CHAPTER

Ten

What in the world happened to you, Mildred?” Mr. Henderson demanded when he walked into the office suite and found Mildred seated behind her desk, drenched in coffee.

“Oh, I had a little accident,” she said, her eyes lowered.

“Well, you can't sit here all day like that. You'll catch your death of cold under this air-conditioning.”

Mr. Henderson was right, of course—her teeth were already chattering uncontrollably.

“But you have three meetings today and a—”

“And nothing, Mildred. Amy Hicks will cover for you,” Mr. Henderson said.

James Henderson wondered about his assistant sometimes. She was a strange bird and not the most beautiful woman in the world, but she was efficient and dedicated and had the best phone voice he'd ever heard.

He'd had his share of beautiful assistants who didn't do their job half as well as Mildred. And besides, he was getting up in age and had wrecked two marriages while he was busy screwing his assistants. He'd hired her not only because she came with exemplary references but because he knew that nothing would ever happen between them.

“Go on home, Mildred,” he said firmly. “Take one of those sick days you never use.”

An hour later, Mildred was back in her small apartment, curled up on the couch, still dressed in her coffee-stained suit, crying herself to sleep.

By noon, her telephone was blaring off the hook and she answered it sleepily.

“Hello?”

“Mildred, what are you doing home?”

The voice was familiar, but Mildred was still trying to climb out of her slumber and couldn't quite place it.

“Who is this?”

“What? Mildred, are you kidding around? It's Geneva!”

Mildred wiped at her eyes and pulled herself up into a sitting position.

“Oh, Geneva, hi,” Mildred responded, still groggy.

“I had called to see if you wanted to grab lunch together and some other woman answered your phone and said you'd gone home sick for the day. What's wrong?”

Geneva was a woman who had been temping at the firm for a year. They'd become quite close, taking lunch together most days. Geneva had become sort of a confidante for Mildred. She could share things with Geneva that she couldn't share with Seneca.

“Um, I think I might be coming down with something,” Mildred lied, unable to share the embarrassing accident she'd been involved in.

“Really?”

“Yeah, well, it's just a headache. A . . .”—Mildred searched for the word—“a migraine.”

“Really?” Geneva didn't sound like she believed her. “Well, did you take something for it?”

“Yeah, I took some Tylenol. I'll be okay. Can I call you later?”

There was a long silence before Geneva spoke again.

“Sure, baby. You call me when you're feeling better.”

“Okay, Geneva. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Mildred hit the End button on the phone and pulled herself up from the couch, stretching her body and yawning. She started toward her bedroom, intent to make use of the day and at least clean out her closet, but a better thought popped into her head.

“Oh, Mildred, you are a sick puppy!” she said to the empty apartment.

She tiptoed to the bed and sat down. Picking up the phone, she dialed the hotline. She'd called so much that she was now a platinum member, which came with a personal pin number as well as coupons that invited members to peak during the off-peak hours at a discounted price.

Mildred looked over at the clock. It was just past eleven.

Off-peak.

Mildred pulled her vibrator from the drawer, quickly stripped out of her clothes and underwear, and climbed under the covers.

She had Hot Boyz on speed dial, and so she hit the corresponding number and then speakerphone.

Nothing was wrong with a little self-love in the afternoon, now was there?