The Best of Everything

by Rona Jaffe

  "Two years old?" Mr. Bossart said. "She must be bright."

  "You should hear how well she talks," Barbara said.

  Mr. Shalimar came back with two filled glasses in his hand. He put them on the table but he did not sit down. He stood there in front of Barbara, bracing himself with his palms on the edge of the table. "I like your looks," he said thickly. "You're plain but you're pretty. You have a nice bone structure in your face. I'll bet you have nice legs. I love girls' legs. They're the most important part of a girl's body. Do you have pretty legs?"

  Barbara looked at him without answering.

  "Then . . . I'll see for myself," he said. Clumsily he lowered himself to the floor on all fours and crept under the table. His body was hidden by the white tablecloth, but his legs, in black trousers and impeccably shined narrow black shoes, protruded in full view of everyone in the room. Caroline stared at those legs and shoes in fascination, not knowing quite whether to laugh or bite her nails. There was a grunting sound from the depths under the table and some muffled words. Then slowly, his dark face darker from the exertion, Mr. Shalimar crawled backward out from under the table and raised himself to his feet.

  "You have beau-ti-ful legs," he said.

  From around the small room there arose a sound that was at first like a sigh or intake of breath, and then swiftly, as ff it could not be contained, it turned into laughter. If anyone had been looking at Mr. Shalimar under the table, and they evidently had, then it would have been impossible not to hear his words. Caroline saw two girls and two men at the table not two feet away from theirs choking with shocked laughter and pointing at him. When they noticed her look-

  ing at them they stopped laughing and put their glasses to their mouths to hide their smiles. Mr. Shalimar was oblivious to it. He was still standing, leaning across the table to Barbara, trying to kiss her. This time Barbara ducked and turned her head and he missed her face entirely, kissing at the air.

  Mr. Shalimar wavered, his fingers clutching at the wrinkled tablecloth. He scowled. "Bitch!" he said, and then louder, "Bitch!"

  Barbara could not stand up to leave, she was hemmed in between Mr. Shalimar and Mr. Bossart, who was watching her with a look of real concern on his face.

  "I only wanted to kiss you," Mr. Shalimar went on, his voice rising. "What did you think I wanted to do, rape you?" The room was as silent as a snowbound night.

  "You little bitch," Mr. Shalimar cried, choking. "You're fired. Don't you dare come into this oflSce on Monday. Don't you dare!"

  Mr. Bossart stood up swiftly and took Mr. Shalimar by the arm. He looked at Barbara and Caroline as if he wanted to say something, anything, but then he shook his head in helpless disgust and led Mr. Shalimar from tlie room. Mr. Shalimar was tractable, now that his instantaneous fury had flared up and exploded like a Roman candle, and he allowed himself to be removed from the shocked whispering that echoed and re-echoed all around him.

  Barbara was staring straight ahead, angry tears in her eyes. "Don't you worry," Caroline said, putting her arm around her. "He hasn't any authority to fire you. You're not even in his department. Besides, Mr. Bossart will probably laugh in his face and give you the Purple Heart."

  Barbara turned to look at her. For the first time that evening her feelings were revealed completely on her face—resolution, fury and desperation. "I need this job," she said. "He's not going to take it away from me if I have to go to Mr. Fabian himself. You bet Shalimar's not going to have me fired. That dirty old man!"

  Chapter 13

  Barbara Lemont continued to sit at the table where she had been humiliated, her fists clenched. What she would have liked to do when Shalimar was under the table looking at her legs was put her foot squarely in his face. It had been so close to her she had felt his hot breath on her shins. With all the alcohol that was in that blast it was a wonder he hadn't melted her nylons. What a shame that the delightful thought of kicking him had come to her only now, when it was obviously too late. Well, maybe there was truth in the adage "Heaven Will Protect the Working Girl." If she'd kicked him, he really might have been able to fire her.

  Here was Mr. Bossart coming back, alone. He reminded her of a clothing-store dummy, or one of those models who pose in the men's fashion section of a magazine. He sat down beside her and folded his hands like a deacon, looking down at his square, antiseptically manicured thumbs. He cleared his throat.

  "There's always an incident or two at even the best-run office party," Mr. Bossart began. He looked at her and smiled winningly. "You seem like a very poised, sensible girl. I know you'll take it for what it was worth, and let the office gossip die down as quickly as possible by not adding to what is said after tonight."

  "I never gossip," Barbara said coldly. Despite her control, tears came into her eyes. There was nothing like being called a bitch to make a girl fall to pieces. It had always been that way with her, and "little bitch" was somehow even worse.

  "I'm sure tomorrow Mr. Shalimar won't even remember any of this," Mr. Bossart said. "If and when he does remember, it will upset him very much."

  And we mustn't let it do that, Barbara thought. She said nothing.

  Mr. Bossart smiled again. "You'll forgive him, won't you?"

  "Why are you sticking up for him?" she asked curiously.

  "I like him."

  "Oh."

  "Now, don't say 'Oh' like that, Barbara. I think you're a lovely, refined girl. I like you too. I wouldn't be going to all this trouble apologizing for him, trying to make amends, if I tliought you were just like some of the other little typists who think an incident like this is worth a week or two of coffee-break jokes."

  "Excuse me," Caroline Bender said. She stood up. "I have to meet someone. Good night."

  "Good night," Mr. Bossart said.

  Caroline picked up her purse and mouthed a kiss at Barbara. Then she made a fist over the back of Mr. Bossart's head and made a face of mock fury which turned into a grin. Barbara couldn't help giinning back as Caroline slipped away.

  "Good," Mr. Bossart said, noticing her expression. "You're forgetting about it already."

  Barbara didn't answer.

  "We'll go somewhere and have a drink and forget about it."

  So he was asking her out. Evidently he had asked Caroline first, because he had been with her all evening, and she had said no because she had another appointment. Now, in the guise of atonement, he was making her second fiddle. Did she want to go with him? Why not? Mr. Bossart was too much of a stuffed shirt to try to pull a Shalimar, even a minor variation, and she certainly didn't want to stay here any longer. People at the other tables were still looking at her, waiting to see what would happen next.

  "All right," Barbara said pleasantly.

  While Mr. Bossart was getting her coat Barbara leaned tiredly against the checkroom counter. What a disappointment this party had been. She hadn't met a soul, and Mr. Shalimar, whose reputation and reminiscences had intrigued her, had turned out to be a garter-snapper of the worst order. A mental picture of him, running along a line of girls and snapping their garters as fast as his fingers could move, like one of those trick camera stills of recorded motion, arose in her mind and she laughed to herself.

  "Now! You look like a different girl." Mr. Bossart was holding her coat for her to put on. She sHpped her arms into the sleeves. He wasn't so bad, he was trying hard. After all, he would sacrifice an assistant for an editor-in-chief any day, but he didn't want to sacrifice either. She had a good job, she'd gotten her promotion and the raise that went with it, so she'd be a good sport. Mr. Bossart would

  remember this the next time she asked for a raise, which would be soon. , . .

  He took her to a small, dim, fairly expensive bar on a side street oflF Madison Avenue. Barbara recognized it instantly as the type of bar she and her friends referred to as a "married-man's bar," which meant no one who knew him or his wife would be apt to know about it, and if they did come there, it was too dark to see anyone else anyway.


  "I often come here when I stay late in town," Mr. Bossart said. "It's very pleasant."

  "Yes," Barbara said. She leaned back against the leather banquette and sipped her drink. There were three Hawaiian musicians roaming the room, stopping at each table to play Hawaiian songs on their strange instruments that always sounded to her like the tropical surf at midnight. If there were music coming off the moon, she thought, it would sound like that.

  "Hey! Sidney!" Mr. Bossart called softly, leaning forward. Barbara looked up. The man who had passed their table to go to the bar stopped and looked back.

  "Hey, Art!" He smiled, the most arresting smile Barbara had ever seen. It was the kind of smile that made you forget completely what the rest of his face was like, it had in it so much sweetness and genuine pleasure and deviltry all combined. Not that the rest of his features were bad. They were quite likable in fact, and very young for a man whose hair was completely silver gray. He did not look older than forty.

  "All alone?" said Mr. Bossart.

  "Yes. Thought I'd stop in for one or two before I made the train." He looked at Barbara and started to go back to the bar.

  "Sit down with us," Mr. Bossart said, already moving aside.

  "All right." He sat down next to Barbara and gave her a modified version of that smile, which was still enough to make her sit up straight.

  "Barbara Lemont, Sidney Carter," Mr. Bossart said.

  "I'm very glad to meet you."

  "How do you do," Barbara said softly.

  "We've just been at the annual Fabian blowout," Mr. Bossart said, as if he wanted to reassure Sidney Carter that Barbara wasn't one of his regular dates.

  "Oh? How was it?"

  "Very fine," Mr. Bossart said. "Very fine."

  "Lovely," Barbara said, without much enthusiasm.

  "We aren't having a party this year," said Sidney Carter. "I discovered that everyone on my staff was looking forward to it with the same dread that I was, so I gave them all bigger bonuses instead and called it a day. We're lucky in that we all get along with one another very well, but in some companies I don't see how they get through the merry Yule without a fist fight or two."

  Barbara laughed.

  "What do you do at Fabian?" Sidney Carter asked her.

  "Besides have fist fights?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm Assistant Beauty Editor on Americas Woman. As of yesterday, actually."

  "Now you can tell her about Wonderful," Mr. Bossart said.

  "Wonderful perfume? Do you make it?"

  "Oh, no. We try to sell it," Sidney Carter said. "It's one of our accounts."

  "The Sidney Carter Agency," Barbara said. "Of course. I remember now."

  Sidney pretended to sniff at her neck. "You don't wear it."

  "I have a surprise for you" Barbara said. She opened her purse, and there, as she had remembered it was, was the flacon of Wonderful she carried when she went on dates. There were only a few drops left at the bottom. "Look, I have some right with me."

  "Well, would you believe it?" Sidney cried. "You're almost out, too. I'll send you a two-ounce bottle next week."

  "Thank you."

  "It's a good thing," Sidney said, "that I didn't mention our golf-club account. She'd probably have a set of those hidden in her coat sleeve."

  The strolling Hawaiians stopped in front of their table and began to play "The Hawaiian War Chant" loudly and with enthusiasm. For some reason it put Barbara in a very good mood again, she found herself humming along with it and tapping on the table edge with her fingers. Sidney looked at her and slipped the leader a folded bill.

  "Play the beer commercial," he said.

  The leader griimed. The Hawaiians glanced at one another with

  unconcealed delight and began the funniest song Barbara had ever heard. It was "Piels is the beer for me, boys, Piels is the beer for me, played in a jazzed-up Hawaiian rhythm and accompanied by the Hawaiians singing the words at the top of their voices in Hawaiian.

  "Play it again," she said when they had finished, "Please!"

  Sidney nodded at the musicians. "Well, just once more," the leader said reluctantly, and then they went through the whole thing again.

  "I could listen to that all night," Barbara said when they had finished and gone to the next table.

  "Well, I couldn't," said Mr. Bossart, shuddering in mock horror. He stood up and went oflF to the men's room.

  Left alone with Sidney Carter, Barbara couldn't think of anything to say. She bit her lip. All the things she would ordinarily say to a date or a boy her age she couldn't say to this man, because he obviously was married and an executive and probably should have caught a commuter train that left two hours ago. Anything polite and forced she would ordinarily say to a business acquaintance she couldn't say either because Sidney Carter had a glint in his eye and a contagious smile and he had changed her evening in ten minutes from a thing of hopelessness to something delightful.

  "I might run an ad for Wonderful in America's Woman," he said. "Do you think that would be a good idea?"

  "Of course."

  "No, seriously. Don't just say yes because you work there and you're out with one of the vice-presidents. I want to know what you think as an editor and a woman."

  She was so self-conscious she knew she was saying the wrong thing but she couldn't seem to stop herself. "I'm not 'out with' Mr. Bossart the way you think I am. And I'm not an editor, I'm just an assistant editor, and I'm not really even a woman; I'm twenty-one."

  "Then answer me according to all those things."

  She paused. "Frankly, I think Wonderful is too expensive for our readers. They're mostly young housewives who don't get a chance to shop in big department stores. They buy everything at the supermarket or the shopping center and they have to drag their babies along when they do shop because they only have part-time help if at all. They buy cologne in the drugstore, and for special occasions, like Christmas or a birthday, their husbands sometimes buy perfume

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  for them but more often a big appliance like a washing machine, which they need a lot more."

  Sidney Carter nodded. "But you use Wonderful. Then tell me what you're like."

  She paused again. How much could she tell him? Obviously he wanted to know how much she was typical, not atypical. "I'm a working girl," Barbara said finally. "This is my first job. I went to college for a while and never finished, and then I took a secretarial course, and I found my job through an employment agency. I don't make very much money but how I look is important to me, partly because of vanity and morale and partly because of the kind of work I'm in. I'd spend practically my last cent on cosmetics and perfume if nobody gave them to me for presents. I don't see any point in buying cheap perfume because 7 have to smell it too."

  "Did you get that little bottle of Wonderful for a present?"

  "No. I bought it for myself." She smiled. "That's why it's so little."

  He put his elbow on the table, leaned his chin on his fist, and looked at her for a while. "What kinds of presents do you get from the boys who take you out?"

  "I get them," Barbara said. She didn't reahze how bitter her tone sounded until the words were already out and it was too late.

  Sidney smiled. But this time it wasn't that devastating smile, it was totally different—full of understanding and a little sad. "Haven't you met anybody you liked?" he asked gently.

  Suddenly she wanted to pour everything out to him, a stranger.

  She turned her head away. There was Mr. Bossart standing at the very end of the bar, she noticed with desperation, with his arm around a big beefy man. He looked as if he were settled for the next half hour. Oh, I hate this Sidney Carter, she thought. Why is he so kind? He's making me feel sorry for myself.

  "Not yet," she answered lightly.

  *^ou ought to be married," he said. "I can tell."

  "I was married."

  "Divorced?" There was so much compassion in his tone that in
that instant the entire last scene with Mac came back as if it had happened that very evening. And not only that evening but every single evening, relentlessly, since he had left her.

  "Yes," she said.

  "And you live alone?"

  "I have a daughter," she said.

  "Oh . . ." She could see it on his face then, what he was thinking: this poor girl, so young, no wonder she never has enough money, how lonely she must be, and how frightened of the future.

  "Doesn't anyone take care of you? Your parents?"

  "I take care of my mother and she takes care of the baby. My father died when I was nine. My ex-husband sends us a little money, of course."

  "You'll find someone who'll take care of you," he said.

  From anyone else she would have mistrusted that statement, it would have aroused all her protective instincts, real and imaginary, and she would have thought. Why, the old sugar daddy! But Sidney's tone was so obviously impersonal, and yet so obviously concerned with her needs, that she knew he was envisioning a nice young bachelor, and the contrast between his opinion of what she deserved and what she was actually receiving broke down the last of the wall of reserve she had carefully kept around her since she had come back to New York.

  "Oh, no I won'tl" she said in a quiet voice that was just on the edge of tears.

  "You should have someone to care for you," he said. "What's the matter with all these boys?"

  "They're just getting started in their careers, the same as I am. If they have any children in the next few years they want them to be their own babies."

  He shook his head slowly, looking at her with eyes that were troubled.

  "I think all the time," Barbara said, "What about my baby? She's here. She has a right to be happy, to have a home and a father. What am I supposed to do, forget she exists? I was at the oflBce party tonight and there was an old bastard moving in on me, making passes. He was a very important man in the company and I knew I couldn't make a scene in front of other people." She caught Sidney's surprised look and added quickly, "Oh, no, it wasn't Mr. Bossart. It was someone else, I won't say who. The whole time he was pawing my leg and trying to kiss me and making me sick to my stomach one thought kept running through my mind. What will happen to my daughter if I lose my job? I realize now it was panic, that I could quit tomorrow and teU my new boss exactly why, or threaten to and keep the job