Chapter 6 A Woman’s Place #2
now said a lot, and doused the spark of Margaret’s ire. She moved nearer, pulled him close, kissed him.
It was unusual for her to take the lead in lovemaking, not because Margaret was a prude but because she rarely needed to.
Beneath Walt’s starched, standard-issue accountant dress shirt lay a passionate man, a generous and confident lover. But something
in his eyes and defeated tone filled her with tenderness and a desire to make him smile. She slipped the silky fabric of her
negligee off one shoulder and lifted his hand to caress her bare skin, her eyes inviting him to remove the rest. Instead,
he pulled his hand away, then palmed her cheek.
“Good night,” he said, and kissed her forehead.
* * *
The Christoph Building, home of A Woman’s Place and several other businesses, wasn’t the tallest or most imposing structure on the street.
But as Margaret stood in front of its double set of revolving doors, surrounded by a swirling river of hurried pedestrians, she felt paralyzed by a mixture of awe and intimidation. Charlotte squeezed her shoulder.
“We’ve come all this way. Don’t lose your nerve now.”
“Lose my nerve? What makes you think I ever had any to begin with?”
“You can’t back out now. You’ve got an appointment with Mr. Clement, and I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Bergdorf. Go on,”
Charlotte said, giving her a little shove. “I’ll meet you back at the station in front of the ticket counter.”
“Our train leaves at 3:15. Don’t forget.”
“I know,” Charlotte said, fluttering her fingers. “But really, would it be so terrible if we missed it? You still haven’t
seen Grant’s Tomb. Or the Blue Bar at the Algonquin. They make the best martinis—four parts vodka, two parts atmosphere, and
an olive. You’d love it.”
“If Clement spends more than fifteen minutes with me, I’ll be shocked. So maybe I will have time to pay my respects to General
Grant. But we cannot miss that train, Charlotte. If I’m not home by nine, Walt will divorce me.”
“Pfft. Husbands.” Charlotte flapped her hand. “New York is positively dripping with them. Five minutes in the Blue Bar, and
you’ll find one you like as much as your current model, maybe more. He’d only be a loaner, but that might be a plus. What
do you say?”
“Don’t be late, Charlotte. I’m serious.”
Charlotte sighed. “Oh, fine. Have it your way.”
She walked off, waggling gloved fingers of farewell over her shoulder. Margaret watched until she reached the corner, counting
the number of male heads that swiveled as Charlotte swept past, recalling the first line of Gone with the Wind, and thinking that Charlotte was a modern Scarlett O’Hara. Though Charlotte was not truly beautiful, men seldom realized
it when caught by her charms.
A passing pedestrian bumped into Margaret, jostling her from her reverie and reminding her of the task at hand. She took a breath, closed her eyes, and propelled herself into the carousel of revolving glass.
* * *
Two hours later, Margaret was back on the street.
She walked quickly, feeling a little frantic and trying to remember if she needed to turn left or right to get back to Penn
Station. After all her fussing at Charlotte, wouldn’t it be embarrassing if she was the one who made them miss their train?
Margaret hadn’t come close to making Leonard Clement fall in love with her. He’d looked exactly as he’d sounded on the phone—like
a grizzled old newsman with leathery skin and a perpetual scowl. However, thanks to the sample column Margaret brought with
her—and getting caught in a lie—it seemed he might be willing to give her a chance.
Clement liked the piece she’d written about using a mix to bake a favorite cake from her husband’s childhood, trying to pass
it off as from scratch, and getting caught when he took out the trash and spotted the empty Betty Crocker box. It was fun,
fluffy, entirely fictional, and exactly what Clement was looking for. In fact, he’d only made one change, crossing a red line
through what she’d felt was an innocuous query about why a man’s stomach should be a more reliable route to his heart than,
say, meaningful conversation.
“We’re paying you to be funny, not philosophical,” he said, putting down his red pencil and looking at her over the top of
his black-rimmed glasses. “Otherwise, not bad. Not great, but not terrible. Give me more like that, and maybe this can work
out.”
Not quite a ringing endorsement, but probably as much as she could have hoped for. After spending another fifteen minutes
brainstorming ideas for future columns, Margaret stood up, thanked him, and gathered her things.
“Where are you running off to?” Clement asked.
“Penn Station. I’ve got to make the 3:15 back to Washington.”
He scowled for a moment, then threw back his head and barked out a laugh.
“Ha! You played me! You didn’t come to New York to visit your aunt. You came here just to see me and try to butter me up,
didn’t you?”
Margaret stammered, feeling her face flush. Clement laughed again.
“Well, you’re gutsy. I’ll give you that.” He stood. “Come on. The boss wants to meet you.”
“The boss? But . . .” Margaret looked at her wristwatch. “My train.”
“Doesn’t leave for over an hour. You’ve got time,” he said, then led her to the office of David Miles, executive editor of
A Woman’s Place.
Miles was as jovial as Clement was curmudgeonly, handsome to boot, and much better dressed. He greeted her with a smile and
much praise, telling Margaret he was the one who’d decided to bring her on board. She was pleased but a little overwhelmed,
especially after Miles gripped her hand and a photographer snapped their picture. The flashbulb was so bright it made her
see spots.
“I want to introduce you personally in the next issue,” Mr. Miles explained, “let readers know that an ordinary housewife,
somebody they can identify with, is working at A Woman’s Place. A magazine for women by women. Great angle, don’t you think? Come on,” he said, beckoning her. “Let me give you the nickel
tour.”
It was a great angle, she had to admit. And quite a number of women did work at the magazine.
However, as the tour progressed through the photography studio, the test kitchen, and the editorial, art, and production departments, Margaret noticed that most of the women occupied low-level positions as secretaries and copy editors.
She met a couple of women writers—including Selma Cantrell, author of the “Selma Says” etiquette column, whose tall sprayed bouffant practically qualified as a sculpture—but not even one female editor.
Still, it had been an amazing day, one she would never forget. Weaving through the phalanx of New York pedestrians as if she
belonged there, Margaret couldn’t keep from grinning. Clement had praised her for being gutsy, but Charlotte was the one who
had pushed her into taking a chance. Miraculously, and against Margaret’s better judgment, it had paid off. She couldn’t wait
to tell Charlotte about everything that had happened, and to thank her.
While idling impatiently at the corner of West Thirty-First and Seventh Avenue, waiting for the light to turn and marveling
at the size of Penn Station, Margaret spotted a woman in a mink coat on the opposite corner, her back turned toward the crosswalk.
Margaret was relieved. She’d been worried about finding Charlotte.
The light turned red, and the torrent of traffic came to a halt. Midway through the crosswalk, Margaret realized that Charlotte
wasn’t alone. A man with dark eyes and a shock of thick, gray-white hair swept back from his high forehead was standing next
to her. Or perhaps she was standing next to him? The handbreadth distance that separated them suggested intimacy. The way
Charlotte reached up to pick a bit of lint from the lapel of his blue-black wool peacoat confirmed it. It was such a personal,
possessive gesture, the kind of thing a woman did only if she found a man attractive or was attempting to attract him to herself.
Margaret felt flustered, wondering if she’d witnessed something she wasn’t meant to, then trying to decide if she should walk
right past Charlotte and her companion and pretend she hadn’t seen them. But Charlotte turned and waved, seeming not at all
ruffled.
Margaret must have misread the situation. With his rumpled chinos and a denim shirt with an open collar under his coat, the
man didn’t seem like the sort of person Charlotte would know. But maybe he was a relative of some sort? A cousin or brother?
“You made it!” Charlotte exclaimed. “I was getting worried. Let me introduce you to Lawrence Ahlgren, the painter.” Margaret nodded.
The name was familiar, but she couldn’t recall his paintings.
“And Lawrence, meet Margaret, fellow inmate of the intellectual prison that is Concordia, a member of my book club, and my very oldest, brand-new best friend.”
“A pleasure,” he said. His handshake was firm, and he spoke with an accent Margaret thought might be Swedish. Or Dutch? She
couldn’t say for sure. Margaret smiled and returned the sentiment.
“Well,” Charlotte said, sounding reluctant, “I suppose we must dash.”
She rocked forward onto her toes, kissed Ahlgren on the cheek, whispered in his ear.
“All right,” he said in a husky tone Margaret didn’t think she was meant to overhear. “But don’t make me wait too long.”
They said goodbye to Ahlgren and headed to the station, passing rows of soaring stone columns to the entrance. When they reached
the main door, Charlotte hesitated, looking over her shoulder to the corner. Margaret did the same.
Ahlgren was still standing there, watching Charlotte with a frank and hungry expression.