“Miss Smith, I will be honored to call on you whenever you wish. For any reason. Or none.” (Wups! Hey, Eunice, I thought you said he was bored with female tails?) (So I did. But we have an unusually pretty one, Joan, even from that angle. Gonna kiss him?) (Eunice, can’t you treat just one man impersonally?) (I don’t know; I’ve never tried. Aw, don’t be chinchy; he’s been a perfect lamb.) (Now you be a lamb, too—let’s get out of here.)
Joan let the doctor lay her cloak around her shoulders; it brought his head close to hers. She turned her face toward; that side, wet her lips and smiled at him.
She could see him decide to risk it. She did not dodge as his lips met hers—but did not put her arms around him and; let herself be slightly clumsy, stiffened a little before giving in to it. (Twin! Don’t’ let him put us back on that table—make him use the couch in his office.) (Neither one, Eunice. Pipe down!)
Joan broke from it, trembling. “Thank you, Doctor. And you see I can be a girl if I try. How do I get back to the waiting room without passing your Miss Perkins?” She hooked her yashmak.
18
A few minutes later Shorty handed her into her car, locked her in, and mounted into the forward compartment.
“Gimbel’s Compound, Miss Smith?”
“Please, Finchley.”
Once inside the compound Joan had Fred escort her to Madame Pompadour’s. The fact that she had a private bodyguard got her immediate attention from the manager, who was not Madame Pompadour even though he wore his hair in the style made famous by the notorious Marquise and had manners and gestures to match. (Eunice, are you sure we are in the right place?) (Certainly, Boss—wait till you see their prices.) “How may I serve Madame?”
“Do you have a private viewing room?”
“But of course, Madame. Uh, there is a waiting room where—”
“My guard stays with me.”
The manager looked hurt. “As Madame wishes. If you will walk this way—” (Eunice, shall we walk that way?)
(Don’t try, twin—just follow him. Or her, as the case may be.)
Shortly Joan was seated facing a low model’s walk; Fred stood at parade rest behind her. The room was warm; she unfrogged her cloak and pushed back its hood but left the yashmak over her features. Then she dug into her purse, got out a memorandum. “Do you have a model who comes close to these measurements?”
The manager studied the list—height, weight, shoulders, bust, waist, leg. “This is Madame?”
“Yes. But here is another specs list even if you can’t match me. A friend for whom I wish to buy something pretty and exotic. She’s a redhead with pale skin to match and green eyes.” Joan had copied Winifred’s measurements from the exercise records the two had been keeping.
“I see no problems, Madame, but in your own case permit me to suggest that our great creative artist, Chariot, will be happy to check these measurements or even to design directly on—”
“Never mind. I am buying items already made up. If I buy.”
“Madame’s pleasure. May I ask one question? Will Madame be wearing her own hair?”
“If I wear a wig, it will be the same color as my hair, so assume that.” (Eunice, should I buy a wig?) (Be patient and let it grow out, dear. Wigs are hard to keep clean. And they never smell clean.) (Then we’ll never wear one.) (Smart Boss. Soap and water is the world’s greatest aphrodisiac.) (I’ve always thought so. Though a girl should smell like a girl.) (You do, dearie, you do—you can’t help it.)
“Madame’s hair is a beautiful shade. And now, since Madame indicated that her time is short, perhaps it would suit her convenience to let our accounting department record her credit card while I alert the two models?”
(Watch it, Boss!) (I wasn’t a-hint the door, dearie.) “I use credit cards with several names. Such as McKinley, Franklin, and Grant. Or Cleveland.” Joan reached into her purse, fanned a sheaf of bills. “The poor man’s credit card.”
The manager repressed a shudder. “Oh, goodness, we don’t expect our clients to pay cash.”