“Well,” Aaron smiled. “Tell you the truth, I never had the problem myself.”
“You’re lucky,” she said. He could see now that she was quite looped. She wobbled unsteadily, her hands behind her back as she struggled with the strap of her brassiere. He went to the bed and tried to locate his coat.
“Could you help me?” she asked.
He turned. “What?”
“Could you give me a hand here? I’d ask one of the girls, but I’m afraid I’ll pop out if I take another step.”
“Well, well sure,” Aaron said.
“I just want you to pull the strap up higher on my back, tha’s all,” the blonde said.
“Sure,” Aaron replied, walking over to her.
The blonde turned. The zipper at the back of her dress was opened in a wide V.
“Did you make these shoes?” she asked.
“He glanced down at the black suede cocktail pump. “Yes,” he said.
“They pinch my feet,” the blonde said. “Pull up the strap, will you?” She paused. “Mister, I feel like Atlas with a double burden.”
McQuade held out the martini glass, smiling. Marge took it and then shook her head. “This is my third,” she said.
“Martinis are good for you,” McQuade said. “They make your legs strong.”
“My legs are strong enough,” she said. There was a high flush on her face, a flush of mixed excitement and triumph. She had never known she could be so happy. The buyers had actually applauded when she’d flattened her skirt against her legs to show the shell pump. She knew they were applauding the shoe, but she couldn’t help feeling they were also applauding her legs just a little bit. Oh, it had been a marvelous feeling, truly marvelous. And now this party, it was all so wonderful, like really being a part of things, like really being a part of the company, and not just another cog stuck away someplace.
And she was not as frightened any more. A little bit, yes, but she was sure now that McQuade was nothing to be afraid of, well, almost sure, anyway, and besides there were a lot of people here, and how could anything happen with all these people around?
“Drink up,” McQuade said.
She sipped at the drink. It was very smooth, and she enjoyed the sting of it against her tongue, a smooth sting, like a kiss from a cobra. My God! Where did that come from, I must be getting a little high.
“So how did you like it?” McQuade asked. He was sitting on the arm of her chair now, his own arm resting across the back.
“The modeling?” Marge leaned her head back. “It was wonderful.”
“And are you happy?”
“I’m very happy.”
“Then drink up. Marge, you’ve got to learn how to celebrate. You’ve achieved something today, Marge. A small milestone, perhaps, but a very happy occasion. People don’t know how to appreciate happiness, Marge. That’s the sadness of our time. People don’t really know they’re happy unless they’re told they’re happy.”
“And are you the man in charge of telling people they’re happy?” she asked. Across the room, she could see one of the buyers looking at her crossed legs.
“I am the man in charge of happiness,” McQuade said. “Drink up. I will not see a happy occasion washed down the drain without celebration.”
He was right, she supposed. Wasn’t it a happy occasion? And hadn’t she begun to feel a little happier about it all since she’d begun drinking the martinis Mac brought to her? Mac, that was a much nicer name than McQuade. Mac.
“Mac,” she said, rolling the name on her tongue.
“Yes?”
“Nothing. Just testing.” She smiled and sipped at her drink. The sting was gone now. Only the smoothness remained.
“Hello, Cara,” Griff said.
Cara looked up. “Oh, Griff. How are you?”
“Fine, thanks. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I didn’t expect to be here. Mr. Manelli’s idea. He’s treating his little secretary to a day away from the mill.”
“Well, that sounds like the first good idea Joe has had in a long time.”
“Thank you,” Cara said.
“You look very pretty.”
“Thank you again.”
“It seems funny talking to you without a trombone blasting at my back,” he said, smiling.
“Or without feeling like a sardine in—” She cut herself short, smiling awkwardly.
“It was pretty damned awful, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I’ve been meaning to… well, you know, I felt pretty bad about the way it all turned out. I was thinking maybe we could try it again. When the weather is in our favor.”
“I’d like to,” she said.
“Maybe next week?” Griff said. “How about Saturday night?”
“Ask me on Monday,” Cara answered.
“Why not now?”
“You’ve been drinking a little. I never take advantage of anyone when they’re under the affluence of incohol.”
“You’re not only pretty,” he said. “You’re honorable.”
“The most honorable Cara Knowles,” she said.
“All right, I’ll ask you on Monday. Now, then, what do we talk about now?”
“Did you like the showing?”
“Loved it.”
“Wasn’t that girl…?”
“Marge? My typist. She made quite a hit, didn’t she?” He remembered Marge and looked around the room for her, a little displeased when he saw she was sitting with McQuade. “Come on,” he said on impulse, “let’s go over and chat.”
Cara looked at him curiously. “All right,” she said.
“If you’re looking for olives,” Stiegman said, “I’ve got a full glass of them right here.”
The redheaded model looked at Stiegman disinterestedly. Her glance dropped from his face to the martini glass in his hand. True enough, the glass was full of small green olives.
“How kind of you,” she said frostily.
“I noticed you were chiseling olives. I said to myself, a pretty girl like that shouldn’t have to go begging. A pretty girl like that should have a bushelful of olives if she wants them. That’s what I said to myself.”
“And what did yourself answer?” the redhead said.
“What?”
“Are you connected with Kahn, too, or are you a buyer?”
“I’m with Kahn,” Stiegman replied, offering the olives once more.
“I was hoping you’d be a buyer,” the girl said.
Stiegman looked at her curiously. “You know, I don’t recall seeing you modeling any of our shoes this afternoon. You are one of…?”
“I’m a model,” the girl said flatly.
“But…”
“Listen, are we going to argue, or are we going to be friends?”
“I’d much rather be friends,” Stiegman said.
“That’s what I’m here for, honey,” the girl answered. “But I still wish you were a buyer.”
“So,” Hengman said, “after all is said end done, it’s still ah nize deal, ain’t it? Aver’body has a hell of a nize time, end ull d’eggrivation is forgotten, no? We hev the showing, end den we anjoy oursalves, end det’s the way it should be, am I right?”
“You’re right, Boris,” Ed Posnansky said.
“What’s the sanse killink oursalves? We got more dan one life to live, maybe? Only once are we here on this earth, Ad, remamber dat. So, anjoy oursalves, that’s my motto.”
“You’re ab’slutely right, Boris,” Posnansky said drunkenly. “Boris, they’re people who call you a stupid sunfabi’, but I alwys say’re wrong, Boris. You got tochis, Boris.” Posnansky tapped his temple. “Tochis, Boris, ’n’ ’ass what counts in this grdmn merground. Tochis.”
“Who culls me ‘stupit’?” Hengman asked.