AN1: So here's the problem – I just happened to watch the movie Secretary, directly after rewatching the Christmas Special. Thanks, Netflix. As a result, this pretty much wrote itself.
AN2: I am peeking my head out from vacation to post this, and then quickly retreating back into my rabbit hole for cover in case this leads to any massive controversy. Please keep in mind that this is just for fun – as always, I have the utmost respect for Mary as a strong and independent woman, and I truly believe Richard does too, which is why they can get away with playing these sorts of games. I hope. (Please don't let Gloria Steinem kill me.)
I.
Richard's study was a far cozier affair than his office at work, Mary found herself thinking as she glanced around the room. While his office at the newspaper was imposing, traditional, grand, this room was warm and comfortable, modern and clean. There were numerous hues of warm browns and rich earth tones, and she felt enveloped in the embrace of plush carpet and glossy wood. The room was on an impressive scale, but somehow, it felt like just another room in their home; the perfect size for two occupants, albeit two occupants accustomed to extreme luxury.
"I don't see it!" she called out over her shoulder as her fingers ran over folder tabs in one of the open drawers. Bookshelves of striped walnut stretched in horizontal lines on either wall; below, cabinets of files were carefully hidden to look like paneling.
"Well I don't know where she put it," Richard replied, not looking up from his papers. "Are you looking under 'G'?"
"'G' for 'gardeners,' or for 'gee, the housekeeper does not put things back where they belong?'" she asked.
"'G' for 'grossly overpaid, given the quality of their work.'"
Mary sighed as she dropped into a curved chair of orange velvet across from the desk, pouring herself a cup of tea from the deco silver service. The angles and smooth surfaces of the tea set captured her imagination – ever since she moved into their modernist penthouse, she found her taste gravitating increasingly toward the clean lines and opulent textures of the avant-garde, which Richard obviously appreciated too. Unadorned by frivolous carving or unnecessary gilt, his desk here was the perfect example: a streamlined, square block of burl, its simplicity all the better to show off the tremendous richness of the material.
"I think we're paying the salary of four people and getting the work of two," she said, "though I can only confirm this when the timesheets materialize."
"I'll have them tracked down on Monday," he replied easily, raising an eyebrow in her direction to confirm the acceptability of this timeline.
"Fine," she conceded, "my to-do list can wait. That is if yours can," she indicated the pile of documents in front of him. "It is Saturday."
Richard unceremoniously pushed the papers aside with a sweep of his arm and looked up at her with a dazzling grin.
In response, Mary put her elbows on the desk and rested her chin on her hands, watching him. "Better."
"And what have you planned for us today, Lady Mary?"
"Well, Sir Richard," she began, "I thought we might give away our opera tickets tonight, cancel dinner, and stay in all evening."
He reached to refill his teacup. "But if I'm not allowed to work, how will we fill the time?"
"I'm sure I'll think of something."
She loved these afternoon chats over tea in his study, she had decided. He spent more time in this room than any other, except their bedroom of course, and it was convenient because she always knew where to find him on weekends. And on slow news days during the week, he would work from home, so if she happened to be home herself, she would drop in without an appointment and distract him endlessly.
"What opera will we miss tonight?" he asked pleasantly.
"Götterdämmerung, all six hours of it."
"Here, here," he said, raising his cup in a toast, "We somehow managed to escape the first three installments of Wagner's masterpiece; no need to see part four."
She spent quite a lot of time here, Mary realized. Running their lives was a full-time job, and she would often take over the study herself, sitting at the enormous desk as she managed household and business matters with a new appreciation for the many responsibilities her mother handled with such grace. And if Richard was home; well, he was rather adept at distracting her too - the deep brown leather chesterfield sofa against one wall factored into the reason why they missed the first three Wagner operas.
"If you weren't an opera trustee, I would suggest we cancel our box," he said, taking a biscuit from the tray. "We've yet to make it to a single performance."
"And whose fault is that?" she asked, brushing her foot along his ankle from under the desk. "You hide out in here with your typewriter and your phone calls anytime the word 'opera' is mentioned."
"You can blame my work habits should any of your friends inquire, but we both know this room isn't confined merely to… labor."
"Only exertion." She replied, and at this he actually laughed out loud. She laughed herself; what had this man done to her sense of propriety? They contemplated each other for a moment, amused.
"Perhaps we should go for a drive," he suggested, and she swallowed her tea in a large gulp. Her foot, which was hooked under his pant leg and working its way up, suddenly stilled, though she quickly recovered herself and hoped he did not notice her reaction.
"What a good idea," she said, "although the roads are crowded on the weekend. And the setting seems a bit… public, don't you think?"
"Perhaps you're right," he agreed. "Yet I find myself feeling rather careless today, wanting to drive far too fast down some country lane."
"You could be careless at home," she suggested. "You could break a glass, get a paper cut. Why, you even could sign one of those documents with the incorrect date," she said in mock horror.
Richard chuckled. "Yes that does sound more fun than fighting the weekend traffic," he said, seeming to let go of the idea, to Mary's great relief. "And who are the lucky recipients of our tickets?" he asked, changing the topic.
"I offered them to that young reporter and his wife – they're always so thrilled to get them. And we have a reservation at The Jockey Club after; I suppose we won't make that either."
"I'll go to The Jockey Club when the jockeys learn to make a decent martini."
"You can make your own tonight." Standing up, Mary indicated the paperwork his eyes kept occasionally travelling to, as if he could not let the pile sit there unattended for too long. "Go ahead!" she said in exasperation. "You finish your work and I'll tell Parker to ring the restaurant and give up our table. Meet you in the drawing room in an hour for cocktails?"
"I'll put it on the schedule," he said with a smile. He reached for his pen to resume his work as she crossed the room to leave, enjoying the feel of deep carpet on her bare feet and thinking how much she was going to relish a night in after a busy week of events and endless socializing. Their London lives were so demanding, and it was nice to take some time off occasionally from the hustle and bustle and hide out in their penthouse above the fray.
"Oh, Mary," Richard called after her casually, almost as an afterthought, when she reached the door to the hall. "What happened to the Isotta?"
She froze, her back still to him and her fingers just touching the handle. "The Isotta?" she echoed.
"Mm," he assented. "The front end is all smashed up. And I received a fantastic bill from a towing company for practically more than the car is worth."
She stared at the swirling grain of the lacquered walnut door for several beats. Damn that towing company, she thought, and after she told them specifically to address the bill to her. After a moment, she abruptly turned to face him. "I crashed it into a post three days ago," she stated plainly. "I didn't tell you because I thought you would be angry."
She managed to keep her eyes steady on his, overriding her first instinct to look away, at the ceiling, at the floor, anything to avoid the cool, appraising gaze fixated on her.
"You were right."