Winning is Everything (16 page)

31 

Ron promised himself after he’d been to the dinner party at Anne Ford’s, he was definitely going to cut off his friendship with Warren Talbot. But when the fast-decaying playwright asked Ron if he cared to tag along to a special benefit performance of
Hello, Dolly!
at the St. James Theater, to be followed by a champagne supper at the St. Regis roof, hosted by Carol Channing, how could he say no?

Hours later he was saying “Never again” as he pulled Talbot down from the roof of the St. Regis and into a taxi.

Unfortunately there was the ultraprivate party in the pool room of the Four Seasons being thrown by Arlene Francis and Martin Gabel (one
couldn’t
miss that); the farewell party for John and DD Ryan—on their way to close the house on Nantucket—in the upstairs room at 21 (Ron had always dreamed of going to a private party at 21!). And then the Feather Ball, the White Russian Ball, it mattered not what the attraction was, Talbot knew all too well he could count on Ron’s interest in joining him there.

“What can I get you?” Ron asked Talbot as they handed their coats over to a small band of white-gloved ladies. They were attending yet another cocktail party in a huge Park Avenue apartment.

“Oh, I don’t know …” Talbot paused as he looked around the room. “May as well stick with a winner: bring me a dry martini!”

The hostess’s husband, a tiny wisp of an industrial banker, had given his new bride carte blanche in redesigning his digs and she in turn had given Peter Pilar, the noted interior designer, carte blanche. “Money is no object,” she had told him.

“’Money is no object’ is my favorite phrase,” Pilar had said as he then had proceeded to knock down the walls, take out the furniture, sell the paintings, and give the fixtures away to Goodwill.

Now he stood in the once-plush residence he had transformed into minimal loft and said, “Why, Warren Talbot, I thought you were dead!”

Talbot was half through his third martini at this point and could only smile.

“Who’s the cutie?” Pilar asked, pointing to Ron.

“Just a friend,” Talbot replied coquettishly.

Pilar looked Ron up and down from across the room and said, “Honey, you sure do like chicken. What is he,
twelve?”

“Why don’t you come meet him?”

“Now, there’s a charming idea. Lead the way.”

On their way over to meet Ron, Talbot and Pilar bumped into Liz Bromley. “Come with us,” said Talbot to the popular TV newscaster. “We’re working the room.”

“Can we steal this lad away a moment?” asked Talbot as he pulled Ron by the sleeve, tugging him away from a pair of society ladies.

Ron excused himself and turned to face Liz Bromley.

There was an instant connection as Liz thought to herself: My, what an appealing young man; and Ron thought to himself: Now,
there’s
a familiar face.

Talbot introduced Ron to Peter Pilar and to the newscaster and then he beelined over to the nearest bottle of Smirnoff.

It didn’t take long for Pilar to realize Ron was more interested in the lady newscaster than himself, so he bustled over to the other side of the room for some fresh gossip.

“He’s quite a designer, don’t you think?” asked Liz, looking around the all-white apartment.

“I feel as though I’m lost in a blizzard,” said Ron.

Liz laughed and claimed she believed the look was a new expression called minimalism: less is more.

“You mean, less is boring,” said Ron.

Liz laughed again and asked Ron what he did and he told her he was learning the restaurant business and then made believe he didn’t know who she was and asked what she did, and she laughed again, delighted
someone
was actually interested in her for herself.

There really wasn’t much more to it. Ron focused his baby-browns on Liz, smiled with all his charm, and then casually wandered over to the other side of the room to rescue Talbot, already starting to crumble over furniture and guests.

32 

Two days later, Liz Bromley called Ron.

“I’ve got this dinner party,” she told him. “She’s a producer; he’s in uranium, gas, olive oil, or something. Very rich, very boring people. Upper East Side. Want to go?”

“Sure,” said Ron, trying hard not to bite into the telephone wire from overexcitement. “When is it?”

“Eight,” said the lady newscaster.

“Tonight?”

“Correct.”

“Oh …” said Ron quietly, wondering whether or not the invitation was too last-minute to accept.

Liz sensed his discomfort. “I was originally supposed to go there with Kevin McCarthy, but he got the flu. So I called you, hoping, by chance, you might be free.”

“Not to worry,” said Ron. “Who am I to stand on ceremony?”

Who, indeed? thought Liz as she instructed, “Pick me up, okay? Eight on the nose, One-sixty-one West Fifty-seventh Street, looking forward, over and out…?”

“Over and out!” Ron agreed, and it wasn’t until he hung up the phone that he remembered he was supposed to be going with Talbot to some cockamamie off-Broadway opening.

Well, it sure wasn’t difficult to figure out which of the two celebrities looked better draped across his arm.

“Cute dress!” said Ron when Liz opened the door to her apartment.

“It’s a Givenchy!” said Liz, twirling.

Ron walked past Liz down the narrow hallway and into the tastefully put-together living room. Flowered couches and lots of toss pillows. Tall pussy willows and pictures of jungle animals.

“Champagne?” asked Liz, following him.

“Why not?” said Ron with a shrug.

Liz hurried from the room through a swinging door into the pantry.

“Who’s the zoologist?” Ron shouted through the walls so he could be heard in the pantry.

“You mean all those photos? That’s Walter, my husband, the famous deerslayer of Flatbush. He’s in Kenya or someplace, hunting down leopards or someone.”

“You mean I’m dating a married lady?”

Liz returned to the living room with two flute glasses and a well-chilled bottle of Moët-Chandon. “Are
we
dating?” she asked as she thrust the chilled bottle toward his midsection.

Ron hoped she wouldn’t realize it was the first time he’d opened champagne, but when he finally jiggled the cork free, it sailed across the room and bounced against a small beveled-glass window in the Louis XIV breakfront, shattering it; and a spurt of the jus de champagne then vomited all over the oriental rug.

Liz didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed. “It’s obvious you’ll never go shooting with my husband,” she said with a wry grin, and held out her glass. “How ‘bout whatever’s left of that champagne?”

“You mean the part the rug didn’t drink?” asked Ron.

They both burst out laughing. His ebullience kept her mind on him and off the stain bubbling below on her oriental rug.

They drank the champagne, she sipping, he gulping, in nothing flat, and then left to taxi crosstown.

Conversation at the dinner was interesting and challenging, and Ron was on his toes throughout the four-course meal. The wine was good, the lamb was rare, and the cheese was French, with names Ron had never heard. He was sorry when it was time to take Liz back across town.

“Well, thanks so much for a lovely time,” Liz said as the elevator left them off on the seventh floor. She took a large key from her purse and jiggled it in the air. “I can get there from here….”

“I …” Ron felt slightly hurt. “I was going to walk you to your door.”

“Naw,” said Liz with a wave of her hand. “I’ll be fine. You’ve probably got to get going anyway, right?”

“Wrong.”

Liz looked at Ron, confused.

“I thought maybe we could have an after-dinner drink,” said Ron.

“You mean you want to come in?” asked Liz.

“Not the most cordial invitation I’ve ever received, but sure—I’d love to.”

Liz held the front door open and he walked into the living room, where he tossed off his loafers and sat down on a sea of roses in the middle of one of her couches.

“Make yourself at home,” said Liz sarcastically. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Thought you’d never ask. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“I’m having indigestion and club soda,” said Liz.

“In that case, make mine a simple cognac.”

“Tell me,” he asked when she returned with the drinks. “How come you asked me to go with you tonight?” Ron patted the spot on the couch next to him for her to join him.

“Oh, I don’t know …” She took a sip of bubbled water. “The usual reasons. You’re young, cute, you’re safe … the usual Manhattan party-circuit-escort bullshit.”

“How am I safe?”

“Well,
you
know …” Liz was momentarily evasive, waving a hand in circles next to her head like she was directing air traffic.

“No,” said Ron, “I don’t know.”

“Well,” she continued, searching for the right words, “you’re young, you’re attractive, you’re … no threat, if you know what I mean.”

Ron looked Liz straight in the eye. “I-don’t-know-what-you-mean.”

“Well, you know …” Liz fumfered. “You and Talbot.”

“Talbot?” Ron raised his voice. “Talbot?”

Liz shrugged in innocence. “What else was I to think?”

“Well, you might have asked
me!”
Ron rose from the couch and walked over to the window, his arms folded emphatically before him.

“Look, it’s no big deal,” Liz said quietly. “You seemed nice; my husband’s away; I needed an escort; better safe than sorry; I asked you out. That’s all there is to it, really!”

“You mean everyone at that dinner party tonight thinks I’m Talbot’s … trick?”

“Who cares?” Liz waited a moment, then shrugged and said softly, “Probably.”

“Oh, Christ!” Ron slammed a fist into his hand.

Liz stood and walked over to him. “You mean you’re not a homosexual?”

“Of course not!”

Liz reached forward and took Ron’s hand. He responded by gripping it tightly. Then he reached forward with his other hand, held her by the back of the neck, and kissed her full on the mouth.

The assault came as such a surprise that at first Liz was too stunned to react. Then she brought a hand to each of his shoulders and pushed him as hard as she could.

Ron met her resistance with a fury of his own. “Come here,” he whispered so confidently that Liz decided to go along with the sweep of the moment. What the hell. Her husband, with whom she wasn’t exactly getting along, was on the other side of the globe, up to his hips in mud, stalking some wild water buffalo, and she had drunk enough wine to feel reckless.

Ron was careful to undress her slowly, tantalizingly, incorporating all the charm, all the romantic spit and polish of the Prince.

Liz wasn’t exactly sure what was going on, but it was all happening with such precision that she acquiesced, allowing animal pleasure to take over as he slowly took control of her.

They made love right there in the living room, all over the roses on Liz’s flowered couch. Ron pulled out all he knew from his bag of tricks, delivering greater sexual fulfillment than Liz had ever experienced. When at last he had coaxed her over the edge into a sublime orgasm, she heard herself screaming out his name. Moments later, while regaining composure, she tightened her arms around him so he would stay on top of her.

This can’t be happening to me, she thought, at once alarmed and enthralled.

Ron looked down at his new conquest and could tell by the glazed look in her eyes it was all his ball game. “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

“Yes, yes,” she moaned quietly. “Anything …” Then, as he eased her gently onto the bed, “… anything …”