Christmas Story 2024 (AI Assisted)

[Hamilton]

"A Christmas of Yore"

It was 1962.
The holiday season in New York City was a glittering spectacle of bustling shoppers, lavish window displays, and a cacophony of holiday music piping through the cavernous department stores. It was a time of good cheer and seasonal magic, but also one of frazzled nerves, overcrowded aisles, and sore feet—especially for the executive secretaries who had been sent on endless Christmas errands by their bosses. Among them, Daphne, Audrey, and Barbara navigated the chaos, each handling the strain in her own way.
Daphne, laden with shopping bags, stood in front of a towering wall of perfumes, meticulously searching for the exact brand requested by Mr. Tate for his wife. Her high heels pinched terribly after hours of walking. She glanced around, and seeing no one paying her much attention, discreetly stepped out of her shoes. The cool marble floor was an instant relief to her stocking feet.
Feeling momentarily liberated, Daphne wandered further down the aisle than she intended, scanning shelves for the elusive bottle of Chanel No. 5. It wasn’t until she turned to head back to the display that she realized her shoes were no longer in sight. A surge of panic shot through her as she retraced her steps in her stocking feet, weaving through a crowd of impatient shoppers. She finally spotted her patent leather heels, nudged askew by a passing customer. Slipping them back on with a grimace, she resolved to be more careful, though her feet silently protested the return to their confines.
Barbara, perpetually efficient, had a long list of gifts to procure, including cufflinks for Mr. Reed and a cashmere scarf for his wife. She stood in an interminable line at the jewelry counter, her bags cutting into her wrists. Her feet felt hot and swollen, the reinforced toes of her stockings digging uncomfortably against the inside of her shoes.
Glancing around, she carefully slid her shoes off and placed her stocking-clad feet flat on the cool tile floor, savoring the brief respite. Just as she began to feel a modicum of relief, a clumsy man with a stack of boxes stumbled and stepped squarely on her toes.
Barbara yelped in pain, drawing a few glances from other shoppers. The man muttered a hasty apology and shuffled off, leaving her wincing as she hurriedly slipped her shoes back on. She resolved to finish her shopping as quickly as possible, muttering under her breath about the hazards of holiday crowds.
Audrey, ever the multitasker, was in the middle of a long wait at the candy counter, tasked with picking up bon bons for Mr. Greaves’ wife. Balancing on one foot, she dangled her high heel from her stocking toes, absentmindedly twirling it as she scanned the crowded department for her number to be called.
Her stocking foot flexed and pointed in the cool air, savoring the slight relief from her otherwise pinched toes. When her number was announced, Audrey hurriedly tried to slip her shoe back on but misjudged her aim. Her heel clattered to the floor, and she fumbled awkwardly, stooping to retrieve it. A sympathetic older woman behind her in line chuckled softly, saying, “Don’t worry, dear, we’ve all been there.”
Audrey blushed but managed a quick smile before collecting the box of candy and heading to her next errand, vowing not to let herself get caught out of her shoes again.
The department stores buzzed with the tension of Christmas cheer meeting the weary impatience of overworked shoppers. The sales clerks hustling behind the counters dressed in neat skirts and crisp blouses, had discreetly slipped off their pumps to work more comfortably. Their stocking feet padded softly on the polished floors, toes flexing or heels occasionally lifting as they shifted from foot to foot during the long hours of holiday rush. Children tugged at their parents, bright-eyed at the sight of candy-colored window displays, while harried adults bickered over the last items on the shelves. Daphne, Audrey, and Barbara, like many others, endured the dichotomy with a mix of determination and weariness, navigating the sparkling chaos with sore feet and overburdened arms.
The lunch counter of the bustling department store was alive with chatter, clinking dishes, and the fizz of soda fountains. Three young women, executive secretaries from the same office building, had claimed a corner booth after a frantic morning of Christmas shopping. Each nursed a glass bottle of Coca-Cola, condensation dripping down the sides as they laughed and commiserated over their aching feet and impossible errands.
Audrey, the sharp and sardonic one, sat back with her arms crossed. Beneath the table, she had slipped her stocking feet completely out of her high heels and was rubbing them together with a mix of relief and frustration.
Daphne, ever the poised and polished one, sat primly with one leg crossed over the other, her high heel dangling precariously from her stocking-sheathed toes. Her other foot rested on the floor; its shoe pushed halfway off.
Barbara, the youngest and newest of the trio, leaned forward, massaging her nylon-covered toes with one hand. Her patent leather pump sat forlornly under the table, its mate still snug on her other foot.
“I swear, if I have to take another step in these heels, I’m going to throw them in the Hudson,” Barbara groaned, flexing her foot as she took a long sip of her Coke.
Audrey smirked, rubbing her feet together beneath the table. “Tell me about it. Between the crowds and lugging those ridiculous shopping bags, I feel like I’ve walked to the North Pole and back. And of course, we’re not shopping for ourselves.”
Daphne gave a small, wry laugh, her dangling shoe swaying gently as she rested her chin on her hand. “Mr. Kingsley sent me out to buy something ‘thoughtful’ for his wife. Do you know how hard it is to pick something thoughtful for a woman you’ve never met?” She leaned in conspiratorially. “I ended up getting her a silk scarf. If she doesn’t like it, that’s his problem.”
Barbara sighed. “At least it’s his wife. Mr. Tate made me buy gifts for his entire family, down to his nephew’s dog. And he didn’t even give me enough petty cash to cover it! I had to chip in from my own purse.”
Audrey’s eyebrows shot up. “The dog? You’re kidding me.”
Barbara shook her head. “I wish I were. A squeaky bone and a fancy collar. And he made me go to that high-end pet boutique on Fifth Avenue for it.”
Daphne rolled her eyes. “You think that’s bad? You know what Mr. Tate had me do? Buy a gift for his wife and his girlfriend.” She whispered the last word, her voice dripping with scandal.
Both Audrey and Barbara froze mid-sip, eyes wide.
“You’re kidding,” Audrey said, her voice low but incredulous.
Daphne shook her head, her dangling shoe slipping off and falling to the floor with a soft clunk. “I wish I were. The wife gets a gold bracelet, and the girlfriend gets a pearl necklace. He even made me handwrite the card for the girlfriend—‘To my darling Clara, with love.’ I swear, I felt like I needed a shower afterward.”
Barbara gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “What if you mix them up?”
Daphne snorted, reaching down to retrieve her fallen shoe. “Trust me, I triple-checked. If Harper’s wife opens a box with a ‘darling Clara’ card, my days in that office are over.”
The three women burst into laughter, their shared misery lightening their moods.
“You know,” Audrey said, her feet still rubbing together under the table, “for all the hours we put in and the crap we put up with, they ought to be buying us Christmas gifts. At the very least, a foot massage.”
Daphne raised her Coke bottle in a mock toast. “Here’s to the unsung heroes of Christmas—us. The secretaries who make the magic happen.”
Barbara giggled and raised her own bottle. “Hear, hear. And to the day we can finally take these heels off for good.”
As the three clinked their bottles together, the bells of the department store jingled with shoppers streaming in and out, oblivious to the quiet rebellion happening in the corner booth. Beneath the table, the secretaries stretched their aching stocking feet, momentarily free from the confines of their requisite high heels.
The intercom was situated on the corner of Mr. Robert Tate’s mahogany desk. Without looking up from his papers, he pressed the button with his thumb and spoke.
“Miss Davenport, I need you in here for a moment.”
Moments later, the door to the executive suite swung open, and in walked Miss Daphne Davenport, the epitome of 1960’s professional poise. She wore a crisp, tailored pencil skirt with a matching jacket, a single strand of pearls glinting at her neck. Her beehive hairdo, held perfectly in place with a meticulous arrangement of hairspray, added an air of sophistication to her youthful features. She balanced gracefully on a pair of black high heels, the sharp click of her steps muffled by the plush carpet.
“Yes, Mr. Tate?” she asked, standing just inside the doorway.
Tate gestured with his hand toward the corner bar cart. Beside him sat another man, similarly dressed in a gray suit, a guest whose presence was marked by a briefcase and a polished demeanor.
“A scotch and soda for me and Mr. Randall, please,” Greaves instructed, a cigarette dangling between his fingers.
“Of course,” Daphne replied with a polite smile.
Daphne moved to the gleaming bar cart stationed near the window, sunlight reflecting off its brass edges. She picked up the crystal decanter of scotch and began her task, her back turned to the two men as she worked.
Unaware of their gazes, she shifted her weight subtly, the long morning of errands and dictation catching up with her. Without thinking, she lifted the heel of one foot out of her high heel, flexing her toes inside the silky embrace of her nylon stockings. Her stocking foot moved instinctively, brushing against the back of her opposite leg in a slow, deliberate motion as she poured.
The reinforced heel of her hose glinted faintly in the light as her foot arched and stretched, offering her a brief reprieve from the confining shoes. Her movements were natural, absent-minded, a small indulgence in the middle of a busy day.
From their seats, both men exchanged a glance, their conversation pausing as they watched. The elegant curve of Audrey’s stockinged foot and the smooth motion as it stroked her calf captivated their attention, though she remained entirely focused on her task.
Once the drinks were mixed to perfection, Daphne slipped her foot back into her high heel with practiced ease, the action smooth and seamless, as though nothing had happened. She turned back toward the desk, holding a glass in each hand.
“Here you are, Mr. Tate. Mr. Randall,” she said, her voice even and professional.
“Thank you, Miss Davenport,” Tate replied, leaning back in his chair as he took the glass.
Randall gave her a polite nod, though his expression betrayed a flicker of amusement or admiration.
“You’re a gem, Daphne,” Tate added, waving a hand dismissively. “That will be all for now.”
Daphne smiled, stepping back toward the door. The two men watched her leave, the faint click of her heels echoing in the quiet room.
Back at her desk, she sat down and crossed her legs primly, allowing herself a small sigh of relief. She had no idea that her small, unconscious gesture had become a point of silent intrigue, a detail only the men in the room would remember from their mundane afternoon.
The soft click of Audrey's heels faded as she left the room, the door closing with a gentle thud. Tate raised his glass to Randall with a sly grin, leaning back in his leather chair.
“To good company,” he said, his voice low and casual.
Randall smirked, lifting his glass in return. “And good entertainment. Watching her mix the drinks was better than the drinks themselves.”
Tate chuckled, taking a sip of his scotch. “You’re not wrong there. When she slipped her foot out of that shoe, I almost lost it.”
Randall leaned forward conspiratorially, resting his glass on the desk. “I’ve always had a thing for a well-turned ankle and foot myself. That little stretch she did, rubbing her leg... sheer elegance. She doesn’t even realize she does it.”
Tate nodded, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Pure class, that one. She keeps this place running like clockwork and looks damn good doing it. You don’t find that kind of professionalism anymore.”
The two men clinked their glasses in agreement before Greaves leaned forward, his expression shifting to one of seriousness.
“Alright, let’s get down to business,” he said, sliding a folder across the desk.
Randall nodded, taking another sip before setting his glass down. They delved into their discussion, talking numbers and deals, completely unaware of the faint hum of the intercom still transmitting their every word.
Back at her desk, Daphne sat frozen, her hands hovering over her typewriter. The intercom, usually a harmless tool for commands and questions, now betrayed its subtle hum, transmitting the men’s conversation directly to her intercom.
Her cheeks flushed as she heard their words, a mixture of embarrassment and indignation washing over her. She had always prided herself on her professionalism, her ability to maintain grace under pressure. Now, to hear them reduce her to nothing more than a spectacle...
Daphne’s lips pressed into a thin line. She reached over to the intercom switch and flicked it off, the hum cutting out instantly. Straightening her jacket, she stared at the closed door to Mr. Tate’s office, debating her next move.
With a deep breath, she smoothed her skirt, pulled open her desk drawer, and retrieved a notepad. If they wanted professionalism, she would give it to them—on her own terms.
The soft scratch of Barbara’s pen filled the air, punctuated by the executive's steady voice. His pacing was deliberate, his polished black oxfords clicking against the polished hardwood floor. The office was bathed in warm afternoon light, glinting off the decanter at the bar.
The executive paused mid-sentence, pulling out his lighter. He flicked it open with a practiced hand, lighting his cigarette before continuing. His words flowed as effortlessly as the smoke curling from his lips, but his steps led him to the bar, where he poured two fingers of bourbon.
Barbara barely glanced up from her steno pad, her posture perfect despite the long hours. Her right leg was crossed over her left, and her black high heel dangled precariously from her toes. The shoe swayed gently, a rhythmic counterpoint to the executive’s pacing.
As he turned, drink and cigarette in hand, his gaze caught the movement of her shoe. He paused, eyebrow arching slightly, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips.
“Barbara,” he said, breaking the flow of his dictation.
She looked up, pen poised. “Yes, Mr. Reed?”
He gestured toward her foot with his glass. “Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?” she asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Dangle your shoe like that,” he said, his tone halfway between curiosity and amusement. “It’s like it’s about to fall off, but it never does. Doesn’t it drive you crazy?”
Barbara glanced down at her foot, the heel of her pump still swaying idly. She smiled, a hint of mischief in her expression. “Oh, that. I suppose I don’t even notice I’m doing it.”
Reed took a drag from his cigarette, studying her. “Seems risky. What if it falls off?”
Barbara shrugged, her tone light. “Then I pick it up.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Is it some kind of secretarial habit? A sign of boredom, maybe?”
“Hardly, Mr. Reed,” she replied with mock indignation. “If anything, it’s a sign of concentration. I find it helps me think.”
“Helps you think?” he repeated, bemused. “How?”
She tapped her pen against her pad thoughtfully. “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s the rhythm of it, or maybe it’s just a little bit of comfort in these shoes. You try walking around in heels all day.”
Reed smirked. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
Barbara leaned forward slightly, letting the shoe slide a little further before catching it with a deft flex of her toes. “And besides,” she added with a playful glint in her eye, “I’m sure it’s not nearly as distracting as you pacing around with that cigarette and drink in hand.”
Reed laughed outright at that, raising his glass in mock salute. “Fair enough, Barbara. Fair enough. Now, where was I? See how distracting your shoe dangling is I can’t even remember what I was saying”
Barbara glanced at her notes, her pen already moving. “You were about to mention the third-quarter figures…”
And just like that, the moment passed, the rhythm of dictation resuming as the dangling shoe swung lazily in the quiet afternoon.
Barbara’s pen moved quickly across the pages of her steno pad, capturing every word Mr. Reed dictated. Her practiced shorthand was precise, her demeanor calm, but as the meaning behind his words sunk in, her stomach churned.
“Third-quarter numbers are well under estimates,” Mr. Reed said, pacing again. Smoke trailed behind him, curling in the stale office air. “And it appears that trend is continuing into the fourth quarter. Sales and operating income are in line, but operating costs are ballooning.”
Barbara crossed her legs the other way, her dangling shoe swinging a little faster. She kept her gaze fixed on the page, but her mind raced ahead of the conversation.
“To mitigate these increases,” Reed continued, oblivious to her reaction, “it’s suggested that all employee bonuses be canceled, except for executive bonuses. The holiday parties, of course, will also be scrapped.
Barbara’s pen slowed for the briefest moment before picking up speed again. She adjusted her shoe with a slight flex of her toes, giving her hand a reason to momentarily pause.

“And those cost mitigations,” Reed went on, turning to face her as if testing her attention, “will ensure we can have a more lavish shareholder party. A move like that will make the reduced dividend easier to swallow. Perception is everything, Barbara.”
She looked up with a neutral expression, nodding in acknowledgment. “Yes, Mr. Reed. I have that down.”
Reed smiled faintly, turning back to his pacing, satisfied with her apparent compliance. “Good. I’ll need this typed up and sent to Mr. Tate for his approval by the end of the week. This strategy is going to save us.”
Barbara bit back the response that hovered on her tongue. Instead, she crossed her legs the other way again, her shoe dangling precariously from her toes as her foot swung back and forth with a quiet, steady rhythm.
Inside, she fumed. She had seen the faces of the staff in the office—the clerks, the secretaries, the janitors—and she knew who they were that Mr. Reed so casually dismissed. They were the ones who worked the hardest and were paid the least. She thought of their holiday parties, modest but filled with genuine camaraderie, the one time of year they could feel appreciated. Canceling those parties while celebrating with shareholders in luxury wasn’t just unfair; it was obscene.
As Reed rambled on about percentages and dividends, Barbara decided she would do more than type up his memo. She’d make a copy for herself, tucked away in her drawer, as insurance.
Her shoe slipped a bit further, and for a moment, Reed paused his pacing, glancing down at her foot.
“Careful, Barbara,” he quipped. “You might lose it.”
Barbara smiled faintly, meeting his gaze. “I’m careful, Mr. Reed. I never lose anything important.”
Reed chuckled, his ego interpreting her words as innocent. He waved his hand dismissively and returned to dictating.
Barbara, her shoe still swinging, returned her focus to her steno pad. She would finish the day’s work, type the letter, and file it away as instructed. But she would also take steps of her own—quiet, deliberate ones. After all, appearances were everything in the executive suite, and Barbara was excellent at keeping up appearances.
Audrey smoothed her pencil skirt and gathered the stack of checks for Mr. Greaves to sign. Her job required precision, and she took pride in ensuring that everything was in order before presenting it to him. She entered his office, the polished mahogany desk gleaming under the overhead lights. Mr. Greaves, clad in his usual gray pinstripe suit, sat at his desk, his fountain pen poised and ready.
“Here are the checks for signature, Mr. Greaves,” she said with a professional tone, placing the first check in front of him.
He nodded, glancing briefly at the paper before signing it. “Good work as always, Audrey. Let me know when to post them.”
“Yes, sir,” Audrey replied, sliding the signed check into its folder and placing the next one in front of him.
As Mr. Greaves leaned over the next check, Audrey, standing to his side, subtly slipped her stocking foot out of her high heel. The office air felt cool against the nylon of her stocking. She flexed her toes absently, a small relief from the pinching discomfort of her heels.
It wasn’t until she caught a flicker of movement in her peripheral vision that she realized Mr. Greaves wasn’t looking at the check in front of him. His gaze was fixed downward—on her stocking foot.
Intrigued, Audrey placed another check in front of him, this time exaggerating the motion of slipping her foot out of the shoe. She wiggled her toes slightly, watching as Mr. Greaves’s eyes seemed to glaze over for a moment before he hurriedly signed the check without so much as glancing at it.
Audrey felt a mix of amusement and curiosity. Testing her newfound discovery, she flexed her foot more dramatically, pointing her toes and rotating her ankle in a subtle, fluid motion. Mr. Greaves seemed entranced, his hand moving to sign the next check almost on autopilot.
Then, an idea struck her.
She slid a blank check she had tucked into her stack onto the desk, her heart racing. Her stocking foot wiggled deliberately, toes curling and relaxing, drawing Mr. Greaves’s focus as she placed the blank check in front of him. He picked up his pen and, without a second glance, signed the blank check with a flourish.
Audrey carefully retrieved the check, her expression neutral but her mind buzzing. She slid it into a separate folder and quickly placed another legitimate check in front of him, returning to routine.
Once the last check was signed, Mr. Greaves leaned back in his chair, seemingly satisfied. “Good work, Audrey. Be sure to post those checks today.”
“Of course, sir,” she said, slipping her foot back into her high heel and collecting the folders.
As she walked back to her desk, her thoughts raced. What had just happened? Audrey was no stranger to the power dynamics in the office, but this—this was something entirely new. A blank check, signed and ready, tucked safely into her folder. She would have to decide carefully what to do with it.
In the bustling hum of the automat, Daphne slid into a booth near the window, setting her chicken salad sandwich on the Formica table. The moment she sat down, she slipped her aching feet out of her heels, flexing her stockinged toes under the table. She groaned softly, rubbing one foot against the other for relief. Running errands in heels was the last straw for her already exhausted legs.
Audrey arrived next, carrying a tray with a tuna salad sandwich and a bottle of Coke. Sliding into the booth, she raised an eyebrow as she noticed Daphne’s discarded shoes. “Rough morning?” she asked, twisting the cap off her Coke.
“You have no idea,” Daphne sighed. “Mr. Tate gave me fifteen minutes to get his shoes polished, pick up a carton of Lucky Strikes, and grab chocolates and flowers for his girlfriend. Fifteen minutes!” She shook her head in disbelief. “I had to sprint down the hall in my stocking feet just to make it. And of course, he still chewed me out for being two minutes late.”
Audrey shook her head sympathetically as she took a bite of her sandwich. “I don’t know how you put up with him. That man is insufferable.”
“It’s either put up with him or start over at another company, and I’ve put too many years into this one,” Daphne replied, picking at her sandwich. “I just need a quiet lunch break to recover my sanity.”
Audrey smirked mischievously, leaning in. “Well, speaking of insanity, wait until you hear what I did with Mr. Greaves this morning.”
Daphne looked up, intrigued. “What happened?”
Audrey glanced around conspiratorially and lowered her voice. “I was in his office getting checks signed, right? And as usual, he couldn’t stop staring at my feet. So, I... experimented a little.”
“Experimented how?” Daphne asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.
“I exaggerated my foot movements—slipped off my shoe, flexed my toes, you know, just to see how distracted he’d get.” Audrey took a triumphant sip of her Coke. “And guess what? I slid a blank check in front of him, and he signed it without even glancing at it.”
Daphne nearly choked on her sandwich. “He signed a blank check? Audrey! What if someone found out?”
“Relax,” Audrey said, waving her hand dismissively. “I tore it up afterward. It was just a harmless test. But it proves my point—half of these men are so distracted; they barely know what they’re doing.”
Before Daphne could respond, Barbara arrived, dropping into the booth with a sigh. She had a turkey sandwich and a resigned look on her face. “What are we complaining about now?” she asked, unwrapping her sandwich.
Daphne gestured toward Audrey. “Audrey here just got Mr. Greaves to sign a blank check.”
Barbara rolled her eyes. “Figures. These men couldn’t focus if their lives depended on it.”
“And what about you?” Daphne asked. “What’s got you sighing like that?”
Barbara shook her head grimly. “I just found out they canceled the company Christmas party. Poor business performance, they say. But do you know what really burns me? They’re still throwing a lavish shareholder event. And get this—executive bonuses are staying intact, but our Christmas bonuses are being slashed.”
Audrey’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were,” Barbara said, taking a bitter bite of her sandwich. “All this while we’re running their personal errands, covering for their mistakes, and getting nothing but sore feet in return.”
Daphne slipped her heels back on with a groan. “And yet, here we are, doing it all anyway.”
The three women sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling over them. Then Audrey smirked, breaking the tension. “Well, at least we know how to keep them distracted. Maybe we should all start dangling our shoes.”
Barbara and Daphne burst into laughter, and for a moment, the stress of their day lifted. In the face of unfair treatment, their camaraderie and humor were their best defenses.
The steady clatter of typewriters filled the executive suite as Daphne sat at her desk, her high heels discreetly tucked beneath it. Her stockinged feet, freed from their stiff confines, were tucked primly under her chair. She relished the quiet moment of comfort, flexing her toes ever so slightly against the smooth floor as she focused on organizing correspondence.
A soft squeak of wheels caught her attention, and she glanced up to see Lenny, the young mail clerk, pushing his cart toward her desk. Lenny was a fresh-faced kid, no more than 20, with an easy smile and a mop of brown hair that always seemed slightly disheveled.
“Afternoon, Miss Davenport,” he said cheerfully as he stopped at her desk, a stack of envelopes in hand.
“Hello, Lenny,” Daphne replied warmly, straightening her papers. As Lenny bent down to retrieve a package from the lower shelf of his cart, his gaze flicked briefly under her desk. His eyes widened slightly when he noticed her stocking feet, and he straightened up quickly.
“You know,” he said with a grin, “I don’t blame you for kicking off your shoes. My feet are killing me from sorting mail all day. Those metal bins feel like they weigh a ton after a while.”
Daphne felt a slight flush of embarrassment as she realized her shoes were off. She shifted slightly, tucking her feet further under her desk, hoping Lenny wouldn’t notice her self-consciousness. “Oh, I can imagine,” she said, recovering quickly. “You’re on your feet all day. That must be exhausting.”
“It can be,” Lenny admitted, leaning casually on his cart. “But I don’t mind too much. It keeps me moving, and we get to chat with everyone when we make the rounds. The mail room’s a little busier than usual, gearing up for the holidays. You know how it gets—packages and letters coming in by the truckload.”
Daphne smiled. “The holiday rush. It’s the same in the offices. Everyone scrambling to wrap things up before year-end.”
Lenny nodded. “Yeah, but at least we’ve got the Christmas party to look forward to. The guys in the mail room are counting down the days. And the bonuses!” He grinned. “We’ve been hearing they’ll be good this year. Fingers crossed.”
Daphne’s smile faltered slightly as she remembered Barbara’s news about the bonuses and the canceled party for the general staff. She pushed the thought aside, not wanting to dampen Lenny’s excitement. “Well, you all certainly earn it with the work you do. I’m sure you’ll have a great time.”
Lenny beamed at the compliment. “Thanks, Miss Davenport. You’re always nice to us mail room folks.”
Daphne chuckled softly. “You’re the ones who keep this place running. I’d be lost without your deliveries.”
“Well, I’d better keep at it, then,” Lenny said, giving her a mock salute. He wheeled his cart toward the next desk, whistling a jaunty tune.
As Daphne watched him go, she slid her heels back on, their snug fit a reminder of the formal boundaries she always tried to maintain. Still, her conversation with Lenny lingered in her mind, a small moment of connection in a world that often felt rigid and impersonal.
Daphne sat at her desk, a sea of papers spread before her, but her mind drifted far from the neat stack of memos and dictation notes. Her posture was poised, her legs crossed elegantly at the knee, but beneath the desk, her stocking-clad foot told another story. The reinforced heel and toe of her nylon stocking caught the light as her high heel dangled precariously, swaying with a rhythm as unsteady as the thoughts tumbling through her mind.
The shoe swung lazily at first, nudged by the faintest twitch of her toes. Her thoughts wandered into uncertain territory, weighing options, exploring angles. The faint rasp of nylon against the shoe’s leather lining accompanied her mental meanderings.
As her ideas began to take shape, the shoe slipped further, sliding from the ball of her foot to rest on the curve of her toes. The reinforced toe of her stocking caught the edge of the shoe, holding it in a delicate balance, but the shift was palpable—her ideas were no longer idle musings; they were beginning to solidify.
The longer she considered her plan, the more animated her foot became. Her big toe flexed, nudging the shoe forward and backward as if testing the waters of her own daring. She arched her foot, and the shoe hung precariously, dangling from her toe as her scheme grew more intricate, more daring.
Finally, the moment of resolution arrived. Her shoe swayed one last time before slipping from her toe entirely, tumbling softly to the floor with a muted thud. Daphne exhaled, her gaze sharpening as the weight of her decision settled over her. Daphne called Barbara and Audrey and ask them to meet her at her apartment tonight.

The three women sat in Daphne’s cozy apartment, the soft glow of her small Christmas tree casting a warm light over the room. The air was filled with the aroma of freshly baked cookies and the faint sound of a holiday record playing in the background. Barbara leaned forward on the loveseat; her hands wrapped around a mug of cocoa as Daphne laid out the plan.
Barbara leaned back on Daphne’s loveseat, a mischievous smile curving her lips as she sipped her hot chocolate. "Tomorrow, when I bring Reed his memos for review, I'll be ready," she said. "I’ll slip the old Christmas party memo into the stack—just like you said."
Daphne nodded, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her holiday sweater loose and cozy. “Perfect. Start dangling your shoe when you hand him the pile. Let it swing, nice and slow, just like when he got all distracted last time. When he gets to the party memo, let your shoe dangle off your big toe. Make it dramatic, but natural.”
Audrey giggled, seated on the arm of a chair, her legs tucked neatly to one side. “And then drop it,” she added, flexing her own stocking foot for emphasis. “If that doesn’t draw his attention away from the words on the page, I don’t know what will.”
Barbara laughed, shaking her head. “You two are terrible. But I have to admit, it’s a clever strategy. If he’s anything like the last time, his focus will be on my foot, not the memo.”

Daphne leaned forward; her tone conspiratorial. “Exactly. With luck, he’ll skim right past it, distracted by your ‘well-turned ankle,’ and approve the memo without a second thought.”
Barbara raised an eyebrow. “And if he catches it?”
“Simple,” Daphne said, her eyes gleaming. “Just act like it was a mistake. Tell him you must have accidentally included the old party memo in the pile. Play the scatterbrained secretary—it always works.”
Audrey chuckled, shaking her head in mock dismay. “Men in this office. So easily sidetracked.”
Barbara took a deep breath, her playful expression softening into resolve. “Alright. Tomorrow it is. Let’s see if a dangling shoe can save Christmas.”
The three women burst into laughter, their shared purpose transforming the cozy evening into something far more meaningful—a pact to restore not only the company Christmas party but a sense of control and camaraderie in a world that so often underestimated them.
Daphne said with her eyes gleaming with determination. “Here’s the next part. Barbara, after you’ve got the memo approved by Reed, bring it to me early in the afternoon. That’s when Tate always wants his drink. Perfect timing.”
Barbara raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “And then what?”
“I’ll take the memos straight to Tate’s office,” Daphne explained, the faintest hint of a smile playing on her lips. “I’ll drop them on his desk like it’s routine, make sure they’re the ones for companywide distribution. While he flips through them, I’ll go to his bar and mix him one of his strong scotches and sodas—just the way he likes.”
Audrey leaned in, sensing where the plan was going. “And your stocking foot will… ‘work its magic’?”
Daphne grinned at Audrey and said “Your stocking foot will be doing its magic too because you have to get Greaves to sign a blank check to pay for the party”.
Audrey smiled and wiggled her toes.
Daphne continued, “While I’m at the bar, I’ll make sure he’s got a clear view. I’ll slip off my shoe, let my stocking foot do its thing—subtle, deliberate, distracting. It’s a long shot, but if he’s as predictable as we think, he’ll be so focused on watching me that he won’t actually read the memos. He’ll just approve them.”
Barbara and Audrey exchanged a glance, admiration mixing with amusement.
“So,” Barbara said, “the blank check from Greaves pays for the party, Reed’s approval memo makes it official company policy, and Tate unwittingly signs off on everything.”
“Exactly,” Daphne said with a triumphant nod. “It’s risky, but if we pull it off, the party is back on, and everyone gets the holiday celebration they deserve.”
Audrey laughed, raising her mug in a mock toast. “To a little creative problem-solving. And to clever stocking feet.”
Barbara lifted her mug too, smirking. “And to saving Christmas.”
Daphne leaned back, her smile wide and genuine. “Here’s to showing them that we’re more than just pretty faces in the executive suite.”
The three women clinked their mugs together, their camaraderie strong as they cemented their plan.
The next day unfolded like clockwork, the plan in motion with each woman playing her part.
Barbara entered Mr. Reed’s office mid-morning, the neatly stacked memos in hand, including the revised one for the Christmas party. She placed the stack on his desk and stood a few feet away, clutching her steno pad as though awaiting his feedback.
As Reed began flipping through the memos, Barbara crossed one leg over the other and let her high heel dangle precariously from her stocking foot. With each swing, she adjusted her toes, letting the shoe slide further down until it teetered on the edge of her big toe.
Reed’s voice trailed off as he glanced up at her. “Barbara, do you ever wear shoes that stay on?”
Barbara tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Oh, they stay on just fine… most of the time.”
As he chuckled, distracted, she let the shoe drop to the floor with a soft thud. His eyes flicked to her now-shoeless stocking foot before returning to the memos. When he reached the Christmas party proposal, he barely glanced at it, giving it the same approval stamp he’d given the others.
Barbara scooped up her shoe and left with a polite smile, clutching the signed memos.
Audrey strode into Mr. Greaves’ office just before lunch, blank check in hand and a stack of routine paperwork. She placed the check discreetly at the bottom of the pile and stood beside his desk.
As Greaves began signing, she subtly slipped her shoe off under the desk. Her stocking foot emerged, flexing lightly as she shifted her weight. She noticed his gaze darting downward and decided to press her advantage. She crossed one foot over the other, her toes wriggling lightly as though adjusting the fit of her nylons.
When she placed the blank check in front of him, Greaves signed without hesitation, his eyes fixed on the gentle movement of her foot.
“Thank you, Mr. Greaves,” Audrey said sweetly, her shoe slipping back on with ease.
Greaves waved her off, distracted. “Yes, yes, carry on.”
By early afternoon, Daphne was ready. She walked into Mr. Tate’s office carrying the approved memos from Reed. She dropped them casually on his desk, barely breaking stride as she headed to the bar.
“Afternoon, Mr. Tate,” she said cheerfully. “Time for your usual?”
Tate grunted his approval, already flipping through the paperwork. Daphne turned her back to him, carefully mixing his scotch and soda. She slipped one shoe off under the bar and flexed her stocking foot, deliberately arching her sole and pointing her toes. Her actions were slow and unhurried, knowing full well that the movement was reflected in the polished surface of the bar.
When she glanced back, Tate’s eyes were locked on her foot. His belt was noticeably unbuckled, and his tie hung loose around his neck.
“Here you go, Mr. Tate,” Daphne said, handing him his drink.
He signed off on the memos without a second glance. “Thanks, Miss Davenport. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Just doing my job,” Daphne replied with a knowing smile as she slipped her shoe back on and left the office.
A week later, an official company memo was distributed:
From: WFHF Incorporated, Women’s Fashion Hosiery Footwear
Subject: Christmas Party Invitation
Dear Employees,
We are thrilled to invite you to a lavish Christmas party hosted at the Regency Ballroom. Join us for an evening of dining, dancing, and celebrating the holiday season!
Best Regards,
Management
As the three women gathered around the memo in the break room, they exchanged triumphant grins.
“To teamwork,” Audrey said, raising her coffee mug.
“To stockings and strategy,” Barbara added with a wink.
“And to saving Christmas,” Daphne finished, her smile radiant, “I can hardly wait till I can kick my shoes off to dance at the party”!

[Nitro]

One word... BRAVO! Well done, Hamilton!

[Hamilton]

I'm glad you enjoyed the story Nitro. Thank for your feedback. Merry Christmas.