Once Is Not Enough (34 page)

THAT WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS IN NEW YORK!

Holly and fake Christmas trees at the office even though everyone is working on the layout for the April issue.

The sudden change of attitude of all the employees at the apartment building. The doorman springing to open the door. The elevator man’s newly acquired talent of leveling the car with the floor. The fifteen names of hitherto invisible employees that suddenly crop up on the “Christmas list” the super slides under the door.

Sloshing through the rain. People on every corner weighted with shopping bags, futilely signaling at the empty taxis that flashed by flaunting their
OFF DUTY
signs. Dismal men in Santa outfits, their arms jerking with a spastic reflex as they rang their tinny bells. “Merry Christmas. Help the needy.”

Fighting through Saks—a madhouse encased with silver decorations. A cashmere scarf for David; squashing into the elevator to the third floor to get a Pucci bag for Linda, which Linda promptly returned. (“January, I’ve told you a million times . . . it’s
Gucci
that’s
in
. . .
Pucci
is
out!”)

At least Mike had been easy. Two dozen golf balls with his name engraved on them. But Dee! What can you buy for a Dee? (And this was before she learned that the crystal icicles on Dee’s Christmas tree were from Steuben.) You couldn’t get Dee perfume. She had a closet full. At Palm Beach
and
the Pierre. Probably in Marbella, too. The salesgirl at Bonwit’s recommended a “Fun” present, like red flannel booties. She finally wound up buying some imported linen handkerchiefs at a shop on Madison Avenue. Dee could always give them to someone else as a gift.

CHRISTMAS IN PALM BEACH!

The twelve-foot Christmas tree! Massive and shimmering with its silver balls and crystal icicles. A displaced giant in a glass-encased room overlooking the swimming pool. It stood like an angry sentry. Uprooted, disoriented, its cold silver silence protesting the tropical atmosphere.

And there was Mike, tan and beautiful. Dee, white and beautiful. Parties . . . backgammon . . . gossip. A ten-day extension of the Thanksgiving holiday. Going to the track with Mike and wanting to sob at his indifference as he walked to the ten-dollar window to place a bet. Because she could remember the old days when he’d pick up a phone and bet five thousand on one race. Yes, she could remember. And so could he. After the first party, every other party seemed like an instant replay. And then there was the surprise party Dee threw for her twenty-first birthday. Five thousand dollars in floral arrangements, a dance floor covering the Olympic-sized swimming pool. Two orchestras—one indoors, one outdoors. David arriving to celebrate. Both of them dancing together, playing the “Hello, Young Lovers” bit for Dee. The guests were all the same people she had seen throughout the week. There were just more of them. They all brought “just a teensy remembrance” from their own Christmas surplus. (She was now set
for life with silk scarves.) Some came towing lantern-jawed daughters or an uncommunicative son. And always the omnipresent photographers, shooting the same people they had shot at the last party . . . and the same people they’d shoot in the parties to come.

AFTER
CHRISTMAS IN NEW YORK!

Finding the first cockroach in the sink. Sure it’s dead, but what about its brothers and sisters? It couldn’t be a lone spinster roach.

A frantic call to Linda. “Relax, January. They’re everywhere in New York. Call the super. You gave him a generous Christmas present. He’ll get the exterminator.”

The super thanked her for the twenty dollars but explained that the exterminator had gone to Puerto Rico for the holidays and couldn’t be reached for another ten days.

David took her out several times. Each time they joined another couple or a group at Raffles or Le Club where the music was too loud for any real conversation, so everyone danced, smiled, and waved at people across the room. And then one evening he took her home and dismissed the cab. For a moment they both stood in front of her apartment building. After an uneasy silence, he said, “Aren’t you going to at least ask me up to look at the plant I gave you?”

“Oh, it’s doing fine. They say I should prune it in the spring.”

Her breath smoked the cold air. There was another awkward silence. Then she said, “Look, David, I like you. I really do. But what happened between us that one night was a mistake. So as they say in the movies—‘Let’s be friends.’”

He smiled. “I’m not going to rape you. I like you too. I more than like you. I . . . I . . . well at the moment, I happen to be freezing . . . and we haven’t had a chance to talk all evening.”

January wondered why this evening should be different from all the other evenings. “Okay, but it’s really just one large room.” Once again there was an uncomfortable silence as they went up in the elevator. She suddenly realized they had nothing to say to one another. Absolutely nothing. And for some insane reason she felt off balance. She found herself chattering nervously
as she opened the door. “It’s not too neat. Linda and I share a maid who has a violent love life. Half the time she comes in sniveling with a black eye. But that’s when things are good. When things are bad, she just doesn’t show. Linda says that means he is gone and she is sitting home drinking and waiting for him.” She knew he didn’t give a damn about her maid. “Well . . . this is it. And look at your tree. It’s grown two inches and has three new branches.”

“Why don’t you get rid of her?” he said as he stood standing stiffly in the center of the room.

“Get rid of what?”

“The maid.” He unbuttoned his coat and took off the scarf she had given him.

“Oh, well, Linda has empathy for anyone who is a loser in love. And I have empathy for anyone who survives all those black eyes.” She sat on the couch. He sat on the club chair near her, and stared at the floor, his hands folded between his knees.

“January . . . I want to talk to you about—” He looked up. “Do we have to have that thing on?”

“You mean you don’t like Mr. Edgar Bailey’s Tiffany-type lamp?”

“I feel as if I’m in a bowling alley with all these lights.”

She jumped up and put off the overhead light. “Can I get you some wine . . . or a Coke? That’s all I have.”

“January . . . sit down. I don’t want anything. I want to talk about us.”

“Okay, David.” She sat quietly and waited.

“I guess you’ve been wondering about me . . . about us,” he began. “Well, I’ve had some personal problems and . . .”

She smiled. “David, I told you before—we’re friends. You don’t owe me any explanations.”

He stood up and fished for a cigarette in his pocket. Suddenly he spun around and faced her. “We’re not friends. I . . . I love you. I meant everything I said that night. We
are
going to get married. But not . . . not for a while. I’ve got something I have to work out . . . business-wise. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to Dee. She gets worried if she thinks I have any problems with my work.” He attempted to smile and shrug it off. “She actually tries to mother me. I love her for it, but I
want her to enjoy herself with your father. He’s really a great guy, and I can work out my own problems. So just trust in me, January . . . trust in me and be patient. We’re going to get married . . . eventually. Will you remember that . . . even if there are times I don’t call?”

She looked at him and shook her head slowly. “Wow! You blow my mind. You really do! I mean, how many ways do I have to put it to you that
I
have no intention of marrying
you?
But if it will make you feel any better, I’ll let Dee and my father assume that we’re seeing a great deal of one another.”

He turned on her angrily. “What makes you think I care about their opinion?”

“Because you do. And, look, it will be easier for me too. As long as we do see one another occasionally, and they think it’s . . . well, like steady . . . why not?”

He dropped into the club chair and stared into space. He looked like a giant rubber toy that had suddenly sprung a leak. She could almost see his body deflating. “It’s such rotten timing,” he sighed. “I mean, ordinarily we’d have been so great together.” He stared at the floor for a moment, then looked up and managed a smile. “Know something? You’re a good kid, January. Okay. We’ll let them think we’re dating a lot, if it will help you. And when you grow up a little, I think we’ll be just fine together. Just fine.”

He called her at the end of the week to announce that he was going to California to attend the Securities Analysts meeting he had been telling her about. She wasn’t quite sure there really was such a thing as a Securities Analysts meeting in California . . . but she did know that Karla had arrived in Los Angeles from Europe via the Polar route. The newspapers had carried the usual pictures of her, holding a magazine in front of her face as she tried to avoid the photographers. One of the columnists reported she had come to visit Sonya Kinella, the wealthy Italian socialite and dilettante poet. They were old friends from Karla’s early picture days.

But January had no time to wonder about David or Karla. Thomas Colt was due in town February 5 to attend a big publication day party his publishers were given him. That was less
than a week away, and as January sat drinking the lukewarm coffee on the bleak Monday in February, Linda was fuming at the impertinence of a Ms. Rita Lewis who had not answered any of her calls.

“I’ve put in five in the last three days,” she said as she slammed down the phone. “I even talked to Mr. Lawrence’s secretary.”

“Who’s he?”

“The publisher himself. I said that
Gloss
had not received its invitation to the party at the St. Regis and was it an oversight? She gave me the real private ‘secretary to the President voice’ and said, ‘Well, really, Miss Riggs, it’s not actually a press party. Oh, no doubt some of the press will be there, but actually it’s more of a welcome to New York party for Mr. Colt. The Mayor will be there . . . all of the top celebrities.’ I got the distinct impression that
Gloss
just isn’t chic enough to rate. It wound up with her promising to give Rita my message.”

“Well, we still have four more days,” January said optimistically. “Maybe she’ll call.”

Four days passed and there was still no word. January sat in Linda’s office trying to cheer her. “Come on, Linda. He’s going to be in New York for quite a time. There must be another way to get to him.”

Linda sighed. She glanced at the gray window. “Is it still raining?”

“No, it’s snowing.” January said.

“Good!” Linda said cheerfully. “I hope it turns into a blizzard. Then maybe half the people won’t show . . . and the other half will be all wet and in a lousy mood. Honestly, January, everyone I know who has ever met your father says he was divine to work with . . . how colorful he was . . . everyone adored him—except Tom Colt!”

“Maybe they were both too strong for each other. Or maybe it was just Tom Colt being Tom Colt. Look, I sent in my first team. I wrote him a letter in November. I didn’t say I was related to Mike, because I knew that would kill any chance we had. So I just signed it J. Wayne. Then I followed it up with another letter two weeks later. When I didn’t hear, I called
Jay Allen, his press agent in Los Angeles. Jay had done some work for my father, so he was real nice and gave me Tom Colt’s beach house address. I wrote a letter there. Nothing! Then I followed it up with a Christmas card, with a ‘Hope to see you when you get to New York’ little note on it. Then three weeks later I wrote another glowing letter telling him I had read the galleys and knew he had a big hit.” January leaned forward. “Linda . . . be realistic. Tom Colt wouldn’t attend the Oscar ceremonies of the picture my father made of his book. It won in five categories. Of course he didn’t write the screenplay . . . he felt that was beneath him. So you start out knowing what kind of a snob he is. Mike told me how everyone had pleaded with him to attend. But he refused. Know why? Because he said he was a serious writer, not part of a circus. He also said he had nothing to do with the crummy commercial picture Hollywood made of his book. So why on earth should we even think he’d do a story for us?”

Linda nodded slowly. “Everything you say is right. But then, who would have believed he’d consent to do a publicity tour? That’s a real circus. He probably doesn’t know what he’s getting into. And as for magazine publicity, he probably never heard of it in connection with a serious novel. Oh, I’m sure he expects
Life
to do a a story on him. And
Time
. And
Newsweek
. But
Gloss?
He probably never heard of it. Or thinks it’s some new kind of toothpaste. But I won’t give up. If I have to be a panzer division. I did that with Dr. Blowacek from Yugoslavia. I hounded him and actually got him before anyone else. That was the story that helped get me promoted to editor-in-chief. January—
Gloss
is my life! As it grows, so do I! And I’ve got to get Tom Colt for
Gloss!
I’ve got to!” Her expression was grim. The blood actually seemed to drain from her face. Then she sighed. “The Dr. Blowacek story elevated me in the eyes of my publisher. And since then I’ve been running stories geared for circulation and advertising. Now it’s time for me to go after stories to elevate
Gloss
in the eyes of the trade. If I get an interview or story on Tom Colt, that would help turn
Gloss
into something pretty heavy. That’s why I can’t take no for an answer. Sure he’ll be in New York for some time, but
Gloss
has to get him first. And getting to this cocktail party would
have been a big help. He digs beautiful girls. That’s why Rita Lewis hasn’t invited me. She doesn’t want him to do a story for
Gloss
. She’s very into the literary thing . . . like she’d rather get him a paragraph in
The New York Review of Books
than a cover story with us. That’s why I wanted to go to the party. I figured if we could just see him . . . we could convince him.”