Chapter 2
Something was up. He didn't know exactly what it was but by now he knew Toni well enough to be almost able to smell trouble in her tone of voice. The sweet voice that could fool the whole world. The loving voice that used to fool him, too. The coy, flirtatious tone, reserved for those not-so-rare occasions when Toni wanted something, or had already done something that he'd find out about later ... and learn to accept in order to survive.
The sounds of a busy office filtered in through Stan's thoughts and forced him back to his present surroundings. That was one thing about Toni, Stan had to admit. Just the velvet sound of her voice was enough to remove him from the chaos at work and make him temporarily able to forget how he earned his living. Nobody else could do that for him, but his wife. It must be love.
The colorful layout for the Stillwell Lipstick television commercial caught his eye and draw Stan's attention down onto his desk. Something was wrong with it, he knew, but just what that something was, escaped him. Maybe the fault lay only within himself. Maybe he just wasn't cut out for the additional responsibility that had lately fallen on to his unwilling shoulders. Maybe he should just walk into Elliot's office and....
"Stan, where's that layout?" Carl's voice, usually friendly and calm, rasped with anxiety. "Barnes has been on my neck all afternoon for the damned thing. Come on, boy. Let's get going."
"Dammit, I'm not a machine, Carl." Stan threw his pen down onto, the desk and swiveled his chair around to face the window. The afternoon sun on the other side of the pane looked warm and inviting. A nice blue-red tone in the shadows, Stan thought, following the long fingers of light that mellowed between the buildings on the other side of the street. Nice colors to paint. Nice colors for a guy to lose himself in....
"All right, all right. Take it easy, boy." A shaky hand descended to Stan's shoulder. "I didn't mean to sound like a slave driver. It's just that-"
"Forget it." Stan waved off Carl's apology and arranged a smile across his face for the man's benefit. Carl was a friend. A right guy. He didn't belong in that rat race of a business, either. Especially not with his heart condition....
"It's not working." Stan turned back to his desk and pointed to the layout. "If you ask me, the entire composition stinks."
"Here, let me have a look at it." Carl leaned over the desk and squinted down at the advertisement.
"Maybe you can figure out the trouble." Stan's voice was noticeably softer as he watched the Assistant Manager carefully studying the layout. Carl had changed a helluva lot in five years, Stan told himself. When he first came to work at Stillwell, Stan remembered thinking how young his boss looked for forty-six. Carl was the friendly dynamo then ... the little man with a slap on the back for everybody and an inexhaustible supply of energy.
And now, Stan saw the lines that had etched deeply into Carl's tired face ... and the hair, more grey than black. The man had aged twenty years in only five. And Stan knew, only too well, that Carl's dissipation was because of his job ... and because of Elliot Barnes.
"It's this word, right in here." Carl jumped up and nodded, matter-of-factly. "Kissable." He pointed to the ad. "It's too small. Throws the balance off."
Stan leaned forward on one elbow and looked down at the word. "You're right," he muttered. "I'll change it myself and bring it in to Elliot's office."
"You won't forget now?" Carl started to walk away from the desk, his thoughts obviously on the next thing he had to do.
"Not a chance." Stan reached into a desk drawer for a bottle of ink. Stupid mistake, he told himself angrily, grunting at the obvious fault in the layout. He should have been able to catch that himself. Any kid that ever pasted an ad together would have seen it.
A cold fear paralyzed his hand. It was happening again. He was slipping.
Hurriedly, Stan worked to correct the error. He mustn't think such thoughts. To lose confidence was to commit occupational suicide. But how was a guy supposed to feel comfortable in a place where he knew he didn't belong?
Toni's smiling photograph beamed out from the confines of its leather frame. Stan stared at it, aware of a familiar twitching down near the pit of his tomach. For her, he would stick out this lousy job and a dozen more. He owed her that much. She'd put up with an awful lot from a guy who didn't deserve her. She could have married somebody rich. Easily. With her kind of looks, she could have been wearing diamonds today.
But she'd married him. And she'd given him her father's money to buy the house. No sacrifice on his part could be too great. Especially on their anniversary.
A warm feeling of nostalgia settled about his mood and caused him to smile. He glanced furtively around the office to make sure Carl wasn't close by. Then he leaned back and thought about the way it had been in the beginning....
The small apartment in the village that smelled from oil pigments and drying canvasses ... the high-riser that converted from a sofa by day to a double bed at night ... Tom, young and eager with warm skin and soft breasts, waiting for him beneath the blankets ... her scarlet mouth, teasing, exploring ... driving him past the point of caring what he did to please her....
A trickle of perspiration ran between his shoulder blades. Stan swallowed hard and shifted his position in the chair. Back to work, he ordered himself forcefully. Two more minutes of thinking about Toni and he'd be in no shape to do any work at all. Soon he'd be going home ... then he could....
"How's it going, Rembrandt?"
Stan looked quickly up from Toni's picture, just in time to return Eileen's disarming smile. "Carl told me what's wrong with the layout," he said. "I'll have it finished in no time."
"Good deal." The young illustrator nodded enthusiastically and pressed the blunt edge of a drawing pencil through her curly red hair. "Now maybe you can tell Carl what's wrong with himself."
"That is our revered and overworked Assistant Manager you are speaking of." Stan pretended a stern, scornful expression. "You are impertinent, Miss Vickers."
"Yes, I know." Eileen wrinkled her button nose. "Isn't it wonderful?"
"Yeah." Stan chuckled and felt his expression change to one of wholehearted approval. The girl was talented, bright and perceptive. Very little went over her head in the office, either about the work, or about the people. And sometimes, he wished she wasn't so damned good-looking. "Nevertheless, you ought to watch what you say."
"He seems to be getting worse every day." Eileen's tone sounded burdened with concern. "I hate to see a man like that running himself into the ground so. If he'd only take it a little slower."
"Nobody rests in this office except Elliot Barnes. You know that." Stan wished he hadn't said it, but the words were already out.
"Doesn't everybody know it?" Eileen didn't seem the least bit shocked by Stan's statement. "Maybe if he was sober enough to do his own work, other people wouldn't have to break their necks."
"Go complain to the President," Stan quipped, trying to make light of the situation. "I have work to do."
"I don't need a ton of bricks to fall," Eileen said, goodnaturedly. "I'm going."
"See you tomorrow." Stan sat and watched Eileen's shapely behind navigate beautifully across the room. Then he loosened his tie and finished correcting the layout.
"Arlen, old man. Come on in."
Elliot Barnes drained the last drop of scotch out of the bottom of his glass and swung his feet up onto the leather-topped desk. "Long time no see, fella. Where have you been keeping yourself?"
"Working, mostly." Stan knew what Elliot was referring to but avoided the issue. It had been at least a month since Toni and he had gone to the Barnes place for dinner. Somehow, Stan found himself no longer able to stomach a night of foul jokes and pretended friendship. If Toni liked Irma, that was her business. But as far as he was concerned, once the office was closed, Stan wanted nothing to do with Elliot.
"I know what you mean." Elliot sighed loudly and poured himself another drink. "That television spec is driving the whole office batty. Sometimes I wish Eva Stillwell hadn't decided to become a sponsor."
"Never question the decisions of a vice-president," Stan joked, knowing he'd better keep up the banter or run the risk of telling Elliot what he really thought of him. How could one guy be such a phony and hope to get away with it? Every person who worked under him knew that Elliot was always too soused to do anything constructive. And now, the bastard was looking for sympathy.
"What Eva needs is a good roll in the hay," Elliot announced decisively. "Then she wouldn't sit up nights figuring out ways to kill the advertising department."
Stan laughed despite himself. The thought of the austere Eva Stillwell involved in some nefarious affair was beyond his comprehension. The woman probably didn't know that sex existed.
"Here's the lipstick layout that Carl said you wanted." Stan handed the ad to Elliot, grateful for a reason to steer the conversation back to business.
"Finally." Elliot made no effort to hide his disgust. "Old Carl isn't very much on the ball these days. I think maybe he ought to start collecting his pension."
"The delay was my fault." Stan leapt instantly to his friend's defense. "I had to re-do some of the lettering."
"You don't have to make excuses for the guy." Elliot's eyes never left the paper. "Everybody's got to start slipping eventually."
Stan felt the rage ball his fingers into fists, but he kept his mouth shut. To knock Carl was unjust to begin with. And to do it in front of someone who worked under him was in rotten taste. Visions of busting Elliot's jaw floated temptingly before him. He turned to leave.
"Hold on a minute," Elliot called after him. "How about a drink?"
"No thanks." Stan felt the anger tightening the muscles in his throat. "I've got to catch a train."
"What's the hurry?" Elliot smiled. "The little woman will wait for you. Mine always does, unfortunately."
"The car broke down." Stan chose a more convenient excuse. Elliot wasn't the type to sympathize with anniversaries. "I'll have to cab home from the station."
"I'd give you a lift, but-"
"Forget it." Stan cut him off. "I'll be fine." He knew that Elliot always stayed in town to have a few before hitting the railroad for home. "See you tomorrow."
"Right."
Stan closed Elliot's office door a little too loudly as he left.
The high level of noise was noticeably absent when Stan returned to his own office. Quickly, he gathered the papers on his desk and piled them in a corner. Then he rolled down his sleeves and reached for his jacket.
A lone figure, hunched over a desk in the far corner of the room, caught Stan's eye. He hurried toward it.
"What's the matter, Carl? You not feeling well?"
Carl picked up his head, obviously embarrassed. "Go fly a kite," he grumbled. "I'll outlive you by twenty years."
"That's the spirit." Stan slapped Carl playfully on the back, not fooled for a second by a rotten attempt at bravado. Too bad the guy never got married, Stan thought. To face an empty apartment after a day in this office was rough. "What are you doing after work?" he asked.
"I've got a date with three fashion models." Carl reached into his pocket and opened a bottle of pills. "These are for strength."
"How would you like to have dinner at my place?" Stan hoped there was no trace of pity in the invitation.
"Got any girls?" Carl wasn't giving in, anyway.
"Just one." Stan smiled proudly. "But I know she'd love to see you."
"I don't know." Carl looked across the empty office. "You young people don't need an old goat like me around."
"You're right, but come anyway." Stan was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Carl was no dope.
"I'll see if I can afford the train fare later," Carl relented. "I've got some more work to do first.
"Don't be later than eight-thirty." Stan started for the door, pleased with himself. "Toni hates to serve burnt food."
"Go home, will you?" Carl waved Stan away. "I can't stand wise guys." He smiled.
"See you later." Stan walked out the front door and allowed a worried expression to break through. Maybe he shouldn't have invited Carl home for dinner on their anniversary. Maybe Toni would be mad.
No, Stan corrected his own thinking. Toni wasn't like that. She'd understand. He hoped.
The train ride home seemed even longer than usual. Stan sat, uncomfortably squeezed into a corner of the seat and tried to ignore the sounds of the poker game going on behind him. It occurred to him that Toni hadn't mentioned the roses he'd sent, when she called him. The poor kid was probably upset about the car breaking down, Stan decided. Women weren't really equipped to handle such minor emergencies. But thank heaven for the things they were equipped for!
The image of his wife as a bride returned to pleasantly unnerve him. Stan gazed up toward the ceiling and allowed his mind to wander. Tonight was going to be special, he promised himself. There'd be time before Carl showed up. Time for just the two of them to be together. The hell with supper. They could eat something simple when Carl arrived.
The train seemed to crawl, just to make Stan's impatience harder to bear. He glanced irritably at his watch. Five-forty-eight. Another twenty minutes to go. And then fifteen for the cab. But once he got through that front door....
She was wearing a pink negligee that first night in the apartment, Stan remembered. A sheer creation that let just enough fight through to drive him crazy. The pure white skin of her breasts ... Stan remembered uncovering them, one at a time. Slowly. Breathlessly. He'd kissed them, fondled them until Toni had begged him to....
A sinking feeling tainted his mood. Had it really been seven years? Was it true that he was thirty and their young days were all behind them?
Nonsense.
He tried to recapture his good spirits. There was still lots of rime left. He'd get back to his painting, one of these days. It wasn't so important anyway. Toni had been right. A man should do whatever he can to make the most money possible.
His common sense disagreed, but Stan wouldn't listen. He'd been through that tortuous battle with himself hundreds of times. And every time he'd come up with the same answer. Toni was right. She was always right. You can't live in a dream world when you're married. If you want a woman, you've got to make compromises.
But the compromises weren't so bad, either, Stan told himself. And once he got home, he was going to prove it. Within an hour he'd make Toni forget about the broken car-about all the luxuries he hadn't been able to give her.
And about everything else, except himself.