32AA Read online

  William Cougan, CEO, has ordered limousines to transport us all to the church as a mark of respect for the late Mr. Cray (one of the founding fathers of our esteemed company). These limousines will arrive in approximately three minutes. Nearly everyone else has gone downstairs and I have just discovered the most enormous rip in my pantyhose.

  I cannot attend a somber, serious service while inappropriately sporting a run large enough to accommodate the entire New York City Fire Department, and although I have emergency spares in my desk, I have no time to make a quick trip to the ladies’ room to change. My only options are to either (a) change at my desk (not good if some last-minute straggler walks by), or (b) slip into the late Mr. Cray’s office and do the deed in there.

  Plan B is good. I swiftly check the vicinity and slip inside, closing the door behind me.

  Just as I have my dress up around my waist and the new pantyhose half way up my legs, the door opens. I freeze as I see Adam in the doorway, and he freezes as he sees rather more of me than he expected. And then I remember the panties that I am wearing today. Tish gave them to me as a joke. They are (obviously) clean. They are also black, with large red letters that say PRESS THIS BUTTON, with an arrow pointing down in the unmistakable direction of my clitoris. These panties are my way of wishing good old Johnny a final bon voyage, since he was so very fond of my butt. But I hadn’t intended to share the joke with anyone else.

  So what do I do now? Do I apologize? Do I ask to be excused? Do I continue my mission as if nothing has happened? Do I wait for him to do the gentlemanly thing and leave? In the end I do nothing. I am like a statue, immortalized in this very unattractive pose, because my heart is pounding right out of my chest and I’m sure my whole body is flushing bright red.

  Instead of leaving, Adam smiles a wolfish smile as he gives me the once-over.

  “Hel-lo,” he says, as he leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms over his very manly chest, and I’m not sure if I should be embarrassed or pleased, because it’s obvious that he likes what he sees.

  “Need any help?” He grins, and I realize that I am still standing here half dressed and making no move to finish donning my new pantyhose.

  “Pantyhose can be such a pain, don’t you think? I prefer stockings.”

  Does he, indeed? I make a mental note of this to file away for future reference. He’s definitely interested. I would have to be blind not to notice the way he is eating me with his eyes.

  “Er, did you want anything in particular?” I ask.

  Like me, for instance? On the desk? Now? But obviously I don’t say that.

  “Maybe later.”

  This man is flirting with me. At least I think he’s flirting with me. Y-e-s!

  “The limousines are here. Everyone is downstairs. I thought you’d got lost so I came to find you.”

  He came to look for me? For me in particular? Better and better. He noticed I wasn’t with everyone else. Y-e-s! This is excellent.

  “Oh, good,” I say, mentally kicking myself for sounding like an idiot, as I pull up the pantyhose and smooth down my skirt, in what I think is a very slick, matter-of-fact motion. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

  Yuck. Can I really not find anything more scintillating to say? I have an English degree, for God’s sake. Surely I can put together a couple of relatively coherent sentences?

  “All finished?” He raises a Sean Connery eyebrow at me and I have to brush past him to get through the door, because he makes no move to get out of my way.

  “Nice panties,” he breathes in my ear as I pass, and I can barely stop myself from shuddering with sexual heat.

  “Thank you,” I tell him, primly, because it’s not good to sound too eager. And then, because I can’t resist, “It took me ages to choose just the right ones this morning.”

  I feel his eyes on me as we walk down the hall to the elevator. They are burning into my back. I imagine them watching my ass, so I immediately sashay in what I hope is an alluring fashion.

  “Shall I press the button?” he innocently asks as we get into the elevator, and I blush, because there is no way I can possibly miss his meaning.

  “I miss this,” he says, as he presses G.

  I have no idea what he means. Sex? He misses sex? Oh, I can certainly help him out with this. I instantly have this very erotic image of Adam pressing my G. Ooh.

  “Riding together in the elevator.”

  Oh, not sex. He misses me in the elevator! He did notice, then. Yes! All was not in vain, after all. All that time I thought he didn’t see me, he was watching me, waiting for the right moment…

  “You don’t call, you don’t write…” he tells me, leaning right in toward me, and I can’t help a girly giggle.

  “Actually, I came to find you so that we could talk,” he tells me, taking a step back as the elevator doors open. “We’re going to be working very closely together. I’m taking over from Johnny Cray.”

  Oh, this day just gets better and better. It’s like winning the love lottery. Although everyone thought Grady Thomas would get promoted…

  “Adam Blakestock,” he says, holding out his hand.

  Like I don’t already know this? I know rather a lot more about you, Adam Blakestock, than you think (thanks to Tracey in Human Resources). But I don’t say this, of course. I just stand there like a goldfish opening and closing my mouth before I remember that he’s still waiting for me to shake his hand.

  “I’m—” I hold out my hand.

  “Emmeline Beaufort Taylor,” he finishes for me, looking right into my eyes as he takes my hand in a much warmer way than boss/secretary requires.

  “But everyone calls you Emma. I think I’ll call you Emmeline. Goes with the sexy English accent,” he says, and winks at me in a way that suggests “later.”

  He’s my boss. And he knows my name. (Although I’m not very fond of Emmeline, it’s really sweet he wants to have a special name for me.) He thinks I’m sexy and he obviously can’t wait to get inside my panties. Hallelujah!

  And while I mentally thank Mr. Handel for his chorus, I find myself being gently led to the waiting limousine with Adam’s hand guiding my trembling (lust-induced) elbow.

  The service is very moving. The church is packed, and I hope that as many people come to my memorial service. I am sitting right at the front of the church because Adam, as the new Director of Advertising, is sitting at the front. And he insisted that I sit with him. I have, after all, just lost my boss of two years and am therefore practically a family member.

  As we sit on the pew, mere feet away from Johnny’s (thankfully sealed) coffin, I am breathlessly aware of Adam’s proximity as his thigh brushes frequently against mine, and as his arm brushes frequently against my breast. This is very bad of me. I should not be thinking lustful thoughts while sitting in the House of God. And this is, after all, a funeral. I glance around to take my mind off Adam.

  Babette Cray, the newlywed widow, is beautiful in the shortest, lowest-cut black number I’ve ever seen at a funeral, and is weeping copiously (but prettily) into her handkerchief. As her blonde hair falls over her bowed face, the handsome man by her side puts his arm around her shoulder to hold her up. She can barely stand, poor thing, she is so overwhelmed by grief.

  It’s so sad. To lose one’s husband on one’s honeymoon must be such a devastating blow. To have found true love, even if it is with an octogenarian nearly sixty years your senior, and then to have it snatched away, poof, just like that, before the ink is dry on the marriage certificate.

  I wonder what it’s like, having sex with a man old enough to be your grandfather? I imagine both my dearly departed grandfathers and can’t help but shudder at the thought of either of them having sex with a woman younger than me. But still, poor Babette is visibly crushed.

  There must have been more to Johnny that met the eye, because he was certainly no oil painting.

  I am quite overcome by emotion and feel my eyes fill with tears. And then Adam push
es a crisp linen handkerchief into my hand.

  “Thank you,” I whisper. Then add, “It’s just so sad. Mrs. Cray is so beautiful. So brave. So alone.”

  “And so rich,” Adam whispers back, which I think is a little callous of him. “Emmeline Beaufort Taylor, you are so sentimental. The grieving widow has a luxury apartment overlooking Central Park, plus five million dollars. That’s enough to ease anyone’s pain, don’t you think?”

  Oh. That’s a lot of money. I can’t even imagine what five million dollars looks like, never mind actually having it. The cynical part of me thinks (only briefly, because having bitchy thoughts in the House of God is also not good) that Babette got a very good deal, after being a wife for only a day.

  But, I remind myself, I like Babette Cray very much and refuse to have horrible, gold-digger thoughts about her. On the few occasions we met when she and Johnny were dating, she was very nice to me—not at all snooty or condescending to the hired help. And she also took great care of Johnny—several times she came to the office to bring his heart medication when he’d left it at home. What a shame he forgot to take it before his wedding night.

  “Good old Johnny might have been a little off the wall,” Adam says, “but he was no fool. She’s more likely weeping because the prenuptial agreement is so watertight her lawyer can’t find any cracks. You see the slick guy with her? That’s her lawyer.”

  “No. Really?”

  “Thank God he didn’t leave her any shares in the company. That would have been a disaster.”

  I wonder, briefly, at Adam’s display of cynicism, but remember that he recently had his heart broken. That’s why he’s bitter. But I will help him overcome…

  After the service, Babette is the first to exit the church. Despite the cruel January wind, she stands by the open door to personally thank everyone for coming. I think she really did love Johnny, no matter what anyone else thinks.

  “Mrs. Cray,” I say, when it is my turn to speak to her. “I’m so sorry for your loss. If there’s anything I can do…”

  “Thank you,” Babette says, fresh tears springing to her eyes. She takes hold of my hands, which surprises me, because I don’t know her that well. And then she shocks me even more when she hugs me like a long-lost friend.

  “Johnny was very fond of you,” she tells me between sobs. “He said you were the best secretary he ever had.”

  This is stunning news. I didn’t think that Johnny even knew my name. Oh, how sweet. What a lovely man. I’m so overcome by warm thoughts of Johnny that fresh tears course down my cheeks, ruining my makeup.

  “Would—would you like me to pack his personal effects at the office?” I ask her. It’s the least I can do to save the poor woman even more pain.

  “Oh, I should never have married him,” she wails. “If only we’d stayed just friends, this would never have happened. He’d still be alive…”

  I am dying (forgive the pun) to ask more, but don’t feel that this is my business.

  “I thought he was just old-fashioned, wanting to wait until our wedding night to consummate our love. If only he’d told me that his doctor had warned him against having sex…And now he’s dead and it’s all my fault…”

  Oh. This is more information than I wanted, but I pat her back in a comforting way.

  “You mustn’t blame yourself,” I tell her. “Johnny obviously loved you and wanted to have…” Have what? I grope for the right words. “He wanted to have a special night with you because he loved you so much.”

  “Yes. Yes he did love me. At least I have that to hold on to,” she tells me, straightening and wiping away her tears.

  “We’ll all miss him,” I say, as Adam guides me firmly away.

  “Bit pointless, Emmeline,” Adam tells me as he steers me down the church steps. “You know, Babette can’t help your career.”

  How cynical of him. He obviously needs me to restore his faith in womankind.

  “I like her,” I tell him. “I just feel so sorry for her. She really did love him, you know.”

  “You really are a tender-hearted little thing, aren’t you?” Adam says, smiling rather condescendingly down at me. “I know exactly what you need to make you feel better.”

  Adam takes me for a very long lunch, during which he plies me with delicious delicacies and very good wine. To get to know me, and, of course, to forge a bond between us to establish our working relationship. And to help me cope with my grief for losing Johnny.

  We don’t make it back to work that afternoon.

  As I’m about to get into the cab he’s hailed for me, he leans forward and kisses me full on the mouth.

  No tongues are involved.

  Damn.

  On the first day of our life together (in the office, of course) Adam calls a staff meeting. And as he is telling his account managers about his expectations, I cannot help think about my own expectations as his foot accidentally finds my leg and he rubs my ankle with it.

  Ooh…This is really nice, but I mustn’t read too much into it. Just in case he’s a serial-flirter-with-secretaries, rather than a man interested in me, personally. He is my boss, after all. I dreamily allow myself to replay the moment he kissed me last night…

  And when he is instructing his team that he wants fresh, new ideas for the possible new Perfect Pantyhose account (only if they like our fresh, new ideas), just as I am hoping for another kiss from Adam in the not-too-distant future (but with tongues this time), I have a fresh, new idea. I have an epiphany. It comes to me in a blinding flash.

  I have a plan for the Perfect Pantyhose account.

  Now, I’ve had lots of great ideas for other accounts we’ve dealt with, but Johnny wasn’t interested in his secretary having ideas about anything other than typing his letters and making his coffee. Obviously the butt patting figured in there, too.

  But I don’t know how receptive Adam will be to a Secretary with Ideas. Before I ask him, I decide that it would be better if I show him rather than tell him, and I begin to plan my campaign.

  For the next two days, I work like a demon, in between flirting with Adam and working late with Adam. Although mentally undressing me with his eyes, he doesn’t try to put his lustful thoughts into action. Neither does he attempt to kiss me. I think he’s waiting for the right moment, once we’ve got to know each other a little better. So while all this flirty, pre-seduction game is in progress, and me actually doing any secretarial work, I work on my portfolio.

  But first I need some photos. I find a great on-line photo library. I search for the types of photos I have in mind. When you use a photo from a photo library, the price you pay for it varies accordingly to the photographer, whether it is for television, or billboards, or magazines, and is also dictated by the number of copies in the print run. So, with costs in mind, I am careful to try and find midprice photos. This will show that not only will I make a great account manager, but that I am also thrifty and thinking about the company’s money.

  On the third day, just as everyone is leaving for the day, I present my portfolio to Adam. This is what I have come up with.

  Image of hippopotamus with ass to camera, head turned around to look at camera, mouth wide revealing large teeth and almost-smile. Have (obviously on computer) added pantyhose, plus caption: “Do you think these pantyhose make my ass look firmer?”

  Image of two ducks (obviously one male, one female), fondly nuzzling each other. One is wearing pantyhose, thereby creating new, hourglass female duck figure. Caption from other duck’s point of view reads: “I’m Quackers Over You.”

  Image of Vietnamese potbellied pig, duplicated. On one picture, potbellied pig is featured minus potbelly because of fabulous control-panel pantyhose. Caption beneath both pictures reads: “Before and After.”

  Image of mother hen with sweet little brood of chicks. Caption beneath reads: “On your feet all day running after your brood? Get some support with Perfect Pantyhose.”

  I’m so anxious as Adam looks through my port
folio that I nearly forget to breathe. What if he doesn’t like it? What if he hates it? What if he thinks I’m a complete idiot?

  “Emmeline, I love it! You’re a genius!” He smiles sexily at me, and I remember to breathe again.

  And before I know it, he’s asking me all sorts of questions about my portfolio, and then he’s all over me like a rash. This time, with tongues, and hands, and everything.

  Before we go too far, Adam locks his office door.

  Hmmm. Heavenly.

  I am very glad that Johnny’s desk has been replaced. It would have been very strange (and somehow morbid) to have sex on a dead man’s desk.

  Over the next few weeks, Adam and I become very close, but not to the point where we tell anyone about “us.” I mean, I do see his point about us working together as boss and secretary. It would be okay, though, if we were working in the same company but not actually together, as it were.

  One night, as we’re lying in his bed in his lovely loft apartment, Adam tells me about the cruel Sabrina Sheffield. His ex. And he is obviously in so much pain that I alternately want to whack her for having toyed with his tender heart, or to thank her for leaving me a clear playing field.

  Apparently, her family and his have been friends going way back and it was always expected that the two of them would marry. To keep all that lovely WASP blood (and money) in the family, I suppose. I wonder if I should tell Adam that Sheffield is a city in the north of England, and used to be famous for its steel and coal. I have a vision of the perfect Sabrina’s great-great-grandfather coming off his shift, covered in coal dust. And then reality bites.

  Her family probably owned the coal mine. And the steel factories. Bastard plutocrats, making their nouveau riche fortunes by the sweat and toil of near-slave labor by the working classes. I realize this might be a little over the top, so I keep it to myself and resent her privately.