Tom Buchanan, Misunderstood

Chapter Four: Putting on the Ritz (Part iv of iv)

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Ten minutes earlier, Nick pressed a champagne flute into Catherine's hand and said, "Try it!"

Catherine gave an embarrassed smile. She glanced at the coffee table and thought about putting the glass down, but Nick's insistent stare kept her from doing so. Instead, it rested against her left bicep because she held it in her right hand, and she had her arms crossed.

"Tell me about writing for the New York Journal." Nick was pouring his gaze into Catherine's modest eyes, and, without looking, more wine into his glass. "Is William Randolph Hearst really the playboy that everyone says he is?"

"I work on a different floor," Catherine said.

"Can you get an invitation to the Hearst Castle?" Nick rested an elbow on the divan. The Hearst Castle was a palace on the coast in California. Catherine had never been out of New England.

"I never thought about it."

"Well, what if you talked to Hearst?"

She looked at him as if to say, I'm a new reporter, one of thousands. "I'm always on assignment whenever he's in," she said.

"What's that like?" Nick's eyes were shining.

"Being on assignment?" Catherine asked. She sized up Nick to see if he was actually interested. "It's fascinating. Some girls complain about being stuck covering clothes, but there's a lot of hidden opportunities."

"'Hidden...'"

"I've met designers from Paris, Venice, and Milan," Catherine said. "If you listen to them, they tell you what's trending. I know what they're doing to debut in the fall."

"You do?" Nick exclaimed, leaning closer. I know how he operated. Pretend to care about what women care about...go in for the kiss...take whatever he could get.

The women he dated regularly were on to him. They knew he was insincere and they didn't mind. They just liked that he worked on Wall Street. Ultimately, they went out with him a dozen times—until they found out bond salesmen weren't going anywhere.

The other half were too young to catch on.

"Knowing these designers has let me write features about them. I wrote one on Coco Chanel."

"'Coco...'" Nick's free hand fished before landing just a little closer to Catherine's shoulder.

"She's a designer?" Catherine said. "She's working on something called 'the little black dress.'"

"I'd love to see you in a little black dress," Nick said, "dancing with me at the Ritz."

Apparently, Catherine blushed. Her gaze darted toward the bedroom doors—a glance Nick interpreted as her being interested in him—and then toward the exit. But Nick smiled with seemingly genuine good will.

"It helps that I speak French," Catherine said quickly. She now clutched her champagne glass in front of her chest, her forearms and elbows separating her from Nick. "And I've picked up some Italian. And German."
Nick shifted, unsettled. "You have?"

"Well, I was the youngest. My parents could afford to send Myrtle and Alice to college, but not me. I had to learn what I could at the public library."

"Self-taught," Nick said unhappily. "A girl who loves her books."

"Oh, yes!" Catherine exclaimed. "After all, I am a newspaper writer."