Part 3 (2/2)
and disappeared as she swung the lamp.
”And good riddance,” she shouted to the air.
They had the dress in a size three. Lauren put herself through the indignity of trying to get into it and then went to work. The receptionist was watching Jimmy Stewart standing on the bridge in the snow and weeping into a Kleenex. She handed Lauren her messages.
There were two memos from the PMS Committee-they were having a sleigh ride after work, and she was supposed to bring cheese puffs to the office party. There wasn't a message from Fred.
”Oh!” the receptionist wailed. ”This part is so sad!”
”I hate It's a Wonderful Life,” Lauren said, and went up to her desk. ”I hate Christmas,” she said to Evie.
”It's normal to hate Christmas,” Evie said, looking up from the book she was reading. ”This book, it's called Let's Forget Christmas, says it's because everyone has these unrealistic expectations. When they get presents, they-”
”Oh, that reminds me,” Lauren said. She rummaged in her bag and brought out Evie's present, fingering it quickly to make sure it was still a stapler. It seemed to be. She held it out to Evie. ”Merry Christmas.”
”I don't have yours wrapped yet,” Evie said. ”I don't even have my wrapping paper bought yet. The book says I'm suffering from an avoidance complex.” She picked up the package. ”Do I have to open it now? I know it will be something I love, and you won't like what I got you half as well, and I'll feel incredibly guilty and inadequate.”
”You don't have to open it now,” Lauren said. ”I just thought I'd better give it to you before-” She picked her messages up off her desk and started looking through them.
”Before I forgot. There haven't been any messages from Fred, have there?”
”Yeah. He was here about fifteen minutes ago looking for you. He said to tell you the Net hadn't been any help, and he was going to try the library.” She looked sadly at the present. ”It'seven wrapped great,” she said gloomily. ”I went shopping for a dress for the office party last night, and do you think I could find anything off-the-shoulder or with sequins? I couldn't even find anything I'd be caught dead in. Did you know the rate of stress-related illnesses at Christmas is seven times higher than the rest of the year?”
”I can relate to that,” Lauren said.
”No, you can't. You didn't end up buying some awful gray thing with gold chains hanging all over it. At least Scott will notice me. He'll say, 'Hi, Evie, are you dressed as Marley's ghost?'
And there you'll be, looking fabulous in black sequins-”
”No, I won't,” Lauren said.
”Why? Didn't they hold it for you?”
”It was. . . defective. Did Fred want to talk to me?”
”I don't know. He was on his way out. He had to go pick up his Santa Claus suit. Oh, my G.o.d.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. ”It's Scott Buckley.”
”Hi,” Scott said to Lauren. ”I was wondering if you could go shopping with me tonight.”
Lauren stared at him, so taken aback she couldn't speak.
”When you couldn't go last night, I decided to cancel my date.”
”Uh ... I ...” she said.
”I thought we could buy the presents and then have some dinner.”
She nodded.
”Great,” Scott said. ”I'll come over to your apartment around six-thirty.”
”No!” Lauren said. ”I mean, why don't we go straight from work?”
”Good idea. I'll come up here and get you.” He smiled melt-ingly and left.
”I think I'll kill myself,” Evie said. ”Did you know the rate of suicides at Christmas is four times higher than the rest of the year? He is so cute,” she said, looking longingly down the hall after him. ”There's Fred.”
Lauren looked up. Fred was coming toward her desk with a Santa Claus costume and a stack of books. Lauren hurried across to him.
”This is everything the library had on exorcisms and the occult,” Fred said, transferring half of the books to her arms. ”I thought we could both go through them today, and then get together tonight and compare notes.”
”Oh, I can't,” Lauren said. ”I promised Scott I'd help him pick out the presents for the office party tonight. I'm sorry. I could tell him I can't.”
”Your heart's desire? Are you kidding?” He started awkwardly piling the books back on his load. ”You go shopping. I'll go through the books and let you know if I come up with anything.”
”Are you sure?” she said guiltily. ”I mean, you shouldn't have to do all the work.”
”It's my pleasure,” he said. He started to walk away and then stopped. ”You didn't tell the spirit Scott was your heart's desire, did you?”
”Of course not. Why?”
”I was just wondering . . . nothing. Never mind.” He walked off down the hall. Lauren went back to her desk.
”Did you know the rate of depression at Christmas is sixteen times higher than the rest of the year?” Evie said. She handed Lauren a package.
”What's this?”
”It's from your Secret Santa.”
Lauren opened it. It was a large book ent.i.tled It's a Wonderful Life: The Photo Alb.u.m. On the cover, Jimmy Stewart was looking depressed.
”I figure it'll take a half hour or so to pick out the presents,” Scott said, leading her past two inflatable palm trees into The Upscale Oasis. ”And then we can have some supper and getacquainted.” He lay down on a ma.s.sage couch. ”What do you think about this?”
”How many presents do we have to buy?” Lauren asked, looking around the store. There were a lot of inflatable palm trees, and a jukebox, and several life-size cardboard cutouts of Malcolm Forbes and Leona Helmsley. Against the far wall were two high-rise aquariums and a bank of televisions with neon-outlined screens.
”Seventy-two.” He got up off the ma.s.sage couch, handed her the list of employees and went over to a display of brown boxes tied with twine. ”What about these? They're handmade Yano-mamo Christmas ornaments.”
”No,” Lauren said. ”How much money do we have to spend?”
”The PMS Committee budgeted six thousand, and there was five hundred left in the Suns.h.i.+ne fund. We can spend . . .” He picked up a pocket calculator in the shape of Donald Trump and punched several b.u.t.tons. ”Ninety dollars per person, including tax. How about this?” He held up an automatic cat feeder.
”We got those last year,” Lauren said. She picked up a digital umbrella and put it back down.
”How about a car fax?” Scott said. ”No, wait. This, this is it!”
Lauren turned around. Scott was holding up what looked like a gold cordless phone. ”It's an investment pager,” he said, punching keys. ”See, it gives you the Dow Jones, treasury bonds, interest rates. Isn't it perfect?”
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