by Robin Cook
“I seriously doubt you are going to get a job,” Joanna said suddenly, breaking a long silence. “And maybe I won’t either because of you.”
Deborah switched her attention from staring out the windshield to her roommate’s profile. Although she didn’t say anything immediately, she leaned forward and switched off the radio.
Joanna’s eyes diverted briefly to Deborah’s, then back to the road ahead.
“Is that why you’re so quiet?” Deborah asked. “You’ve not said boo practically since we left this morning.”
“You promised me you wouldn’t turn this into a joke,” Joanna said.
Deborah looked down at her panty-hose-covered knees for a moment. “This is no joke,” she said. “This is called taking advantage of an opportunity and having a bit of fun.”
“You call it fun, and I call it a study in bad taste.”
“That’s your taste,” Deborah said. “And, ironically, mine too. But not everybody would agree with you, particularly not the male population.”
“You don’t seriously think men are going to be turned on by your appearance, do you?”
“Actually, I think they will be,” Deborah said. “Not all men, mind you, but a lot. I’ve watched men react to women dressed like this. There’s always a reaction, perhaps not for reasons I care about, but nonetheless a reaction, and for once in my life I’m going to experience it.”
“I think it’s a myth,” Joanna said. “I think it’s a female distortion similar to men’s idea that women are turned on by brawn and big muscles.”
“Nah! I don’t think it’s the same at all,” Deborah said with a wave of her hand. “Besides, you’re speaking from your old traditional female upbringing with dating serving as a prelude to marriage. Let me remind you yet again that men can look at women and dating as being a game or even a sport. They see it as entertainment, just as, I’d also like to remind you, the modern twenty-first-century woman can.”
“I don’t want to get into an argument about this issue,” Joanna said. “The problem is, we’ve an appointment with a woman, and I doubt that she is going to be amused with your appearance. The bottom line is that I don’t think you will get a job, pure and simple.”
“I disagree on that regard as well,” Deborah said. “The personnel director is a woman, I grant you that. But she’s got to be a realist about recruitment. I’m applying for a job in a laboratory, not out in the front meeting patients. Besides, they saw fit to hire that redhead receptionist who was almost as provocatively dressed as I am.”
“But why even take the chance?” Joanna complained.
“The worry was, as you voiced it yourself, whether or not we’d be recognized,” Deborah said. “Trust me! We’re not going to be recognized. On top of that we’re having a little fun. I’m not going to give up trying to loosen you up and keep you from having a social relapse.”
“Oh, sure!” Joanna said. “Now you’re going to try to convince me that your dressing up like a tart is for my benefit. Give me a break!”
“All right, mostly for me, but a little for you too.”
By the time they got to Bookford and drove through town, Joanna had reconciled herself to Deborah’s appearance. She imagined that the worst-case scenario would be for Deborah not to get a job, but there was little reason that Deborah’s difficulties would affect her chances. Deborah’s not getting a job would hardly be a disaster. After all, Joanna had originally planned to go to the Wingate Clinic by herself. It was Deborah who’d insisted on coming along.
“Do you remember where the turnoff is?” Joanna asked. On the previous visit she’d not been driving, and whenever she was the passenger she had difficulty remembering landmarks.
“It will be on the left just after this upcoming curve,” Deborah said. “I remember it was just beyond this barn on the right.”
“You’re right; I see the sign,” Joanna said as she straightened the car after the turn. She slowed and pulled off onto the gravel road. Ahead they could see the stone gatehouse. Nosing into the tunnel beneath the house and barring their way was a line of trucks. The uniformed guard could be seen, clipboard in hand, apparently conversing with the driver inside the cab of the first truck.
“Looks like delivery time for the farm,” Deborah said. The back of the last truck said WEBSTER ANIMAL FEED.
“What time is it?” Joanna asked. She was concerned about the time since they’d ended up leaving the apartment twenty minutes later than intended, having had to wait for Deborah’s nails to dry.
“It’s five before ten,” Deborah said.
“Oh great!” Joanna commented despairingly. “I hate to be late for appointments, especially if I’m applying for a job.”
“We can only do the best we can,” Deborah said.
Joanna nodded. She loathed patronizing comments like that, and she knew Deborah knew it, but she didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to give Deborah the satisfaction. Instead she drummed the steering wheel.
Minutes ticked by. Joanna’s drumming picked up its pace. She sighed and glanced up into the rearview mirror with the intention of checking how her hair had weathered the trip. Before she could adjust the mirror she caught sight of a car turning off Pierce Street onto the gravel road. While she watched, the car drove toward them, slowed, and stopped immediately behind.
“Do you remember that Bentley convertible we saw in the clinic’s parking lot the last time we were here?” Joanna asked.
“Vaguely,” Deborah said. Cars had never interested her other than to get from point A to point B and she could not distinguish between a Chevy and a Ford or between a BMW and a Mercedes.
“It just drove up behind us,” Joanna reported.
“Oh,” Deborah commented. She turned and looked out the back of the car. “Oh yeah, I remember it.”
“I wonder if it’s one of the doctors?” Joanna said while continuing to eye the burgundy vehicle in the rearview mirror. With the glare on the windshield, she could not see the interior.
Deborah checked her watch again. “Gosh, it’s after ten. What’s the deal? That stupid guard is still talking with that truck driver. What on earth could they be talking about?”
“I guess they’re careful who they let on the grounds.”
“That might be the case, but we have an appointment,” Deborah said. She unlatched the door and slid out.
“Where are you going?” Joanna asked.
“I’m going to find out what’s going on,” Deborah said. “This is ridiculous.” She slammed the door, then rounded the front of the car. Teetering on her toes to keep her narrow heels from penetrating into the gravel, she started forward toward the gatehouse.
Despite her earlier irritation, Joanna had to laugh at her roommate’s gait until she noticed that Deborah’s short skirt was hiked up on her backside thanks to static cling with her panty hose. Letting down the window, she leaned out.
“Hey! Marilyn Monroe! Your rear end is hanging out!”
USING THE KNUCKLES OF BOTH INDEX FINGERS, SPENCER rubbed his eyes briefly to bring them into better focus. He’d pulled up behind the nondescript Chevy Malibu, feeling irritated that now that he was finally here, his way was blocked by a mini traffic jam. He’d seen the two heads in the car in front but had thought nothing of them until one of them had gotten out.
For Spencer it was like seeing a mirage. The woman appeared like the person he’d been searching for and not finding the entire time he’d been in Naples. Not only was she attractive with a slim, athletic body, but she was dressed in an alluring style the likes of which he’d not seen except on rare visits to Miami’s South Beach. To make the unexpected situation even more provocative, the woman’s dress was pulled up in the back exposing a near-naked, panty-hose-clad derriere.
Emboldened by a sense of being on home turf, Spencer did not hesitate like he would have had he still been in Naples. He opened his door and got out. He’d heard the yell from the woman’s companion, and now the skirt was down where i
t was supposed to be, yet it still hovered above mid-thigh, and being made of a synthetic, clingy fabric, it undulated sensuously as the woman unsteadily walked over the gravel drive.
Launching himself forward in a jog, Spencer headed toward the gatehouse in hot pursuit. As he passed the women’s Malibu he caught a fleeting glimpse of the companion, which was enough to tell him she was of a totally different ilk. Slowing to a walk, he passed the first truck and approached the woman whose back was to him. She was arguing, arms akimbo, with the guard.
“Well, have them back up the damn trucks and let us go by,” Deborah was saying. “We have an appointment with Ms. Masterson, head of personnel, and we’re already late.”
The guard with his clipboard was unintimidated. His eyebrows were raised and he had a smirk on his face as he peered down at Deborah through his aviator sunglasses. He started to respond to her suggestion, but Spencer interrupted him.
“What seems to be the problem here?” Spencer questioned in the most authoritarian tone he could muster. Unconsciously mimicking Deborah’s stance, he put his hands on his hips.
The guard glanced at Spencer and told him in no uncertain terms it was none of his business and that he should get back in his vehicle. He used the words please and sir but obviously intended them as mere formalities.
“These feed trucks are not on his list,” Deborah explained contemptuously. “They’re acting like this is Fort Knox, for crying out loud.”
“Perhaps a call down to the farm will clear things up,” Spencer suggested.
“Listen, sir!” the guard said, pronouncing sir as if it were an epithet. He pointed toward Spencer’s Bentley with the clipboard with one hand while resting the other on the top of his holstered automatic. “I want you back in that car ASAP.”
“Don’t you dare threaten me,” Spencer growled. “For your information, I’m Dr. Spencer Wingate.”
The guard’s menacing expression quavered as he stared Spencer in the eye. It appeared as if he were having an internal debate as to how to proceed. Deborah’s attention switched from the guard to Spencer with his surprising announcement. She found herself looking up into the face of the stereotypic soap-opera doctor: tall, slender, angled face, tanned skin, and silver-gray hair.
Before anyone could verbally respond, the heavy windowless black door opened. A muscular man emerged, dressed in a black knit shirt, black pants, and black cross-trainer shoes. His dirty-blond hair was cropped short. He moved as if in slow motion, closing the door behind him. “Dr. Wingate,” he said calmly. “You should have warned us you were coming.”
“What’s with these trucks sitting here, Kurt?” Spencer demanded.
“We’re waiting for Dr. Saunders’s okay,” Kurt responded. “They were not on the manifest, and Dr. Saunders likes to be informed of irregularities.”
“They’re feed trucks, for chrissake,” Spencer pronounced. “You have my okay. Send them down to the farm so we can get in here.”
“As you wish,” Kurt said. He took a plastic card from a pocket and swiped it through a card swipe mounted on a pole near the first truck’s cab. Immediately the heavy chain-link fence began to squeak open.
In response to the gate’s movement, the driver of the lead truck started his diesel engine. In the confined space within the gatehouse tunnel the noise was considerable as were the fumes. Deborah quickly moved outside as did Spencer.
“Thank you for solving that problem,” Deborah said. She noticed that the doctor’s eyes, which were darting up and down her frame, were almost the same blue as those of the security man in black.
“My pleasure,” Spencer said. To his despair his voice cracked as he tried to camouflage a surge of nervousness talking with Deborah directly. Up close, with the amount of cleavage visible, he could tell that her dark olive skin wasn’t tan as he’d originally assumed. It was her normal coloring. He also noticed her eyebrows were dark, as were her eyes. Combining it all with the blond hair gave him the impression she was a wild and sensual free spirit.
“Well, see you around, doctor,” Deborah said. She smiled and started back toward the car.
“Just a moment,” Spencer called out.
Deborah stopped and turned.
“What is your name, if I may ask?”
“Georgina Marks,” Deborah responded. She felt her pulse quicken. It was the first time she’d used the alias.
“Is it true you have an appointment with Helen Masterson?”
“At ten o’clock,” Deborah answered. “Unfortunately we’re late, thanks to that security fellow.”
“I will give her a call and let her know it was not your fault.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”
“So you are looking for work here at the clinic?”
“Yes,” Deborah said. “My roommate and I are both interested. We plan to commute together.”
“Interesting,” Spencer said. “What kind of work are you looking for?”
“I’ve a degree in molecular biology,” Deborah said, being purposefully vague about the level. “I’d like to work in the lab.”
“Molecular biology! I’m impressed,” Spencer said sincerely. “From what school may I ask?”
“Harvard,” Deborah said. She and Joanna had discussed this issue when they’d filled out the E-mailed employment applications. Since they were concerned about being recognized from the Harvard association, they’d considered naming a different school. But they’d decided to be truthful to be able to field any specific questions about their college training.
“Harvard!” Spencer responded. He was momentarily nonplussed. Molecular biology had been enough of a surprise. Harvard only made it worse, suggesting that Deborah might not be quite as much the free spirit he’d originally taken her to be and perhaps not so easily impressible. “What about your roommate?” he asked to change the subject. “Is she looking for lab work as well?”
“No, Prudence—Prudence Heatherly—would like to work in the office,” Deborah said. “She’s skilled in word processing and computers in general.”
“Well, I’m sure we can use both of you,” Spencer said. “And let me make a suggestion: Why don’t you and your roommate come to my office after you see Helen?”
Deborah tilted her head to the side and squinted her eyes as if she were assessing Spencer’s motives.
“Maybe we could have a coffee or something,” Spencer suggested.
“How would I find you?” Deborah asked.
“Just ask Helen,” Spencer said. “As I said, I’ll be giving her a call about you, and I’ll mention we’ll be getting together.”
“I’ll do that,” Deborah said. She smiled, then turned around and headed back toward the car.
Spencer watched her go. He couldn’t help but notice the voluptuous way her buttocks moved beneath the silky synthetic fabric of her skirt. Although he could tell it was an inexpensive garment, he thought it was erotically flattering. “Harvard,” he marveled to himself. He would have thought his old high school alma mater, Sommerville High, more likely and ultimately more promising.
“HOW CAN ANYONE WALK AROUND IN SHOES LIKE THIS ALL day?” Deborah questioned as she climbed back into the car.
“You should see yourself,” Joanna laughed. “It’s hilarious!”
“Careful!” Deborah warned. “You’re going to undermine my self-esteem.”
Joanna restarted the car as the truck in front began to move. “I noticed you were talking with that gentleman with the Bentley.”
“You’ll never guess who he is,” Deborah said coyly.
Joanna put the car in gear and began to move forward slowly. To her chagrin Deborah, as usual, was making her ask. Joanna resisted for several beats, but her curiosity prevailed. “All right, who is he?” she questioned.
“Dr. Wingate himself! And contrary to your concerns, he was titillated by my outfit.”
“Titillated or contemptuous? There’s a big difference, although it might not be apparent.”
“Are you joking?”
“Absolutely not,” Deborah said triumphantly.
Joanna nosed the car into the tunnel. Spencer was still there between the man in black and the uniformed guard. Although the gate was open, it started to close with the distance Joanna had allowed to develop between herself and the truck. Spencer motioned to Joanna to stop. She did and rolled down the window.
“I’ll be looking forward to seeing you ladies later,” he said. “Enjoy your interviews.” From his wallet he pulled a blue plastic card similar to the one the man in black had used earlier, and ran it through the card swipe. The gate stopped, lurched, and then began swinging open again. Spencer motioned for them to drive on with a gracious welcoming gesture.
“He’s rather distinguished-looking,” Joanna said as she motored out of the tunnel.
“I should say,” Deborah agreed.
“Strangely enough, he bears a strong resemblance to my father.”
“Now you’re the one joking,” Deborah said. She looked over at Joanna. “I don’t think he looks like your father in the slightest. To me he looks like a doctor on a soap opera.”
“I’m serious,” Joanna said. “He has the same build and the same coloring. Even the same cold aloofness.”
“You have to be reading the aloofness into him,” Deborah said. “With me he was anything but aloof. You should have seen the gymnastics his eyeballs were doing thanks to the cleavage my Miracle Bra has created.”
“You don’t think he looks a little like my father?”
“Nope!”
Joanna shrugged. “That’s strange, because I do. Maybe it’s something subliminal.”
The car cleared the stand of evergreens just beyond the gatehouse, affording the women the first full view of the old Cabot building.