The Other Side of Midnight (11 page)

Fraser sat there, his expression hostile.

Catherine stared at him, hating him, on the verge of tears. “You don’t have to worry about it anymore, Mr. Fraser. I quit.” She turned and started toward the door.

“Sit down,” Fraser said, his voice like a whiplash. Catherine turned, in shock. “I can’t stand goddamn prima donnas.”

She glared at him. “I’m not a…”

“OK. I’m sorry. Now, will you sit down. Please?” He picked up a pipe from his desk and lit it.

Catherine stood there not knowing what to do, filled with humiliation. “I don’t think it’s going to work,” she began. “I…”

Fraser drew on the pipe and flicked out the match. “Of course it’ll work, Catherine,” he said reasonably. “You can’t quit now. Look at all the trouble I’d have breaking in a new girl.”

Catherine looked at him and saw the glint of amusement in his bright blue eyes. He smiled, and reluctantly her lips curved into a small smile. She sank into a chair.

“That’s better. Did anyone ever tell you you’re too sensitive?”

“I suppose so. I’m sorry.”

Fraser leaned back in his chair. “Or maybe I’m the one who’s oversensitive. It’s a pain in the ass being called ‘one of America’s most eligible bachelors.’”

Catherine wished he would not use words like that.
But what bothered her most?
she wondered.
Ass or bachelor?

Maybe Fraser was right. Perhaps her interest in him was not as impersonal as she thought. Perhaps subconsciously…

“…a target for every goddamned idiotic unmarried
female in the world,” Fraser was saying. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you how aggressive women can be.”

Wouldn’t she? Try our cashier
. Catherine blushed as she thought of it.

“It’s enough to turn a man into a fairy.” Fraser sighed. “Since this seems to be National Research Week, tell me about you. Any boyfriends?”

“No,” she said. “That is, no one special,” she added quickly.

He looked at her quizzically. “Where do you live?”

“I share an apartment with a girl who was a classmate at college.”

“Northwestern.”

She looked at him in surprise, then realized he must have seen the personnel form she had filled out.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m going to tell you something about me that you didn’t find in the newspaper morgue. I’m a tough son-ofabitch to work for. You’ll find me fair, but I’m a perfectionist. We’re hard to live with. Do you think you can manage?”

“I’ll try,” Catherine said.

“Good. Sally will fill you in on the routine around here. The most important thing you have to remember is that I’m a chain coffee drinker. I like it black and hot.”

“I’ll remember.” She got to her feet and started toward the door.

“And, Catherine?”

“Yes, Mr. Fraser?”

“When you go home tonight, practice saying some profanity in front of the mirror. If you’re going to keep wincing every time I say a four-letter word, it’s going to drive me up the wall.”

He was doing it to her again, making her feel like a child. “Yes, Mr. Fraser,” she said coldly. She stormed out of the office, almost slamming the door behind her.

The meeting had not gone anything like Catherine had expected. She no longer liked William Fraser. She thought he was a smug, dominating, arrogant boor. No wonder his wife had divorced him. Well she was here and she would start, but she made up her mind that she would begin looking for another job, a job working for a human being instead of a despot.

When Catherine walked out of the door, Fraser leaned back in his chair, a smile touching his lips. Were girls still that achingly young, that earnest and dedicated? In her anger with her eyes blazing and her lips trembling Catherine had seemed so defenseless that Fraser had wanted to take her in his arms and protect her. Against himself, he admitted ruefully. There was a kind of old-fashioned shining quality about her that he’d almost forgotten existed in girls. She was lovely and she was bright, and she had a mind of her own. She was going to become the best goddamn secretary that he had ever had. And deep down Fraser had a feeling that she was going to become more than that. How much more, he was not sure yet. He had been burned so often that an automatic warning system took over the moment his emotions were touched by any female. Those moments had come very seldom. His pipe had gone out. He lit it again, and the smile was still on his face. A little later when Fraser called her in for dictation, Catherine was courteous but cool. She waited for Fraser to say something personal so she could show him how aloof she was, but he was distant and businesslike. He had, Catherine thought, obviously wiped the incident of this morning from his mind. How insensitive could a man be?

In spite of herself Catherine found the new job fascinating. The telephone rang constantly, and the names of the callers filled her with excitement. During the first week the Vice-President of the United States called twice, half a dozen senators, the Secretary of State and a famous actress who was in town publicizing her latest picture. The week was climaxed by a telephone call
from President Roosevelt, and Catherine was so nervous she dropped the phone and disconnected his secretary.

In addition to the telephone calls Fraser had a constant round of appointments at the office, his country club or at one of the better-known restaurants. After the first few weeks Fraser allowed Catherine to set up his appointments for him and make the reservations. She began to know who Fraser wanted to see and who he wanted to avoid. Her work was so absorbing that by the end of the month she had totally forgotten about looking for another job.

Catherine’s relationship with Fraser was still on a very impersonal level, but she knew him well enough now to realize that his aloofness was not unfriendliness. It was a dignity, a wall of reserve that served as a shield against the world. Catherine had a feeling that Fraser was really very lonely. His job called for him to be gregarious, but she sensed that by nature he was a solitary man. She also sensed that William Fraser was out of her league.
For that matter so is most of male America
, she decided.

She double-dated with Susie every now and then but found most of her escorts were married sexual athletes, and she preferred to go to a movie or the theater alone. She saw Gertrude Lawrence and a new comedian named Danny Kaye in
Lady in the Dark
, and
Life with Father
, and
Alice in Arms
, with a young actor named Kirk Douglas. She loved
Kitty Foyle
with Ginger Rogers because it reminded her of herself. One night at a performance of
Hamlet
she saw Fraser sitting in a box with an exquisite girl in an expensive white evening gown that Catherine had seen in
Vogue
. She had no idea who the girl was. Fraser made his own personal dates, and she never knew where he was going or with whom. He looked across the theater and saw her. The next morning he made no reference to it until he had finished the morning’s dictation.

“How did you like
Hamlet?”
he asked.

“The play’s going to make it, but I didn’t care much for the performances.”

“I liked the actors,” he said. “I thought the girl who played Ophelia was particularly good.”

Catherine nodded and started to leave.

“Didn’t you like Ophelia?” Fraser persisted.

“If you want my honest opinion,” Catherine said carefully, “I didn’t think she was able to keep her head above water.” She turned and walked out.

When Catherine arrived at the apartment that night, Susie was waiting for her. “You had a visitor,” Susie said.

“Who?”

“An FBI man. They’re investigating you.”

My God
, thought Catherine.
They found out I’m a virgin, and there’s probably some kind of law against it in Washington
. Aloud she said, “Why would the FBI be investigating me?”

“Because you’re working for the government now.”

“Oh.”

“How’s your Mr. Fraser?”

“My Mr. Fraser’s just fine,” Catherine said.

“How do you think he’d like me?”

Catherine studied her tall, willowy brunette roommate. “For breakfast.”

As the weeks went by Catherine became acquainted with the other secretaries working in nearby offices. Several of the girls were having affairs with their bosses, and it did not seem to matter to them whether the men were married or single. They envied Catherine’s working for William Fraser.

“What’s Golden Boy really like?” one of them asked Catherine one day at lunch. “Has he made a pass at you yet?”

“Oh, he doesn’t bother with that,” Catherine said earnestly. “I just come in at nine o’clock every morning, we roll around on the couch until one o’clock, then we break for lunch.”

“Seriously, how do you find him?”

“Resistible,” Catherine lied. Her feelings toward William Fraser had mellowed considerably since their first quarrel. He had told her the truth when he said he was a perfectionist. Whenever she made a mistake, she was reprimanded for it, but she had found him to be fair and understanding. She had watched him take time out from his own problems to help other people, people who could do nothing for him, and he always arranged it so that he never took credit for it. Yes, she liked William Fraser very much indeed, but that was no one’s business but her own.

Once when they had had a great deal of work to catch up on, Fraser had asked Catherine to have dinner with him at his home so that they could work late. Talmadge, Fraser’s chauffeur, was waiting with the limousine in front of the building. Several secretaries coming out of the building watched with knowing eyes as Fraser ushered Catherine into the back seat of the car and slid in next to her. The limousine glided smoothly into the late afternoon traffic.

“I’m going to ruin your reputation,” Catherine said.

Fraser laughed. “I’ll give you some advice. If you ever want to have an affair with a public figure, do it out in the open.”

“What about catching cold?”

He grinned. “I meant, take your paramour—if they still use that word—out to public places, well-known restaurants, theaters.”

“Shakespearean plays?” Catherine asked innocently.

Fraser ignored it. “People are always looking for devious motives. They’ll say to themselves, ‘Uh-huh, he’s taking so-and-so out in public. I wonder who he’s seeing secretly.’ People never believe the obvious.”

“It’s an interesting theory.”

“Arthur Conan Doyle wrote a story based on deceiving people with the obvious,” Fraser said. “I don’t recall the name of it.”

“It was Edgar Allen Poe. ‘The Purloined Letter.’” The moment Catherine said it, she wished she hadn’t.
Men did not like smart girls. But then what did it matter? She was not his girl, she was his secretary.

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

Fraser’s home in Georgetown was something out of a picture book. It was a four-story Georgian house that must have been over two hundred years old. The door was opened by a butler in a white jacket. Fraser said, “Frank, this is Miss Alexander.”

“Hello, Frank. We’ve talked on the phone,” Catherine said.

“Yes, ma’am. It’s nice to meet you, Miss Alexander.”

Catherine looked at the reception hall. It had a beautiful old staircase leading to the second floor, its oak wood burnished to a sheen. The floor was marble, and overhead was a dazzling chandelier.

Fraser studied her face. “Like it?” he asked.

“
Like
it? Oh, yes!”

He smiled, and Catherine wondered if she had sounded too enthusiastic, like a girl who was attracted by wealth, like one of those aggressive females who were always chasing him. “It’s…it’s pleasant,” she added lamely.

Fraser was looking at her mockingly, and Catherine had the terrible feeling that he could read her thoughts. “Come into the study.”

Catherine followed him into a large book-lined room done in dark paneling. It had an aura of another age, the graciousness of an easier, friendlier way of life.

Fraser was studying her. “Well?” he asked gravely.

Catherine was not going to be caught again. “It’s smaller than the Library of Congress,” she said, defensively.

He laughed aloud. “You’re right.”

Frank came into the room carrying a silver ice bucket. He set it on top of the bar in the corner. “What time would you like dinner, Mr. Fraser?”

“Seven-thirty.”

“I’ll tell the cook.” Frank left the room.

“What may I fix you to drink?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

He looked over at her. “Don’t you drink, Catherine?”

“Not when I’m working,” she said. “I get my
p
’s and
o
’s mixed up.”

“You mean
p
’s and
q
’s, don’t you?”

“
P
’s and
o
’s. They’re next to each other on the typewriter.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You’re not supposed to. That’s why you pay me a king’s ransom every week.”

“What do I pay you?” Fraser asked.

“Thirty dollars and dinner in the most beautiful house in Washington.”

“You’re sure you won’t change your mind about that drink?”

“No, thank you,” Catherine said.

Fraser mixed a martini for himself, and Catherine wandered around the room looking at the books. There were all the traditional classic titles and, in addition, a whole section of books in Italian and another section in Arabic.

Fraser walked over to her side. “You don’t really speak Italian and Arabic, do you?” Catherine asked.

“Yes. I lived in the Middle East for a few years and learned Arabic.”

“And the Italian?”

“I went with an Italian actress for a while.”

Her face flushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

Fraser looked at her, his eyes filled with amusement, and Catherine felt like a schoolgirl. She was not sure whether she hated William Fraser or loved him. Of one thing she was sure. He was the nicest man she had ever known.

Dinner was superb. All the dishes were French with divine sauces. The dessert was Cherries Jubilee. No wonder Fraser worked out at the club three mornings a week.

“How is it?” Fraser asked her.