My Deja Vu Lover (6 page)

  
“You look like the princess on the chocolate box.”

  
“I look like a child.”

  
“Mary Pickford is making a fortune out of that look. You will, too.”

  
He moved toward me and slid his arms around me.

  
When I leaned my face against his chest, I could feel his body heat through his thin shirt.
 
Blinking back tears, I tried to forget the hotel dining room with its pillars and chandeliers and starched tablecloths and discreet waiters.

  
The other women guests wore afternoon frocks of Margot lace or shell-pink crepe or taupe chiffon, sleeveless and cut so that the skirts hung straight with softly draped lines and stopped just below their knees. They wore ropes of pearls and smart little hats that fit close to their heads.

  
Laurence’s mouth was warm against my face. He stroked my hair and ran his fingers lightly across my cheek and then behind one ear and down my throat. He traced the neckline of my dress to the buttons at the back.

  
“Tomorrow I’ll give you some money for a new frock,” he whispered. “You can go round the shops.”

  
“I won’t know what to pick. Come with me.”

  
His hands tightened on my shoulders. He didn’t push me away but for a terrible moment I thought he might.

  
“Silver, you know I can’t. I took a risk in the dining room.”

  
I had entered the dining room alone, awed by the elegance, rows of tables covered in white linen, glowing with silverware and bright floral centerpieces. He had told me when to meet him and had whispered the false name he had given the desk clerk. The maitre d’ called me madame and led me past the wide windows that framed the view of the sea, past tables of diners in smart outfits who gave me shaded glances and then leaned toward each other to whisper.

  
At first I was afraid someone recognized me but then I heard the words pink and sweet and I knew it was my dress that was all wrong.

  
In an alcove at a table screened from casual view by potted palms, Laurence waited, smiling and standing when I reached him. He looked so handsome, his linen coat cut just right to fit him. His shirt collar was a slash of spotless white beneath his tanned face. His slacks were a neat pleated cut and he must have stopped to get his shoes shined at the barber shop off the lobby.

  
He held my chair and then he took the menu from the waiter and waved him away. I couldn’t help noticing even his hands were perfect, his nails manicured and buffed. He told me how lovely I looked and filled my mind with his smile.

  
“Here. Want me to read the menu to you? I’ll bet they have things you’ve never heard of.”

  
“Would you?” I’d never had anyone pay me so much attention.

  
He read off each dish and told me what was in it and finally ordered for me. While we waited to be served, he explained the view. He pointed out the pier stretching into the sea and identified the many kinds of boats tied to its pilings.

  
Waiters hovered and we kept the conversation impersonal. I knew better than to touch hands. The food was amazing and I tried to remember all the names. I forgot about the dress until after Laurence signed the bill and left first.

  
I walked alone across the dining room, across the foyer, and up the staircase.

  
He appeared at the far end of the hall, opened a door, looked around and then waved me in. With his arms around me in our sun-flooded room, I tried to forget the guarded looks that had followed me.

  
No one could possibly know me, not that it mattered. I was free to go where I wanted. It was Laurence who had to be protected. I knew it, hated it, but didn’t argue. If I argued, he would leave me.

  
“Can we walk on the beach?” I asked. “It’s a beautiful beach.”

  
“You can. Later. I’ll stay here and do my crossword.”
       

  
“You and your crosswords!
 
Golly, Laurence.”

  
“I’m halfway through the book.”

  
“What will I do on a beach all by myself?” I pouted.

  
“Put your toes in the ocean,” he said and laughed. “How many little Iowa girls get to do that?”

  
“Minnesota,” I said.

  
“Close.”

  
“You know I’m from Minnesota.”

  
“No one is from Minnesota. There is no such place. You made it up,” he teased.

  
“Oh, you’re so mean!” I laughed and ran my fingers into his ribs, tickling him.

  
Catching my hands, he spun me around and held me against himself, my back to him, his arm tight around my waist. I wriggled without really wanting to be free.

  
“I am not mean,” he said, his mouth against my ear. “Read my reviews. I am winning, versatile and slick, but never mean.”

  
He had been reviewed once for his role in the photoplay Her Gypsy Lover. Although he hadn’t played the lover, he’d been in several scenes. I hadn’t missed a showing when it played at the nearest moving picture theater. I sat in the dark and memorized every line of his face, every tilt of his eyebrow, and I nearly burst into tears when he looked straight into the camera and smiled that smile.

  
He undid the buttons on my awful dress, undid them one by one, kissing the nape of my neck while his fingers moved down my spine. His hands were warm, pushing aside the lacy pink material, gliding under my arms, circling my waist, slipping up under the Janine Dreams real silk chemise he’d given me.

  
“It’s still afternoon,” I protested, barely able to speak he amazed me so.

  
“Umm. Two whole days for us,” he murmured.

  
Remembering we would have to return to our separate lives, I shivered. I wished I could die right there, standing at that window looking out at the sea, his arms around me.

  
“Are you cold?” he asked, his voice soft.

  
He slipped one arm around my shoulders, the other beneath my knees, swung me up, and carried me to the bed the way the Arab had carried the English lady in King of the Desert. He lowered me carefully, centering my head on the pillow, then folded the chenille spread across me to envelope me.

  
Standing at the bedside he smiled down at me. After dropping his trousers and drawers, he bent forward to unfasten the garters that held up his socks.

  
I turned my face away.

  
“Don’t you like to watch me?” he asked.

  
“No,” I lied, embarrassed to admit I did.

  
“Why not?” His voice rose in surprise.

  
“I want you for always.”

  
It slipped out. I hadn’t meant to say it. Tears stung my eyes. If I tried to wipe them away, he would see and be angry. He hated it when I cried. Instead, I kept my face turned away from him.

  
Opening the spread, he settled down beside me. I could feel his bare warmth the length of my body, along my arm and breast and through the lace-edged rayon step-ins and my stockings.

  
Hugging me, he whispered, “Don’t be a tease.”

  
I could smell the mixture of aromas that clung to him from his shaving lotion and Fatima cigarettes.

  
He said, “All the dodging, parking the Lincoln in the garage two blocks away, arriving in separate taxis, that’s not how I want us. But what can I do? The studios are getting strict. Too much gossip in the papers. Any scandal and I’m ruined.”

  
He wouldn’t be the first and I knew it because several scandals had recently rocked Hollywood. The stories had been in all the papers, not just in Hollywood but all over the country, my friend Ruth had told me. Infidelity and divorce, and some very big stars suddenly decided to return to the New York stage.

  
“I’ve been offered the lead in the most wonderful new production,” they were quoted as saying, but Ruth said they wouldn’t get work there, either. Their careers were over.

  
Hoping to hide my tears, I said, “I’ve still got my shoes on, Laurence.”

  
Beneath the cover he bent his leg over my legs and ran the sole of his bare foot down my silk stockings from my knees to my toes. “Do you? So you do!”

  
He sat up and leaned forward to unbuckle the silver kid straps. With my arms free and his back to me, I quickly rubbed away my tears.

  
Holding out a slipper, he balanced it on his upturned palm. “What tiny feet you have, Cinderella.”

  
I couldn’t help giggling. He was always doing that, driving me from giggles to tears and back.

  
Smiling into my eyes, he said, “How perfect. Silver slippers for a lady named Silver.”

  
When he said my name and looked at me, I went as warm as a sunbather on a sun-drenched beach. My mind touched total joy, a brief flicker.

  
And then it was gone and I was April again.

CHAPTER 5

  
I opened my eyes and stared into the laundry basket, fucking romantic, that. I left the basket in the middle of the kitchen, grabbed my wallet and keys and windbreaker and headed out. Because I knew for certain if I stayed in the apartment alone and thought about Laurence and the hotel and my reaction to his every word and touch, I would soon be insane. Maybe I already was.

  
If my mind was going to disintegrate anyway, I should at least have had the fun of a few recreational drugs, shouldn’t I?
 
Or had I done that, forgotten it, and lost a whole mess of brain cells on the way?

  
The thought did cross my mind to keep my mouth shut, and at least I didn’t go hysterical this time. I was getting used to these unwanted vision/dream/blackout whatevers.

  
Unfortunately, some things don’t stay bottled. I met up with my friends at the coffee shop where they always did lunch, a small crowded place in walking distance from their jobs. I had ridden a bus downtown.
 

  
The others had already picked up their lunches at the counter and found a table. I waved at them, stood in line, bought my lunch.

  
I’d no more than slid into my chair, coffee cup in one hand, plastic-wrapped sandwich in the other, than Cyd said, “What’s the matter, April?”
               

  
Tom and Macbeth swiveled their heads in unison to look at me.

  
“Love your sweater with the shirt,” I said, hoping to distract her.

  
“Yeah, you say so every time I wear this sweater, which is about once a week. So now, what’s wrong?”

  
With great care I slipped off my slightly damp windbreaker, pushed up my sweater sleeves, ran my fingers through my mass of frizzy hair to hook it behind my ears. Picking slowly at the plastic, I unwrapped the sandwich.