from?â
âI wanted to have a look at it. We might be able to get the repro rights for a few thousand. Itâs the one whatâs-her-name auctioned off upside down at Parke-Bernet.â
âNot bad,â Diane said.
Cynthia stopped, stared at her, and uttered a horsey snort. âNot bad? My dear, you see before you examples of dismal taste from every period in the history of civilization. I ask youâ look at that moth-eaten Scott Taylor. That vertiginous Mosarely.â She struck a pose. âAht for the masses at pop-yew-lah prices! Madness, donât you know? Yah gets what yah pays for, honey, and this pile of horse shit only proves once again that you canât make a silk purse out of a two-dollar whore.â
Diane laughed, picking a path across the room to her office door. âBetter get it cleaned up before their majesties the out-of-town buyers arrive tomorrow.â
âIâll dump it all down the incinerator chute,â Cynthia said in her drawling, throaty voice. âJust see if I wonât!â She made a Girl Scoutâs honor sign. Diane laughed again and shook her head, staring with amused wonder at the huge girl in transparent boots, lacy patterned stockings, a miniskirt, a little vinyl jacket, and a derby hat. Cynthia recognized her expression and crinkled her nose with fierce defiance. âSomebody around here has got to look the part of the artsy-craftsy kook. Whoâd buy modern art from anybody who looks as sane as you?â
Diane went into her private office, leaving the door open behind her. It was a big room with deep carpet, push-botton phones, big-window views of the downtown skyline and a patch of the East River. The furnishings were in walnut, gold, and beige; there was a long couch with a coffee table, a wide expanse of beige carpet, and set across the corner, the desk. Its opulence and size were part of the boss-lady image which, at rare moments, amused her. She had not got used to the ideaâafter five years she probably never wouldâand she still felt she lacked the hard brass that seemed common to all the bitch-on-wheels female executives she knew.
She settled into her chair and buzzed the secretary: âAny messages, Maude?â
âA Mr. Villiers called this morning. He said he wasnât sure where heâd be and said heâd call you back.â
Diane took a deep breath. âThanks. Anything else?â
âA call from the manager of the Seattle store wanting to know what had happened to his shipment of Thanksgiving greeting cards. I switched him to Mr. Winslow in Distributing. He sounded kind of soreâI guess the computer loused up his order.â
âThat damned computer,â Diane said. âThat all?â
âYes. You have a luncheon appointment at one-thirty.â
âI know. Iâll be in the office till then, if there are any calls.â
She switched off the intercom and thought of Mason Villiers, constructing a picture of himâdark, tautly attractive, glittering with hard ambition and thoroughly masculine charm. She hadnât seen him in months. She had met him just after her divorce, and there had been a few dates; she had been afraid of what the wags called the Rebound, and she had not allowed anything to come of it. He had wanted to seduce her; he was a man to whom conquest came easily. But she had told herself, I wonât be a pushover . She had evaded him, and he seemed to have taken the hint. Now he was back. Why?
She played with a pencil, speculating, a walnut-haired woman with skin pulled taut across the good high bones, the sweep of her eyebrows emphasized in pencil. She knew she was beautiful, not with the padded softness of early youth, but with the pared-down bone beauty of thirtyish maturity. She had seen few men since the divorce, and those few only casually; she had plunged deep into her work. She didnât want to admit she was afraid of herself in a
Learning to Kill: Stories