Pleasure Thieves

Monsieur Novak looked solicitously at his client and begged to be excused for a moment. Madame Rothman looked dreamily after him as though he were a lover she dared not part with. He charmed this type of rapport into his clientele. "It must always be there," he coached the novices who worked for him. "They must think that they are being presented with a gift such as a King gives to his Queen."

"Richard. Care for Madame Rothman, will you? And oh yes, please change the tune you're humming today." He winked at Madame Rothman, "I suppose you find me a bit eccentric?" He crossed the room briskly, leaving his precious client giggling like a young hen, happily guarded by a little boy blue. When he was gone, she studied the image of the necklace in the glass more intensely, her mouth a colorless smile of greed.

Inside his soundproofed inner office, the face of Monsieur Novak became expressionless. He sat down behind his empty mahogany desk.

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.