“Kathleen, pay attention. I asked you if you had canceled this order. Seth is on the telephone. Hazel,” he grimaced eloquently, “is with him, complaining that our customers are looking for the new Polo shirts in the fall colors and none are to be had.”
She dredged herself up to a level of consciousness where his words finally registered. “Aren’t they in yet? I ordered a dozen shirts in every color in varied sizes for each of the three stores. How can there not be any in stock?”
“Damned if I know,” Eliot said, raking his slender fingers through his artificially but beautifully streaked hair. “But will you talk to Seth? I’ve never heard him so upset.”
She picked up the telephone and spoke calmly into the receiver. “Hello, Seth. I don’t understand the problem, but I’m sure I’ll get it straightened out.”
“Kathleen, the problem is that we don’t have any of our most staple item, and you created that problem. What
I want to know is why.”
Kathleen had never heard such exasperation in Seth’s voice. And it was directed toward her. “I created the problem?”
“Yes. I called the shipping department directly. The goods were received by us—by you—on July thirteenth. You refused them, initialed the return slip and sent them back. How could you do such a thing?” he demanded.
“I didn’t!” she shouted, causing Eliot to raise an expressive brow. He had never heard one cross word between Kathleen and her husband. She rubbed her forehead with frustrated fingers. Why, when she was already upset, did something like this have to happen? She tried to be reasonable. “Seth, there is some mistake. I never even saw the goods. I never initialed anything.”
“Then how is it that I’m looking at a very good carbon copy of the order and staring at your initials? I ought to know my own wife’s signature when I see it, for godsake!” She bit her lips in an effort not to scream back at him. She was well aware of Eliot observing her shrewdly and knew Hazel was gloating on the other end.
Hazel.
A light began to dawn. Could the woman do such a thing? Would she sacrifice the welfare of the stores in order to cause friction between Kathleen and Seth? Kathleen had given Hazel more credit than that, but maybe she had been too generous.
“I never sent back that order, Seth,” she said matter-of-factly.
Seth sighed heavily. “I’ll call Ralph Lauren again and try pleading with them to send us the shipment. In the meantime, we’ll have to hope that our customers don’t go somewhere else.”
“I’m coming over to the offices in a while. I’ll see you then,” Kathleen said before she heard the click on his receiver that ended the conversation.
She replaced the instrument slowly and stared at it for a moment. She saw Eliot out the corner of her eye as he moved toward her and placed his hands on her shoulders, turning her around to face him.
“Sit down. We’re going to have a talk.”
She obliged him, in too much inner turmoil to object. “What’s been happening to you, Kathleen? For the past three days, you’ve acted like a zombie. You look like hell.”
“Thanks.”
“You know what I mean, sweetheart. Where’s that bouncy vibrancy we’re so used to seeing? Where’s our Little Mary Sunshine? Hm?”
She could never get too perturbed with Eliot. He was too nice to look at. His tall, lank frame was created to hang clothes on and he wore them with élan. The well-maintained bleached hair was boyishly casual. His tan was perfectly tawny, and Kathleen suspected it covered his body. Straight white teeth and a delicate mouth made his smile engaging. His heavily lashed gray eyes were direct and, at times, insolent. It was that perpetually contemptuous attitude in which he held the world that prevented him from being completely beautiful. But he was her friend.
She avoided his eyes as she said grumpily, “I haven’t slept well lately. That’s all.”
“Un-uh. It’s more than that, but if you don’t feel inclined to tell me, don’t. What do you think happened to that order?”
“I don’t know.”
“And I’m the King of Siam.” He sat down on the corner of her desk and swung his expensively shod foot.
Baby blue linen shoes indeed! she thought with a smile.
“Do you remember when Mrs. Vanderslice ordered that ball gown for her daughter? You ordered a size ten, but a size twelve was shipped. The old bitch threw a bloody fit, accusing you of thinking her daughter was fat? Do you remember all of that?”
“All too well, but—”
“Hear me out,” he went on. “Do you remember when you sold the identical dress to two old broads attending the Opera gala? Do you remember the ruckus they raised?”
“Yes.” How could she forget? Her brow wrinkled in perplexity. “Eliot, what are you trying to say with this long, convoluted story?”