When the elevator doors opened at the top floor, Oliver was disoriented by the orange carpet, the color-coordinated flowery wallpaper, and the sunny windows. A well-built maternal receptionist smiled from behind an antique table. Where was he? He returned her smile. Two silver-haired executives approached and passed each other in the center of the large room. They had magnificent chests and sun-bronzed features. They nodded antlers and continued on their separate paths to polished doors.
Oliver stared, entranced. A red-haired assistant wearing a tight skirt and a close-fitting white blouse came from behind a corner and followed one of the executives into his office. In front of her, she held a silver tray. There was a glass of milk on it and a small plate of cookies. Nursery school, he thought, and started to laugh. The power floor is a nursery school!
"Do you have an appointment?"
"Yes, ha. Yes. Tom Alden. Three o'clock."
"You must be Mr. Prescott."
"Oliver."
"Please make yourself comfortable. Mr. Alden will be with you in just a moment. May I get you a refreshment?"
"Ah, that's very nice of you. Let's see." Take your blouse off. Laphroiag. A ticket to anywhere . . . "Coffee—cream, no sugar, if you would." The woman pressed a button and spoke softly. Oliver sat on the edge of a love-seat and considered the reading matter on a coffee table: Fortune, The Rolls Royce, and a copy of The Economist. The redhead appeared at his side, bending fetchingly as she set down a cup and saucer. "Thank you," Oliver said sincerely.
"Oliver? How good of you to come." Tom, a slimmer darker trophy elk, smiled winningly and shook hands. "How's that coffee? It's Pilgrim's blend; we have it roasted to our specs. Margaret, we'll be tied up for awhile. If Jack Dillon calls, tell him I'll get to him by four. Thanks. Come on in, Oliver." He patted Oliver warmly on the shoulder. "How's Jennifer?"
"Fine. She sends her best, by the way."