Beyond the half-open door, he studied Madame Rothman and Richard gallantry attending to her. He picked up the white receiver.
'Hello.'
'Boris, this is Carol.'
Carol Stoddard, on the other end, leaned back in the modern precariously balanced chair that matched her blonde woman's desk.
The pastel decor was a woman's dream, exactly what it was supposed to be. Carol edited for Femme Publications, and they were in the business to furnish dreams for unimaginative femmes all over the country.
Every month or so Carol started a minor revolution by explaining 'pink is the color this season,' or, 'ladies, we're dressing formal for the evenings.' The office was indeed not an office but a chic woman's boudoir, and all the advertisers felt flattered to be invited there. They remembered to lower their voices to the charming blond woman, pretending to do business behind the white desk. So business, with lowered voices, prospered, and the avid subscribers knew when to wear pink.
The office bedroom had a huge velvet-covered studio couch and soft indirect lights. Sometimes, when all the others had left for the evening Carol would remain to work … she and the night watchman would alone keep life in the glass skyscraper.
On the desk before her were the second phone and three cover layouts, each featuring the word 'Femme,' and a vase of beautiful long stemmed roses. She plucked one from the vase and held it to her cheek with one hand, the phone in the other. She watched her secretary pin some reproductions on a large wide, hewn-edge, black cork board, studious catch-all crowded with line-drawings, gouaches, a tiny antique petit point evening bag and countless reminder notes pinned afresh each day. There was a note on the board today that was somewhat more special than the rest, an address she had obtained through an unusual source. Her pulse quickened at the remembrance of the address. Carol had a cool, blonde attractiveness. Her speech and gestures, not vivacious, involuntarily held the stamp of good breeding with unconventional prettiness.
At the sound of Boris' voice she tightened her hold on the rose in her hand.
'I think I'll be seeing you soon, Boris.'
'That is good news,' he said warmly. 'It happens I'm having difficulty finding sixteen matched two carat blues. If something could be done about it, that would be particularly advantageous right now.'
'No doubt,' she replied with a sardonic twinge to her voice. 'You know I'll certainly keep it in mind, darling.'
'Yes, Carol dear, please do; see you soon.'
They said their goodbyes simultaneously. Carol was free to think of her secret address pinned on the cork board. She placed her rose back in the vase and came out from behind the desk. Boris, on the other hand, remained thoughtfully in his chair as he watched Richard come toward him humming a more pleasing tune. 'Back in business again,'
he mused. 'This should be most interesting.'
'Mr. Novak, sorry to disturb you, but Madame Rothman is anxious to keep her luncheon engagement and is wondering if you have a blank check for her to fill out.'
Carol looked at her watch. She made the appointment for 1:00
o'clock; it would be all right if she was there a few minutes late, but to avoid any chance of embarrassment, she had better leave now to be sure the same person would take care of her. Things must move along as smoothly as possible, and Carol had a facility for seeing that things were done the simplest, most intelligent way.
Outside the office, the usual lunch hour rush was on — people dashing to their business lunches, some were grabbing for the check, others sat coyly. It made no difference who picked it up. None of them were paying. It was all good old management behind them making it possible for more executives to have more luxurious indigestion at their expense.
Carol waited patiently on the corner of 57th and Madison Avenue.
She hailed a cab. 'Who the hell invented the expense account anyway?' she wondered, entering the taxi.
'I beg your pardon, ma'am, but what did you say?' Carol laughed to herself. 'Overwork,' she thought, then she reached into her bag for the piece of paper that had been tacked to the cork board for a few days.
Why hadn't she memorized the address by now? She certainly should figure that one out.
The taxi dropped her downtown on the east side of Manhattan — odd twisting little tenement streets, fronted by shabby stores selling candy and cigarettes. Then there was the store that had an exotic floral drape across the window and Gypsies sitting inside, holding babies on their knees, waiting to tell someone's fortune. She found her number.
In the window of this shop were one or two broken porcelain dolls with real hair wigs, a few toy animals with human hair that looked like fur. Everything was badly faded.
The store itself was completely bare, dirty grey shelves filled with colorless boxes, some wrapped in brown paper. Behind the shelves she could hear two people talking, a sewing machine being used. No one came out immediately. As she waited to be noticed, the atmosphere of the place oppressed her. It was indefinable. She had been in some pretty strange environments in her time, but now she wanted to be back in the frantic spin of Madison Avenue, running to the office to meet the deadline.
A man appeared from the rear. He was a bit messy, nondescript except for a smooth glassy bald head.
'Mr. Gasper?' Carol asked hesitatingly.
'Yes.'
'Remember me? You came to my office one day and I ordered something from you. I believe today it was to be ready.'
'Yes, of course,' he said evenly without expression. 'I have your merkin right here.'
Carol weakened at the mention of that word. The dusty air caught the sound and in her mind, she repeated several times 'Merkin, merkin — what an evil sound it has, disgusting, and he dared to say it, and in front of me.'
Mr. Gasper disappeared into the back of the shop and quickly came out with a small anonymous brown package.
'I believe you have already paid me, Miss. You could try it on here, only it's not a wise thing to do; if in any way the merkin is not perfectly suited, call me immediately.'
She received the package mechanically and stared rather dumbfounded at Mr. Gasper. She wanted to run from the store, but he continued talking to her in his unemotional insurance salesman way.
'Of course, it isn't often I receive calls for this sort of thing. It is a bit rare, particularly in this day and age, but I assure you it is for this reason that I have taken exceptional pains with yours.'
'Thank you and good day,' Carol said, imitating the monotony of his voice.
She walked swiftly out of the obscure section into a larger thoroughfare and hailed a taxi to get away, just get away to the sterile safety of Femme.
Carol dismissed her secretary for the day. Everyone was finished up and going home. She would stay at the office tonight for several reasons — a pretense of work to be done on the closing issue — and she had to be sure she was entirely alone when she opened the little brown package.
Dinner was sent up to her before the building was closed for the night. Eating the delicacies, a small bottle of excellent dry Riesling, a roast chicken, she felt secure. Calls could not come into the office at this hour. She approved some proofs held before her blind eyes. She walked about the room, stretching languidly. The wine had tasted good and helped to relax her. She switched on the radio. It played softly, corny mood music, but pleasant she thought. In a large square mirror she caught her reflection, walked up close to it and stared at herself.
'Yes, I am attractive. I forget this once in a while; I forget about all my equipment.' She put her hands over her breasts, the round softly supple mounds felt good under her touch. The nipples bounced out into her hands, hard and rubbery. She ran her hands down her stomach, turned sideways and gazed at her thighs in the mirror. 'I should lose a bit of weight there.' Femme disdained heavy thighs. She stood directly in front of the mirror now and pulled off her cashmere sweater and brassiere. She placed her hands on her breasts again. The skin was softer than the cashmere of her sweater, the rouge color of the nipples begging to be licked off.
She put one hand down inside her panties and felt the burning fever of her cunt. She ran her fingers delicately
