by Chloe Gillis
One by one, the other reporters locked up their desks, covered their typewriters, and left the big newsroom. All at once, Clarissa was alone. The room, usually buzzing with the clacking of typewriters, voices rising and falling, telephones ringing, people shouting, footsteps hurrying on the bare wood floor, was now entirely silent. Clarissa sat still, and then a lonely feeling washed over her. Everybody had somewhere to go, somebody to see, something to do. Her life was as empty as this room.
Clarissa hung her head and sighed a deep sigh, allowing herself to indulge in a bit of self-pity. While she was truly happy for Kitty, she envied her falling in love. How marvelous it must be! She envied Bruce and Chauncey their devotion to each other. And Annabelle and William. In the end, all the fun and games in the world could not replace true love. Would there ever be anybody for Clarissa Hardy?
The turn of the outer door knob startled Clarissa from her reverie. Somebody was coming in! The door swung open and a man, a tall man, backed into the room. She could not see his face. His back was to her and he was swathed in a raincoat and soaked fedora. He was struggling to fold up his umbrella. Alarmed, Clarissa stood up.
“Damn!” he cursed as he turned around, rain drops flinging this way and that and puddling on the floor around his feet.
Clarissa gasped out loud. It was him! It was the man she had met at Annabelle’s wedding. The man who lit her cigarette on the veranda. She could not forget him. She thought of him often, in that time just before falling asleep. Those eyes!
He snatched off his hat and then saw her, standing at her desk. His face lit up.
“Hey,” he said, taking a step forward, “I know you!”
“I-I know you as well,” said Clarissa softly.
“I know you,” he repeated, not taking his eyes off her as he shed his soggy coat, “but I fear I do not know your name—or what you are doing here.”
“I am not about to tell you my name until I know yours, sir,” said Clarissa, recovering her dignity. “I will tell you I am here because I am a reporter for the Tribune. There is no other person here at the moment. May I help you with something?” Clarissa slipped around her desk so that it stood firmly between her and the stranger.
The man’s handsome face broke into grin. “I am Adam MacLaren. I am the editor of this rag.”
Clarissa felt her knees go weak. She gripped the desk for support. Cold embarrassment broke over her. “Oh! Oh, my!” she murmured. Then, with a supreme effort to remain calm, she said clearly, “I am Clarissa Hardy, and I write a column for the Social Page.”
Adam MacLaren approached, holding out his hand and smiling. “So you are Clarissa Hardy! Chauncey Chelmsford thinks the world of you! I quite like your column myself. Very nice. Yes, very nice. It’s grand to finally meet you.” He reached across the desk with his open palm.
Clarissa took it in a firm handshake. “I am pleased to meet you. Thank you for your compliment to my work.”
“You are an American?”
“Yes, as you obviously are.”
“Quite right!” He released her hand. “I don’t mean to keep you, Miss Hardy. I just left an extremely dull meeting with some MPs who droned on until I nearly had to stab myself with my tie pin just to stay awake!”
Clarissa giggled. He strode to his office door and turned the key in the lock. “I only have to leave off these pages. Then I’m off to my favorite watering hole. I say, do you have an umbrella, Miss Hardy? The weather has gone awry out there!”
“Oh, dear!” Clarissa said, looking about her. “I forgot it today! The morning was so brilliant!”
“Well, then, wait where you are, and I will escort you to your ride. You do have transportation, do you not?”
“Oh, I am afraid I walked this morning, but it’s fine. I shall get a cab.”
MacLaren was locking his office door. He turned around. “I have a grand idea,” he said. “Allow me the honor of your company to the aforementioned waterhole. We shall quench our respective thirsts, and I shall assuage my guilt at not meeting you sooner!”
Without warning, Clarissa’s heart leaped. “Why, that sounds divine!” she said with renewed spirit.
He ushered her through the outer door, switched off the lights, and locked the newsroom behind them.
Out on the street, Adam opened his umbrella and held it chivalrously over Clarissa’s head. “It’s right around the corner,” he said. “Hope you’re not getting too wet.”
“I’m fine, really, Mr. MacLaren. This is really awfully nice of you.”
“My pleasure. We can have the interview we never had. I threw that ball to Chauncey, I’m afraid, at the time. Must have been busy with something else. Well, anyway, here we are.”
He found them a little table near the window so they could look out on the rainy street. It was a cozy little place, more sophisticated than a pub, more intimate than a restaurant. The table was laid with snowy white linen and a vase of fresh flowers.
A young waiter, garters on his sleeves and a brilliantly white apron tied around his waist, greeted them happily. “Mr. MacLaren! How are you, sir? What would you have this evening?”
“Your best Scotch, with a splash,” replied Adam.
“And the lady?”
Clarissa remembered what her father had always told her. “I don’t approve of your drinking alcohol, but, if you must, always sip the best Scotch. It won’t muddle your brain.”
“I will have the same,” said Clarissa.
“And don’t be afraid to bend that wrist when you pour,” called Adam after the waiter.
Clarissa laughed. Indeed, she found herself laughing often during the evening as she and Adam discussed all matter of subjects. She told him how she came to be in London. “And you?” she asked. “Why are you playing the expatriate?”
Adam gave a little laugh. “I was in France during the war,” he said, tracing imaginary lines in the tablecloth. “When I went home to Boston, my father put me to work in his bank. I thought I would go crazy. It was so dry, so boring, and I felt trapped. I became claustrophobic, you see. I had the jitters. Finally, I packed up and went to Europe. I started at my aunt’s place in Edinburgh, then bounced around the Continent before coming back here and meeting Chauncey. Chauncey was the one who got me this position. I started out as a correspondent on the Continent and then the editor-in-chief of this paper up and quit. Before I knew what was happening, Chauncey called me back from Belgium, and I found myself in the editor’s chair.”
“Just like that?”
“Chauncey has a lot of money tied up in this rag. And we always got along. I honestly don’t know why he thought of me. Seems like there were heaps of fellows ahead of me for the job.”
“Chauncey told me you were a straight shooter,” said Clarissa, sipping her drink.
“I like to think I’m fair,” he said, watching the legs of his Scotch slide down the inside of the glass.
And so they talked through two drinks. Then they were hungry. They ordered steak and kidney pie with mashed potato. Clarissa, relaxed by the Scotch and warmed by the food, found herself having a better time than she’d had in months. She could hardly take her eyes away from his. He was so handsome, so funny, so solicitous of her. Finally, when they had finished the last of their dessert, Clarissa forced herself to declare it was high time for her to be heading home.
Adam said, “I will walk you. The rain seems to have let up, and it’s really quite balmy outside.”
They strolled up the street. There was a mist in the air, sparkling under the streetlights. As they passed under one of them, Adam laughed softly. “The mist is clinging to your hair,” he said. “It looks like you are wearing diamonds.” He passed his hand ever so lightly over her head.
A delicious shiver shook her to her core. She longed to touch him, to take his hand, to feel his skin next to hers. She knew in her heart how it would feel.
“This is where I live,” she said, stopping in front of the wrought iron railing of Bruce’s townhouse.
“So this is Bruce Tallman’s place. Very nice.”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Chauncey explained the living arrangements to me when you came on board.”
“Where do you live? Oh, oh! I’m terribly sorry. It’s really none of my business. Please forgive my bad manners.”
Adam laughed out loud. “Again?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, the last time we met, which was for the first time, you asked me to forgive your bad manners!”
“Oh, I think I did.” Clarissa giggled. “I didn’t have a match and I couldn’t light my fag, and I was trying to avoid Andrew!”
“Something like that. I remember now what I said. I said I thought you were charming.”
Clarissa was glad it was the gloom of evening. He could not see the blush that crept up her neck and over her cheeks. “And then Andrew interrupted us!”
“Was…is…Andrew your beau?”
“Far from it!”
“Well, Miss Clarissa Hardy, I still find you charming. Thank you for making my supper less lonely than it usually is. Good night.”
“Good night,” said Clarissa, realizing for the first time that the evening was coming to an end. She turned and went up the marble steps to the front door. Adam gave her a jolly wave and walked off down the street.
Clarissa pushed the bell, and Dutton let her in.
So began one of the most magical chapters of Clarissa’s young life. When she returned to her desk on the Monday following her Friday tryst with Adam, she found she could not take her eyes of his office door. He had evidently not come in, for the lights inside were not on.
Clarissa was so lost in her own thoughts, staring at the door to the editor’s office, that she yelped out loud when a voice said, over her shoulder, “He went off to the Continent to see a colleague. He’ll be out for the day.”
Clarissa whirled around to face Chauncey. “I was thinking it was about time I asked for a tougher assignment,” she said grumpily.
“Adam rang me up this weekend. He told me about your little impromptu dinner. He said he was absolutely charmed by you and allowed me much credit for securing you for our paper.”
“How thoughtful of you.”
“Do I detect a note of sarcasm?”
Clarissa sighed. “Is that what I am? Something to be ‘secured,’ something to be haggled over or offered up for credit?”
Chauncey’s looked at her askance. “My word, dear, you seem rather bitter this morning. And I thought you would be just jolly to know that our esteemed editor found you quite charming. Come into my office for a chat.”
“I’m sorry, Chauncey. Really, I am! It’s just that here I sit at my little desk writing about dances, or jazz bands, or wine, and there are other correspondents covering the political climates in France and Belgium, even Russia. Russia’s in a mess, you know!” Clarissa followed Chauncey into his office, and he closed the door on the rest of the newsroom.
Chauncey’s face grew serious. “I know Russia is in a mess,” he said, looking into space. Then he said, “So you think you want to cover more serious material? Aren’t you having fun?” He took a seat on the little couch facing the window. The newspaper offices were, for the most part, a little seedy, but Chauncey’s was the height of style.
“Everything is copacetic, Chauncey! I don’t even need to work. Mommy writes me frequently, always asking me when I am coming home! I was only supposed to be gone two weeks and here I am looking into winter! I don’t need this job for money, so what good am I doing if I’m not doing something worthwhile? Anybody can cover the fluff that I present week after week.”
“Actually, they cannot. Very few people would be able to maintain the quality of work you do, week after week. And don’t forget, your pieces are very important because they keep the public engaged. All the papers report on the political climate, the threats left from the war, the brewing undercurrent, the economy. What makes them pick the Tribune over all the other rags? Columns like yours!”
“You say lovely things, but I still wish for a more challenging assignment!”
“Well, there is nothing to stop you from discussing it with Adam MacLaren, though I urge you to choose your time carefully. He has a plan for this paper, a way he wants it to run, to appear to the public. I guarantee he has a place in mind for you.”
“He can change his mind.” Clarissa plunked down beside Chauncey, her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands, just as Bruce burst into the room.
“What, what!” he said. “Chaunce, old man, what the devil is going on with our Little Miss?”
Clarissa looked up at Bruce. She fought it, but her heart felt constricted and tears collected at the corners of her eyes. “Oh, Bruce! I am dejected. I want a more challenging position in the paper. I feel all out of sorts today. I feel all played out and am not myself!”
Chauncey cut in. “I’m afraid that is not the problem.”
Both Clarissa and Bruce stared at him.
“Then what is?” asked Bruce bluntly.
Chauncey put a sheltering arm around Clarissa’s shoulders. “I am afraid our Little Miss, as you put it, is a woman, after all. And a woman in love!”
Clarissa stared at him. It was no good trying to hide anything from Chauncey.
“Isn’t that true, Clarissa?” he asked gently.
Now the tears spilled over and trickled pathetically down her cheeks. She nodded. “It’s hopeless,” she said miserably.
“What!” exclaimed Bruce, sweeping in and kneeling on the floor in front of her. “Are you in love, Clarissa? Are you?”
Again, Clarissa nodded, wiping away the stray tears. “He hardly knows I exist! At least in that capacity,” she said miserably.
Bruce began to get worked up. “Who is it, dear? Who is this person who is summarily dismissing you? Has he compromised you? Has he hurt you? Tell me his name! I will bring him to his senses immediately! He shall be sorry for his behavior!”
“Bruce! Please!” said Chauncey, somewhat irritably. It was true, Bruce could jump the gun.
“It’s not like that.”
“Well, what is it like? And who is the man?”
Clarissa’s lip trembled, but she said softly, “It’s true. I am in love with Adam MacLaren.”
“No!” gasped Bruce. “Oh, my! How has this come about? Does he know?”
Clarissa shook her head sadly. “He has no idea. That’s part of the problem. I am determined to ask him for a more challenging position. It will take me away from this silliness that has gripped me for no good reason!”
Then she turned into Chauncey’s shoulder and allowed herself to weep.
The next morning, Clarissa arrived at the Tribune early. The lights were on in Adam’s office. The newsroom had not reached its typical crescendo of pandemonium. Clarissa took a deep breath and decided now was as good a time as any to knock on the door and pursue her quest for some investigative reporting.
“Why not!” she said out loud, to herself. Squaring her shoulder, she marched forward and rapped with authority on the frosted glass of the door, just under the black letters that spelled Editor. She was not her father’s daughter if she could not set her emotions aside and concentrate on business.
“Come in,” she heard Adam say from within.
Clarissa opened the door and went in. Adam was standing with his back to her, looking out the window. He turned to face her as she entered and, once again, the attraction she felt for him hit her so hard, she felt the breath escape her. She was immediately disarmed.
“Miss Hardy!” His handsome face broke into a friendly grin. Clarissa could detect no guile behind that smile. He seemed truly happy to see her.
“Mr. MacLaren,” she said, returning the smile.
“Adam, please.”
“Then you must call me Clarissa.”
“I would be honored.”
“I—” began Clarissa, but Adam was not listening.
“I wa
s going to call you in today,” he said almost shyly, looking down at his desk and shuffling some papers around. “I am just returned from Paris. I have something to discuss with you.”
Oh, no, thought Clarissa, now I am going to be sacked. Oh, well, Mommy wanted me home anyway.
However, Adam looked up and said, “I was wondering whether you might accompany me to a function I must attend for communications officials. It is dinner. There will be many MPs there, as well as MI6 officials. It’s to be held Thursday evening at Claridge’s. Will you go with me?”
Clarissa felt her heart must have stopped. She seemed to be floating inside some sort of bubble, where the only thing she could hear was Adam’s voice saying “Will you go with me?” She was rendered speechless and did not seem to be able to move.
“Clarissa?”
“Oh!” she exclaimed softly, when she had recovered her breath. “Am I understanding you clearly? You are asking me to go to a dinner with you on Thursday evening?”
Adam nodded. “Yes.”
“Just making sure,” said Clarissa, grinning. “Yes, of course I will go.”
“Thank you so much,” Adam said. “I shall pick you up at your home at seven o’clock. Now what did you want to see me about?”
Clarissa’s eyes grew wide. She was loath to upset him with her personal pettiness, but she cleared her throat and said bravely, “I-I came in to ask for a tougher assignment. Even a small one. Please think about it. I am eager to do something investigative. Something important.”
Adam looked at her, his expression serious. “I would hate to lose your contributions to the social pages,” he said, “however, I understand that a personality such as yours cannot be contained for long. I will consider it, Clarissa. I must be honest. Your move to such an assignment worries me. The forums upon which these issues play themselves out are not as safe as a society wedding.”
Clarissa laughed. “I would not be so quick to agree with that!”
Adam smiled. “We will talk about it. And Thursday night?”
“I shall look forward to Thursday evening.” And she wandered back to her desk, thoughts of investigative reporting having fallen down a rung or two on the priority ladder.