her right hand going down to open the drawer of her desk. She kept watching Wayne fixedly as her fingers fumbled for the band of paper around the virgin ream and ripped it. The tearing sound was loud in the stillness, but Wayne did not twitch a muscle.
She still didn’t know exactly what she was going to do when she lifted a sheet and slid it into the roller of her machine with trembling fingers.
Continuing to watch her employer’s profile for some evidence of attention or interest, Miss Elling began typing rapidly. There was no reaction from the silent figure in the inner room. Her fingers flew over the keys nimbly and letters became words, and words became lines, and lines became paragraphs, while she kept on staring at Wayne with hypnotic intensity and allowed her subconscious mind to take over completely.
Who are you [she wrote]? What are you, Morgan Wayne? What sort of crazy setup is this? An office, you call it. In this old house away from everything. With a telephone that doesn’t ring, a secretary who doesn’t work . . . and you in your swivel chair!
How long do you think a girl can stand sitting here wondering? A week, huh? No more than that. You’ve got that one figured out. Is that why you fired the others after their “trial periods”? Or did they quit? That’s what I’m wondering about right now. Because tomorrow is Friday again, you know, and I’m not going to quit, Morgan Wayne. So you’ll have to fire me.
You see, I know about the others. That checkbook in your desk. Did you think for one moment that I wouldn’t prowl around while you were out? Or didn’t you care? Maybe you wanted me to look. To sort of be prepared for being fired tomorrow.
Three checks. Each for fifty dollars and each dated a succeeding Friday. To three different girls. Muriel Grane, Alice Hobbs, and Janice Neat. And tomorrow there’ll be another stub. Another fifty dollars paid out to Lois Elling. For services rendered. What services? What services did Muriel and Alice and Janet render for their fifty bucks?
What about those other three girls, Mr. Wayne? My predecessors. Each one, I assume, hired for a one-week trial period, as I was. Were they surprised when you fired them at the end of one week? Why? Couldn’t they handle the job? Weren’t they efficient at sitting here in this chair and waiting for something to happen? Waiting for you to say something? To do something? Make a pass or some goddamn thing or other? How inefficient can a girl be at sitting in a chair and waiting?
How did you break the sad news to each of them, Morgan Wayne? How are you going to explain to me tomorrow afternoon that I simply haven’t “worked out”?
Let’s see, now. You will have to break down and actually say something to me, won’t you? Something more than “Good morning” and “Good night.” How will you do it, you big blond impervious self-satisfied bastard?
First I’ll see you get out your checkbook and write in it. Then you’ll come in and hand me my fifty bucks and you’ll say:
“I’m extremely sorry, Miss Elling, but I’m afraid I’ll have to let you go. The experiment simply hasn’t been successful. You recall, of course, that this first week was a probationary period.
“You see, Miss Elling, I don’t approve of your posture as you sit here and perform all the difficult and delicate tasks assigned to you. You simply don’t sit still enough, Miss Elling. At four-twenty-six on Tuesday afternoon I observed you wriggling at your desk. And on Wednesday morning just before I went out to lunch you crossed your legs and then uncrossed them all in a matter of ten minutes.
“And, Miss Elling, the crowning horror of all—what actually convinced me that you simply would not do—was that disgusting performance of yours yesterday afternoon. I refer, of course, to your revolting effrontery in sitting here in plain view of me and typing a letter on one of my lovely letterheads.
“There must be silence in this office, Miss Elling. The clack of a typewriter simply must not be. I could set up my office in a mausoleum, of course, and obtain the same effect, but it would be difficult and probably expensive. And people might think it odd. I’ll fire you instead and hire another secretary from another agency to report Monday morning. Perhaps she will fit my exacting specifications.”
Is that what you will say to me, Mr. Morgan Wayne? Is that what you said to the others? Or will you come back from lunch tomorrow afternoon and go past me into your office and take a key out of your pocket and unlock that door leading into the interior of this old house and open the door and turn and say to me:
“All right, Miss Elling. Please step this way. This is my regular Friday-afternoon experiment to determine whether you will come back to work on Monday or whether I will have to try out another girl.
“That’s correct, Miss Elling. Right this way. And take off your clothes, please. Everything, if you don’t mind. To the last stitch. We’re alone, you know. Quite alone in this old house. There’s a comfortable bed in here. And champagne on ice. Soft lights and muted music. Just get out of your clothes, my dear, while I get out of mine. And then we’ll see.”
I wish you would do it that way, you big, blond Viking bastard. I might fool you, Morgan Wayne. Because I’d love it. What do you think of that? Go ahead and unlock your door and try me.
What in hell am I saying? I don’t know. And I’ve reached the point where I don’t care any more. You do that to a woman, you know. I bet you do know. Damn you. Damn you. Damn you. Just by walking past me and sitting there and saying nothing. Not even looking at me.
I’d make you look at me, damn your soul. I’d give you something to look at. Try me and see. I’ve got breasts, goddamn it, that tingle when I look at your big hands. Does that surprise you? I’ve got a smooth, flat, white stomach that cringes and does nip-ups inside when I look at the solid bulk of you sitting there in that chair. I’ve got strong thighs and a dimple in each knee.
So I’d love to be invited into your love nest, Morgan Wayne. I’d love to show you all that—and more. I’ll call your bluff in a hurry if you unlock that door. Don’t think you’ll get rid of me so easily.
Did you frighten the others away? Muriel and Alice and Janet. Didn’t one of them call your bluff? Or did they? And you still weren’t satisfied, huh? They didn’t have what it takes. Poor girls. I’m sorry for them, but then I’m glad, too, because if they hadn’t all failed to pass the test I wouldn’t be sitting here waiting for you to get up and unlock that door. . . .
Oh, my God! Am I going off my rocker completely? How can this happen to me after just sitting here looking at you for four days? Damn you. Damn you. Damn you. I’m Lois Elling. I’m thirty-two years old, unmarried but not a virgin; moderately chaste but not a prude. I’ve had men in my bed before. I can have any one of half a dozen tonight if I like.
Nice guys, too. Not like you. Men who know what women are built for—and are glad of it. All I have to do is pick up the telephone to have one of them tonight.
But I won’t, Morgan Wayne. Do you know what I’ll do tonight instead? What I’ve been doing every night since I started working here.
I’ll go home and take a bath. I’ll lie in the steaming hot tub and think about you. Wonder about you. Want you. I’ll wonder if you have my home telephone number, or whether you know it’s in the book and all you have to do is look under the E’s and find me listed. And I’ll think about the telephone maybe ringing in the other room and about jumping out of the tub and running in dripping to answer it and hearing your voice over the wire. The voice I’ve heard just fifteen times all told. And I’ll lie in the hot tub and dream about standing there
