Chapter 4
Sid Morris sat at his large oak desk behind the closed door of his private office. He didn't seem able to keep his mind on his work this morning. It was one of those rare summer days when the skies over downtown Los Angeles were clear and beautiful. It gave him a feeling of spring fever, of nostalgia.
He ran his hands through his thick hair, still black except for striking threads of gray at the temples. He patted his stomach. Not bad, he thought, for fifty-six. Just a small paunch. And, after all, his six-foot-two frame could stand it.
He looked around his office with an appraising eye. He'd done well. Very well. It hadn't taken him long to learn. No, sir, not Sid Morris. Once, just once, he had been a loser, but now he was long recouped from that. Trouble, back then, was that he had been ahead of the times. He'd taken that fancy trip to Paris and foolishly paid a fortune for a few models from the top Paris couturiers. He then had them copied, cut, and made up for the American fall line. Shouldn't have tried such a big undertaking on a shoe string better to have tucked his designer under his arm and gotten into the Paris salons, posing as wealthy Texans, and stolen the designs. Not to the last detail, of course that would have been dangerous but just close enough copying so they'd resemble the originals. A little unethical, perhaps, but at least he wouldn't have lost his shirt.
Oh, well, it had all turned out for the best. Adelle was a good wife and mother and they had a good marriage. Marrying her had made it easier for him to live his own life. She was a placid woman and unaware of or, perhaps, indifferent to the numerous girl friends he'd had throughout the years. Besides, it had been her old man's money that had given him a second start. Wasn't that old curmudgeon surprised the day Sid returned his loan which he never expected to see again and with interest? All her father had wanted was to make his plain, but nice, daughter happy with a good husband. Sid had never even pretended to be in love with Adelle not even at the outset but he had been determined to have the best Goddamn line of casual clothes in the country, and to do it he had had to find a new grubstake somewhere, and by God he had done just that. And now things were looking up really up. Oh, he had to admit there was a thorn in the cloth Leisure Line, his big competitor. He and they ran neck and neck, but, somehow, he'd soon shove them down into a firm second place. Make book on it!
A timid tap at his office door brought Sid fully awake from his daydreaming.
"Come in."
Joyce appeared at the open door and quickly closed it behind her, snapping the lock as she did so. "Mr. M.," she said in a small voice, "do you have a few minutes?"
Sid glanced up sharply from the papers he was now scanning. Wouldn't do to have the help catch him day-dreaming, he thought.
"I always have a few minutes for you, Joyce," he said, returning his eyes to his papers.
She approached the desk slowly, letting her smock fall open as she did. But the view of her well-rounded braless body in the flesh-colored panties was lost on Sid. He didn't raise his eyes again. "Sit down, sit down," he gestured with his hand.
But Joyce didn't sit down. She pressed her body against his desk and leaned forward over it, exposing her small but well-proportioned breasts to best advantage.
"Mr. M., none of the new line has been fitted on me yet." There was a waver in her voice. "How come?"
"I told them to leave your fittings for last, Joyce." Sid said, not unkindly. "To give you time to get that extra inch off your hips."
"Oh, Mr. M., they can go ahead and fit me anyway because it'll be off by the time the samples are ready. I swear." She added this last with passion.
"Well, you know, our headstrong designer likes to see the material fall the way she indicates in the drawings. So I thought I'd just leave your samples for last."
Joyce gave up her enticing pose and moved around the desk where she slid to the floor at Sid's feet. "Oh, Mr. M., you wouldn't give Charlene the permanent job just because I've added one inch, would you?" She slid her hand affectionately up his pants leg.
Sid knew that Joyce, at only eighteen, had a large load to carry. She was fatherless, almost motherless, since the woman was so sickly, and had two young brothers to help support. Of course, Joyce could always get another job with another manufacturer who cut his samples larger, but it might not be steady. And she'd never get as large a salary. He'd found many years ago that it was just plain good business to pay five or ten dollars over the industry average. It was little enough extra compared to what one got for it: prettier girls who would work harder. Plus, perhaps, a few of their favors. Just as he thought this, Joyce moved her hand from his pants leg to his zipper.
"You needn't concern yourself about your job, Joyce," he answered.
Her cool hand reached into his undershorts and brought out his large, but limp, penis. He patted her affectionately on the head. "You're a nice, loyal girl. And a good model, too," But, he thought to himself, you have to keep the best of 'em in line, or they'll take advantage, eat candy bars all day instead of cocks.
He felt her warm lips encase his cock. He leaned back in his swivel chair and closed his eyes. Guess he'd had too many pretty girls, he thought. Getting jaded. He felt her mouth pump up and down on him, trying desperately to make him hard. Seemed as if it just didn't mean anything any more having Joyce go down on him. Now, if this were Charlene! But he hadn't gotten the message across to the new girl during her first week of employment. He supposed he'd have to make it clear pretty soon, but in the meantime, this was it. He could feel his cock getting bigger and harder just thinking about Charlene, irrespective of who was doing the actual work.
Joyce licked and sucked industriously while Sid, with eyes closed, floated on in his fantasy, imagining it was Charlene who was attending him.
It worked. He poured, it seemed to him, a pint of semen intoCharlene's?sexy mouth.
Joyce sucked and swallowed and licked him dry. Then, as she tucked it back into his pants, he caressed her cheek and said, "You're a good girl, Joyce." It was the first time he had looked directly at her since she had begun.
She looked up gratefully. "Thank you, Mr. M."
"Go back to work now. And don't worry. Just stick to your high protein diet and everything'll be fine."
"Yes, Mr. M." Joyce stood up and tied her robe. Sid returned to his papers.
Charlene put on the elegant wine-colored pant-suit. God, it was gorgeous, she thought. Retailed for sixty dollars, but she could buy everything for half price. Of course, if she waited until they didn't need it any longer she could probably talk Mr. M. into selling the sample for a lot less. But what the hell, she was earning good money, why not have it now? Or maybe in a couple of weeks, when it could be cut and sewn with another order.
"Hey, Charlene, you better get your fanny out there. Mr. Hershfield doesn't like to be kept waiting," Joyce said as she entered the dressing room, unbuttoning the creation she had been showing. "Okay."
Charlene pranced through the curtains into the showroom. Mr. M. was sitting next to a "big" buyer, a certain Mr. Hershfield. Charlene knew he was a big buyer, otherwise Mr. M. would have put him in the hands of one of the regular salesmen.
"Here's a beautiful number for you, Hershey," Sid offered, almost fawning.
"I'll say she is," Hershfield answered, giving Charlene an all-encompassing once-over. Then, as if not seeing the apparel at all, but only the girl in it, and also seemingly oblivious to the onlookers, Hershfield spoke directly to Charlene. "It's kinda lonely being away from home, honey," he stated, in a Midwestern drawl. "How about having dinner with me tonight?"
Charlene replied simply, "I'm sorry, Mr. Hershfield. I can't."
Sid Morris's face revealed nothing.
"Why the hell can't ya?" Hershfield snapped. He was obviously used to having his way.
All the while Charlene had been turning and walking to show how the pantsuit moved with the body. "That's all right, Charlene, go put on the next number," Sid cut in. He patted Hershfield's arm as Charlene walked out and then said in a low voice, "Calm down, Hershey. I'll take care of it."
"Well, I don't want her if she's going to be snotty."
"She isn't going to be snotty. She's going to be charming. You're going to have a wonderful time. Now, that number she was wearing is going to be a real winner comes in four shades wine, forest green, rust, and camel. How many do you think you can use?"
"No idea right now. I'll let you know tomorrow." Hershfield was wearing a dour expression as he said this last.
After the girls had shown the complete line, Charlene was summoned to the office. The message had been delivered by Sid Morris's secretary, and Joyce had overheard. This surprised her, since Mr. M. had already been serviced once that day. And, lately, once had been his limit.
"Sit down, Charlene," Mr. M. said. His voice was gentle, but conveyed a message of no-nonsense seriousness. Charlene sat.
"Do you like your job here, my dear?"
Charlene was taken aback. What kind of a question was this? "Oh, yes, Mr. M. I love working with clothes, and yours are exceptional. And I'm learning a lot it's very interesting. Yes, I love working here."
"Do you know who that buyer was?"
"Yes. Mr. Hershfield."
Sid pulled a bottle of Scotch out of his lower left drawer. "It's almost five. You won't have to work any more today, Charlene. Join me in a drink." He produced two small glasses. "Oh! No, thank you, Mr. Morris. I don't drink."
"Only smoke pot, huh?" he muttered privately. "You know, Charlene," he wagged his finger at her, "you say 'no' too much. There's another word you're going to have to learn to say that suits pretty girls much better. It's 'yes.' Let me hear you say 'yes,' Charlene."
Charlene hadn't seen him like this before. He was as kind and gentle as ever, but there was a steely quality behind his words. As if hypnotized, she said, "Yes, Mr. M."
He poured the drinks and handed her one. "Just swirl it around in your mouth a little first. Drink it slowly."
Charlene no longer considered being obstinate. She complied, and felt the warmth of the liquor suffuse her throat all the way to her stomach. She coughed slightly, burning.
"A girl who wears such expensive clothes and drives such an expensive car must learn to appreciate Scotch. Of course, when you go to dinner with Mr. Hershfield tonight you don't have to drink Scotch. You can drink bourbon or gin or vodka, but you must drink something. Men don't like to drink alone when they're with a beautiful young lady."
Charlene's head was swimming. Expensive clothes, expensive car, dinner with Mr. Hershfield. What was happening? "But, Mr. M., I'm not going to dinner with Mr. Hershfield."
"Don't be silly, my dear. Of course you are. When I asked if you knew who that buyer was, I didn't mean just his name. I meant who, really who like in Who's Who. Well, obviously you don't, so I'll spell it out. Mr. Hershfield represents Martin and Martin, who have stores all over the country. Mr. Hershfield buys for all those beautiful stores. He doesn't buy a piece here and a piece there. He buys by the thousand!"
"Oh," Charlene interjected, a flickering of understanding crossing her mind.
"Yes, and Mr. Hershfield got his feelings hurt when you turned him down, Charlene. We don't insult our buyers. That's a no-no. Am I making myself clear?"
"But Mr. M.," Charlene gulped and hoped her eyes weren't all teary, "after working hours, isn't my time my own?"
"Charlene, if you want to make it in the fashion industry, you eat, sleep, and breathe it around the clock. Especially sleep," he added pointedly. "That goes for any kind of modeling you do. I know you have that interview for a hair commercial lined up. Maybe the agency man who represents the shampoo will want you to go out with him. Well, are you going to accept, or maybe let some other girl go out with him and get the job instead of you?" He paused after this pitch to let it sink in fully.
"Well," Charlene said, looking down into her lap. "I don't know. Of course, a commercial pays a lot of money, and then the residuals can really be fantastic."
Sid let out a sigh of relief. At last he was getting through. He arose from his swivel chair and walked around the desk to where she sat. "Let's bring your chair around here, my dear," he said, helping her up while he moved her chair next to his. "Now. That's better." He patted her knee and slipped his hand up her thigh, opening her smock a bit as he did.
"Now," he continued. "A big order from Martin and Martin would give you a nice bonus at Christmas time. And when I like a girl she gets her clothes at cost, not wholesale. Do you know what that means?" And then, before Charlene had a chance to answer, he continued, "It means that I don't make a damn thing. I charge you what it costs to make the garment. In fact, sometimes I give things away that were cancelled and couldn't be placed. I give them to my pretty little employees." He put one large hand on the back of her head, pulled her forward and kissed her on the cheek. "But that isn't all. When Mr. Hershfield likes a girl he is very generous. And that car of yours probably has big payments."
"Just for going out with him, Mr. M.? Mr. Hershfield is generous to a girl for just going out with him?"
"Your mother wasn't much older than you are when she started her career with me, Charlene. She was smart. That's why she lasted. Looks aren't enough. There's more looks than brains floating around, but when you get the combination you got a winner. You are a winner, aren't you, Charlene?"
"Well, I hope so, Mr. Morris. But does that mean I have to... " She faltered. "... you know."
"It doesn't hurt, Charlene. In fact, I'd say it helps. It helps a lot. But it's more serious than that, Charlene. If you don't go to dinner with Mr. Hershfield and act very, very nice to him and it hurts me to say this to you because you're Sonja's baby, but I can't beat about the bush any longer I'm going to have to let you go and then have you blacklisted by the rest of the industry in order to save the Hershfield account. There's no other way he could save face. I just can't afford to have 'no' girls working for me."
Now the tears fell freely from Charlene's large blue eyes.
"Oh, baby," he said, patting her on the cheek. "Don't cry. You'll make your eyes all red for tonight." He let his hand slip down into the smock and gently squeezed her breast. Then he kissed her full on the lips.
Charlene left Sid Morris's office shaken. It was five-twenty and everyone had left the plant. Oddly, she found herself thinking in exactly the direction Sid Morris had hoped she might. That new car was, indeed, an albatross around her neck, and it did represent a big nut to crack. Paying off a thirty-five-hundred-dollar car was no joke.
But Sonja had refused to let her purchase a second-hand transportation car.
"Are you kidding," her mother had said. "You've got to look successful, baby. Money goes to money. You can't go around looking like broken-down humble pie looking for an extra crumb. You have to drive up in a flashy sports car and you get out wearing expensive clothes. That's where it's at. If you look like you don't need a job, you get it. You gotta be class."
Charlene dressed quickly. She had to hurry home. She'd have to bathe, apply her make-up again, and don her most expensive long dress. And fast. She had to be back at the Ambassador for her eight-thirty dinner date with one of the least lovable men she'd ever met:Mr. Hershfield. If I must play the game, she thought, then I suppose I must. And well.
Charlene, clad only in panties, stood before her dressing-table mirror, admiring her handiwork. Foundation creams, eye shadows and liners, eyebrow pencils, mascaras, rouges, lipsticks, and powder were strewn about the table.
Just as Charlene was applying a bright red lipstick, Sonja walked in, glass in hand. She gasped and almost spilled her drink when she caught Charlene's reflection in the mirror. "Good Lord! Are you going to a masquerade?"
"Mother!" Charlene replied, a hurt tone in her voice, "I'm going out with Mr. Hershfield and Mr. M. wants me to look my best."
"In that case, get out the cold cream. Let's get that goop off your face."
"Mother, I'm not wearing sports clothes tonight! I'll have on my best long dress and I think I should wear the make-up to go with it. I'm not a school kid any longer." Anger replaced her distress. Sonja strode over to Charlene, put her drink on the dressing-table, and took her hands in her own. "Look, baby, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but you need a lesson in make-up. I don't expect you to let your face go bare-assed when you're dolled up for an evening on the town, but too much is too much. In the first place, you're a blonde you can't wear as much make-up as a brunette. In the second place, which is really the first place, you have youth. Never again in your life will you be able to take advantage of your natural beauty. Even plain girls seem pretty because they're young and fresh. Whatever you do with your make-up, you mustn't kill that glowing freshness."
She released Charlene and reached for the cleansing cream. "Here, you're going to start over." She handed Charlene a Kleenex from the little paper mache-covered box. Charlene's anger subsided as she watched her mother handle the box one of the treasured presents she had brought from Mexico a year earlier. She looked up to her mother's face and saw that Sonja's best interests were now being directed toward Charlene's own. Sonja really was in her corner. She sighed and began to cream her face.
"Here, put some astringent on to get all the cleansing cream off before you begin again." Sonja handed Charlene a dampened cotton pad.
"All right," she went on, "what do we have here?" She began to appraise the foundations. "Here, this color matches your skin best. Now put it on sparingly in dots, then rub it into your face with both hands. You really don't need anything on your skin, but I know you want to have a really finished look tonight. Okay, now apply the eye shadow faintly, so that it complements your eyes, instead of making them garish. Understatement is what we want, dear."
Charlene followed her mother's instructions. After the eye shadow she was told to put her brown eye liner on subtly, rather than as if she were going to a costume party as Cleopatra. Then the powder was patted on gently. Next the brown mascara applied, allowed to dry, then re-applied.
"Do you see the difference, baby? You're wearing the make-up instead of it wearing you. You've got on the same variety, but it's applied artistically. Anyone can pour the make-up on, but achieving a natural look is quite a trick.
"I've got to admit you're right, Mother," Charlene answered as she applied some Blush to give her cheeks a little color.
"What dress are you wearing?"
Charlene walked to the closet and pulled out a long-sleeved, low-necked matte jersey print. "Oh, yes, that dress is marvelous on you. Don't you think this soft coral lipstick would be pretty with it?"
"Yes, but bright shades are in, Mother."
"Charlene, you have to learn to go with the fashion just so long as it is complimentary to you. The minute something is not good for you, fuck it. You should never wear bright reds. At least, not until you're thirty. By that time they'll be back to white."
Charlene, subdued, took the coral lipstick from her mother, and when she finished applying it stood back and admired the completed job.