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Eleanor Dupont was no shrinking violet. The youngest of six children (and five brothers), she was raised to not tolerate bullshit. Her no-nonsense attitude, tempered with her inherent kindness, took her far in her secretarial career. A chance meeting with Mr. Augustin Hébert in a bakery (where he accidentally dropped an entire cake on her) brought her into the radio industry. After a successful tenure at WWL, she transferred to the biggest station in Louisiana, WSMB.
She worked for lead broadcaster Robert Rousseau until his retirement. Dreading a return to the steno pool, she was absolutely relieved to hear she had specifically been selected by the station manager to support their rising star and station darling Alastor Gauthier. His reputation preceded him: He was charming. He was demanding. And he had rejected every single secretary the station offered.
Eleanor dutifully followed on Wilton's heels until they reached Mr. Gauthier's office. It was small and spartan, with no family photos or paintings decorating the wall. A collection of books and periodicals were stacked neatly on the corner of his desk against the wall. A half-disassembled cathedral radio was strewn across the shorter arm of his L-shaped desk.
The man himself was humming to himself and merrily scribbling away on a sheet of paper, drafting his broadcast script by hand. A jammed typewriter sat next to a poorly-made sandwich with a single bite taken out of the middle. The fountain pen stilled at Wilton's knock, but he did not glance up from his work.
“Alastor, I'd like you to meet Miss Eleanor Dupont. You may remember her from Bob's office.”
Warm, honey brown eyes snapped up to meet her gaze, and the soft smile on his face tightened. He spoke in that ridiculous broadcasting voice, as though he was always on air.
“Charmed, I am sure! But as I have said before, I've no need for a secretary nor the inclination to train one. I'm afraid I'll have to decline your generous offer!”
The sentiment stung, but Eleanor recognized wounded pride in a man. Her suspicions were confirmed at the manager's gruff rebuttal.
“Alastor, the suits upstairs are breathing down my neck. We need your scripts: I can’t have you improvising live on the air or the sponsors might pull their funding. Ms. Dupont has been assigned to you. The subject is not open for debate.”
The corners of Alastor's smile twitched.
“We're still giving you tremendous creative control- I can't think of a single broadcaster that's been trusted with this much creative freedom. But your talent is best put to use behind the mic, not fighting to put ribbon in a typewriter. Ellie is my best gal in the station and she's been at this game for a while. She's a good fit for you. Hell, she worked for Bobby for three years without killing him!”
Alastor appeared to consider this and he stood–and continued to stand, good lord–unfurling himself to his full looming height. “Miss Dupont, was it?”
“Yes Mr. Gauthier,” she nodded.
“I have a job for you. Think of it as a test.”
He pulled out his chair for her and gently pushed it forward. Ever a Southern gentleman. She quickly unjammed the typewriter and placed her fingers on the worn-down keys.
“I'd like you to transcribe what I say.”
A pause, then the dutiful clack-clack of keys followed unprompted. She could hear the amusement in his voice as he continued.
He started off slow, dictating a standard studio broadcast. He suddenly interjected with a commercial break and started talking a mile a minute, going completely off the rails.
The typewriter's clack-ding! cut through the rambling, underscored by the muffled step of his shoes against the carpet. She could feel the warmth radiating off his long body as he watched over her shoulder. Abruptly, he stopped. She took advantage of the break to catch up and stretch her hands.
He immediately resumed, speaking faster and meandering aimlessly about the room. Her fingers ached under the grueling pace but she remained steady under the onslaught. By now he was spouting utter nonsense, and she recognized snippets of The Jabberwocky interspersed with advertising copy. Suddenly he was standing behind her again, looming like a petulant bat, and she'd finally had enough. Eleanor deviated from the man's infernal ramings and pressed the case lock key.
ARE YOU QUITE DONE MR GAUTHIER?
She could feel the tension in his tall posture. Suddenly, his voice was in her ear. The wooden chair creaked under the grasp of his long fingers. “I'm quite sure that is not part of what I said.”
MY NAME IS ALASTOR AND I LIKE TO TALK.
This was a dangerous gamble, but he had spent the last ten minutes trying to pull one over on her and have a laugh at her expense. The last boy who tried to pull her pigtails left the playground with a bloody nose. If anything, she was being kind.
“My name is Eleanor and I can't type.”
ELEANOR IS A SWELL GAL AND I WOULD BE HONORED TO TAKE HER AS MY SECRETARY.
To her absolute relief, he laughed. It was bright and genuine with no trace of his broadcasting façade. She turned to sheepishly catch his eye and found it difficult to resist the offered smile.
“I suppose I'd be a fool to say no! Why, it's a miracle that thing didn't catch fire at the rate those keys were flying.”
She rose to her feet and grasped his proffered hand. It was a shockingly strong grip for one so lithe. "Thank you, Mr. Gauthier."
“I expect that I shan't be like your typical boss. I dislike the thought of being waited on by someone, but I loathe paperwork even more. I would like your support in handling my correspondence. Truthfully, I have no idea what else a secretary does.”
“We know you’ve never had one,” Wilton teased warmly. “Hell, if Jules in Accounting has to fix your expense claims one more time I think he’ll come down and staple your lips.”
Ellie enjoyed working for Alastor… for the most part. Had she been a single young ingenue, she might have swooned over his dashing good looks (like Mr Dupuis’ secretary, who referred to Alastor as “The Radio Sheik” in the secretary's break room) but Eleanor was in a happy and committed relationship. And fortunately, her boss was irritating enough to make her forget about that charming smile.
Alastor placed staples in the middle of the page to keep his documents together, no matter how many times she chastised him. Mr. Gauthier was constantly up against a deadline, to Ellie's infinite frustration. The two of them were always the last to leave the station when scripts were due. (The night custodian knew her on a first name basis.) The work was always delivered on time– impeccable as ever; Alastor really did have a way with words– but it required a lot of prodding from Ellie.
Most surprising was the way Alastor completely ignored all fan correspondence. A man with an ego his size surely would have preened and personally read every simpering letter of praise, but unless it was a technical question, Ellie had to learn how to forge his signature to stay on top of the letters. Mr. Gauthier was a peculiar man.
He knew how to decipher her short-hand, which was convenient in allowing them to privately converse in a station that thrived on coffee, cigarettes, and gossip.
Betty new ring? Read one note on her desk. She glanced up at her coworker, brandishing the giant rock on her hand like a preening peacock.
Second husband rich. She replied, passing the note back on top of his paperwork.
His response was quick, handed back with his empty coffee mug. Ugliest thing I have ever seen. Tasteless.
Ugliest? Really? You should see her husband. Ellie wrote.
“Ha!” Alastor’s sharp laugh echoed through the door. Ellie smiled secretively.
After a half year of training her new boss, she quickly learned to anticipate his needs.
Every day, immediately after punching his time card, Alastor started his shift with a cup of black coffee. He would greet Ellie with a breezy hello on his way to the little kitchenette, humming a dance song she never recognized. He would tap his fingers on the counter in time to the rhythm only he could hear.
Once the precious coffee was in his grasp, he would immediately get to work on his script. If it was a recording day, he would retire to his office and begin his vocal exercises.
One morning Alastor was running late. The man was punctual as a Swiss watch, so it was a cause for great concern.
Ten minutes past the hour, Alastor burst through the door with a face like thunder, soaking wet from the rain. His punch card was thrust into the machine with little elegance. He stormed into his office, slamming the door behind him.
Ellie stood in the uncomfortable silence that lingered and made her way to the kitchenette. Mostly to have something to do with her hands.
She knocked gently on the door, taking little offense to the harsh “What?” barked through the door.
Ellie braved the lion's den and entered his office mug first. “Your coffee, Alastor.”
He stared at her, looking uncharacteristically rumpled. His hair, always styled in a slick pomade, was curled tight against his scalp in a way she had never seen. The crease between his brows smoothed out and he gave a genuine smile
“Thank you, Eleanor. Truly. You're a ray of sun on this rotten morning.” He combed his fingers through the tight curls in a valiant attempt to style them.
“What happened, Mr. Gauthier?” She stood uncomfortably in his office once he had grabbed the proffered mug. He took a deep sip before responding.
“The new, hot-shot street car driver decided he didn't want my kind sullying his car this morning. I had to hail a taxi cab, in which I was extorted to pay a higher fare. When I refused, I was unceremoniously dumped several blocks away from the station.”
“That's terrible!” Eleanor tutted sympathetically.
Alastor immediately changed the subject. Sympathy clearly made him uncomfortable. “I hate to be a continued bother, but would you happen to have anything in your desk to style your hair? My jaunt in the rain has turned me into quite a rag-a-muffin.”
“I don't, but Betty has her own personal salon in her desk. She wouldn't mind if I borrowed something.”
Coffee was ready for him the next morning to make up for the miserable start to his previous day. It quickly became a tradition for the pair. Ellie lived so close to the downtown district, it was nothing to arrive an extra ten minutes early to start the ancient coffee maker. And every day, he would accept the warm mug with a broad smile and a cheery hello. (Her boss was the only one she would make coffee for. Everyone else could pound sand.)
Betty made her round across the administrative floor, dropping off each broadcaster’s mail to their respective secretary. As always, Alastor’s stack was delivered first due to the sheer volume of mail. Eleanor sighed and reached for the letter opener to gag at the missives filled with simpring praise and declarations of adoration.
Ellie knew what her boss really wanted to read. She picked up the stack of magazines for this week’s end. The Microphone, National Radio News, Radio Index… all filled with fascinating articles (such as “Neutralizing Oscillation of R. F. Tubes” and “Can Static be Eliminated?”), codex puzzles based on radio call signs, and technical diagrams that made her dizzy. She appreciated the irony that a man who could barely work a typewriter could replace the tubular resistor in an Atwater Kent Model 55.
“Your mail, Mr. Alastor.” she nodded towards the corner of her desk. “As well as several documents that require a legal signature.”
(Ellie was good at forging his signature for correspondence, but she drew the line at financial documents.)
“Aces, Miss Dupont!” he eagerly thumbed through the periodicals.
She smiled. Her boss was indeed a peculiar man. But he was also a kind man, in his own way.
Eleanor was always treated with respect in spite of her sex: if she had an edit or suggestion for his scripts, Alastor would accept her advice with the same authority as a male peer. He never asked her to conduct demeaning or menial secretarial tasks (that would otherwise be expected as part of her job). But his mother had clearly raised him well. He was incredibly polite and well-mannered. Alastor always pulled out her chair when it was time to draft his broadcast scripts.
But most important, she felt safe around him. Her William met Alastor once (showing up at the station with flowers on their anniversary) and had nothing but kind things to say about her boss. Mr. Gauthier was never untoward, and was an excellent repellent from the unsavory attentions of less reputable broadcasters.
Joseph read the Sunday and Tuesday news bulletins, and had not once taken ‘no’ for an answer in three years.
“Pretty flowers, doll.” he smirked at the bouquet on her desk. “They from your daddy?”
“They’re from William, yes.” she responded coldly.
“What’s the occasion?” He roughly manhandled the petals as if they contained the answers.
“He always brings me flowers at the first of the month.”
“Aw, what a swell guy. Does he treat you well?”
“Yes, we are both quite happy.” She racked the typewriter, not meeting his gaze. Any man with at least two functioning brain cells would notice the dismissal. Joe's second brain cell was sadly absent today.
“You know what I mean, doll.” of course she did. Joseph was as subtle as a freight train.
“As I have said, we are both very content in our relationship.”
“You don't sound it! What, the old man ain't doin’ it for ya anymore?
“I am trying to work, so if you would kindly–” She replied through clenched teeth.
“Joe, do you mind?”
She'd never been happier to hear that ridiculous accent. Alastor stood protectively behind her chair, fingers wrapped around the wood.
Joe turned to him and laughed. “Here comes the fire extinguisher! We're just joking around, old Pal.”
“I must ask you to move on, my dear fellow.” he circled the desk like a panther, inserting himself between the louse and Eleanor.
“Ah, s'just a bit of fun! Hoo, she’s a bearcat, that one.” Joe winked salaciously. It churned her stomach.
“‘She’ is still in this room, so kindly curb the bull talk, Joseph.” Alastor raised his voice. It was a clear warning. Joe pointed at Alastor’s broad chest.
“Dry up, ya dinge–”
Alastor’s hand shot out like a bear trap, pinning the offending hand in a tight grip. His smile widened, almost painfully, and he spoke through his teeth.
“I have been listening to you harass Miss Dupont for the last fifteen minutes, and even a deaf man could tell that she is clearly not interested. If I catch you bothering my secretary again, I will take great pleasure in reading your obituary during your precious news slot. Are we copacetic?”
It was the first time she noticed something off about her boss. There was a dark look in his eye that sent a shiver down her spine. As if the polite Southern gentleman’s mask was finally slipping.
Joseph clearly saw it too, being the sole focus of his simmering fury. Alastor was not a hot head. She had very rarely seen him hot under the collar. To bear witness to his anger was almost frightening.
And then, just as fast as it had appeared, the clouds parted and he was her affable boss once more. He not-so-gently clapped a hand against Joseph’s face and laughed brightly. “Poor little bunny! Run along, that breaking news won't read itself.”
Joseph shot out of the room as if he was competing in the Kentucky Derby. Alastor’s face softened, and he cast his dark gaze at his secretary.
“Are you all right, Eleanor?”
She nodded, unable to respond.
Mr. Gauthier was certainly a strange one.