On his desk are a bar of chocolate, a cup of coffee and a plate of smoked salmon. To my right is Alley McKenna. A petite brunette with a sky-high IQ and cat’s-eye glasses, Alley is wearing black pants, a black shirt and black high-heel shoes. In most offices, the loosely buttoned blouse could take the ambitious girl from reasonably proficient to utterly indispensable in the turn of a calendar year, but not in Mason Tate’s. From the first, he made it clear that his affinities lay in another hemisphere. So we could save the fluttering of our eyelashes for the boys at the ballpark. He barely even looks up from his papers as he rattles off Alley’s instructions with aristocratic remove. —Cancel my meeting with the mayor on Tuesday. Tell him I’ve been called to Alaska. Get me all the front covers of Vogue, Vanity Fair and Time for the last two years. If you can’t find them downstairs, take a pair of scissors to the public library. My sister’s birthday is August first. Get her something timid from Bendel’s.
