Three-Martini Lunch (17 page)

I
sent my résumé bearing my new name to Bonwright first. I suppose this was because Bonwright was a large company, and the conversation I'd had with Cliff that afternoon in the bar had left Bonwright fresh in my mind. It wasn't that I expected to work for Cliff's father per se. In the time it took me to acquire a new Social Security card, I fully expected Roger Nelson to have already found a suitable replacement, so I was extremely surprised to receive a telephone call one morning requesting I come in to have an interview with him specifically.

“Oh yes,” the woman in charge of hiring said urgently over the telephone, “I'm afraid Mr. Nelson is getting frustrated with the temporary girls he's been sent. He wants to find somebody permanent right away. These temps are awfully inexperienced, and you say you have a letter of introduction, so that's promising. How soon can you come in to meet with him?”

“Oh. I assumed I'd be interviewing with a personnel manager first,” I said, resisting the urge to bite my nails.

“Typically, yes,” the woman said. “But seeing as how he's in a bind, Mr. Nelson is looking to hand-pick someone. Let's see . . . How does tomorrow at one o'clock sound?”

I hesitated. What if Mr. Nelson hired me? What would Cliff say? Surely we would bump into each other again. Cliff didn't know I'd altered my name. Already things were getting tangled.

“That would be fine,” I said, pushing my misgivings aside. I wanted the job, and what's more, I needed it.

“Marvelous. I'll put you on the books. You'll report to Roger Nelson's office; he's on the seventh floor. There's a temp named Barbara—goodness, you'll see what I mean about the temps!—who will receive you when you get there.”

•   •   •

I
remember that night feeling to me like the longest in the history of time. I was so relieved when morning finally rolled around, I hardly noticed the oppressive heat as I got dressed and ready. When I left the Barbizon at noon it was already shaping up to be another hot, thick day and I was sweating when I came up from the subway. Without quite remembering the walk, I was suddenly standing in front of the towering high-rise that housed Bonwright. I gazed up at the dignified gold lettering stamped into the limestone façade and at the rows upon rows of great glass windows rising into the air like a small army advancing upon the sky. I took a deep breath. There was nothing left to do but go inside.

I stepped towards the giant revolving door. The lunch hour was beginning for some and ending for others, and a parade of secretaries—most of them belonging, I presumed, to Bonwright but also to the law firms and accountants' offices that likewise occupied offices in the high-rise—were flowing in and out of the building in a steady stream. For the briefest of instants I swore I saw Judy, her clean wheat-colored hair pulled high into a
ponytail and a swipe of bright red lipstick on her mouth. I was so convinced it was her I had to restrain myself from calling out a greeting, reminding myself Judy could not possibly be here. And really, though I was desperate for a friendly face, I had to admit it was better not to know a soul here. It was my only chance for a fresh start.

I rode the elevator up to the seventh floor, where a receptionist with a pinched voice greeted me tersely, saying only “Name, please?”

“Eden Collins,” I answered. It sounded very strange to me. But then, I suppose it ought to have sounded strange.

“Yes,” the receptionist said, following her finger across an appointment calendar. “Miss Collins. I see you're on the books.” She pivoted in her chair and stood up, gesturing for me to follow her around behind a wall, where I encountered the familiar scene of a typing pool. The doors of the executives lined the perimeter of the large, open, square bullpen, each editor's name indicated in stylish silver metal letters. Girls sat rowed up at typing desks, each of them likely seated closest to the editor she was assigned to assist. The steady hum of typewriters and chatter filled the air.

“See that girl sitting in the far corner there? She's temping as Mr. Nelson's secretary today; go check in with her and she'll notify you when Mr. Nelson is ready for you.” The receptionist snorted to herself. “Or she'll
try
.”

“Thank you,” I said. I walked in the direction she pointed. The room smelled of stale coffee and typewriter ink—a familiar smell, one I'd memorized during my time at Torchon & Lyle. Once across the room, I cleared my throat. “Eden Collins to see Roger Nelson,” I said to the temp sitting behind the desk. She looked up, and I found myself staring into a pair of big brown eyes and an explosion of bleached-blond hair.

“Oh!” she jumped up, and for a split second a rush of panic came over me, as the neckline of her dress was so low it appeared her breasts were going to spill out of her blouse and I might have to catch them. She put
out a nail-polished hand for a handshake. The breasts miraculously bounced in place but did not spill over, and I breathed an inward sigh of relief. “I'm Barbara,” she said, pronouncing it “Bawb-rah.”

“Eden Collins,” I repeated, shaking her hand.

“Oh yeah! Of course!” she said. “You're on the calendar.” She put one finger in the air, then spun about and took a few steps to fling open one of the executive's doors. “Mis-tah Nelson? Eden Collins here to see you.”

“Barbara, dear, I've shown you how the intercom works. Remember yesterday when we went over it again?” a man's voice called back. He sighed.

“Oh! That's right!” Barbara said in a chipper voice. With one heavy movement of her shapely arm, she slammed the door shut. I watched as she leaned over the desk (I wondered again at the neckline of her dress) and pushed the button for the intercom. I heard a muffled buzzing from behind the door.

“Yes?” came the voice over the intercom, followed by another heavy sigh.

“Eden Collins is here for her interview,” Barbara reported.

“All right,” he said. “Send her in.”

“Sure thing!” Barbara replied enthusiastically. She rose and opened the door again, gesturing for me to follow. “Mr. Nelson, Eden Collins,” she announced. “Whoops! 'Scuse me,” she added, bending over to pick up the nail file where she had dropped it on the floor. There was a slightly clownish air about Barbara's dumb-pinup routine that made you wonder if she wasn't doing it on purpose.

I peered at Roger Nelson as he stood up from behind the desk, curious to see whether he bore any resemblance to his son. He was more substantial somehow, as though he were made of heavier bones. He wore a well-tailored suit and what appeared to be an expensive silk tie. His hair had receded to leave only a half-ring of silver that ran from his ears down and from which the rest of his head rose in a very smooth, shiny dome.
He had the kind of eyes I'd always inwardly described to myself as “Santa Claus” eyes. They were a radiant cornflower blue and caught a slight twinkle in the light, an effect that seemed more pronounced given the reddish hue of his face. It was easy to take stock of all the details, because for the moment he was not looking at me. His gaze was steadfast on Barbara's backside as she bent over to pick up the nail file.

“Thank you, Barbara,” he said. Behind me, Barbara made her exit, pulling the door shut behind her.

He leaned over the desk to shake my hand. I noticed a slight paunch around his middle.

“Well, Miss Collins, I understand you have a letter of introduction.”

I nodded and reached into my pocketbook for the letter. He read it over quickly, his eyes darting from side to side over the page.

“This recommends you very highly.” His smile stirred up a swarm of butterflies in my stomach. He cleared his throat. “My last secretary worked for me for fifteen years. I trusted her to read all my manuscripts, and the office ran like a well-oiled machine—a quality, I'm afraid, that has been lost since her departure. I assume you have secretarial training of some variety? You know how to take dictation and type and all that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmm. And you like reading? If I assign you editorial duties—I'm not promising we'll make you a reader right away—but if I ask you to read the occasional manuscript here and there, you could read the manuscripts I assign you at a fairly speedy clip?”

“Oh yes!” I exclaimed, then tried to rein in my enthusiasm so I wouldn't start babbling about my former responsibilities at Torchon & Lyle. “That's the part of the job that interests me most.”

“What's your favorite book that's come out recently?”

We chatted for a while about books and what made for a best-seller. I explained about the course Mr. Hightower had taught on popular fiction. I told him about the novels I'd loved best as a teenager, and later as a
young woman in college. At one point I caught myself rhapsodizing about the first time I read Katherine Mansfield and Carson McCullers but then I glimpsed a slightly disinterested frown cross Mr. Nelson's face. I remembered whom it was I was talking to and threw in some mentions of Hemingway and Joyce for good measure, and he seemed to approve.

“Well, Miss Collins, I'll admit, I like you for this position. But I want to make certain you know what you are getting yourself into . . . Your office etiquette must be impeccable, and the reading, it's a great deal of work—most of which I expect done after regular work hours. You understand that?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“And this is your first job?” he asked.

I hesitated. I only hesitated for the briefest of moments, but still I hesitated. I was about to tell a lie. I did not take it lightly.

“Yes,” I said, finally. “That's right.”

“Hmm,” said Mr. Nelson. “Well . . .” he trailed off, then gathered himself. “I had been hoping for someone with previous experience, but you seem like you have half a brain, at least. I guess we'll just hope you catch on quickly. I can't very well keep Barbara.” He smiled to himself. “I'd like to, but I can't. As wonderful and as
gifted
as she is, I'm getting far too behind on work. Reader's reports in particular.” He looked me over quickly. “You
do
look like the type to read a lot.”

I wasn't sure whether this was a compliment or an insult, but then he smiled and I smiled back. Mr. Nelson had an audacious charm about him that was difficult to resist. There was something dapper yet very masculine about him. He held up a finger as though he'd had an idea.

“Have you eaten lunch yet, Miss Collins?”

“Oh . . . no,” I answered.

“Neither have I.” He smiled. “I have just the plan.” He leaned over and pushed a button on the speaker box sitting on his desk. “Barbara? Put
down whatever file or report you're currently destroying, sweetheart. We're going to lunch. Steaks on me!”

I looked at him, baffled.

“We'll have a little lunch,” he said. “The three of us, to celebrate the changing of the guard, so to speak.”

“You mean to say I'm hired?”

“You can start this afternoon.”

Just like that, in an absolute daze, I found myself following Mr. Nelson and a delighted, giggly Barbara downstairs to the lobby, where we caught a taxi and rode all the way down to Delmonico's.

I had heard of Delmonico's, but I had never been there before. It was a dark-paneled sanctuary filled with bankers, lit with that incandescent brand of chandelier light that only very expensive restaurants seem to have. Mr. Nelson did all the ordering for us, which meant that three martinis appeared almost immediately, followed a little later by three medium-rare steaks, creamed spinach, and potatoes au gratin.

While Mr. Nelson had conveyed an air of regal authority in the office, this quality expanded even further in the restaurant so that he was positively leonine, presiding over the dining room, one of his commanding, heavy, pawlike hands laid upon the table at all times. He was friendly with the staff, all of whom seemed to know him very well. The maître d' had rushed to greet us as we walked in the door, not batting an eye to see Mr. Nelson in the company of not just one but two young ladies. When our steaks arrived to the table, the chef came out, dressed in his white smock and chef's hat, to inquire whether they were done to Mr. Nelson's liking. When we finished the main course, the maître d' came back over and chatted for a while with Mr. Nelson, at which point Mr. Nelson casually pulled out a cigar from his inside jacket pocket.

“You don't mind if I smoke this, do you?” he said. The corners of the maître d's mouth twitched. It was plain that he
did
mind.

“Certainly, Roger,” he said, then gave a little stiff bow and scurried back to the host desk.

As Mr. Nelson puffed away on his cigar, he regaled us with stories about the time he'd gone on a drinking binge with Raymond Chandler and when he'd gotten into a bit of trouble during one of William Faulkner's visits to New York. I listened to these nervously, for one thing had become glaringly obvious during the course of lunch: Barbara didn't quite understand that my being hired meant her temporary assignment was at an end and that this was a farewell lunch. She called him “Roger,” as opposed to “Mr. Nelson,” and patted his arm affectionately at regular intervals, as though they were a couple entertaining and I was a guest.

As lunch was winding down, she excused herself and went to the ladies' room, leaving me alone with Mr. Nelson.

“Did you have a pleasant lunch?” Mr. Nelson asked.

“Absolutely lovely,” I replied. “Only . . . I don't think Barbara understands her assignment is over.”

“Yes,” he grumbled. “She's not catching on. How unfortunate. I ought to have had the agency call her. Anyway, it's too late for that now.”

The bill arrived, a slip of paper upon a little silver tray, and he reached for it. I watched him sign it, wondering how he was going to clear up the confusion with Barbara.