Suddenly a thought came to Marge and her eyes widened. “Wait a minute, do you get hit on at the office too.”
I gave her a wry smile. “Frequently,” I said.
She looked aghast, “Not Tom Moffatt?” she asked anxiously.
“Oh, no,” I said hastily. “My boss is a real sweetheart. He treats me more like a granddaughter than an employee. I’ve never had any problems with him.”
She looked relieved for a moment; then her eyes narrowed. “What about the silver-bearded wonder?”
I laughed. As the VP of Sales and Marketing, my boss had two direct reports. Scott Benson, the Director of Sales, was a divorced man in his late thirties with a goatee and mustache that were prematurely grey. People in the office said he was a genius; they also said he was a real ladies’ man.
I laughed. “He hit on me my first day.”
Marge smirked.
“And every day after that,” I went on, and she burst into laughter.
“What about Peter?” she asked curiously.
Peter Hammil, the Director of Marketing, was Mr. Moffatt’s other direct report.
“He hasn’t come on to me directly,” I admitted, “but he looks me over when he thinks I’m not aware of it.”
She nodded. “Well he’d better not – he’s married.” Then she asked, “Any others?”
I nodded my head. “Except for my boss, pretty much all of them.”
That drew another snicker from her. Then she went on. “So is there a man in your life right now?”
“No, I’m pretty much out of the dating game,” I told her.
“That’s pretty hard to believe,” Marge asked incredulously. Then her eyes narrowed slightly. “Has there ever been a serious man in your life?”
The pain in my palms made me realize how tightly my fists were clenched. “There was one, but it’s a pretty painful story. Let’s just save that for another time, shall we?”
Marge nodded sympathetically and we switched to other, less sensitive issues. By the time we left the tavern and I headed for home, I felt like I had made a friend. I hoped so – I didn’t have very many.
As I drove I was glad Marge hadn’t asked me about the women in the office. I’d been hit on by a couple of them too. The thing is, men can be hard to handle, but at least they’re predictable. The women are worse: they pretend to like you and then cut you to ribbons behind your back out of jealousy or envy. They can be incredibly catty, and I’ve been scratched, emotionally speaking, more than once.
The next week I was working on some correspondence Mr. Moffatt had left me when Peter Hammill came up to my desk. He waited till I had finished typing a sentence and then asked if he could interrupt me for a few minutes. “I have a really big favor to ask,” he said.
I was on my guard instantly, wondering if this was when Peter would make his move. But when he pulled up a chair beside my desk and began to talk, he surprised me.
“Do you know Karen, Scott’s secretary?” he asked.
“I’ve met her,” I told him, “but I can’t say I know her well.” She was young and pretty in a girl-next-door way, and she seemed reasonably intelligent, as best I could tell. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, Scott’s really down on her because she was a little late with a report he wanted, and I’m afraid he’s going to let her go.”
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