No Nice Girl (5 page)

Terry quirked a startled eyebrow at her.

“Oh, come now—” he protested.

“Correction, please—I should have said a husband! It seems the lady has a yen for a home, a husband and kiddies, with a small vine-covered cot and stuff,” said Phyllis. And suddenly she added, before he could speak, “Oh, Terry darling, am I the world's worst cat that I simply can't like her, in spite of everything she tries to do? Because she
does
try.”

“They tell me that hair shirts are good for the morals, but damned bad for the morale,” said Terry dryly. “And if you're a cat for disliking her, then what am I?”

Phyllis laughed.

“I can't get over your sudden dislike for her,” she admitted, “but I can't help confessing I'm glad. So you see what a beast I am.”

“Oh, I'm sure most men would throw a glance or two her way,” Terry confessed amiably. “After all, she's the type to arouse the wolf in even the mildest of guys. They might think she'd be fun to—well, to play around with. But I'm completely wrapped up in you—d'you know something, angel-face? You spoil a guy for any other woman. Maybe that's why I caught every nasty little jab she was throwing your way, with that wide-eyed, innocent look. When she calls you ‘Cousin Phyllis' in that gentle, docile little manner of hers, she behaves as though you were ninety and slightly senile. And when she hints that you drink too much and smoke too much and are promiscuous, I could enjoy wringing her neck as I've never enjoyed anything in all my slightly hectic career!”

Phyllis was comforted by his wholehearted support and for a little while she rested in his arms, quite content. And then she looked up at him and asked frankly, “Could we find her a husband, do you think?”

“Hmm—nothing I'd like better,” he answered, and added, “Trouble is, I don't know any fellows I dislike enough to fling 'em to her.”

“Oh, well, maybe she'll get bored and go home,” said Phyllis lightly.

“Yeah, and maybe water will flow uphill and the leopard will change his spots—only I don't think so,” said Terry without any pretense whatever of hope. “But
it occurs to me you and I are wasting a hell of a lot of irreplaceable time that could be used to better advantage than in chattering about the little hair shirt.”

His arms tightened about her, and his mouth sought and claimed her own, and a delicious lassitude swept over Phyllis, making her turn thirstily for his kisses and for the caresses that grew more insistent, more demanding, as her own response leaped to meet them….

It was well after midnight when Phyllis let herself into the apartment, moving stealthily in the hope that she could ease into bed without rousing Anice. But the hope died quickly, for as she closed the door behind her, a light leaped up in the living room and Anice stood there, saying eagerly, “Is that you, Cousin Phyllis?”

“Whom were you expecting?” asked Phyllis lightly.

“Oh,” said Anice in a tone of sharp relief, “I'm so glad you're home. I've been worried sick about you. I was so afraid you'd met with an accident, I called the hospitals.”

Phyllis stared at her, outraged.

“For heaven's sake, Anice, are you off your head? It's a little after twelve—barely the shank of the evening. Why should I call in and report to you when I'm going to be late?” she snapped.

Anice flushed and there was the shimmer of tears in her eyes. “I'm—I'm sorry, Cousin Phyllis. It was only that I had such a nice dinner for you. I waited and waited and waited, and when you didn't come I began to be frightened.”

Phyllis brushed past her into the bedroom and began to undress, and Anice, after a moment, followed her.

Phyllis kept her face turned away from the bed on which her cousin sat, and after a moment Anice said softly. “Have you been with Mr. McLean, Cousin Phyllis?”

“And if I have, what business is it of yours?” Phyllis flashed hotly.

Anice's eyes met hers; eyes that were wide and blue and that held, somehow, a look that was contemptuous and disdainful. Yet when Anice spoke, her voice was gentle and conciliatory. “None at all, except that I'm glad. You've been—well, so irritable lately, I thought perhaps—well, of course I don't understand much about such things—”

Phyllis' face burned with helpless fury, but she controlled herself with an effort and said through her teeth, “Well, suppose then we don't discuss it any further.”

“Of course, Cousin Phyllis,” said Anice gently, and slid beneath the thin covers of her newly purchased twin bed and put her arm up to protect her eyes from the light.

Fuming inwardly, yet trying hard to convince herself that it was nonsense to let the girl upset her so, Phyllis got into bed. The very thought of having to put Anice up indefinitely appalled Phyllis. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, she might be able to find an apartment for herself, and turn this one over to Anice. But that, too, was a very small, very frail hope. She knew too much of the apartment situation in Manhattan. There was nothing she could do, she told herself, gritting her teeth, but make the best of it—and the best of it was by no means an appetizing prospect.

F
OR A FEW DAYS THERE WAS
outward peace. Anice was careful not to annoy Phyllis, and the very obviousness of that caution annoyed Phyllis more than any overt act could have done. Phyllis developed the habit of getting dinner out and going to a movie, if Terry was tied up, so that she could go home just in time to go to bed. And if Anice complained reproachfully that she had cooked an especially nice dinner and it had been wasted, Phyllis merely reminded her curtly that she was a free agent and if she didn't want to come home to dinner, there was no law that demanded it. Whereupon Anice looked wounded to the heart, and pathetically like an unfairly abused child, but offered no comment.

And then one evening when Phyllis had been too physically weary to struggle with finding a decent meal in a restaurant and had gone home to the apartment that no longer seemed much like home to her, Anice was waiting for her, all bright-eyed and eager with some plan she forebore to discuss until Phyllis had dined. The food was delicious: expertly cooked, and very appetizingly served. And Phyllis had an unwonted feeling of compunction, when Anice flushed with delight at her quite sincere praise.

“Cousin Phyllis, I've been wondering,” Anice burst out as though emboldened by Phyllis' mood. I've got to
find a job of some kind, because—well, a thousand dollars doesn't last forever, you know.”

“Not at the rate you're investing in Milgrim frocks and Dache hats, I shouldn't think so,” Phyllis agreed lightly. “But what kind of a job, Anice?”

“Oh, a stenographic job, Cousin Phyllis. I'm an expert stenographer,” answered Anice eagerly.

Phyllis stared. “You are? I never thought it of you!”

“Oh, I know, you think I'm a pretty worthless somebody,” said Anice humbly. “I suppose I
am
a scatterbrain and all that, but I took the commercial course in high school, and graduated, and I worked a year in the offices at the mills in Clairesville. So I thought maybe—d'you suppose you could get me a job with you?”

Phyllis was startled. “In my office?”

“With your firm,” said Anice eagerly. “I don't want to just run around anywhere looking for a job. They say that—well, sometimes a girl runs into things that…that aren't
nice!
And I thought if there was an opening in your place, I'd know it was a respectable place where a nice girl would be quite safe.”

Phyllis was a little touched in spite of herself. There were several openings in the stenographic department, she knew. There usually were; it seemed quite impossible to keep the office properly staffed with dependable stenographers. So she said impulsively. “I'm sure there's an opening, Anice. Come to the office with me in the morning and I'll introduce you to the personnel manager, and see what he can find for you.”

Anice was like an excited, happy puppy. She kissed Phyllis, and then apologized, and danced a bit around the room.

“I was beginning to be—well, just a little scared!”
she confessed, happy tears shining in her eyes. “My money just sort of seemed to
melt
—I am about broke!”

“Well, you wouldn't have been in danger of starving, Anice,” said Phyllis dryly. “After all, I can still run the apartment.”

“I know, and you're so sweet to me and I'm just terribly grateful to you, but I just simply can't go on living off you always. I
have
to earn a little money so I can at least supply my own spending money,” said Anice earnestly. “And I don't want you to worry about finding another maid. I can still do the housework and the cooking, before and after office hours. I love getting up early and I can do an awful lot of work in an hour or so. And the money I save you for a maid covers my share of the expenses, so you must let me keep on doing it.”

Phyllis said, “Oh, well, we'll see. After all, finding a good maid is not a matter to be accomplished in a few hours. It takes time!”

“Of course, if I can't keep the work up to please you, and you
do
have to get a maid, I'll give you half of my salary as my share of the expenses,” Anice assured her quickly. “I insist on doing that, because I can't bear to be an object of charity. I haven't very much, but I can't bear to—to sponge on people.”

Phyllis was touched. “Well, you've certainly not sponged on me, Anice. You've more than carried your share.”

Anice beamed joyously. “Oh, I'm so
glad
, Cousin Phyllis. I've—well, I've
worried
about that.”

She sprang up and began clearing the table, and she wouldn't allow Phyllis to help. And Phyllis told herself she was a low-down cat for resenting the presence of this nice girl who had taken over so completely in the apartment that had once been Phyllis' cherished home….

In the morning, Phyllis took Anice in to the big general office, and to the desk of Mrs. Currie, who was the head of office personnel. There was no love lost between Phyllis and Mrs. Currie, but they maintained an air of polite cooperation, since both were too sound as businesswomen to permit any outward friction.

“Mrs. Currie, this is my cousin Anice Mayhew, who's an expert stenographer looking for a job. I wondered if you had something to give her?” said Phyllis politely.

Mrs. Currie hesitated and then she said evenly, “Well, we could use a couple of good stenos, but the jobs are not private secretaryships.”

“Anice wouldn't expect that unless she works her way up to it, and is entitled to it,” said Phyllis pleasantly.

Mrs. Currie nodded grimly. “Then I'll look after her,” she said curtly, and Phyllis nodded and went her way to her own office.

Kenyon came in on the dot at ten, as he always did, and Phyllis plunged immediately into the day's routine, so that she forgot all about Anice. There wasn't time for lunch, so she and Kenyon had sandwiches and milk at his desk, and worked straight through the afternoon.

At a few minutes before five, Kenyon said apologetically, “I hate like the dickens to ask you to stay after hours, Miss Gordon, but there is some stuff that simply must be cleaned up before I leave for Washington tonight. I'm afraid there's a couple of hours or more.”

“Of course, Mr. Rutledge,” said Phyllis, and hoped her leaping heart didn't make itself visible. She loved working after hours with Kenyon, when the two of them were alone in the big, handsome office, and the outer offices were quiet and empty. It was silly of her, of course, but then she was in love with him and to be alone
with him in even the impersonal intimacy of his office after hours gave her a thrill.

It was a little after five when she went back to her office for a file that she and Kenyon had to check, and found Anice waiting there, ready for the street.

“I thought we'd walk home together, Cousin Phyllis,” said Anice radiantly.

“I'm sorry, Anice, but I have to work late,” explained Phyllis hurriedly, searching in her files for the papers Kenyon needed. “You'd better run along.”

“But I'm not in any hurry,” protested Anice.

“Look, Anice, I may be here for a couple of hours, or even longer,” Phyllis explained. “Mr. Rutledge is flying to Washington tonight and there's some stuff to be cleaned up before he leaves.”

“Oh,” said Anice, and there was an odd tone in her voice and a look in her eyes that made Phyllis stiffen and look at her sharply.

“And just what do you mean by that?” snapped Phyllis swiftly.

Anice's eyes were wide and limpid pools of innocence, registering nothing but the hurt to a sensitive spirit caused by the curtness of Phyllis' tone.

“Why, nothing, Cousin Phyllis,” she protested reproachfully. “I was disappointed, that's all. I'm crazy about my job and I thought we could talk it over.”

Kenyon spoke from the doorway. “Can't you find the Emerson file, Miss Gordon?”

Anice stood up and smiled at him eagerly and Kenyon looked pleased at the sight of so much youth and beauty there in his place of business at the tag end of a grueling day.

“Oh, hello, Miss—”

“Mayhew,” Anice supplied eagerly. “Anice Mayhew—
and I work here now!” It was said with innocent exultation, as if she were a child unbelievably lucky in being given some unexpectedly glorious treat.

“Swell! Glad to have you in the family,” said Kenyon lightly. “We like to boast that we are all one big, happy family here, and it's probably as true as such an inane remark ever is. Oh, is that the Emerson file, Miss Gordon? Good! Now we can get started.”

He turned and was gone without another word or look in Anice's direction.

Phyllis said quickly, “Run along, Anice, and have a nice dinner somewhere and go to a movie. I'll be along later.”

Anice stood thoughtfully silent for a long moment, watching the door that had closed behind them. And then, with that thoughtful expression still on her lovely little face, she collected her bag and gloves and left the office.

Downstairs, as she crossed the lobby toward the street, she saw Terry McLean lounging against a thick pillar in the middle of the corridor, his eyes scanning the passengers as they emerged from the elevators. A little spark danced for a moment in Anice's eyes, but when she approached Terry and put a hand on his arm, she was just a pretty girl innocently delighted at discovering a friend in a strange and terrifying place.

“Oh, Terry!” she prattled eagerly, as though bumping into him like that were the nicest thing that had happened to her in many moons. “I'm so glad to see you!”

“Well, now, that's a right flattering thing to say to a tired old man, pretty thing,” said Terry, a slightly wary look in his eyes.

“Are you waiting for Phyllis, Terry?” asked Anice gently. “I'm terribly sorry, but she won't be down for at least a couple of hours.”

Terry frowned.

“Working late again?” he demanded.

“That's what she said,” answered Anice, and the emphasis on the last word was so slight that Terry could not be quite sure it was really there. “Of course, Mr. Rutledge has to go to Washington tonight, and I suppose there are just lots of things to be attended to before he goes.”

Terry stared at her hard, his brows drawn together.

“I think we can safely agree there must be,” he said with deceptive mildness, and straightened. “Well, no use my hanging around any longer, honeychile—nice to have metten up wit' youse!”

But as he flipped the brim of his hat with an impudent forefinger and was about to turn away, Anice tightened her hand on his arm and said eagerly, coaxingly, “You were going to take Phyllis to dinner, weren't you? You must hate eating alone as much as I do. Why don't we have dinner together at the apartment? There's a cold roast chicken in the icebox—it's too hot for hot food. And I make a marvelous salad, and there's iced tea. Oh, Terry,
please!
”

Terry studied her curiously for a moment. Now what in hell's sweet name, he wondered to himself, was the little minx up to? For that she had something under her hat he refused to doubt.

“Okay, why not? Sounds a most alluring prospect,” he agreed, and Anice just barely managed to restrain the impulse to give a little girlish hop of pleasure. She tucked her hand through his arm and beamed joyously up at him as they walked out of the lobby together and the enervating heat of an afternoon that had established a new record swept over them.

“Poor Cousin Phyllis!” said Anice gently. “Still working in that sweltering place—”

“Inasmuch as the Rutledge offices boast of an un
commonly fine new air-conditioning system, I think you and I are the ones to be pitied, for not being up there instead of here,” Terry reminded her.

“Of course,” said Anice a trifle hurriedly. “But I just hate to think of her working so hard. Mr. Rutledge is terribly good-looking, though, isn't he? And I don't suppose it's possible for any girl to work with him as closely as Cousin Phyllis does and not be fond of him, do you?”

Her eyes were so wide and so blue and so innocent that Terry answered the implication rather than the actual words.

“I can't see how she could miss,” he said grimly. “Matter of fact, isn't it a sort of unwritten law that all private secretaries are in love with the boss?”

Anice laughed with sweet, child-like mirth.

“Well, if there's a law, then I violated it,” she said gaily. “Because I certainly wasn't in love with mine, the year I worked at the mills. My boss was sixty and fat, and he and his wife quarreled all the time. He had stomach ulcers from his wife and his trouble with the government red tape, but he couldn't fight back at either his wife or his government, so he took it out on me. I hated him—I think sometimes if I'd known a poison that couldn't be traced, I'd have used it on him!”

She gave a soft little peal of mirth at this, but Terry did not join in her laughter. Instead he looked at her curiously and said mildly, “I'll bet you would, at that!”