Another Kind of Love (14 page)

Madeline smiled at the blonde, touched her arm, and, circling the dancing couples, walked back toward Laura.

“How do you feel?” she asked, sitting down carefully.

“All right.” Laura tried to clear her head as waves of fuzziness came at her. “Thank you, Madeline. Have I thanked you yet for being so wonderful? Have I?”

“Do you want me to take you home?”

“Be it ever so humble . . . but ours isn't. How come the words and the truth don't agree, Madeline?” She gripped the edge of the table with all her strength. “Yes . . . I want to go home.... I may as well . . .”

Laura's voice broke off as she looked over Madeline's shoulder. “Oh, no!” Laura whispered. She shook her head violently and looked again.

“What is it?” Madeline asked with real concern.

“Look . . .”

Madeline turned and sat motionless for a moment. “What's she doing here?”

She glanced at Laura sympathetically, then stood up effortlessly and walked away.

Madeline nodded as she passed Ginny.

G
inny stood very still and stared at Laura with no visible expression on her face. Then, slowly, she walked to her.

In spite of herself Laura began to shake. She felt as if someone had hooked up her stomach to a vibrator. Her arms and legs were weak. She couldn't take her eyes away from Ginny's, yet she was unable to really look at her.

“May I sit down?” Ginny asked in a low, soft voice.

Laura said nothing, afraid that she would both cry and laugh if she tried to talk. She wished she had not drunk so much.

“I saw you leave the Playhouse,” Ginny said. “One of the girls in the show knows you . . . Edie. She said you come here regularly.”

Ginny sat down. It seemed to Laura that she had changed in some unfathomable way.

“I just wanted to say hello.” Ginny smiled and carefully pushed her hair from her face. “It never occurred to me that you might be in a place like this.” She seemed amused.

Laura still said nothing. A confusion of emotion swept over her, paralyzing all response. She had a maddening urge to throw her arms around Ginny, feel her warm, young body, hear Ginny tell her that they would never be apart again.... But the amusement in Ginny's voice chilled her, held her in check.

“How are you?” Laura managed to ask finally.

“Fine,” Ginny said. “Shouldn't I be?”

Her coolness jolted Laura. The times when Laura had imagined their reunion, she had prepared herself for hurt accusations from Ginny, for tight-lipped fury, for scalding rejection—anything but this blankness, this indifference.

Laura leaned forward, her voice harsh with tension. “Are we going to make conversation like strangers on a train?”

“Are we anything else, really?” Ginny asked.

“We were plenty else!” Laura snapped, the drinks loosening her usual reserve. “Do you know what I've been through staying away from you?”

“Who asked you to?”

“My blind instinct for self-preservation,” Laura muttered. “And my fears, my appalling ignorance.”

“Perhaps it's just as well,” Ginny replied levelly. “This would have been much more difficult if you had really fallen in love with me.”

Laura's face seemed to freeze. “Really fallen in love? What in God's name did you think it was I felt for you?”

For an instant, Ginny's face softened. There was a flicker of compassion in her eyes as she raised them and looked directly at Laura.

“Not love, Laura. Not really.”

Laura couldn't answer. She had known for some time that this was true. She was not sure just how she felt about Ginny. . . . There was a wild kind of craving to hold her, to breathe her in. Ginny made her feel so goddamn physical.

She must have loved Ginny in a rather special sort of way—certainly not everlasting, but intensely. Even now, with Ginny sitting so near to her, the old feelings . . .

“Besides,” Ginny continued, “we got what we wanted from each other.”

Laura wanted to ask Ginny what she meant by that, but just then Georgie walked up to the table and picked up the empty glass in front of Laura, depositing a fresh one. She wiped the top of the table with exceptional care, then, without looking at either of them, asked, “You Virginia Adams?”

“Yes.”

Georgie gestured toward the bar. “Some dame on the phone for you. Says she's Saundra Simons,” Georgie laughed. “I should've told her I was Rudolph Valentino.”

Georgie walked away still chuckling, stopping to tell another couple the joke.

Saundra . . . Saundra . . . The name kept repeating in Laura's mind over and over. She could feel rage, hurt, resentment pyramiding inside her.

Ginny stood up slowly, wordlessly, and went to the phone near the bar.

Laura tried desperately to keep calm.

A moment later, Ginny came back and sat down on the edge of the chair. “I have to leave.”

“Saundra?” Laura's voice was knife-edged.

Ginny nodded. “It's funny,” she said with a slight curl on her lips, “but of all the times Saundra could have made a scene or been jealous of me, the only time she ever really gave any possessive signs was with you in the picture. She was jealous for the first time—of you.”

“I'm laughing,” Laura commented tightly. She could feel the heat rising inside her, strained to hold back the anger choking in her throat. “Why did you go back, Ginny? Why?”

“Why not?” Ginny answered resignedly. “Sure, I was attracted to you—no point in denying that. As a matter of fact, I felt a lot more for you than I ever did for Saundra. So when you left I was pretty hurt and pretty disappointed. But it was too damned frustrating lugging a torch around—getting circles under my eyes. After all, if I lose my looks, not only would Saundra not want me, but neither would any producer. It sure as hell wasn't any reason to ruin my career, was it? For what? No, Saundra, no career and no you. I just didn't see any point to it.”

“So you went crawling back to Saundra? Only Saundra didn't know you'd ever been away; is that it?”

“More or less,” Ginny answered. “Does it matter?”

“No. I guess it doesn't.” Laura stared at her glass and lapsed into silence.

Ginny gave an irritated cluck. “Well? What would you have thought if I'd done it to you? Run away, I mean.”

Laura just shook her head and shrugged.

“Actually,” Ginny went on, “I didn't go back to Saundra—that way—for quite a while. It didn't seem to matter much to her at the time. She was on a kick of her own. That's the way it's been with her, anyway—she doesn't care what I do . . . as long as I'm there when she wants me. So I started dating an agent, remembering what you had said about making it on my own.”

Numbly, Laura raised the fresh drink to her lips, unable to look at Ginny but listening to her with a kind of morbid fascination.

“The gang used to say he was a great lover and a big promoter. What did I have to lose? He took me to some parties and I got sick of him. Besides, he never did anything for me at all—not even one crummy bit part.”

“Sorry I didn't bring my violin,” Laura remarked bitterly.

Suddenly, with detached insight, she realized that Ginny was acting.

Watching her now, she wondered if Ginny was capable of just a plain unvarnished emotion—no spotlights, no Academy Awards. She didn't doubt that Ginny had been unhappy in her way, upset even, but she obviously was now milking this scene for all it was worth. She was giving Laura the four-star pitch. Laura's feelings toward Ginny at this point were a mixture of indifference and amused disbelief. She felt like asking, “So what else is new?” but didn't.

“Are you interested, or am I boring you?” Ginny asked sarcastically.

Laura smiled carefully. “Go right ahead,” she answered. “This may save me a lot of research when I have to do a write-up on you someday.”

“Oh, Laura, don't be this way. Try to see my side just for once. You didn't leave me much choice, you know.”

“Go on, I said I'm listening,” Laura replied, trying to sound sincere.

“Then I ran into Saundra one day, at one of those crazy parties up on Beechwood Drive. She was apologetic, understanding, charming—you know how she can be.”

Laura nodded but found her attention wandering. She kept thinking what a fool she had been to let this girl take such a hold of her life and turn it upside down.

Suddenly she looked up to see that Ginny was watching her with tear-filled eyes. “Laura . . . could we . . . I mean, maybe we could still make it together. I've never forgotten you.”

Laura was too startled to answer. Besides, she felt cold inside now, and tired.

“I was so glad,” Ginny went on when Laura made no reply, “when Saundra got this chance to do a tour using New York as her base. And then when she got me this part on off-Broadway, I kind of figured I'd run into you again . . . somehow.”

Still Laura said nothing. Even Ginny sat quietly now, and the silence between them grew visibly strained. It was amazing how very little they had to say to each other. It must be me, Laura thought, not just her. I'm the one who's changed, hardened. Good! She praised herself, maybe I'll know better next time. Next time what? Next time I fall in love . . .

She looked around the room and wondered how many of the people there were saying the same kind of desperate, hungry lies to cover an unbearable emptiness. She saw Ginny out of the corner of her eye and contemplated what they had been to each other, wondering what they had wanted from each other so urgently.

But it was too much to understand right now, and she searched for Madeline, hoping to draw reassurance from her, some measure of reality. That was it, Laura thought, this scene has no reality—it's just like a book or a movie. It's almost rehearsed.

Just as phony as what she had had with Ginny. It couldn't have been love—it had been too consuming, too sick, for love. It had been a compulsion, a springing loose of long-hidden fears and yearnings twisted and forged together into a mad kind of fascination. . . physical infatuation.

Ginny had been the one to touch the spring, and that was all.

As if out from nowhere Madeline appeared and stood behind Ginny's chair. “Am I intruding?” she asked hesitantly.

Madeline! Laura thought with relief. My better half... Then she immediately felt embarrassed, as if she had no right to such a thought. My best friend, she corrected herself.

Ginny twisted in her chair and looked, coldly at first, at Madeline; then her eyes brightened and she smiled. “Oh, hello again, Mrs. Van Norden.”

She turned to Laura. “We met yesterday at lunch with Max Geisler. You know, the producer.”

Laura cringed inwardly. That familiar, fawning tone of voice, she thought—the hopeful starlet.

Madeline sat down next to Laura. “Why don't you call me Madeline,” she suggested.

Laura had a bristling response to Madeline's words. It was so out of keeping with her honest personality. It had that Hollywood quality of “Stick with me, baby, and we'll go places.”

Ginny responded energetically to Madeline's presence. She sat forward and leaned on the table with calculated ease and began a conversation about the show she was appearing in, how Max had a great deal of confidence in her and, with lowered eyes, how she hoped she would fulfill his expectations.

Madeline came to her rescue gallantly with reassurances and told her that although she had not seen much of her rehearsal tonight, she thought Ginny showed real talent.

“Of course, I know I still have a lot to learn,” Ginny commented with ritual modesty.

“Nothing that some real experience, and a little help, wouldn't take care of,” Madeline replied sweetly.

Christ! Laura cursed silently, this isn't an interview! Madeline doesn't have the least intention of giving Ginny any help. Or does she? Suddenly Laura turned and scrutinized Madeline, searching for signs of sincere interest in Ginny's career. She was annoyed and confused by Madeline's behavior. It wasn't like the Madeline she knew, who was considerate, loyal, the Madeline who had kissed her that night long ago to show . . . to show what? This attitude toward Ginny didn't become her at all—it was beneath her! There was an excuse for Ginny. After all, she was looking to get ahead and she didn't care how—her behavior befitted her character.

But there sat Madeline, drinking it all up, playing straight man to Ginny's dialogue. Don't tell me she's falling for Ginny's line!

All at once, Saundra loomed over them, cloaked in vengeful wrath. Laura almost laughed, she looked so grotesquely menacing. Like the villain in a comic opera.

Saundra snapped, “Next time you intend to go slumming, Ginny, you might tell me. I don't enjoy having to smoke you out this way!” Saundra's voice was exquisitely acid.

With someone else the situation might have been honestly tragic, but Laura had the distinct impression that Saundra was enjoying herself—that she had summoned to this new role of the injured lover all the counterfeit passion of a summer stock celebrity playing to a packed house of adoring fans. Laura tried to feel resentment at the way Saundra spoke to Ginny, tried to feel protective, but couldn't—not even for old times' sake.

She looked at Madeline instinctively to share this amusing moment. Madeline had settled back in her seat and folded her hands neatly on top of the table. She looked up into Laura's eyes, and very swiftly an expression crossed her face that made it quite clear to Laura: Madeline had expected this meeting, had expected Ginny to show herself for what she was beyond any possible doubt. An impish curl came to Madeline's lips, and Laura was torn between wanting to burst out laughing and punching Madeline in the nose.

Ginny had simply shrugged her shoulders at Saundra's opening sentence. An empty look filled her large eyes, and Laura was appalled as she looked at her.

This is Ginny, she told herself; this is the girl you once loved . . . the girl for whom you've been drowning your sorrows, the girl that made your flesh tingle whenever you thought of her. . . .

Saundra glanced down at Laura icily. “I thought I'd find
you
here,” she sneered. Her catlike stare had not failed to encompass Madeline. For a moment she seemed puzzled, faintly contemptuous.

Laura momentarily suspected that Saundra and Madeline might know each other, perhaps had met through Max, especially since Saundra's face held a rigid expression of not deigning to acknowledge Madeline. The woman's arrogance was infuriating.