My cubicle at Bestvue Tours is larger than most. That isn’t due to pure luck or to Mr. Clark (who has been with this company for ten years) being aware of my attributes and abilities. When he says jump, most of us do. In fact, we all have to call him by his first name, Victor. Being trapped, I do it, but it sticks in my throat. He’s been trying to score with me since I joined staff five years ago. I, however, am smarter than he is and know one thing he doesn’t. There is no time in my life to waste on a married man, starting to paunch at his waist. Business is business and I don’t approve of ‘monkey’ business.
Clark is good at what he does. His records of clients go way back and he keeps in touch with them on a regular (friendly?) basis. We are all aware of how business is slacking due to aging, less direct flights, costs, airlines charging for everything that has always been included in the whole package. Clark’s cubicle is across the aisle from mine and when I am hanging loose, I eavesdrop, steal some of his ideas. I know he knows it and that I know he knows it. Something about his tone, his knowledge excites old timers. He makes perfect plans. All of his contacts need do nothing but pay the going rate and have a great time.
Victor has taken on two temporary agents while he frolics on a three month cruise around the world. I become the Lady, the Mistress, the Bossess. My responsibilities increase. A problem develops immediately. The temp, Allan Greer, has plenty experience and a face and body that will drive me wild, if I let it. He’s well over six feet, just has to be a user of Revitalash. I could almost eat off his long black, curly eyelashes. His clothes are handsome as he is himself and he has a soft Southern accent. Allen is a dream, a disturbing dream. I can see us flying to Tahiti, to Bali, to bed. When he passes my desk, it is like fresh flowers opening. I breathe in his smiles and my day glows.
Difficulties arise daily. Clients get sick, have to cancel. But we take care of those because we insist all travelers with us carry insurance and lose nothing but the initial cost. With those, I lose my commission but hold on to the client. They like me, respect me, believe in my interest in their pleasure. Victor is gone only one month and I am in deep crud. I have retrogressed into an eighteen year old young lady itching to reach the man I surely have been destined for. My eyes wander from my computer, peep to see if Allen is busy. Mostly he isn’t. I switch my phone to automatic call back, ‘Please leave a message and I will return your call shortly.’ ‘How are you doing, Allen?’ I ask. ‘Any problem. Did you nail the Brodsky trip?’ Small talk is better than no talk.
It is almost quitting time, five. I dawdle to see when Allen leaves and intend following him out. He is leaning back in his chair, sort of daydreaming. A new client opens the door I am about to lock. His bronzed skin and his muscles make me want to throw him out so I can get a chance at Allen. ‘You must be, Karen. Allen has told me about you.’
I admit my identity. With a wink of his eye, he excuses himself and goes over to Allen. ‘I’m here, Pal,’ he says. Allen gives him that glowing look I have treasured for the last few weeks. He also gives his ‘Pal’ a kiss on the lips and a squeezing hug.
I am dumbfounded, amazed, angry at myself for misjudging him. As they walk past my desk, I ask Allen if he would mind giving me the name of the eyelash grower he is using. He bursts out laughing.
‘ I don’t use anything. My lashes are natural and so am I. Goodnight Miss golden eyes. See ya in the morning.’
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