The Best of Everything (26 page)

It was after nine, and some of the girls who had dates or husbands to go to were leaving. Caroline saw Mary Agnes heading toward the elevators. It was an orderly party, much more so than any of the intimate pre-holiday get-togethers in the oflBce were, perhaps because the formal atmosphere of a large hotel subdued the people who would ordinarily have been clowning drunkenly and letting loose with all the frustrations that bound them during the year. Mr. Bossart found an empty table in the comer of the sparsely occupied salon and pulled out a chair for her.

"There is a bar," he said. "We're in luck. What would you like?"

"Scotch, please."

He brought drinks and moved his chair closer to hers, and put his

arm around her tightly. "Can I give you a ride home when we leave?"

"Well, I have to meet someone in the Fifties at ten-thirty. If that would be on your way I'd love it, but I'm sure it isn't if you're going to the highway."

"Your boy friend?"

"He's a boy and a friend, yes."

Mr. Bossart smiled. "If it were a girl I might make the trip. It's a shame you can't see my little sports car. You'd like it."

"I'm sure I would, too."

"Well. Another time."

"Another time." She smiled niefuUy at him, but she was sure there would be no other time, at least not for her. Even trying to please him, smiling and trying hard to find the right thing to say, was fun because he was Mr. Bossart, the figurehead, the inscrutable, the celebrity. But as a person he bored her. She was surprised at herself for feeling this way. When she had first sat next to him at the table it had seemed the start of an adventure. She could have imagined herself rejected by him but never bored. And yet they were completely incompatible because neither of them was the kind of person the other wanted to know better. He wanted a conquest from her, perhaps. Perhaps his offer of a Hft home was only harmless chivalry, but she suspected she could easily make it something more personal. And she wanted a conquest from him too, in a way. She wanted his notice. And that was the only compatibility between them, the mutual desire for conquest—not even a very passionate desire at that—and she could remember few times when she had been more uncomfortable. When she noticed Mr. Shalimar and Barbara coming toward their table she was almost glad to see them.

"Have you met Miss Lemont?" Mr. Shalimar asked. His speech was considerably thicker than it had been at the dinner table and Caroline was surprised. She had never seen him this way before although she knew that didn't mean it was unusual with him.

"Yes, we have," Mr. Bossart said pleasantly.

Mr. Shalimar held Barbara's chair for her, sat down beside her, and put his hand under the table. "I've never met Miss Lemont before," he said. "I've just met her tonight. She's a lovely-looking girl, don't you think?"

"Yes, indeed," Mr. Bossart said. Barbara looked odd, either em-

barrassed or trying not to laugh. She stirred a Httle in her chair, evidently trying to dislodge the Shalitnar tentacles from investigating any farther up her knee.

"She looks like a Mona Lisa," Mr. Shalimar said. "Look at that smile."

Barbara did look a little like a Mona Lisa, Caroline was thinking. She had straight, medium-brown hair tucked behind her ears, and regular features. There was an air of plainness about her face that was somehow also attractive, and she seemed to be trying hard not to reveal any of her feelings. Only that slight curve of an upturned mouth gave her away. She's probably the kind of person, Caroline thought, who looks prettiest when she's happy, and least pretty when she's asleep.

"Little Mona Lisa," Mr. Shalimar said. Barbara winced, smiled at him sweetly, and moved away a little faither.

"I'd love a ginger ale," Barbara said, somewhat desperately.

"We'll get a waiter."

"There aren't any," she said, a little more desperately. "I guess we'll have to get up and get our own."

"I'll get some," Mr. Bossart said comfortably. "I'm about ready for a refill anyway." He went over to the bar and came back with drinks for them all.

"It's a nice party," Caroline said, at a loss for conversation. "Isn't it?"

"Very nice," Mr. Bossart agreed.

"I'm glad I met this girl," said Mr. Shalimar. His eyes were half closed, but instead of looking sleepy he looked like an animal that is about to pounce. "She's an intelligent girl. And pretty too. Y'know, she supports her child and her mother on what she makes here. How d'you like that. Art?"

"Is that a compliment to your large earning powers or your resourcefulness?" Mr. Bossart asked.

"My resourcefulness," Barbara said.

"Let's see, you work on Americas Woman, don't you," Mr. Bossart said.

"Yes. I'm Assistant Beauty Editor. I used to be a secretary, but I was promoted this Christmas."

"Oh, yes ... I remember now. Barbara Lemont. They're very pleased with you up there."

"I'm glad," Barbara said.

"She's got a good future," Mr. Shalimar murmured. He leaned over and brushed Barbara's cheek with a kiss. She glanced at him from underneath her eyelashes as if she woiild like to wipe her cheek with her hand, but she was still smiling that inscrutable little smile.

"How old are you, if you don't mind my asking?" Mr. Bossart asked.

"Twenty-one."

"My! And how old is your child?"

"She's two." For the first time Barbara's smile became truly warm. "She was two last week."

"Isn't she a lovely thing, Art?" Mr. Shalimar said. He put his hand behind Barbara's head. "Give us a Christmas loss."

Caroline imagined she saw Barbara shudder imperceptibly. There was a long embarrassing moment while Mr. ShaHmar swooped upon Barbara and held her in a kiss, he moving his head from side to side, she with her neck and shoulders held so stiffly they looked as if they might snap. Caroline looked at Mr. Bossart, wondering what he might do, but he did not seem to be particularly surprised or displeased. He's probably watched this kind of display year after year, Caroline thought, disgusted. Let the executives kick up their heels a little bit, it's Christmas.

When Mr. Shalimar finally drew lingeringly away from her Barbara turned to her glass of ginger ale as if nothing had happened. She sipped at it, her eyes lowered. But the skin around her mouth was white. Mr. Shalimar lifted his highball glass and drank the entire contents. Caroline realized for the first time how much she disliked him. It was partly because he had revealed that he disliked her, and that was going to make working with him more difficult. His mere distrust of her ambition and abihty would not have made her feel this way about him, for under other circumstances it could have been stimulating. But all the weakening respect she had had for him was rapidly vanishing, and without it he looked like nothing more than a foolish old lecher.

"Another drink," said Mr. Shalimar. "Another drink." He rose to his feet slowly and walked to the bar. I hope he passes out, Caroline thought. She glanced at her watch, but it was only nine-thirty, too

early to meet Paul, and she wasn't anxious to wait alone in a hotel bar.

"He's certainly full of Christmas spirit," Mr. Bossart said. His tone was pleasant and cheerful, but there was an undertone of apology in it.

"Yes," Barbara said.

"I guess you'll be having Christmas with your family."

Barbara nodded. "I'm going to put up the tree tonight when I get home. It's mostly for my daughter, I think she's old enough now to appreciate it. And old enough to know not to pull anything off it." She smiled.

"Two years old?" Mr. Bossart said. "She must be bright."

"You should hear how well she talks," Barbara said.

Mr. Shalimar came back with two filled glasses in his hand. He put them on the table but he did not sit down. He stood there in front of Barbara, bracing himself with his palms on the edge of the table. "I like your looks," he said thickly. "You're plain but you're pretty. You have a nice bone structure in your face. I'll bet you have nice legs. I love girls' legs. They're the most important part of a girl's body. Do you have pretty legs?"

Barbara looked at him without answering.

"Then . . . I'll see for myself," he said. Clumsily he lowered himself to the floor on all fours and crept under the table. His body was hidden by the white tablecloth, but his legs, in black trousers and impeccably shined narrow black shoes, protruded in full view of everyone in the room. Caroline stared at those legs and shoes in fascination, not knowing quite whether to laugh or bite her nails. There was a grunting sound from the depths under the table and some muffled words. Then slowly, his dark face darker from the exertion, Mr. Shalimar crawled backward out from under the table and raised himself to his feet.

"You have beau-ti-ful legs," he said.

From around the small room there arose a sound that was at first like a sigh or intake of breath, and then swiftly, as ff it could not be contained, it turned into laughter. If anyone had been looking at Mr. Shalimar under the table, and they evidently had, then it would have been impossible not to hear his words. Caroline saw two girls and two men at the table not two feet away from theirs choking with shocked laughter and pointing at him. When they noticed her look-

ing at them they stopped laughing and put their glasses to their mouths to hide their smiles. Mr. Shalimar was oblivious to it. He was still standing, leaning across the table to Barbara, trying to kiss her. This time Barbara ducked and turned her head and he missed her face entirely, kissing at the air.

Mr. Shalimar wavered, his fingers clutching at the wrinkled tablecloth. He scowled. "Bitch!" he said, and then louder, "Bitch!"

Barbara could not stand up to leave, she was hemmed in between Mr. Shalimar and Mr. Bossart, who was watching her with a look of real concern on his face.

"I only wanted to kiss you," Mr. Shalimar went on, his voice rising. "What did you think I wanted to do, rape you?" The room was as silent as a snowbound night.

"You little bitch," Mr. Shalimar cried, choking. "You're fired. Don't you dare come into this oflSce on Monday. Don't you dare!"

Mr. Bossart stood up swiftly and took Mr. Shalimar by the arm. He looked at Barbara and Caroline as if he wanted to say something, anything, but then he shook his head in helpless disgust and led Mr. Shalimar from tlie room. Mr. Shalimar was tractable, now that his instantaneous fury had flared up and exploded like a Roman candle, and he allowed himself to be removed from the shocked whispering that echoed and re-echoed all around him.

Barbara was staring straight ahead, angry tears in her eyes. "Don't you worry," Caroline said, putting her arm around her. "He hasn't any authority to fire you. You're not even in his department. Besides, Mr. Bossart will probably laugh in his face and give you the Purple Heart."

Barbara turned to look at her. For the first time that evening her feelings were revealed completely on her face—resolution, fury and desperation. "I need this job," she said. "He's not going to take it away from me if I have to go to Mr. Fabian himself. You bet Shalimar's not going to have me fired. That dirty old man!"

Chapter 13

Barbara Lemont continued to sit at the table where she had been humiliated, her fists clenched. What she would have liked to do when Shalimar was under the table looking at her legs was put her foot squarely in his face. It had been so close to her she had felt his hot breath on her shins. With all the alcohol that was in that blast it was a wonder he hadn't melted her nylons. What a shame that the delightful thought of kicking him had come to her only now, when it was obviously too late. Well, maybe there was truth in the adage "Heaven Will Protect the Working Girl." If she'd kicked him, he really might have been able to fire her.

Here was Mr. Bossart coming back, alone. He reminded her of a clothing-store dummy, or one of those models who pose in the men's fashion section of a magazine. He sat down beside her and folded his hands like a deacon, looking down at his square, antiseptically manicured thumbs. He cleared his throat.

"There's always an incident or two at even the best-run office party," Mr. Bossart began. He looked at her and smiled winningly. "You seem like a very poised, sensible girl. I know you'll take it for what it was worth, and let the office gossip die down as quickly as possible by not adding to what is said after tonight."

"I never gossip," Barbara said coldly. Despite her control, tears came into her eyes. There was nothing like being called a bitch to make a girl fall to pieces. It had always been that way with her, and "little bitch" was somehow even worse.

"I'm sure tomorrow Mr. Shalimar won't even remember any of this," Mr. Bossart said. "If and when he does remember, it will upset him very much."

And we mustn't let it do that, Barbara thought. She said nothing.

Mr. Bossart smiled again. "You'll forgive him, won't you?"

"Why are you sticking up for him?" she asked curiously.

"I like him."

"Oh."

"Now, don't say 'Oh' like that, Barbara. I think you're a lovely, refined girl. I like you too. I wouldn't be going to all this trouble apologizing for him, trying to make amends, if I tliought you were just like some of the other little typists who think an incident like this is worth a week or two of coffee-break jokes."

"Excuse me," Caroline Bender said. She stood up. "I have to meet someone. Good night."

"Good night," Mr. Bossart said.

Caroline picked up her purse and mouthed a kiss at Barbara. Then she made a fist over the back of Mr. Bossart's head and made a face of mock fury which turned into a grin. Barbara couldn't help giinning back as Caroline slipped away.

"Good," Mr. Bossart said, noticing her expression. "You're forgetting about it already."

Barbara didn't answer.

"We'll go somewhere and have a drink and forget about it."

So he was asking her out. Evidently he had asked Caroline first, because he had been with her all evening, and she had said no because she had another appointment. Now, in the guise of atonement, he was making her second fiddle. Did she want to go with him? Why not? Mr. Bossart was too much of a stuffed shirt to try to pull a Shalimar, even a minor variation, and she certainly didn't want to stay here any longer. People at the other tables were still looking at her, waiting to see what would happen next.