Double

The carpet was gray and institutional, the walls devoid of pictures. The only furnishings were a bank of steel file cabinets and a secretary’s desk. An unkempt young woman sat hunched over a typewriter, dabbing white correction fluid onto the paper. When I asked for Elaine, she motioned wordlessly at one of the doors in the opposite wall. I went over and knocked, and Elaine’s voice called for me to come in.

She and two other women were seated at a cloth-covered table from room service, the remains of breakfast in front of them. Elaine immediately got up and fetched me a chair. She told the others who I was, then said, “Sharon, these are fellow members of the Professional Women’s Forum executive committee — Karyn Sugarman and June Paxton.”

Karyn Sugarman, a willowy, long-haired blonde, nodded at me. She lounged in her chair with a fashion model’s grace, her black sleeveless dress reinforcing her stylish appearance. The dress completely eclipsed my crisp white pants and blue silk blouse that had seemed very sophisticated when I’d put them on at home. If I’d been alone in the room with her, I’d probably have felt like a teenybopper, but as it was, June Paxton neutralized Sugarman’s effect.

Paxton was probably in her mid-fifties — at least fifteen years older than Sugarman, I guessed — and everything about her was round. She had a plump little face, china-saucer eyes, and a roly-poly body. Her hair was nondescript brown, done up in tight little curls, and she wore bright turquoise polyester that must have come straight off the rack in a bargain basement. When she smiled, though, it was with genuine friendliness, and her blue eyes sparkled.

“Sit down,” Elaine directed me. “Can I get you something to eat?”

“No, thanks. I’ll take some coffee, though, if you have any.”

She poured coffee from a silver pot, and I watched her closely. Although she was as immaculately groomed as ever — wearing pale pink today — there still were dark circles under her eyes that spoke of a bad night, and her hand shook as she passed me the cup. I frowned, wondering what was wrong in my friend’s life; if I could get her to talk about it, maybe I could help.

“Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?” June Paxton asked in a motherly way. “I think there’s a croissant left over.”

“Really, no. I’m visiting my family, and my mother forced a big breakfast down me.”

“It’s just as well,” Karyn Sugarman said. “The croissants were tough. How on earth can this hotel make a croissant the consistency of shoe leather, Elaine?”

Elaine merely shrugged — wearily, I thought.

“Probably made them with margarine instead of butter,” Paxton said, reaching for the object under discussion. “If no one else wants it?”

We all shook our heads.

I said to the table in general, “So what has your executive committee been deciding?”

“Nothing earthshaking,” Sugarman said. “We just went over the program for next week’s dinner meeting. It’s to be held here at the hotel.”

“How often do you meet?”

“Once a month for dinner, although we have occasional breakfasts with speakers,” Elaine said.

“What kinds of speakers?”

“Oh, anyone whose talk might be beneficial to the membership. Time-management people, financial planners, small-business consultants...”

Sugarman took up the conversation. “Once we even had a color consultant come in — one of those people who charge you a couple of hundred dollars to tell you what color clothes to wear.”

“When you could figure that out for free by holding the clothes up to your face,” Paxton said. “If you turn green, it’s no go. Otherwise—”

“Well, June, some people like to be told.” The way Sugarman looked at Paxton’s bright polyester dress clearly said she thought she could benefit from such a consultation. “Anyway, the speakers aren’t the real purpose of the Forum. It’s more social, in a business sense, of course.”

“How do you mean?”

“Networking.” When I looked blank, she went on. “The men in this country have always had old-boy networks — from the Jaycees on the small-town level, right up to the President’s buddies who get the Cabinet positions or the fat defense contracts. Now that women are moving into the professions and going into business for themselves, we need that kind of thing too. The Forum helps us establish the necessary connections.”

“I see.”

Sugarman’s mouth twisted sardonically. “Of course, we don’t go in for it on the same level the men do. For instance, none of us feel compelled to take off on a retreat like the Bohemian Club members. Running around in the redwoods and putting on skits wearing the opposite sex’s clothing is not for us.”

Paxton popped the last piece of croissant into her mouth and said around it, “Don’t be such a stuffed shirt, Karyn. I’ve always wanted to see someone like Henry Kissinger dressed up in heels and a miniskirt.”

Sugarman snorted.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind hiding out in those redwoods — there’s no telling what you might see.”

“That’s racy talk for a widowed grandmother of three.”