something while she's here. How to fit copy and how to do simple editing, at least. Otherwise she's no good to us. If it makes her mad to be told what to do she might as well quit right now. Someone has to train the assistants.
She was defending herself to Stan, even though he'd left the office and couldn't hear a word she was thinking. He knew it all anyway. She made a face.
Because that wasn't why she had been hanging over Betsy's desk, spelling out the details of her job for her. With the others the briefing sessions had been a couple of ten-minute interviews, very cut and dried, at the beginning.
Try to be honest, she told herself. She had in fact been finding tiny flaws in Betsy's Dictaphone transcripts and bringing them to her attention, going into detail on what was expected of an assistant for reasons of her own. Sounding like any picky, fussy old maid, not because she was displeased with Betsy's work or because she hoped that Betsy would become an asset to the magazine some day. Betsy's abilities were those of the average stenographer with a high school diploma and six months of business college, no more and no less. Jo knew she was looking for an excuse to go into Betsy's office and stand near her, look at her and talk to her.
The realization made her feel a little sick.
You've got it bad, she thought scornfully. Where do you think it'll get you? Carrying the torch for a girl who doesn't even know the score. How adolescent can you get?
If I had the sense I was born with I'd fire the kid tomorrow and get somebody else in here, a girl who could do the work—a girl who didn't appeal to me. Also I'd find myself a woman somewhere, without all this eternal love jazz. The boys are right. She had never done much cruising. The night with Linda, the couple of hours with the blonde butch had been the only times in the last couple of years. Like a man going to a whore, she thought.
I'll let the kid alone after this.
She pulled down her sleeves and put in the cuff links, heavy round silver ones with a tiny central stone in each, dark red against dull metal. Jeannine had given them to her and they were precious for that reason, less precious than the self-respect Jeannine had also given her but still a tangible reminder of a good era in her life. She was wearing them a great deal these days, for reassurance. Someone loved me once, someone thought I was important.
She shrugged into her coat and buttoned it, ran a comb through her hair and reddened her lips with only a casual glance in the mirror. She knew how she looked. Anyone who liked her would have to take her as she was. She got up and walked down the hall.
Betsy was at her desk, reading a magazine. She jumped when Jo's shadow fell across the page. "Oh!" she said, like a child caught doing something naughty.
Jo's mouth was dry. She ran her tongue across her lips, tasting the faintly bitter oiliness of fresh lipstick. "Hi," she said in a voice that sounded a little wobbly. "Have you had lunch?"
"Not yet." Betsy looked up at her, putting a hand over her magazine as though she could hide it. With her nose shiny and her fair hair ruffled she looked about sixteen. There was a dimple in her chin.
"How about going out with me? My treat. I didn't take you to lunch when you first came," Jo said, improvising, "so I'd like to now. Okay?"
"Oh, thanks. Gee, I'd like that very much. Only I'm not dressed to go anywhere fancy."
"Neither am I. Nobody dresses for lunch in this town."
"Well, if you think I look all right."
Kid, Jo thought, you look so all right I could scream. She waited while Betsy straightened her seams and smoothed her skirt, then followed her silently out of the office, ignoring Gayle's surprised look.
The Manchester House was dusky even at noon on a brisk fall day, chintz curtains pulled across the windows, candles flickering in ruby hurricane glasses on the small tables. A well-rounded hostess in black led them past the bar where a dozen men were having
She was defending herself to Stan, even though he'd left the office and couldn't hear a word she was thinking. He knew it all anyway. She made a face.
Because that wasn't why she had been hanging over Betsy's desk, spelling out the details of her job for her. With the others the briefing sessions had been a couple of ten-minute interviews, very cut and dried, at the beginning.
Try to be honest, she told herself. She had in fact been finding tiny flaws in Betsy's Dictaphone transcripts and bringing them to her attention, going into detail on what was expected of an assistant for reasons of her own. Sounding like any picky, fussy old maid, not because she was displeased with Betsy's work or because she hoped that Betsy would become an asset to the magazine some day. Betsy's abilities were those of the average stenographer with a high school diploma and six months of business college, no more and no less. Jo knew she was looking for an excuse to go into Betsy's office and stand near her, look at her and talk to her.
The realization made her feel a little sick.
You've got it bad, she thought scornfully. Where do you think it'll get you? Carrying the torch for a girl who doesn't even know the score. How adolescent can you get?
If I had the sense I was born with I'd fire the kid tomorrow and get somebody else in here, a girl who could do the work—a girl who didn't appeal to me. Also I'd find myself a woman somewhere, without all this eternal love jazz. The boys are right. She had never done much cruising. The night with Linda, the couple of hours with the blonde butch had been the only times in the last couple of years. Like a man going to a whore, she thought.
I'll let the kid alone after this.
She pulled down her sleeves and put in the cuff links, heavy round silver ones with a tiny central stone in each, dark red against dull metal. Jeannine had given them to her and they were precious for that reason, less precious than the self-respect Jeannine had also given her but still a tangible reminder of a good era in her life. She was wearing them a great deal these days, for reassurance. Someone loved me once, someone thought I was important.
She shrugged into her coat and buttoned it, ran a comb through her hair and reddened her lips with only a casual glance in the mirror. She knew how she looked. Anyone who liked her would have to take her as she was. She got up and walked down the hall.
Betsy was at her desk, reading a magazine. She jumped when Jo's shadow fell across the page. "Oh!" she said, like a child caught doing something naughty.
Jo's mouth was dry. She ran her tongue across her lips, tasting the faintly bitter oiliness of fresh lipstick. "Hi," she said in a voice that sounded a little wobbly. "Have you had lunch?"
"Not yet." Betsy looked up at her, putting a hand over her magazine as though she could hide it. With her nose shiny and her fair hair ruffled she looked about sixteen. There was a dimple in her chin.
"How about going out with me? My treat. I didn't take you to lunch when you first came," Jo said, improvising, "so I'd like to now. Okay?"
"Oh, thanks. Gee, I'd like that very much. Only I'm not dressed to go anywhere fancy."
"Neither am I. Nobody dresses for lunch in this town."
"Well, if you think I look all right."
Kid, Jo thought, you look so all right I could scream. She waited while Betsy straightened her seams and smoothed her skirt, then followed her silently out of the office, ignoring Gayle's surprised look.
The Manchester House was dusky even at noon on a brisk fall day, chintz curtains pulled across the windows, candles flickering in ruby hurricane glasses on the small tables. A well-rounded hostess in black led them past the bar where a dozen men were having
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