Another Kind of Love (25 page)

Dee, having felt like a first-class tongue-tied fool, decided it was time to open her mouth. But everything that came to mind seemed trite or superficial. It was better to wait until she was spoken to directly.

Madame ambled down the long bar to mix the martinis, leaving them alone.

“The dining room is upstairs,” Martie explained, “and a narrow stairway it is. But you'll like it. At one time, it was probably the living quarters. There are two sections now. One has a series of long picnic-like tables with regular menus. We can sit at either—whichever you prefer. The most expensive item on the menu is pretty reasonably priced, so it doesn't matter much unless the budget is really cramped.”

“What do you mean, family-style?” Dee asked.

“As many people as will fit sit down at one table, and there's no choice of menu. You have whatever is the dinner for the day. It's brought out on a big platter and you help yourself, then pass it down to the next person.” Martie smiled knowingly. “It's a great way to make friends if you're normally a little bashful . . . but that's never been my problem. I occasionally sit there anyhow when I come in alone, so I don't have to eat all by myself. A pretty nice bunch of kids come in here. Madame doesn't allow any monkey business, and in order to be admitted you have to be introduced by someone already known here as well-behaved and able to hold her liquor. No cruising—no brawls.”

Madame returned carrying a tankard of martinis. Dee suppressed a smile, thinking of what all the self-appointed martini experts would say about their being mixed in a metal container.

She followed Martie up the poorly lit stairway, fully expecting secret passages. The dining room was even more than she had imagined. A walk-in fireplace with a huge black kettle suspended over the unlit logs took up almost one whole wall. The room was painted in an off-white with French blue on the woodwork and the one paneled wall. Orange-print café curtains added warmth and privacy for the customers. And, of course, each table had a wine bottle with a candle. Heavy sliding doors separated the kitchen but could not keep out the delicious aroma of the food.

They decided on a private table, and their waiter turned out to be Madame's nephew—a courtly gay boy who would inherit the place when she died.

Dee couldn't remember when she had had a more wonderful day. The dinner was perfect, and she was comfortably tired from all the walking and the drinks.

If she never moved from her chair, she felt as if she could be happy the rest of her life.

D
ee saw quite a bit of Martie—every day, in fact. The Bizots did not question her about the mysterious “man” she had invented to account for her activities.

But her time was running short now, and Dee found herself having off moments of near panic at the thought of returning to New York. She didn't want to go back.... What for? To face Karen? To the prospect of the approaching fall and winter with its slush and bleak, naked buildings? To an empty apartment filled with the echo of her vacuum-sealed life—work, eat, and sleep . . . alone.

Yet here in Paris she had a childlike, clinging belief that things might be different, that her prince would come and wake her. It was silly and she knew it. But in her current mood the whole routine process of living seemed just as silly.

And even if her prince never showed up, at least she had a pseudo-prince in Martie. Martie had been a perfect gentleman. There was no other way to put it. If the circumstances allowed, she would place a light kiss on Dee's lips at the private entrance to her rooms—otherwise, a cheery wave of her hand and back into the cab she would go. They had gone dancing in some of the more discreet clubs, and Dee had enjoyed it—Martie was an excellent dancer.

In fact, Dee had to admit she was really enjoying the role of femme for a change. But if Martie was thinking of her in a sexual way, she was controlling it admirably. So much so that Dee sometimes wondered if she was slipping. Yet she was so happy to have found a friend in Martie that it overshadowed any other thoughts she might have.

She had a way of pulling Dee out of her depressed moods without prying into their cause, and when Dee already felt elated, Martie was a genius at making the most of them. It was like having an alter ego at her beck and call, especially when Martie had finished her engagement at the club and was completely free.

She made no demands upon Dee's office time, and actually took advantage of those hours to take pictures of everything she came across. Her enthusiasm for photography was growing, and she listened carefully to anything Dee said about it. And Dee was oddly pleased that Martie was quick to learn and had ideas of her own.

Occasionally, Dee had the feeling that Martie was doing all this only to ingratiate herself. But it was a ridiculous idea—Martie didn't have to. And she certainly wasn't the type to go to that much trouble unless she really wanted to.

Two days before Martie had to leave for her Munich engagement, they had agreed to have dinner, then return to the office so that Dee could develop the first three rolls she had taken. Martie's curiosity had finally overcome her, and she couldn't wait for them to be processed regularly by a store. Besides, she claimed, she really was interested to see how the processing was done.

Only the night light was on when they approached the building. Dee had her own key and felt terribly conspiritorial when they entered the dim hallway, senselessly whispering.

“I don't trust those flimsy elevators,” Dee said, “and it's only one flight up to the darkroom. Do you mind the walk?”

Martie shook her head. “I'm not
that
old,” she answered, and followed Dee up the marble stairway, which wound around the elevator in the shape of a cocoon.

Dee led the way into the empty workroom, deftly maneuvering around the desks and equipment. Not until they were inside did she turn on the light and quickly close the door.

“There,” she said in a hushed tone. “Now the light won't be visible to the street.” She pointed to the black curtain covering the only window in the rectangular room.

“Worried someone might see us?” Martie laughed.

Dee guiltily mumbled yes, but busied herself setting up the reel tank and solutions. “It would be hard to explain . . . you and me here . . .”

“Jesus! Dee, these aren't pornographic, you know. Just buildings and scenery. You know that.”

Dee felt her face reddening. She hated to do this to Martie and didn't really expect her to understand. “Sure,” she said quietly. “But if Mr. Bizot—unlikely though it is—or someone else who would recognize you comes into this office at this late hour, and sees us . . . how do I explain it?”

Martie looked at her seriously. “Are you really that guilty about being gay?”

“I'm
that
guilty about being caught!” A slow smile crossed her face. “Unlike you,” she said kindly, “I cannot afford to be a professional lesbian. I live in a different world from you, Martie. You can capitalize on it, exploit it, stamp on it and scuff it and still lose nothing. In my world, they want to know about everything which is considered par for the sophisticated mind, photograph it or write about it—but they don't want it to touch their lives.”

“Just one question, Dee. If my life weren't open to the public—if no one would ever recognize me—would you still hide me or be afraid to be seen with me?”

Dee returned her stare calmly. “In that case, I'd only be afraid of being spotted myself coming out of a gay bar.”

“You're sure?”

“Have I ever tried to hide you anywhere but around the office or places where it's probable I'd meet someone I know?”

“You win. But you had me worried.... I hadn't taken you for being gutless.” Martie turned and began to inspect the room.

“I don't believe it has anything to do with guts,” Dee replied, a little angry. “It's just plain common sense not to lie down in the middle of the street just to see if you'll get run over.”

“All right, all right,” Martie laughed. “Let's develop these French postcards and get out of here before you make me nervous, too.”

Dee relaxed and managed a light laugh. “I'm sorry.”

She put on a smock and a rubber apron to protect her dress, told Martie to put out her cigarette or she'd clobber her, and started to work.

Martie remained right behind her throughout and watched every step carefully, occasionally expressing complete awe or asking a question. Finally, Dee hung up the film to dry and pulled off her gloves.

“So tiny?” Martie asked, staring at the negative strips.

“How big do you think thirty-five millimeters is?” Dee answered.

Martie snorted. “Even a Brownie makes bigger pictures than that!”

Dee laughed. “Want your money back?”

“No. I'm tired. What happens next?” She stretched to emphasize the point.

“We can take a break if you want. Then come back, and make contact prints later. I could use a drink myself.”

“Ah,” Martie said hesitantly, “I have some cognac in my place.”

The suggestion had been so unexpected that it took a moment to register in Dee's mind. She felt the old mixture of panic and excitement Martie had first brought out in her, then told herself she was being juvenile. It was a perfectly natural suggestion—it didn't have to have hidden meanings or contain lecherous undertones. Martie had certainly never given her any reason to think she was “on the make.”

“How far is your place?” Dee heard herself ask, half hoping it would be too far.

“Walking distance,” Martie smiled.

Silence.

Dee laughed nervously. “It's a deal. Just let me tag these negatives so they don't get thrown out.”

“Aren't you planning to steal back tonight?” Martie asked softly with gentle reproach in her voice.

“Certainly. But the best-laid plans of mice and men . . .”

“Uh-huh.” Martie helped her remove the apron and put things back.

Dee took a fast look around as she turned off the light and opened the door. “Okay. Let's go, Karen.”

“Who?” Martie asked.

“Now, why did I call you that?” she smiled uncertainly. “It was silly.”

They left the building and walked briskly to Martie's hotel on the Rue Laugier, and said nothing going up the elevator or walking down the carpeted hallway.

Martie opened the door and ushered Dee into the room almost awkwardly. “Not bad for a hotel suite, is it? The bedroom's in there . . . I mean, the bathroom is, too.”

Dee sat down in the armchair and lit a cigarette while Martie poured the cognac. She felt almost sorry for Martie now. . . . She was behaving like a young boy with his first woman. Martie was all nerves, and every one of them was showing.

It was then she realized she had every intention of having an affair with Martie; not tomorrow or next year, but tonight, in this room. Dee wasn't certain of why she should be so adamant about it; she simply recognized that she was going to, wanted to, and had to. No rationalizations, no deep probings. Freud could go to hell! She needed the affair the way some people need a drink. And she was fully prepared to be the seductress if necessary.

The acceptance of this situation filled Dee with a sense of superior position, humor, and tenderness. Had Martie been a man, Dee would have been bored with the entire play. Men were so predictable! But she was very amused that the “tough, been-around gal” was no longer the master of the scene.

“What's that silly-ass grin on your face for?” Martie asked gruffly as she handed Dee the glass.

“You.”

Martie stood before her, swishing the amber liquid around in the glass. “Me?” she laughed. “Why?”

“I'm speculating about what's going on in your busy head at this moment.”

“I was just wondering,” Martie began slowly, “who this Karen is and how she figures into your life.”

“Oh.” Dee put her glass down on the small round table next to her. “She's my secretary in New York. A very young kid and I'm quite fond of her . . . She's staying in my apartment while I'm gone.”

She wondered if she should mention the incident with Rita and decided against it. “Has my name-slip bothered you that much?”

“Are you playing coy with me?”

Dee smiled. “A little.”

“Bitch!” Martie laughed again. “All right. So I was feeling a little jealous. Don't worry, your concern this evening about being seen with me tells me just where I stand. I'm not turning possessive or anything.”

“I didn't think you would . . . and even if you felt it I'm sure you'd never show it.”

Martie faltered a moment, then took a long drink. “You bug me,” she said at last.

“While I'm bugging you,” Dee said, “would you mind telling me something you don't have to?”

“Like?”

“Like, why did you suggest our coming here?”

Martie sighed quietly. “You see? That's just what I mean about you! Sometimes you're kind of shy and sweet; then sometimes you knock a person down with some absolutely blunt, aggressive statement.”

“My question wasn't blunt—your reaction was.”

Dee lifted her glass in a toast and drank it all down. “So why aren't you following through?”

“Jesus! What a perverse creature you are!”

“D'you want me to go home?”

“No,” Martie answered petulantly. “What did you expect? I'd open the door, trip you, then beat you to the floor?”

“I'm not so sure what I expected.” Dee stood up and crossed the room to where the bottle of cognac sat, then filled her glass again.

“You think I'm stalling? Or that I've changed my mind?”

“Yes.” Dee was taunting her and she knew it. I
am
a bitch, she agreed silently.

“It's not that at all,” Martie mumbled. “It's just that I'm not so sure it would be a good idea. Naturally, I've thought about it a lot . . . going to bed with you. But something like that could ruin our friendship; it might open the door for me to fall in love with you. I could, you know. Very easily.”

“I hadn't thought of that,” Dee admitted.

“You haven't thought of the possibility of love. . . .”

Dee looked at her sharply. “How do you mean that?”

Martie shook her head patiently. “How many women have you been to bed with?”

“Several.” Other than Rita, Dee had never really been able to remember her previous relationships with women. They had usually occurred after a lot of drinking and were accompanied by furtive passes, never being too sure of herself or them. But she'd learned a lot from Rita—Rita had been used to the best and meant to continue having it.

“If you can still count them . . .” Her voice trailed off. “I don't know why you make me feel so goddamn protective. You're a big girl and able to take care of yourself. I'm not bringing you out, exactly.”

“Hardly,” Dee smiled. She was more than well aware of the routine performances in bed—she'd witnessed Rita's practiced reactions when she was not “really in the mood.” Dee was only too sensitive to the knotted feeling in her stomach whenever this happened—the self-loathing and hatred she felt when she knew she was forcing Rita . . . but couldn't help herself.

Dee walked back over to Martie. “Would it help you to decide if I told you I'd like to go to bed with you?”

“Not much.”

Dee was too surprised to let her female vanity be offended. “Why not?”

“Because that's not the problem. You wouldn't have agreed to come up here if you hadn't already made up your mind. But you're going to be able to get up and walk away with just a nice little episode tucked into your brain for handy reference. You don't want love right now—and least of all from me. You only want romance—”

“And you think I'm being selfish?”

“No. Not at all. You put me straight from the start. I thought I could take care of myself. . . . I'm not so sure now. It has nothing to do with anyone being at fault or selfish. It's life. But as things are now, I can still rationalize that you're probably a cold turkey, a precision lay, or that you've got warts on your belly. Anything to make you less appealing.”