"Shall I tell maintenance about the lift?"
"No, Finchley will report it. Winsome, maintenance is no part of your duties; you're here to giggle with me and to give me a shoulder to cry on and to cry on mine—and to keep dear Doctor from fussing." Joan started undressing. "Get your clothes off; we're going to model clothes, I've been shopping. Boy, oh boy, did I shop! Gave, the economy a shot in the arm, I did. Get those duds off—have you had your bath, you dirty girl? Or are you going to bathe with me? Come here and let me smell you."
"Had a bath when I got up."
"You smell all right, I fear me I'm well marinated; it's been a busy day. Okay, we'll dunk together and get stinking good later. Before giving dear Jake another lesson in how to relax. But now we model. Give us a kiss first." (Eunice, will that rubber dingus stay in place in the tub?) (It'll stay seated anywhere—or I would have left a dozen orphans behind me. You can even use the fountain—and you had better.)
"Joan, since you were going shopping, why didn't you take me along? Meanie."
"Complaints, complaints, complaints. I thought you needed sleep, dear. Or didn't Bob show up?"
Winifred blushed clear down her breasts but she answered happily, "Oh, yes, he did! But I would have been up at once if you had called me—love to shop."
"What time did you wake up?"
The blush renewed. "Not till almost thirteen. Long past noon."
"The defense rests. Winsome baby, I didn't take you along because I bought things for you, too... and if I had had you along, you would have fussed every time I spent a dollar on you. And to set precedent, too. I'm not a prisoner any longer. I'm free to come and go just as you are. If I don't take you along, you mustn't ask why and I may not tell you where, or what."
The younger girl looked crushed. "Yes, Miss Joan. I'll remember." So Joan Eunice again took her in her arms. "There, there, pet; don't quiver your up. I'll take you with me, mostly. And if I don't, I'll tell you about it, mostly. But I might tell you a fib instead. I might have a date with some horny interns and would not want to shock my Winsome."
"You're teasing me."
"Not mean teasing. I'm at least half serious. Winnie, if you want to see your Bob, no one in this house cares but me and my interest is friendly. But me? There are forty-odd people staring down my neck. If I ever have a man in my bed, the whole household will know it, and it's at least fifty-fifty that some member of my ever-loyal staff would sell the fact to a news snoop and it would be on the morning gossip program—phrased so that I can't sue without making it worse. Not?"
"Uh...sounds horrible. But I guess it could happen."
"You know it could. Every gossip column, every gossip program, proves it. Hon, if a person is too rich, or too prominent, all the public lets him wear is the Emperor's New Clothes—and what they like best is bad news, good news is too bland. Back when I was running it, Smith Enterprises spend many thousands of dollars every quarter to give me a totally false ‘public image'—poisonous phrase!—for business reasons. But that's done with and now I'm fair game. Still more interesting fair game now that I'm miraculously young and female and pretty. No, ‘beautiful'—let's be fair to Eunice Branca. You saw what they did yesterday; you watched the babble box. What would they do if they could prove something on me?"
"Uh, something nasty, I guess."
"I know they would, I'm not guessing; I've had too many years of trying to avoid the spotlight. The old Romans knew what they were doing when they tossed living victims to the lions; most people are fairly decent—but collectively they love blood. I'm going to do something about getting out of the spotlight but in the meantime, I'm vulnerable. Winnie, what would you do if I woke you some night and asked you to let me slide a man into your bed—so that you could be caught, not me. Be certain to be caught, I mean, public as a show window. So caught that Bob would know, too."
The little girl took a deep breath. "I'd do it! Bob would understand."
"Ah, but if I begged you not to explain it to Bob? Just take the rap for me?"
"I'd still do it."
Joan kissed her. "I know you would. But you won't have to, sweet Winsome. If—no, when—I slip, I won't load it onto my chum. But I may ask you to tell lies for me someday—jigger for me—help me cover up. Would you?"
"Of course I would!"
"And I knew it and didn't need to ask. It might be soon, I'm feeling more female every day. Now let's play Christmas—I think that round, flubsy box is for Winnie."
Shortly Winifred was parading in front of mirrors with an awed look on her face. "Oh, Joan, you shouldn't have!"
"That's why I made you stay home. It's a maid's uniform, dear—an allowable deduction for me by terms of the Cooks, Domestics, and Hotel Workers approved contract."
‘Maid's uniform' indeed! It's a Stagnaro Original straight from Rome; I read the label."
"As may be, I'll tell my accountant to list it as a deduction just to annoy the I.R.S. Take it off, dear, and let's see what else we find. Hey, here's one for me." Joan quickly got dressed. "What do you think? Of course with this I ought to have my body painted."
"I wouldn't use paint, if I were you. You look yummy and that off-white sets off your skin. It's a delicious design even though kind o' wicked. Joan, how do you know so much about buying women's clothes? I mean, ‘uh—"
"You mean, ‘How does an old man who hasn't picked out a dress for a woman in at least half a century manage it?' Genius, dear, sheer genius. You ought to hear my bird imitations." (Hey! Don't 1 get any credit?) (Not unless you want to break your cover, Mata Hari. The men in the white coats are just outside that door.) (Pee on you, twin. Maybe someday we can tell Winnie.) (I hope so, darling—I not only love you, I'm proud of you.) (Kiss!)
They worked down to two boxes which Joan had held back. When Winifred saw the synthetic emerald set—gee patch and two half-moon cups shaped for bare nipples—she gasped. "Oh, goodness! Put it on, Joan, and let me find your highest heels!"
"You find your highest heels, darling—those green rhinestone stilts you were wearing earlier. They didn't have stilts to match this outfit in your size. I've ordered them."
"This is for me? Oh, no!"
"Then put it down the trash chute; gee-strings can't be exchanged. Winsome, that dress was designed for a redhead—and the cups are-too small for me. Put it on. That envelope contains a floorlength transparent skirt, silk with a hint of matching green. With this skirt it's just right for formal—dinner parties. You could wear one emerald on your forehead. Not any other jewelry. Nor paint."
"But, Joan, I never go to that sort of party—I've never ever been invited to one."
"Perhaps it's time I gave one; the banquet bali hasn't been used in ten years. You would look beautiful—junior hostess at the other end of the long table. But, dear, besides an ultra-formal party, it's intended—without the skirt—for most informal occasions. Would you enjoy wearing it for Bob—and would he enjoy taking it off?"
Winifred caught her breath. "I can't wait."
"Got a date tonight, hon?"
"No, that's why I said ‘I can't wait.' Because I can't resist it—want Bob to see me in it...want him to take it off me, Joan, I shouldn't accept it, it's much too expensive. But I will, I do. Goodness, you make me feel like a kept woman."
"You are one, dear; I'm keeping you. And enjoying it very much."