“Stephanie?” Beatrice called through the closed door.
“Come in.”
Beatrice opened the bedroom door holding Barclay, the house cat. Unlike Beatrice, who took one step forward and stopped, Barclay leaped from Bea’s arms into a chaotic playground. As usual, Stephanie’s room was a mess. Clothes draped the furniture and littered the floor, both singularly and in piles. Shoes and socks were scattered around the room, and hats hung haphazardly on nails lined the walls. The bed was lost under a pile of twisted linen. In the far corner a bookcase overflowed with books crammed every which way, while cheap knickknacks sat on the shelf collecting dust. In the eye of this hurricane sat Stephanie at her makeshift desk, dressed in a suit.
“You’re going out?”
“I have an interview at ten-thirty.” Stephanie intentionally left out the word “job,” giving Bea and others the impression that she was constantly working on one article or another. The truth of the matter was she hadn’t written a word since meeting Jack. “Why? What’s up?”
“I was wondering if your friend had decided on the vacant room?”
“Connie told me last night she’s going to move in with her boyfriend.”
“That’s too bad. She seemed like a nice girl. Well, if you think of anyone else …”
“I’ll let you know,” Stephanie promised, conveniently forgetting that her friend Gina was looking for a place. She had no intention of helping Beatrice find a new boarder. Ever since the last girl left to be married, Stephanie’s living arrangement had been ideal. For four hundred dollars a month she enjoyed the use of the front parlor, kitchen, and bathroom and even had a clean bedroom at her disposal if she chose to engage in more intimate entertaining. Stephanie never had to wait to do her laundry, and the phone in the hall was always available. Other than a bit of unwelcome advice and a raised eyebrow or two, her living situation was perfect, and she found absolutely no reason to tamper with perfection.
“Hello,” Stephanie called out as she stepped inside the small reception area and closed the door behind her. There was nobody available to return her greeting. Glancing around, Stephanie was surprised. Instead of the Madison Avenue—chic decor she’d imagined, this had more of an “early relative” look to it. The small reception area, with its heavy walnut desk, dark bookcases, and worn leather chairs, resembled a man’s study. Government-issue-looking file cabinets lined the walls. Adding the only real color to the room and separating the reception area from what must be the boss’s domain was a beautiful Oriental screen. Curious, Stephanie peeked behind and found a round antique desk of blond wood and its accompanying chair, upholstered in peach. As she reached out to inspect the framed photo sitting on the desk, the phone rang. Following several unanswered rings, she picked up.
“Wilcot and Associates. I’m sorry, Ms. Wilcot isn’t in at the moment. May I take a message? Anita Baker, the singer? Of course, who else? I’ll tell her you called.” I just talked to Anita Baker, she thought as she hung up the phone and walked back into the main office area. This could be a fun gig. Maybe I could write some celebrity profiles. Just as she sat down, the phone rang again. “Gary Taylor, Keep the Faith Records, in until noon. Okay, I’ll let her know.”
Three messages later, the door opened and Felicia walked in from the ladies’ room. Stephanie was in the middle of a phone call, and Felicia was impressed by her professional manner and comfortable phone presence. “Stephanie Bancroft?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Felicia Wilcot. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. Thank you for covering the phones.”
“You’re welcome. I’m here for my interview.”
“That won’t be necessary. Based on this impromptu trial by fire, you’re hired. When can you start?”