Double Standards

by Judith McNaught

  "Did you have a nice day, honey?" her mother asked as the two of them descended the curving staircase toward the dining room.

  "It was okay," Lauren mumbled, wondering how she was going to restrain the urge to give Carter Whitworth a good swift kick.

  At the bottom of the stairs, a maid announced that a Mr. Robert Danner was on the telephone. "You go on ahead," Gina told her daughter with one of her gentle smiles as she reached for the telephone on the small table at the foot of the stairs.

  In the arched doorway of the dining room, Lauren hesitated. Beneath a glittering chandelier, the Whitworth family was already seated at the huge table. "I distinctly told the Danner woman to come down at eight o'clock," Carter's mother was saying to her husband. "It is now 8:02. If she doesn't have enough sense or manners to be punctual, then we'll eat without her." She nodded curtly to the butler, who immediately began ladling soup into the fragile porcelain bowls at each place.

  "Philip, I've been as tolerant of this as I can be," the woman went on, "but I refuse to have any more of these trashy freeloaders as guests in my home." She turned her elegantly coiffured blond head to the older woman seated to her left. "Mother Whitworth, this will have to stop. By now you surely have gathered enough data to complete your project."

  "If I had, I wouldn't need to have these people here. I know they've been an irritating ill-bred lot and a trial for all of us, but you will have to tolerate them a while longer, Carol."

  Lauren stood in the doorway, a rebellious sparkle glittering in her stormy blue eyes. It was one thing for her to have suffered indignities at Carter's hands, but she would not allow these horrible, vicious people to belittle her brilliant father and her beautiful talented mother!

  Her mother joined her at the entrance to the dining room. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," she said, taking Lauren's hand. Not one of the Whitworths bothered to reply but continued eating the soup the butler had served.

  Seized by a sudden inspiration, Lauren darted a swift glance at her mother, who was unfolding a linen napkin and placing it in her lap. Piously bowing her head, Lauren clasped her hands together and, in her shrill childish voice intoned, "Dear Lord, we ask your blessing on this food. We also ask your forgiveness for people who are hypocrites and who think they are better than everybody else just because they have more money. Thank you, Lord. Amen." Meticulously avoiding her mother's eyes, she calmly picked up her spoon.

  The soup—at least Lauren presumed it was soup—was cold. The butler, standing off to one side, noticed her put down her spoon. "Is something wrong, miss?" he sniffed.

  "My soup is cold," she explained, braving his disdainful look.

  "Boy, are you stupid!" Carter smirked as Lauren picked up her small glass of milk. "This is vichyssoise, and it's supposed to be eaten cold."

  The milk "slipped" from Lauren's hand, dousing Carter's place setting and lap in a cold white deluge. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, muffling a giggle as Carter and the butler both tried to mop up the mess. "It was just an accident—Carter, you know about accidents, don't you? Shall I tell everyone about the 'accidents' you had today?" Ignoring his murderous glare, she turned to his family. "Carter had lots of 'accidents' today. He 'accidentally' tripped while showing me the garden and shoved me into the roses. Then, while he was showing me the dogs, he 'accidentally' locked me in the pen and—"

  "I refuse to listen to any more of your outrageous, ill-mannered accusations," Carol Whitworth snapped at Lauren, her beautiful face as cold and hard as a glacier.

  Somehow Lauren had found the courage to meet her icy gray eyes without flinching. "I'm sorry, ma'am," she said with pretended meekness. "I didn't realize it was bad manners to talk about my day." With all the Whitworths still glaring at her, she picked up her spoon. "Of course," she added thoughtfully, "I didn't know it was good manners to call guests trashy freeloaders, either."

  3

  « ^ »

  Exhausted and dispirited, Lauren pulled up in front of the Whitworths' three-story Tudor mansion. She unlocked the trunk of her car and removed her suitcase. She had driven twelve hours straight in order to keep her appointment with Philip Whitworth that afternoon. She had been through two job interviews, fallen down in the dirt, spoiled her clothes and met the most handsome compelling man she'd ever seen. And by deliberately flunking her tests at Sinco, she had ruined her chances of working near him…

  Tomorrow was Friday, and she would spend it looking for an apartment. As soon as she found one, she could leave immediately for Fenster to pack her belongings. Philip had not mentioned when he wanted her to start working for his company, but she could be back here ready to report for work two weeks from Monday.

  The front door was opened by a paunchy uniformed butler whom Lauren instantly recognized as one of the witnesses to her dining-room performance fourteen years before. "Good evening," he began, but Philip Whitworth interrupted him.

  Striding into the vast marble foyer the executive exclaimed, "Lauren, I've been worried to death about you! What's kept you so long?"

  He looked so anxious that Lauren felt terrible for worrying him, and even worse for letting him down by not trying harder to get a job at Sinco. In a few words she explained that things had "not gone very well" with her interview. Hastily she sketched in details of her fall in front of the Global Industries Building, and asked if she had time to freshen up before dinner.

  Upstairs in the room the butler showed her to, she showered, brushed her hair and changed into a tailored apricot skirt and matching blouse.

  Philip stood up as she approached the arched doorway of the drawing room. "You're wonderfully quick, Lauren," he said, leading her over to his wife, whose glacial personality she recalled so well. "Carol, I know you remember Lauren."

  Despite her personal prejudice, Lauren had to admit that with her slim elegant figure and carefully coiffed blond hair Carol Whitworth was still a beautiful woman.

  "Of course I do," Carol said with a pleasantly correct smile that didn't quite reach her gray eyes. "How are you, Lauren?"

  "Obviously Lauren is very, very well, mother," Carter Whitworth remarked, grinning as he politely got to his feet. His lazy, sweeping glance covered everything from her vivid blue eyes and delicately molded features to her gracefully feminine figure.

  Lauren kept her expression neutral as she was reintroduced to her childhood tormentor. Accepting the glass of sherry Carter had poured for her, she sat down on the sofa, eyeing him warily when he sat beside her instead of returning to his chair. "You've certainly changed," he said with an admiring grin.

  "So have you," Lauren answered cautiously.

  He draped his arm casually across the back of the sofa behind her shoulders. "We didn't get along very well, as I remember," he mused.

  "No, we didn't." Lauren flicked a self-conscious glance toward Carol, who was observing her son's little flirtation, her eyes cool and inscrutable, her expression regally aloof.

  "Why didn't we get along?" Carter persisted.

  "I, er, don't recall."

  "I do." He smiled. "I was insufferably rude and thoroughly rotten to you."

  Lauren stared in amazement at his frank, rueful expression, her prejudice against him beginning to dissolve. "Yes, you were."

  "And you—" he grinned "—behaved like an outrageous brat at dinner."

  Lauren's eyes brightened with an answering smile as she slowly nodded her head. "Yes, I did." A tentative truce was thereby declared. Carter glanced up at the butler hovering in the doorway, then stood up and offered his hand to Lauren. "Dinner is ready. Shall we?"

  They had just finished the last course when the butler appeared in the dining room. "Excuse me, but there is a telephone call for Miss Danner from a man who says he is Mr. Weatherby, with the Sinco Electronics Company."

  Philip Whitworth broke into a beaming smile. "Bring the phone here to the table, Higgins."

  The phone conversation was brief, with Lauren mostly listening. When she hung up, she raised amaze
d, laughing eyes to Philip.

  "Go ahead," he said, "tell us. Carol and Carter are both aware of what you're trying to do to help me."

  Lauren was a little dismayed to learn that two other people were aware of her clandestine future, but she complied. "Apparently the man who rescued me when I fell tonight had a very influential friend at Sinco. This friend called Mr. Weatherby a few minutes ago, and as a result, Mr. Weatherby has just remembered a secretarial position that he thinks is perfect for me. I'm to be interviewed for it tomorrow."

  "Did he mention who'll be interviewing you?"

  "I think he said the man's name was Mr. Williams."

  "Jim Williams," Philip murmured softly, his smile broadening. "I'll be damned."

  Shortly afterward Carter left for his own apartment, and Carol retired for the night. But Philip asked Lauren to remain in the drawing room with him. "Williams may want you to start immediately," he said when the others had gone. "We don't want any obstacles in the way of you getting that job. How soon can you go home, pack and return to work?"

  "I can't go home to pack until I've found an apartment here," Lauren reminded him.

  "No, of course not," he agreed. After a moment's thought he said, "You know, a few years ago I bought a condominium in Bloomfield Hills for an aunt of mine. She's been in Europe for months now and intends to stay there for another year. It would be my pleasure to have you live at her place."

  "No, really, I couldn't," Lauren said quickly. "You've already done more than enough for me; I can't let you provide a place for me to live, too."

  "I insist," he said with kindly firmness. "And anyway, you'll be doing me a favor, because I've had to pay the gatekeeper at the condominium complex a sizable sum every month to watch the place. This way we'll both save money."

  Lauren plucked absently at the sleeve of her apricot blouse. Her father needed every penny she could send him, and as quickly as possible. If she didn't have to spend money for rent, she could send him that, too. Troubled and uncertain, she looked at Philip, but he had already extracted a pen and paper from his suit-coat pocket and was writing something down. "Here's the address and phone number of the condominium," he said, handing her the piece of paper. "When you fill out your employment papers at Sinco tomorrow, give them this information. That way, no one there will ever connect you with me."

  A shiver of foreboding danced up Lauren's spine at the ominous reminder of the dual role she would be playing if she went to work for Sinco. Spying. Her mind skated away in alarm from the word. No, she wouldn't really be doing that. All she would really be doing was trying to ferret out the name of the treacherous person who was spying on Philip's company. Seen from that viewpoint, her mission became not only justified, it became positively honorable. For a moment she felt quite virtuous—until she sternly reminded herself of the real reason she was now so willing and eager to work for Sinco: Nick Sinclair worked right across the street, and she wanted the opportunity to be near him.

  Philip's voice interrupted her thoughts. "If you're offered a secretarial position at Sinco tomorrow, accept it and leave from there for Missouri. If I don't hear from you by noon tomorrow, I'll know you got the position, and I'll arrange to have the condominium ready for you within a week."

  4

  « ^ »

  The following morning at eleven-fifty, Lauren was lucky enough to find a parking space right across from Sinco's offices, directly in front of the Global Industries Building. With a mixture of dread and anticipation, she got out of the car, smoothed her slim beige skirt, straightened the short matching military jacket and crossed the street to see Mr. Weatherby.

  Despite his formal, almost ingratiating smile, Mr. Weatherby was obviously annoyed. "Really, Miss Danner," he said, ushering her into his office, "you could have saved yourself, me and several others a great deal of time and trouble if you had simply told me when you came in yesterday that you're a friend of Mr. Sinclair's."

  "Did Mr. Sinclair call you and tell you I was a friend of his?" Lauren asked curiously.

  "No," Mr. Weatherby said, trying hard to hide his irritation. "Mr. Sinclair called the president of our company, Mr. Sampson. Mr. Sampson called the executive vice-president, who called the vice-president of operations, who called my boss. And last night my boss called me at home and informed me that I had offended and misjudged Miss Danner, who happens to be extremely bright and a personal friend of Mr. Sinclair's. Then he hung up on me."

  Lauren could not believe she had stirred up such a furor. "I'm terribly sorry to have caused you so much trouble," she said contritely. "It wasn't entirely your fault—after all, I did fail my tests."

  He nodded in emphatic agreement. "I told my boss you didn't know which end of a pencil to write with, but he said he didn't give a damn if you typed with your toes." Heaving himself out of his chair, he said, "Now, if you'll come with me, I'll take you up to Mr. Williams's office. Mr. Williams is our executive vice-president and his secretary is moving to California. He wants to interview you for the position."

  "Is Mr. Williams the executive vice-president who called the vice-president of operations, who called—" Lauren began uneasily.

  "Exactly," Mr. Weatherby interrupted.

  Lauren followed him, beset with the unsettling thought that even if he detested her, Mr. Williams might offer her a job because he had been intimidated by his superior. But minutes later she abandoned any such idea. James Williams, in his mid-thirties, had the brisk, authoritative air of a man who would never be anyone's puppet. He glanced up from the documents he was reading when Mr. Weatherby brought Lauren into his office and nodded coolly toward the leather chair in front of his large desk. "Sit down," he said to Lauren. To Mr. Weatherby he said curtly, "Close the door behind you as you leave."

  Lauren sat as she'd been told to do and waited as Jim Williams stood up and came around in front of his desk. Leaning back against it, he crossed his arms over his chest, and his penetrating gaze swept over her. "So you're Lauren Danner?" he said dispassionately.

  "Yes," Lauren admitted. "I'm afraid so."

  Amusement flickered across his face, momentarily softening the cool, businesslike features. "I take it from that remark that you're aware of the uproar you caused last night?"

  "Yes," Lauren sighed. "In every excruciating, embarrassing detail."

  "Can you spell 'excruciating'?"

  "Yes," she said, completely taken aback.

  "How fast can you type—when you aren't under testing conditions?"

  Lauren flushed. "About a hundred words a minute."

  "Shorthand?"

  "Yes."

  Without taking his eyes from her face, he reached behind him and picked up a pencil and tablet lying on his desk. Handing them to her, he said, "Take this down, please."

  Lauren stared at him in amazement then recovered and began to write as he dictated swiftly: "Dear Miss Danner, as my administrative assistant, you will be expected to perform a variety of secretarial duties and to function efficiently and smoothly as my personal liaison with my staff. You will, at all times, adhere precisely to company policies, regardless of your acquaintance with Nick Sinclair. In a few weeks we will be moving into the Global Building, and if you ever attempt to take advantage of your friendship with Mr. Sinclair, either by shirking your duties or ignoring the rules that apply to the rest of the staff, I will fire you on the spot and personally escort you out the front door. If, on the other hand, you show interest and initiative, I will delegate as much responsibility to you as you wish to accept and are capable of handling. If this meets with your approval, report for work here in my office at 9:00 a.m. two weeks from Monday. Any questions, Lauren?"

  Lauren raised dazed eyes to him. "You mean I have the job?"

  "That depends on whether you can type that memo without errors in a reasonably short time."

  Lauren was too stunned by this cool, unemotional offer of a job to be nervous about transcribing her dictation. In a few minutes, she returned from the typewri
ter and walked hesitantly into his office. "Here's the memo, Mr. Williams."

  He glanced at it and then at her. "Very efficient. How did Weatherby ever get the idea that you're a feather-brain?"

  "It's the impression I gave him," Lauren said obliquely.

  "Care to tell me how that happened?"

  "No, not really. It was all a… a misunderstanding."

  "Very well, we'll leave it at that. Now, is there anything else we need to discuss? Yes, of course there is—your salary."

  The salary he named was $2,000 a year less than Philip had offered, but Philip had promised to make up the difference.

  "Well, do you want the job?"

  "Yes," Lauren said with a faint smile. "And no. I would like to work for you, because I have the feeling that I could learn a great deal. But I don't want the job if the only reason you're offering it to me is because of… of…"

  "Nick Sinclair?"

  Lauren nodded.

  "Nick has nothing whatsoever to do with it. I've known him for many years, and we're good friends. Friendship, however, has no place in business matters. Nick has his job and I have mine. I do not presume to tell him how to do his, and I would not appreciate his trying to influence my choice of a secretary."

  "Then why did you decide to interview me today, even though I failed my tests?"

  His brown eyes twinkled. "Oh, that. Well, as a matter of fact, my former secretary, for whom I have the greatest respect, struck sparks off Weatherby from the very first. When I heard that a bright young secretarial applicant hadn't hit it off with him yesterday, I thought perhaps you might be another Theresa. You aren't, but I think you and I will work together even better, Lauren."