by Renée Rosen
“Everyone here writes something down and leaves it in a drawer.”
“What sorts of things?”
“Whatever they want. Listen to this . . .” She read off a napkin: “‘Five out of four people have problems with math.’”
“Here’s one,” I said, laughing, holding up a scrap of paper. “‘It’s not one thing after another. It’s the same damn thing over and over again.’” I sorted through the drawer and plucked out another one. “This is a Winston Churchill quote: ‘I may be drunk, Miss, but in the morning I will be sober and you will still be ugly.’”
Trudy burst out laughing.
“Oh, this is another good one,” I said. “‘Every great dream begins with a dreamer. Always remember, you have within you the strength, the patience and the passion to reach for the stars to change the world.’”
“Who said that?”
“Harriet Tubman.” I looked at the handwriting, scratched out in pencil, the edges of each word smeared a bit. “What’s your dream?” I asked, exhaling a plume of smoke.
“Hmmm.” Trudy thought for a moment and shrugged. “I can never remember my dreams.”
“No, I mean the big dreams you have when you’re wide awake. Your passions and goals. Those kinds of dreams.”
She looked bewildered. “I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”
“Never?” I was incredulous. Practically my whole life had been given over to daydreaming. The here and now didn’t satisfy me. I wanted bigger, better, more.
She exhaled and set her cigarette in the ashtray, waving the smoke away. She was blank and I could see that she’d really never contemplated that before. “Why? What’s yours?”
I held up my camera. “This right here.”
“A photographer?” She wasn’t laughing but she wasn’t buying it, either. “How are you going to do that?” Her tone said impossible.
“I’m not sure yet.” The thing was that back home I was the only one with a camera, but New York was teeming with photographers. My competition was everywhere, their Nikons and Canons, their Kodaks knocking along at their sides while they walked the city streets. I flicked my ashes, thinking about the classes I was too intimidated to take, using the excuse that I couldn’t afford them and yet I found the money for a pair of new shoes. I took a sip of coffee. “But I’ll tell you something, I know what your dream is. Or at least what it should be.”
Trudy looked at me, waiting and curious.
“Architecture.” I raised my cup to underscore the point. “You should become an architect.”
“Me?” Trudy laughed. “Girls can’t be architects.”
“Says who?”
“Well? I don’t know of any female architects.” I could tell by the way she rolled her eyes that she was already dismissing the idea.
“I’m sure they’re out there. You just have to look for them. Go to the library. That’s what I did. I used to sit for hours with a stack of photography books. That’s how I discovered Diane Arbus, Ruth Orkin, Helen Levitt . . .” I stopped talking. I could tell Trudy wasn’t listening.
She pulled out another scrap of paper. “Get a load of this,” she said. “‘There’s light at the end of the tunnel. And it’s another train coming.’”
“C’mon, Trudy, you didn’t come here all the way from St. Louis to sell shoes to rich women, did you?”
“No.” She started to laugh. “But I do get an employee discount.”
“I’m serious. If a woman like Elaine Sloan can become a big-time book editor and Helen Gurley Brown can run a magazine, why can’t you be an architect? Why can’t I be a photographer?” I took my napkin and splayed it out, flat on the table. “Do you have a pen?”
“Why?” She reached into her pocketbook and handed me one. “Are you feeling inspired?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I am. I read that you’re more likely to reach your goals if you write them down, so that’s what we’re going to do.” I uncapped her pen, and as Trudy looked over my shoulder, I wrote: On this day, Sunday, March 28, 1965, Trudy Lewis and Alice Weiss declare that they will follow their dreams. No matter what. Miss Lewis will pursue a career as an architect and Miss Weiss will become a world-renowned photographer.
“World-renowned, huh?” She laughed. “You’re insane, you know that?”
I signed my name below it and handed Trudy back her pen. “Now’s your turn.”
“This is crazy,” she said even as she signed it.
“I’m sure people said Elaine Sloan and Helen Gurley Brown were crazy, too.”
Trudy was smiling, digging around inside her pocketbook for a stick of chewing gum. She was done discussing dreams. It was like spreading fairy dust to her, but she had no idea how serious I was. As I folded our declaration and placed it inside one of the drawers, I thought about how much I wanted to make something of myself. Maybe one day, some girl arriving in New York with a suitcase full of dreams would look to me as an example of all that she could be.
While Trudy and I finished our coffees and smoked another few cigarettes, we read through the drawers, coming across poems and love letters, random telephone numbers and silly sayings. Some of them had us laughing so hard, you would have thought we’d been drinking gin all afternoon instead of coffee.
CHAPTER SIX
By my second week Helen and I were establishing a daily routine. It started with me bringing her coffee and sometimes a glass of Carnation Instant Breakfast along with the morning editions of the Daily News, The Post, and The New York Times. I’d set her newspapers down on her desk along with her coffee—usually her second or third cup as she always seemed to beat me into the office no matter how early I arrived.
Sometimes I’d find broken pencils on her desk, or lying on the floor, all signs that she’d inwardly snapped without visibly losing her temper. While she skimmed the newspapers and clipped out articles for me to file in her ideas folder, we’d review her schedule for the day. I’d give her a rundown of meetings, phone calls and deadlines before we’d go through personal matters that needed tending to, things like selecting and wrapping items from the samples she’d received for last-minute presents or hostess gifts. Not as easy as it seemed. Would Rona—as in Jaffe—really want the Hermès wallet, and were the Givenchy bath oil beads too personal for Barbara Walters? I agonized over these choices. Something else that wasn’t so simple was guarding Helen’s door and putting all calls on hold while she did her daily exercise routine: isometrics, leg lifts, sit-ups and chin lifts.
That Monday morning I followed Elaine’s advice and didn’t say a word to Helen about Erik asking me to spy on her. Instead, we ran through her itinerary and I gave her the advertising memo to review before delivering it to Ira Lansing.
As I left her office, I knew it was only a matter of time before I’d run into Erik and I was dreading it, wondering what kind of confrontation I’d find myself in. Turned out, I didn’t have to wait long because by ten o’clock he stopped at my desk.
Leaning forward, he lowered his voice. “Listen,” he said, “I thought about what happened Friday night, and well, I’m sorry. I was out of line.”
“Yes, you were.” I was still angry and started typing blindly, my fingers striking the keys so hard it made the coffee jump inside my cup.
He toyed with a cufflink and said, “Alice, we got off on the wrong foot. Can we start over? Pretend like it didn’t happen?”
“Sure, no sweat.” I ripped one page from the typewriter and cranked in another, fingers already going to town. He stood there, not saying a word, his aftershave faint but impossible to ignore. I finally looked at him. “Was there something else you needed?”
He glanced across the room and I followed his gaze. Bridget was watching us, a curious look on her face.
“Well?”
“No,” he said, hands stuffed down inside his pockets. “No, I g
uess not.”
As soon as he was out of sight and out of earshot, Bridget darted over, her pearl drop earrings swaying back and forth. “What was that about?”
“What?” I tried playing dumb and went back to typing.
“Erik Masterson. What was he talking to you about?” When I didn’t answer, she reached for my hand, making my fingers rest in place on the typewriter keys. “Are you all right?” She looked into my eyes. “Oh no. You’re not all right, are you?”
I pressed my lips together hard to keep from speaking.
“What is it?”
She wasn’t going to let up so I shook my head. “Not here,” I said.
She waited while I got up from my desk and escorted me into the ladies’ room. I leaned against the counter while she checked all the stalls. With the last door still swinging open and shut, she turned to me. “All right now, spill it.”
“He’s just—” I shook my head and pressed my fingers to my temples. “He rubs me the wrong way.”
“Well, he can rub me any way he likes,” she said, pulling a package of cigarettes from her pocket. “He’s gorgeous, don’t you think?”
“He might be gorgeous but he’s a snake.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He took me to dinner the other night.”
Her eyes flashed wide behind the flame of her lighter. I detected a mixture of awe and jealousy. “And?”
I paused. I didn’t want to say anything more.
“Aw, c’mon. Tell me.” Oh, the look she gave me. It was like holding a candy bar out of a child’s reach. “Please?”
“Okay,” I said eventually. “But promise me this stays just between us.”
“Of course. You can trust me. I won’t say a word.”
Still I hesitated. Something about people who said you could trust them usually meant you couldn’t.
“Scout’s honor.” She crossed her heart.
She seemed almost as concerned as she was curious, and more than any of the other girls, Bridget had gone out of her way to make me feel welcome there. “Well,” I began despite my reservations, “he wants me to keep an eye on things around here for him.”
“No fooling. Like what sort of stuff?”
“Anything he can take back to Hearst about changes Mrs. Brown’s making to the magazine.”
“But isn’t she supposed to be making changes?”
“That’s what I thought. But he doesn’t like her. I think he wants to get her fired.”
“Good God. That’s terrible. I can’t believe he asked you to do that.”
“Me neither. I told him to forget it. I wouldn’t do that to my boss.”
She flicked her ash into the sink. It made a hiss when it hit the drip from the faucet.
I looked at her reflection in the mirror. “You have to promise, not a word of this to anyone. Especially not Mrs. Brown.”
“Are you kidding me?” Bridget’s eyes went wide. “I wouldn’t say a word.” She picked a fleck of tobacco off her tongue and studied herself in the mirror. “So what does he want from you now?” she asked, shifting the subject back to Erik. “He certainly was hovering around your desk this morning.”
“Now he wants us to be friends. He’s full of apologies.” I thought about telling her what Elaine had told me, but Bridget changed the subject.
“So I have a little secret of my own.”
“What?”
“You can’t tell anyone. Promise? Especially not Margot. She’s a gossip. That girl can’t keep her mouth shut.”
“What is it?”
“Well”—Bridget clasped her hands—“I have an interview with Redbook.”
“What? You’re leaving? Why?”
“It’s just an interview but they have an opening in editorial for an assistant. And the starting salary is $80 a week.”
“But you’ve been here for two years.”
“Two years too long.”
“You said you really liked Bill Guy. I thought you liked being his secretary.”
“Nobody likes being a secretary. This is my chance to be an editorial assistant. That’s a big stepping-stone and the money’s good, too.” She propped her cigarette in her mouth and squinted as she patted her hair in place. “Do you know what I could do with $80 a week? I’m barely able to afford anything after I pay my rent now.”
I sympathized, already finding myself having to choose between a jar of Dippity-do and a roll of film or getting my pictures developed instead of going to the movies and out for a burger with Trudy.
Bridget was still going on about how she couldn’t pay her last telephone bill when Margot came into the restroom.
“Well,” said Bridget, dousing her hot ash under the drip of the faucet, “thanks for helping with the production schedule. I better get that report out for Mr. Guy.” She winked, darted her soggy cigarette into the trash and pushed the door open with her hip.
When I got back to my desk, Ira Lansing, the head of sales and advertising, was waiting for me. He was a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man who looked like he’d played football in high school, the type that still wore his college ring, the best years behind him. He ducked his head into Helen’s office, waving the memo I’d delivered to him earlier.
“Where is she? I need to speak with her right away.”
“I’m sorry, but she’s out of the office.”
“She better not be meeting with Revlon or Max Factor.”
“She’ll be back in an hour,” I said, trying not to show my hand. Helen wasn’t in a meeting at all. At least she wasn’t in a business meeting. Monday mornings she had a standing appointment with Dr. Gerson, her psychoanalyst. Not that Helen was ashamed of or secretive about this. She’d written about it in Sex and the Single Girl, recommending that we could all benefit from analysis. I used to think only people who’d had nervous breakdowns or were flat-out insane went to a shrink. I wondered why someone like Helen, who seemed to have everything, needed to be in analysis.
“Well,” said Ira, “you tell her for me that I got this little memo of hers and I don’t need her advice. I’m in charge of selling ad space here”—he poked himself in the chest—“I’m in charge of our advertisers. This doesn’t concern her. She’s not supposed to be involved in my business and I’d appreciate her staying out of my way and letting me do my job.”
Before I could say anything, he stormed off and disappeared around the corner.
When Helen returned and I told her Ira had come by to see her, she made a pfft sound, discounting him. I followed her into her office and hung up her coat on the back of her door and put her pocketbook away in a drawer. Before I could even tell her that Ira was upset about her memo, she asked if he’d made a pass at me.
“No. Why?”
“Ira Lansing is a skirt chaser,” she said, handing me a little baggie filled with packets of crackers she must have taken from a restaurant. “And to think they call me a hussy and tramp. And why? Because I’m a woman. I love sex. Always have. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. Sex is positively scrumptious and has zero calories. Oh, and by the way,” she said, reaching for a cigarette, lighting it with her gold desk lighter, “don’t believe everything you hear about me. I know people say I slept with 165 men before I married David. And that’s a lie.” She exhaled and smiled. “It was 166.” She looked at the expression on my face. “What’s the matter? Don’t you approve?”
“I’m just wondering how you had time to date that many men.”
“I didn’t date all of them. I’m not talking about having relationships with all of them. Don’t get me wrong, I had plenty of boyfriends and I slept with all of them, too. But the others—well, some were just men I had sex with. Sometimes they didn’t even buy me dinner first or a cocktail. That was the beauty of it. No strings attached. It was just about sex and
it was grand. Positively delicious.” She took a puff off her cigarette and tugged on the back of her wig, as if making sure it hadn’t slipped. “Men have been doing it for years. It’s time women got out there and started enjoying themselves, too. I tell you, I was like a kid in a candy store. I slept with famous men, married men, rich men, poor men. Some were stunners, some”—she tossed up her hand—“not so much. Some were wonderful gentlemen, some were downright rats. I couldn’t trust them as far as I could throw them. But if they were good in bed, well, then”—she laughed—“that was enough for me. Remember, great sex doesn’t have to be with someone you love or even like. And don’t look so shocked. You’re young and single. You should be out there having fun. Your mother won’t tell you this, but it’s okay to be a little naughty.”
* * *
• • •
The next morning on my way to the mailroom, Erik stopped me in the hallway. “What are you doing for lunch?” he asked.
“I brought my lunch.”
“How about tomorrow?”
“I’m bringing my lunch tomorrow, too.” I started to walk away but he grabbed my hand.
“Please?”
Margot and Leslie were coming down the hall, and both of them turned, looking back over their shoulders.
“Please?” he said again.
I sighed and shook my head.
“I’ll keep asking. I’m very persistent when it comes to something I want.”
Those lovely dark eyes looked at me with such anticipation and pleading, as if my response had the potential to devastate him. Or elate him. I’d never felt that powerful before where a man was concerned, but I played it cool. “And why exactly do you want to have lunch with me?”
“I told you, I feel bad about our dinner last week.”
“I thought we cleared that up.”
“I want to make it up to you. I want to start over. Fresh. Like it never happened.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Maybe not to you, but it is to me. Please?” There was that look again.