overbooked.

It was Mr. Nelson's job, I realized, to be popular, and he was accomplished at it. If he had a fault, it was that he was perhaps a little
too
good at being popular; it was plain that he thrived on his popularity, and that he was very aware of how other people regarded him. I wondered if this wasn't because he'd “married up,” so to speak. Like most men who possess a larger-than-life personality, Mr. Nelson had crafted a sort of mythology around his success. “Pulled myself up by my own bootstraps,” he would say, and then proceed to recount a long list of working-class jobs that had led him from newsboy to ice-truck driver to senior editor. But this was
only the partial truth. His wife, Doris, I learned, was a well-coifed silvery blonde whose handsome middle-aged face often graced the society pages. She was from one of New York's oldest families; in marrying her, Roger Nelson had made a powerful social alliance—an alliance that was fairly against the odds—and it was obvious that Mr. Nelson enjoyed dropping the names of his in-laws as well as their illustrious ancestors into conversation.

It was not clear, however, how much he cared for actually being married.

Mr. Nelson's office was large and included a sofa. He kept a drawer with a change of clothes and a little shaving kit. On nights when he worked late, he slept in his office instead of making the commute home to Connecticut. When Mr. Nelson didn't stay late, I assumed he went home.

One morning, however, I came in early to discover my telephone was already ringing. I hurried through the large empty bullpen of the typing pool, anxious to silence its shrill ring.

“Roger Nelson, please” came an older female voice. His door was open a crack, and I could see he was not in his office, but somehow, on instinct, I knew I could not say as much. There was something in the caller's voice, thin vibrations that revealed a kind of irritable, uptight strain, that made me think it was possible to get my boss in trouble.

“He stepped out momentarily,” I said.

“Oh,” said the woman. “This is Mrs. Nelson. He called last night to say he was working late. I assume he stayed overnight in his office, and I'm calling now regarding a personal matter.”

“Oh—of course! Mrs. Nelson, how lovely to hear your voice. You just missed him; he stepped out for a fresh shirt,” I said. Unfortunately, all signs pointed to Mr. Nelson not having been anywhere near his office in the last twelve hours. I silently prayed she would not call back before Roger was able to make it in.

“I see,” she said. “Please tell him I phoned.”

“I will,” I said, intending to introduce myself and elaborate, but she had already hung up. I could tell she was not interested in knowing who I was; perhaps she thought I was yet another Barbara. I looked up to see Mr. Nelson standing over my desk. I hadn't heard him come in. I jumped.

“That was my wife?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“And you told her I'd stepped out for a fresh shirt?”

“I did.”

His posture relaxed. “Yes. Very good, then.” He smiled at me awkwardly. “Thank you, Eden.”

•   •   •

W
e never discussed this exchange further. The day I'd comforted Barbara at Delmonico's, I had decided it was best not to stick my nose into whatever it was Mr. Nelson did outside working hours. For the most part, I liked working for Mr. Nelson. He received the house's most literary submissions, and there were often very good manuscripts to be found in his slush pile. Though I had not yet been officially promoted to reader, he gave me quite a lot of manuscripts to take home and read, and he trusted my appraisal of their quality and promise.

During my first month or so at Bonwright, I was happy with our arrangement. I was reading plenty of high-quality stuff, and Mr. Nelson had already acquired two manuscripts on my recommendation. He praised my “sharp eye,” and I felt quite proud of myself. But then a small detail came to my attention: Mr. Nelson had a habit of praising my editorial taste only when we were in his office, alone. In the typing pool, or in front of colleagues, he never let on that I had done any of the reading, let alone had the “sharp eye” that had resulted in the acquisition of the manuscript in question.

I decided one day to ask him if I couldn't officially be made a reader. I plucked up my courage and knocked on his door.

“Why, you've only worked for me for a few weeks, Eden,” he exclaimed, as though surprised. “You want a promotion already?”

I didn't point out that it had been more than a few weeks. “I'm not asking for a raise,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “I was only thinking . . . since you have me reading so many manuscripts . . . perhaps I could officially be made a reader. You know, in title.”

His lips twitched with irritation and he frowned. “I think it's rather soon for you to be asking me this, Eden. During your interview, I meant it when I said there would be light editorial duties but that I couldn't promise to promote you to reader right away.” He shuffled around a few piles of papers on his desk as though he were suddenly very busy. “Frankly, I don't understand you career gals these days. My last secretary, Francine, used to read almost all of my manuscripts.
She
worked for me for fifteen years and never once asked me to officially make her a reader.”

“Oh.” I bit my lip, thinking carefully of how to proceed. In the instant that had passed since I'd broached the subject, one thing had become very clear to me: My ambition was not the asset I had thought it would be. Mr. Nelson wanted the kind of secretary who would remain by his side in a permanent capacity, reading manuscripts but never asking to be acknowledged as a reader. He wanted a girl who would get settled and stay put, one who he'd never have to replace.

“Look,” he said now, sighing as if to let go of a great irritation, “I can't offer you advancement at the present moment. But if you earn it through hard work, perhaps we can work something out.” He paused, giving me a serious look. “If you work very, very,
very
hard, we can revisit this subject at a later date. Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes, Mr. Nelson,” I rushed to reply.

“If you want me to take you in earnest, you mustn't botch a single task I give you—is that also understood? I can't very well give you more responsibility if you aren't ready for it.”

“Of course!”

“Fine, then . . .” He grunted. He pulled a cigar out of his desk drawer, clipped it, and set about toasting it with an elegant gold-plated lighter. I got the sense he was getting ready to dismiss me, but he seemed lost in thought, as though he had something more to say to me that he hadn't quite worked out yet.

“You know, Eden, I'm sure you think being an editor is very glamorous, but it's a lot of hard work, and not all of it is quantifiable. For instance, you haven't any clue what it's like trying to keep some of these authors happy. You have to flatter them in a serious manner and know how to stroke their egos! Oh, it's not a woman's job, that's for certain. Men can hardly trust the word of a woman; that's just science.” He shook his head and shrugged.

“I'm sure you're right,” I said. “But perhaps I can be taught, at least somewhat. I've learned so much just by watching you handle people. You're very good at it.”

This was true. It was also meant to flatter him.

“Yes,” Mr. Nelson said, smiling with smug satisfaction as he lit his cigar and coaxed it by puffing on it. “Well, at least you have a good sense of things. Back to work now, shall we?”

I agreed, and left his office to finish the tasks waiting for me at my desk.

•   •   •

L
ater that evening, I telephoned Judy. I hadn't talked to her in a while and wanted to catch her up on things.

“Oh, that's wonderful news about Bonwright, Eden!” she said. “I knew Miss Everett couldn't poison everyone against you forever.”

“Well, perhaps not,” I said. “But, it's not exactly as you might think . . .” I confessed the truth about Mr. Hightower's two letters of recommendation, and about my name. “I just felt I deserved a fresh start,” I explained lamely.

“You do,” Judy replied, her voice sincere. “I'm glad you rolled up your sleeves and did something about the situation! To be honest, the last time we talked, I was a little worried you'd give up and go back to Indiana. Girls in New York are so funny that way; you can never tell which ones have come here just so they can turn around again and leave.”

I agreed with her, and we discussed New York's peculiar social gravity, gossiping about girls who'd stayed and girls who'd turned tail and run.

“Well, I think I'm here for good,” Judy said. “I'd like to have a house in the Hudson Valley or maybe in Connecticut or Long Island, but I can't imagine going much farther than that, and of course that's only if I'm married. Speaking of which, still have your heart set on books instead of boys?”

“Yes, I'd still like to be an editor someday,” I said. “Only the road there is a bit bumpier than I thought it would be.”

“How is—what's your boss's name? Mr. Nelson?”

“Oh, all right, I suppose. He has me reading a lot, and the work is top-drawer. He's just . . . well . . .” I hesitated, then told her about his reaction when I'd asked to be officially made a reader.

“It sounds like he wants a career secretary,” she diagnosed.

“That's what I'm afraid of,” I said.

“Well, you can't blame him,” Judy pointed out. “It's a reasonable thing for an executive of his stature to want.”

“I suppose,” I said. “I suppose I'm only hoping for peace of mind that, if I work hard, I can move up.”

“For now, Eden, maybe it's just best to settle in and be thankful you have a job!”

“You're right,” I said. We gossiped for a few more moments and eventually made a date to go out for martinis the next week. It was nice talking to Judy again. And she was right: I
was
lucky to have a job.