Star Time (16 page)

Diane was not ready when Greg arrived at the apartment, so Barnett chatted with him about television for several minutes, primarily about prospects for the
upfronts
. She looked lovely when she appeared, in a blue gown with large sapphire and diamond earrings, necklace, and bracelet. The jewelry had been her mother's, she later told Greg, and now was hers.

In the limousine she briefed the men on the current season of the ballet company, one of the city's most prestigious cultural organizations. She had played a large role in planning tonight’s benefit ball and
considered the evening a showcase for her talents.  If it went smoothly, she could move up to the Junior Committee’s chairmanship and eventually be asked to serve on the full board. She viewed such charity work as a necessary task to maintain and enhance her and the family’s social position. She also held down a full-time job at a large public relations firm and used the contacts from one to assist with the other. 

In the hotel where the ball was being held, Diane drew Greg aside. She seemed nervous. Her tone became harsher, her manner demanding.

"Please exercise more restraint. That remark you made in the car!"

"Your father found it funny."

"I'm sure he was being polite. And when you're asked what you do, simply say that you're an executive. You don't need to add anything."

"Not mention FBS?"

"I don't want people to think my father had to find me an escort."

"Instead," he remarked irritably, “they'll think I'm either out of work or with the CIA.
Anything else?"

"Well, I wasn't going to mention it because there's nothing we can do now, but I wish you hadn't worn a tuxedo with a shawl collar. You look like a band leader."

He was angry now. "Would you rather I left?"

A warm smile dissolved the icy expression.
"Of course not.
I'm really happy you came. But I just want you to be careful what you do and say. Those things have a way of traveling"

Diane squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and moved smartly toward the tables at which the young women on her committee were checking guests' names as they entered.

Greg was awed by the impressive company at the
Rodericks
' table. With them were the secretary general of the United Nations and his wife, the British ambassador and his wife, and a very tall couple whose horse had just won an important race in Florida and who had flown straight back on their private jet so as not to miss the ball. Greg became tongue-tied when he realized why the family name of the man was the same as the steel corporation's for which his father had labored.

Just pretend you're one of them, and you will be, Greg silently recited as he had since childhood. And keep asking them questions so they can't ask about you. Soon his social ease returned. Diane smiled at him encouragingly to convey how ably she thought he was conducting himself.

"It went well," she allowed herself to remark about the ball after it ended, when she and Greg were leaving for a disco. "No mistakes." She seemed to be referring to herself as well as to him.

At the nightclub, too, she seemed to know everyone and introduced him. She was like a genie
who
could open any door for him, Greg
perceived. They danced and talked. She seemed more relaxed than at the ball and indeed, happy to be with him. And he realized that although he had considered the evening an opportunity to advance his career as a protégé of Barnett Roderick and a friend of his daughter, he was enjoying himself. He realized that the depression that had gripped him in the last months at KFBS had disappeared as this new road of opportunity had opened before him. He just had to be careful not to do anything to offend the
Rodericks
.

Well after three in the morning, Greg asked the waiter for the check. Before Greg knew what she was doing, Diane handed her credit card to the waiter, who disappeared with it. Greg was furious, but it was too late to stop the man.

“I do their publicity,” she said.

Greg stared out the side window as the limousine drove across town. Diane's eyes were closed, her head back tipped against the black leather upholstery.

"You're angry," she finally acknowledged, opening her eyes to look at him.

"I'm not a gigolo. I can pay for our drinks."

"You were my guest. Let's not ruin a lovely evening."

The limousine stopped in front of the entrance to his apartment house.

"Thanks for inviting me," he said.

Her hand on his arm halted him. "I've really had a good time with you tonight. I thought you were enjoying it, too." Apologizing was not something she did easily, but she sensed that the moment required it. "Greg, I'm sorry if I insulted you. I handled it badly."

She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. "Please don't leave angry."

"Apology accepted." He smiled. "I had a nice evening."

He stepped onto the sidewalk and watched her smiling back at him through the side window until the car was well down the street. Was she just being friendly or did she intend something more? For a moment he considered what a more involved relationship could mean to his career—and immediately felt guilty. He was in love with Chris. He walked toward the building's entrance and tried to put calculating thoughts out of his mind.

Greg flew out to Los Angeles the following weekend. H
e knew Chris loved white roses,
and stopped on the drive to the apartment to buy a bouquet. He missed her very much. They had tacitly agreed that on these drop-in visits they would act as if he had simply come home after an overly long day at the office; they seemed to believe that refusing to
acknowledge the distance between them would make the facts compliantly follow.
When asked by acquaintances where he stayed while in L.A., he said simply, “With a friend.”

He and Chris were giddy on the drive to dinner, laughing and kissing whenever the car stopped for a red light.

On Saturday morning the assignment desk phoned to advise her that a crew had been freed up for her that afternoon to shoot a story she had been working on. Greg arranged to play tennis with friends. They met up again for supper at a restaurant they doubted acquaintances would frequent.

Too little time had passed since Greg's departure for them to reveal the true nature of their relationship—colleagues would rightly suspect it had commenced far earlier. Secrecy, a habit with which they had grown comfortable, was safer.

During their long phone calls, Greg had told Chris all about his new job. At dinner she described a complicated investigation of an influential real estate developer in which she was immersed; her field producer was less of a thinker than a technician, and she missed Greg's advice.

Greg felt the evidence that the man had acted illegally was still inconclusive and cautioned her to step carefully and keep digging. "He’s the kind who’ll sue you and FBS for libel just to make it look like he's not guilty. This isn't just another little Hollywood gossip story. This guy has a reputation to protect."

"Getting stuck with the gossip stories wasn't exactly my idea," she replied sharply, her resentment at having been sidetracked so long on marginal assignments still lurking near the surface.

"I did as much as I could."

She turned contrite. "We have so little time together. The last thing in the world I want is for us to argue."

"That's the last thing I want, too. We promised each other we wouldn't."

Impulsively, he ordered a bottle of champagne. As the glasses were being poured, Arnold Mandel walked into the restaurant. The news of the movie producer's separation from his wife, Nell, had hit the papers that day. He looked so forlorn that they asked him to join them.

Arnold eyed the champagne. "You two are celebrating something," he guessed. "I'd only put a damper on things."

"I'm just celebrating being back on the Coast for a day or two." Greg replied. "I'm out here on business, and Chris was nice enough to share a dinner with me."

Arnold took a seat. He was grateful for their company and for a chance to vent his misery.

"You remember how my wife was always so jealous, always accusing me of cheating on her. Well, two days ago I spilled something on my shirt at lunch and went home to change it. I found her in bed with our lawyer. It turned out they had been lovers for five years." His voice caught and he tried to make light of it. "He's the busiest divorce lawyer in town. Now I know why."

He had to pause before he went on, a sad smile torturing his mouth, "When she and I first met, the sex was incredible. I knew she was wrong for me—so critical, for one thing—and that the sex would someday simmer down, but I almost couldn't help myself. It was as if I couldn't think rationally about her faults. After a while, the faults were all that were left."

When Chris and Greg returned to the apartment, they were eager to make love and escape the gloom Mandel's confessions had rained on them.

They would not have to wait long to see each other again. Next weekend they would both fly to Wyoming. Chris was excited. Greg would meet her family for the first time.

Greg found a message from Diane on his answering machine when he arrived back at his New York apartment on Sunday night. She had phoned the day before to ask whether he would be interested in visiting the Museum of Modern Art, "something every new
New
Yorker should see."

Phoning her back, he told her that he had spent the weekend in Los Angeles. She seemed to want to ask him about it, but refrained, sensing he might be offended by her prying into his private life.

"I have tickets for a new play that's opening tonight," she said cheerfully. "We can drop into the opening-night party afterward. Do you want to join me?"

He was pleased that she wanted to invite him places he could never go and introduce him to people he could never meet on his own, but he did not like the dependence always being her guest also implied.

"Only if I can take you to dinner first," he insisted. He avoided thinking about the implications of her continued interest in him.

Barnett was out when Greg arrived to pick her up. He sat leafing through magazines in the study until she appeared. She had changed her outfit twice and was still not pleased with how she looked. Barnett had taken the limousine, and they had trouble finding a cab and would have to rush through dinner at the restaurant he had carefully chosen to repay her hospitality. She was still out of sorts when they arrived and remarked that only tourists came here anymore. She cheered up when several people she knew stopped at their table.

For the rest of the meal, she did her best to defuse his annoyance with her. She was amusing and lively, and soon, he was as well.

Greg was thrilled to be at a Broadway opening night and to be one of the “in” people at the party afterward: chatting with the cast and backers who anxiously awaited the early newspaper editions, assuring them that he had really liked the show and that it would be a hit. When the reviews turned out to be good, he felt elated for his new friends and at being in the heart of the city's excitement.

"This is really what New York is supposed to be like!" he whispered to Diane. "This is incredible!"

Two days later, while scanning the
Times,
he came across a photo of Diane dancing at a charity event that had been taken the night before. Her partner on the dance floor was turned away from the camera, so Greg could not make out his face, but the caption identified him as Craig Watkins Putnam.

Well, that proves she doesn’t consider me serious boyfriend material, he thought with some relief. But he also felt as thoughtlessly disposable as an inkless ballpoint pen. He had believed she was attracted to him, a foolish, conceited notion, he now decided. She must have lists of men she calls on to escort her to all the events she attends, men from her own social circle. Not that he wanted to get involved with her, he assured himself, but he had hoped to channel her fondness for him into the sort of long-term friendship that might afford periodic access to Barnett. Otherwise, with so much on his mind, the Chairman, as her father was known within the company, might forget about him.

Greg spent the next night at home. Alone, he grew increasingly bored. He watched television for a while and tried to reach Chris, but then remembered her telling him she had plans for the evening. He did not know what they were. Guilty at not divulging his evenings with Diane, he had been reluctant to inquire any further. Now, he felt himself growing aggrieved and self-righteous

and guilty for both. Because of the time difference, when she finally came home and heard his phone message, he would long have been asleep.

His phone rang, and he jumped for it.

"Hi."

"Hi." The voice was Diane's. She spoke tentatively. "Are you all right?"

"Fine."

"Do you have something against me?" She sounded hurt.

"Of course not."

"Then why do you always expect me to be the one to phone?"

Greg was surprised. "I didn't know you expected anything. Besides, I thought you were probably busy. You're out a lot. Who's Craig Watkins Putnam?" he asked after a beat, trying to sound casual.