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He says he's taking her for a meatball sub, but somehow they wind up at an actual restaurant. It's Italian and they're seated at a large curved booth in the corner of the room. The wallpaper is red and the booth is covered with a dark brown leather that Joan can feel sliding against her stockings when she moves into her seat.
There were meetings all afternoon, some sort of panic with the Clearasil account. Roger put in requests for files and payment dates and copies of ad mock-ups. Then he makes her call Don Draper, who shows up towing Ken Cosgrove behind him. The results of this particular meeting are hazy, except that, at about 6:23 in the evening Joan has just finished typing up the last two letters and is working on a two-page memo addressing the handling of clients. Also, Cosgrove still appears to be in his office.
Joan thinks about cats and how two people have recently told her she should own one. Specifically the new girl in accounting, who seems to think it's perfectly normal to own animals and not a sign of a girl who's completely given up on her chances. Joan tries not to pay too much attention, but after working through her third page of notes, she's still thinking angrily about things like cat hair. Joan is not the kind of girl who has a pet.
"Joan!" After 5:20, Roger usually stops using the intercom.
"I'm here." She turns around in her chair to look, but can't see him until he walks into the doorway and leans against it. His glasses are in his hand.
"Remind me to ban office memos in the morning."
"Completely?"
"They're boring," he frowns at her. "And never interesting to read five years later."
Joan looks at her typewriter and then back at Roger. "I believe some people find them useful."
There's a pause and then Roger shrugs at her, grinning. "I'm sure we'd find something else to do with your time." He is not looking at her face when he says this. "We need a third opinion, but it seems it's just you and me here tonight, Red."
"That's not true sir," she points down the hallway, "I believe Mr. Cosgrove is still here."
"Someone who I don't currently think is an idiot."
"Mmm." She looks around again. "That's harder."
Roger leans over to look at her paperwork, then back up. "Come on, Joanie, put that away. I'm buying you a meatball sub."
Which is, eventually, how they wind up at the restaurant.
--
Joan cuts into the fish she's ordered and pushes it into the sauce with her fork. Roger has a drink in his right hand and he waves it a bit when he talks. Joan looks past their booth and around the room. There's a group of people several tables away, loudly celebrating something. They keep standing and toasting each other. Occasionally, Roger raises his glass along with them, in sympathy maybe. Joan smoothes her collar, just a little, to make sure the front is hanging properly, then eats another bite of the fish.
"You know my daughter used to hate macaroni and cheese when she was younger." Roger looks down his plate, and the meatball left on it, appraisingly.
"That's not actually Italian food."
"No, but noodles are noodles." Roger shrugs. "Her brother hated everything except macaroni and she refused to eat it. Either way, someone was always in hysterics at dinner." He looks at her. "They're never happy, why is that?"
"I," Joan draws the letter out, then smiles, "wouldn't know."
"Thank goodness for that," Roger tips his glass at her. "Mona said the food preferences were a phase, but every year it's a phase. First it's the terrible twos, then it's kindergarten, then--"
"Roger," Joan looks up at him.
"Yes?"
"Stop talking about your kids." She rests her fork on the plate and takes a sip from her drink.
"Does that mean I can talk about you instead?"
She tips her head towards him. "I'll leave the conversation topic up to you. Within limits."
"Alright then," Roger nods. "How's the fish?"
Joan smiles and takes another bite. "Delicious."
"Stick around," he says around a forkful of food. "They serve a mean tiramisu."
"I may leave that for you to eat."
"Joanie," he puts his fork back down. "Don't tell me you're watching your figure. I mean, we all want to watch your figure for you, you don't need to."
"Do you?"
"Oh yes," Roger leans into the table. "We certainly do." He stares at her for a minute while she's eating, then nods to himself. "We should go dancing. I want to get my hands all over you."
"Roger," she shakes her head, "this dress was not made for dancing."
"Why not?" He peers at her bottom half. "It looks like you can walk just fine."
"We are not going dancing, I'm not dressed for it."
"Where's your sense of adventure?" He frowns at her. "The young are supposed to be filled with it."
"I have plenty of adventures. I'm here with you, aren't I?"
Roger looks a bit skeptical. "I'm not sure that's the sort of adventure I mean."
"No," she smiles at him, "but you do like it, don't you? Out on the town, dinner and drinks, the rest of it."
"Oh yes," he grins. "I particularly like the rest of it." He narrows his eyes at her. "Now you're distracting me from the dancing."
"It's working though, isn't it?"
"Possibly." He looks down at what's left on his plate. "I could say I'm finished." He checks Joan's plate and then shrugs. "Close enough. Eat fast, I'm getting the check."
--
They have a system for the next part. Joan sits at the hotel bar while Roger reserves the room. Then he comes to get a drink, she asks him for a light, and he tells her the hotel room. The secrecy may or may not be necessary, but they do it anyway. For Roger, the adventure is probably half of the fun.
It's late and when she gets up to the room and shuts the door behind her, Roger is very focused on the task at hand. He has one hand working on her zipper and a drink in the other. Roger likes touching things, and smelling her perfume. He likes talking about her hair and her mouth. He's certainly not the worst man to be sleeping with in New York City.
Afterwards it's late and Joan tries to decide if she wants to make Roger pay for the taxi ride home or if she should just sleep at the hotel overnight. She's tired and she could send someone at the hotel for her dry cleaning.
She stands next to the bed in her slip, trying to decide what to do. Roger is watching television. He's sitting on the bed in an undershirt and black socks, squinting at the screen.
"You know what we should do?" Roger looks over at her, excited. "Tomorrow, you should call in sick. I'll drive you out to the country. It'll be just you and me."
"Roger," Joan shakes her head. "There are meetings tomorrow."
"They can wait."
Joan watches as he lights another cigarette. "Isn't Ken Cosgrove working in his office right now for these meetings?"
"It'll be good to make him suffer," Roger shrugs. "Besides, you're my secretary, you have to do what I tell you."
"Maybe I should be a good secretary then, and remind you about your meetings."
Roger frowns. "Youth is wasted on the youth."
"Well, I'll take your word for it." Joan walks around the bed to find her dress. She thinks she'll take the taxi home after all.
"You, Red, are an excellent secretary," he toasts her. "Full and quality services. Promise me you won't leave me any time soon?"
She finishes pulling on her dress, then looks back at him. "You know Roger, one day I'm going to be married and you'll have to find a new secretary to roll around with."
"Never," he shakes his head. "Well, perhaps." He takes another drag from his cigarette. "You'll miss me though, Joanie. When it happens."
"I don't know about that." She walks around the room, gathering her clothing and putting his in another pile. "I think I'll be too busying hosting dinner parties and spending time with my successful husband."
"Well, of course." He stands up and holds an arm out for his pants. "He's got to be successful. I expect him to have a whole list of accomplishments." He pulls on his pants, then starts on the shirt. "Your parties will be the talk of the neighborhood. You'll make casseroles for dinner."
"Casseroles?"
"Yes," Roger waves a hand around as he's talking. "Every wife makes casseroles." He moves closer and looks at Joan. First her hips, then his eyes move upwards. "You, making casseroles. I want to see that."
"I have a red apron too." Joan turns around so he can zip up her dress.
"How about we get an apartment and you just wear that apron for me and nothing else."
"I don't think so."
"Think about it Joanie," he runs his hand down her waist. "What man wouldn't want to come home to you every night? It'll be a sad day for New York when it happens."
"Good." Joan just smiles at that and adjusts her collar. Everything is back in place except her shoes. She moves closer to Roger and kisses the side of his face. "Dinner was lovely, thank you."
When she exits the hotel, she sees Roger walk out too, about a minute after her. They catch separate cabs and don't make eye contact while they're waiting. Instead she makes lists. There's a party this weekend and she'll probably meet Roger at the hotel on Monday. Tomorrow, she'll need to order food for the lunch meeting and send cigars over to the head of Clearasil. She gets into the cab and watches the city through the window on the drive home. She thinks about the party she's going to on Saturday and the dinner date she has next week. There are so many people in New York and so many restaurants. She still has time.