“I will when I can. Good-bye,” Elizabeth said. She hung up on his “Good-bye,” and then, “Oh, wait, Beth,” when something more occurred to him. I couldn’t listen any longer without being rude, she thought.
She heard Robbie’s voice starting then in the next office, “And I guess you understand about things like answering the phone, and so on.”
“I guess so,” Daphne said.
Elizabeth went back to her letter to Mr. Burton, permanently curled from staying in the typewriter, and she heard Robbie and Daphne Hill talking for a while, about names of clients, and the two-button phone extension at the reception desk, and then she heard both of them go out to the reception desk and try the extension, two children, she thought, playing office. Occasionally she would hear Robbie’s heavy laugh, and then, after a minute, Daphne laughing too, slow and surprised. In spite of all her attempts to concentrate on their rates for Mr. Burton she found herself listening, following Robbie and Daphne where they moved around the office. Once, louder than the slight murmur which had been going on between them, she heard Robbie’s man-of-the-world voice saying, “Some quiet little restaurant,” and then when the voice dropped back to its cautious tone she said to herself, Where they can talk. She waited, not to sound like an intruder, until she heard Daphne settle down solidly at the reception desk and Robbie start back for his own office. Then she said, “Robbie?”
There was a silence and then he came around and opened her office door. “You know I don’t like you to yell in the office,” he said.
She paused for a minute because she wanted to speak cordially. “We’re going to have dinner together tonight?” she asked. They had dinner together four or five times a week, usually in the restaurant where they had had lunch, or in some small place near either Robbie’s apartment or Elizabeth’s. When she saw the corners of Robbie’s mouth turn down and the faint turn of his head toward the outer office she raised her voice slightly. “I got out of seeing these fool people tonight,” she said. “There’s a lot I want to talk to you about.”
“As a matter of fact, Liz,” Robbie said, talking very quickly and in a low voice, “I’m afraid I’m going to be stuck for dinner.” Not realizing that he was repeating what he had heard her say on the phone a few minutes before, he went on, putting on a look of annoyance, “I’ve got a dinner appointment I can’t break, with a client.” When Elizabeth looked surprised, he said, “The minister, I promised him this morning we’d get together again tonight. I haven’t had a chance to tell you.”
“Of course you can’t break it,” Elizabeth said easily. She waited, watching Robbie. He was sitting uneasily on the corner of her desk, playing absently with a pencil, wanting to leave and afraid to go too abruptly. What am I doing, Elizabeth thought suddenly, playing hide-and-seek? “Why don’t you go to a movie or something?” she said.
Robbie laughed mournfully. “I wish I could,” he said.
Elizabeth reached over and took the pencil away from him. “Poor old Robbie,” she said. “You’re all upset. You ought to get off somewhere and relax.”
Robbie frowned anxiously. “Why should I?” he said. “Isn’t this my office?”
Elizabeth made her voice tender. “You ought to get out of here for a few hours, Robbie, I’m serious. You won’t be able to work this afternoon.” She decided to allow herself one small spiteful dig. “Particularly if you have to see that old horror tonight,” she said.
Robbie’s mouth opened and closed, and then he said, “I can’t think when it’s such lousy weather. Rain drives me crazy.”
“I know it does,” Elizabeth said. She stood up. “You get your hat and coat on, and leave your brief case and everything here,” she said, pushing him toward the door, “and then come back after sitting in a movie for a couple of hours and you’ll feel like a million dollars to go out and out-talk the minister.”
“I don’t want to go out again in this weather,” Robbie said.
“Stop and get a shave,” Elizabeth said. She opened the door of her office and saw Daphne Hill staring at her. “Get a haircut,” she said, touching the back of his head. “Miss Hill and I will get along fine without you. Won’t we, Miss Hill?”
“Sure,” Daphne said.
Robbie went uneasily into his office and came out a minute later carrying his wet coat and hat. “I don’t know what you want me to go out for,” he said.
“I don’t know what you want to stay here for,” Elizabeth said, escorting him to the outer door. “You’re not good for anything when you feel like this.” She opened the front door and he walked out. “See you later.”
“See you later,” Robbie said, starting down the hall.
Elizabeth watched him until he had gone into the elevator and then she closed the door behind her and turned to Daphne Hill. “Is that letter to Miss Wilson anywhere near written?” she asked.
“I was just doing it,” Daphne said.
“Bring it to me when you finish.” Elizabeth went into her office and closed the door and sat down at the desk. Frank, she was thinking, it couldn’t have been Frank. He would have said “Hello” or something, I haven’t changed that much. If it was Frank, what was he doing around here? It won’t do any good, she thought, there’s no way of finding him anyway.
She took the telephone book from the corner of her desk and looked for Frank’s name; it wasn’t there, and she turned further until she came to the H’s, running her finger down the page till she found Harris, James. Pulling the phone over she dialed the number and waited. When a man answered she said, “Is this Jim Harris?”
“That’s right,” he said.
“This is Elizabeth Style.”
“Hello,” he said. “How are you?”
“I’ve been waiting for you to get in touch with me,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”
“I know it has,” he said. “Somehow I never seem to get around—”
“I’ll tell you what I called you about,” she said. “Do you remember Frank Davis?”
“I remember him,” he said. “What’s he doing now?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you,” she said.
“Oh. Well….”
She waited a minute, and then went on, “One of these days I’m going to take you up on that standing dinner date.”
“I hope you do,” he said. “I’ll call you.”
Oh, no, she thought. “It seems like such a long time since we got together. Listen.” She made her voice sound like this was a sudden idea, one of those unexpectedly brilliant things, “Why don’t we make it tonight?” He started to say something and she went on, “I’ve been dying to see you.”
“You see, my kid sister’s in town,” he said.
“Can’t she come along?” Elizabeth asked.
“Well,” he said, “I guess so.”
“Fine,” Elizabeth said. “You come on down to my place for a drink first, and bring the kid along, and we can have a grand talk about old times.”
“Suppose I call you back?” he asked.
“I’m leaving the office now,” Elizabeth said flatly. “I’ll be running around all afternoon. So let’s make it around seven?”
“All right,” he said.
“I’m so pleased we made it tonight,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll see you later.”
After she had hung up she sat for a minute with her hand on the phone, thinking, good old Harris, he never has a chance if you talk fast; he must get stuck for every dirty job around town. She laughed, pleased, and then stopped abruptly when Daphne knocked on the door; when Elizabeth said, “Come in,” Daphne opened the door cautiously and put her head in.
“I finished the letter, Miss Style,” she said.
“Bring it here,” Elizabeth said, and then added, “please.”
Daphne came in and held the letter out at arm’s length. “It isn’t very good,” she said. “But it’s my first letter by myself.”
Elizabeth glanced at the letter. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. ??
?Sit down, Daphne.”
Daphne sat down gingerly on the edge of the chair. “Sit back,” Elizabeth said. “That’s the only chair I’ve got and I don’t want you breaking it.”
Daphne sat back and opened her eyes wide.
Elizabeth carefully opened her pocketbook and took out a pack of cigarettes and hunted for a match. “Just a minute,” Daphne said eagerly, “I’ve got some.” She hurried out to the outer office and came back with a package of matches. “Keep them,” she said, “I’ve got plenty more.”
Elizabeth lit her cigarette and put the matches down on the edge of the desk. “Now,” she said, and Daphne leaned forward. “Where did you work before you started here?”
“This is my first job,” Daphne said. “I just came to New York.”
“Where did you come from?”
“Buffalo,” Daphne said.
“So you came to New York to make your fortune?” Elizabeth asked. This is where I have dear Daphne, she was thinking, I’ve already made my fortune.
“I don’t know,” Daphne said. “My father brought us down here because his brother needed him in the business. We just moved here a couple of months ago.”
If I had a family to take care of me, Elizabeth thought, I wouldn’t have a job with Robert Shax. “What sort of an education have you had?”
“I went to high school in Buffalo,” Daphne said. “I was in business school for a while.”
“You want to be a writer?”
“No,” Daphne said, “I want to be an agent, like Mr. Shax. And you,” she added.
“It’s a fine business,” Elizabeth said. “You can make a lot of money at it.”
“That’s what Mr. Shax said. He was very nice about it.”
Daphne was getting braver. She was eyeing Elizabeth’s cigarette and had settled down comfortably in her chair.
Elizabeth was suddenly very tired; there was no sport in Daphne. “Mr. Shax and I were talking about you at lunch,” she said deliberately.
Daphne smiled. When she smiled, and when she was sitting down, without the appearance of that big body resting precariously on small feet, Daphne was an attractive girl. In spite of the small brown eyes, with that incredible mop of hair, Daphne was very attractive. I’m so thin, Elizabeth thought, and she said with pleasure, “I think you’d better rewrite that letter to Miss Wilson, Daphne.”
“Sure,” Daphne said.
“Telling her,” Elizabeth went on, “to come back to work as soon as she can.”
“Back here?” Daphne asked, with the smallest beginning of alarm.
“Back here,” Elizabeth said. She smiled. “I’m afraid Mr. Shax didn’t have courage enough to tell you,” she said. “Mr. Shax and I are, besides business partners,” she said, “very good friends. Frequently Mr. Shax takes advantage of our friendship and leaves the disagreeable tasks for me to do.”
“Mr. Shax didn’t tell me anything,” Daphne said.
“I didn’t think he had,” Elizabeth said, “when I saw how you went right ahead as though you were staying here.”
Daphne was frightened. She’s too stupid to cry, Elizabeth thought, but she’s going to have to have everything explained to her in detail. “Naturally,” Elizabeth went on, “I don’t like having to do this. Possibly I can make it easier for you by trying to help you get another job.”
Daphne nodded.
“This may help you,” Elizabeth said, “because Mr. Shax commented on it earlier, and it’s the sort of thing men are particular about. Your appearance.”
Daphne looked down at the ample front of her dress.
“Probably,” Elizabeth said, “you already know this, and I’m very rude to comment on it, but I think you’d make a better impression and if you ever get a job you’d be able to work more comfortably if you wore something to the office instead of a silk dress. It makes you seem, somehow, as though you were just in from Buffalo.”
“You want me to wear a suit or something?” Daphne asked. She spoke slowly and without malice.
“Something quieter, anyway,” Elizabeth said.
Daphne looked Elizabeth up and down. “A suit like yours?” she asked.
“A suit would be fine,” Elizabeth said. “And try to comb your hair down.”
Daphne touched the top of her head tenderly.
“Try to be more orderly, in general,” Elizabeth said. “You have beautiful hair, Daphne, but it would look more suitable to an office if you were to wear it more severely.”
“Like yours?” Daphne asked, looking at the grey in Elizabeth’s hair.
“Any way you please,” Elizabeth said, “just so it doesn’t look like a floor mop.” She turned pointedly back to her desk, and after a minute Daphne rose. “Take this back,” Elizabeth said, holding out the letter to Miss Wilson, “and rewrite it the way I told you to.”
“Yes, Miss Style,” Daphne said.
“You can go home as soon as you’re through with the letter,” Elizabeth said. “Leave it on your desk, along with your name and address, and Mr. Shax will send you your day’s pay.”
“I don’t care whether he does or not,” Daphne said abruptly.
Elizabeth looked up for a minute and regarded Daphne steadily. “Do you think you have any right to criticize Mr. Shax’s decisions?” she asked.
For a few minutes Elizabeth sat at her desk waiting to see what Daphne would do; after the door had closed quietly behind Daphne and she had walked to her desk there had been a heavy silence; she’s sitting at her desk there, Elizabeth thought, thinking it over. Then, finally, there was the small sound of Daphne’s pocketbook, the snap of the catch opening, the movement of a hand searching against keys, papers; she’s taking her compact out, Elizabeth thought, she’s looking to see if what I said about her appearance is true; she’s wondering if Robbie said anything, how he said it, whether I made it worse or smoothed it over for her. I should have told her he said she was a fat pig, or the ugliest thing he had ever seen; she might not even have seen through that. What’s she doing now?
Daphne had said “Damn” very distinctly; Elizabeth sat forward in her chair, not wanting to let any trace of action escape. Then there was the quiet sound of the typewriter; Daphne was typing the letter to Miss Wilson. Elizabeth shook her head slowly and laughed. She lighted a cigarette with one of Daphne’s matches, still on the edge of the desk, and looked blankly at the letter to Mr. Burton, still in the typewriter. Sitting with one arm hooked over the back of the chair and the cigarette in her mouth, she typed slowly, with one finger, “The hell with you, Burton,” and then tore the page out of the typewriter and threw it in the wastebasket. That’s every single bit of work I’ve done today, she told herself, and it doesn’t matter after looking at Daphne’s face when I told her. She looked at her desk, the letters waiting to be answered, the criticisms by a professional editor waiting to be written, the complaints to be satisfied, and thought, I’ll go on home. I can take a bath and clean the place and get some stuff for Jim and the kid sister; I’ll only wait till Daphne leaves.
“Daphne?” she called.
After a hesitation: “Yes, Miss Style?”
“Aren’t you through yet?” Elizabeth said; she could afford to let herself speak gently now. “That letter to Miss Wilson should only take a minute.”
“Just getting ready to leave,” Daphne said.
“Don’t forget to leave your name and address.”
There was a silence from the other room, and Elizabeth said to her closed door, raising her voice again, “Did you hear me?”
“Mr. Shax knows my name and address,” Daphne said. The outer door opened, and Daphne said, “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” Elizabeth said.
She got out of the taxi at her corner, and after paying the man, she had a ten-dollar bill and some change in her pocketbook; this, with twenty dollars more in her apartment, was all the money she had until she could ask Robbie for more. Figuring quickly, she decided to take ten dollars of her money at home to get her
through the evening; Jim Harris would have to pay for her dinner; ten dollars, then, for taxis and emergencies; she would ask Robbie for more tomorrow. The money in her pocketbook would go for liquor and cocktail things; she stopped in the liquor store on the corner and bought a bottle of rye, a fifth, so that she would have some to offer Robbie the next time he came down. With her bottle under her arm she went into the delicatessen and bought ginger ale; hesitantly she selected a bag of potato chips and then a box of crackers and a liverwurst spread to put on them.
She was unused to entertaining; she and Robbie spent evenings quietly together, seldom seeing any people except an occasional client and, sometimes, an old friend who invited them out. Because they were not married, Robbie was reluctant to take her anywhere where he might be embarrassed by her presence. They ate their meals in small restaurants, did their rare drinking at home or in a corner bar, saw neighborhood movies. When it was necessary for Elizabeth to invite people to visit her Robbie was not there; they had once given a party in Robbie’s larger apartment to celebrate some great occasion, probably a client of some sort, and the party had been so miserable and the guest so uncomfortable that they had never given another and had been invited to only one or two.
Consequently Elizabeth, although she spoke so blithely of “coming down for a drink,” was almost completely at a loss when people actually came. As she climbed the stairs to her apartment, her packages braced between her arm and her chin, she was worrying over and over the progress of having a drink, the passing of crackers, the taking of coats.
The appearance of her room shocked her; she had forgotten her hurried departure this morning and the way she had left things around; also, the apartment was created and planned for Elizabeth; that is, the hurried departure every morning of a rather unhappy and desperate young woman with little or no ability to make things gracious, the lonely ugly evenings in one chair with one book and one ashtray, the nights spent dreaming of hot grass and heavy sunlight. There was no possible arrangement of these things that would permit of a casual grouping of three or four people, sitting easily around a room holding glasses, talking lightly. In the early evening, with one lamp on and the shadows in the corners, it looked warm and soft, but you had only to sit down in the one armchair, or touch a hand to the grey wood end table that looked polished, to see that the armchair was hard and cheap, the grey paint chipping.