Winning is Everything (27 page)

58 

A Midsummer Night’s Dream
was performed in two acts with one intermission. There were so many costumes, wigs, and masks, Kip wasn’t able to single out Adrienne during the first act. He did see Peter’s well-danced donkey, though, and he had no trouble recognizing Cynthia’s graceful bride.

When he didn’t spot Adrienne during the second act, he began to worry. As soon as the ballet ended, he hurried backstage.

“Have you seen Adrienne Kent?” he asked the old man by the door.

“Upstairs in her dressing room, I suppose,” the old man mumbled even as one of the men in the corps hurried over saying, “Didn’t you hear? Adrienne had an accident.”

“What?

“This morning at class. She slipped mid-jeté, sprained her ankle.”

“Serious?”

“Naw,” said the dancer. “She’ll be out at least a few weeks, though. Tendinitis. Probably won’t be able to dance again this season.”

“She is at home, isn’t she?” asked Kip.

“Probably,” said the dancer. “Either there or, if I know Adrienne, you might try the suicide wing of the nearest emergency ward.”

Kip thanked the dancer and ran to a pay phone against the wall.

“Hello, Adrienne?”

“This is Margaret,” said a strange voice.

“Adrienne there?” asked Kip.

“Who’s calling, please?”

“It’s Kip!”

“Hold on …” A hand was cupped over the receiver for a few moments and then Margaret, whoever the hell she was, came back on the line. “Adrienne says she doesn’t wish to speak with anyone right now.”

“Did you tell her it was me calling?” Kip asked.

“I did,” answered Margaret, iceberg chilly.

“And?”

“I just told you. She’s not speaking to anyone right now. She’s trying to get some sleep.”

“Is she all right? Tell her it’s Kip Bramer. Tell her I’ve got to speak with her.”

Once again a hand cradled the telephone receiver for several moments, until: “Listen, I’m just a neighbor helping out. Call back another time, will you? She doesn’t feel well right now.”

“Tell her I’m on my way over. Tell her I’ve got to see her.”

“Hold on …” The next time Margaret returned she told Kip, “Adrienne says all she wants to do is sleep. She asks that you please stop bothering her, that you…”

Kip didn’t wait to hear the rest of Adrienne’s message. He grabbed a taxi and headed up Broadway toward her apartment.

He pressed her downstairs buzzer four times before there was an answer. “Go away!” Adrienne insisted over the intercom.

“I have to see you!” Kip shouted into the tiny microphone on the wall.

“No!”

“Are you all right?”

“Will you go away!”

“No!”

“I’ll call the police!” Adrienne threatened.

“Call the cops! Call the FBI! Call the goddamn Air Force! I’m not budging!”

“If I let you come upstairs, will you promise to leave in two minutes?”

“Fine,” said Kip, calming down. “Just give me two minutes. A hundred and twenty seconds.”

Adrienne buzzed the downstairs bell and Kip ran into her lobby.

The door to Adrienne’s apartment was ajar when Kip got there, so he walked in, closed it behind him. Adrienne was sitting on the couch, smoking a cigarette, her back propped up against a side arm, her legs lining the length of her couch, covered by an old blanket.

“What happened to you?” Kip asked.

“Tendinitis,” said Adrienne. “Made me miss a cue.” She looked at her watch and added, “You have a hundred and fifteen seconds left.”

“I don’t understand what’s going on here.”

“Neither do I.”

“Why didn’t you call to say you weren’t dancing? To say you’d gotten hurt?”

“I didn’t care to,” said Adrienne.

“Why?” asked Kip.

“Why? … Because I was up all night with you and when I went to dance class, I wasn’t up to it. This is what happened!”

“Who’s Margaret?”

“A neighbor … a friend.”

“Where’d she go?”

“Back to her apartment.”

“Adrienne, you can’t believe this little accident is anyone’s fault.”

“No? Try explaining that to my career, which has suddenly ground to a halt.”

“Adrienne, you can’t let—”

“Relax, will you? It’s not your fault. I was the one should have known better. From the moment we first met, I knew you’d be too strong a diversion. I let down my guard for a while, figuring maybe I’d be able to juggle both ballet and a lover. That’s what you kept saying, wasn’t it?”

“Sure, but—”

“Listen to me! My mind was elsewhere, distracted. When I jumped up into my partner’s arms, was I thinking about the dance step? No, I was thinking about Kip Bramer, an unemployed, hopelessly good-looking actor.”

Adrienne crushed the butt of her Gauloise into an ashtray on her lap and then reached for another.

“I thought you gave up smoking,” said Kip.

“Only for a minute,” said Adrienne, lighting up. “I’m a dancer, dammit, and all dancers smoke.”

Kip took several steps forward to take her in his arms.

“Stop!” she demanded. “Don’t take another step!”

“Adrienne, you’re being—”

“Don’t you dare tell me what I’m being! I’m being punished for my laziness, is what
I’m
being. And you only have twenty seconds left.”

“I can’t believe this is happening to us.” Kip shook his head. “I could help you get better. I know tons about getting back into shape after an accident.”

“No! Better to nip it in the bud than go on with any false illusions. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise. Falling in love with you would doubtless have meant giving up my career. I know your type. You have ‘Future Fatherhood’ written all over your forehead!”

“You’re serious about this!” said Kip.

“Perfectly serious,” said Adrienne, looking at her watch. “And your two minutes are up.”

“Not even a kiss good-bye?” Kip asked as his eyes suddenly began to fill.

“No kiss!” said Adrienne. “I just told you my defenses were crumbling. What do I have to do to convince you I’m serious? All I want to do is dance. Can’t you understand that? To dance. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Kip walked to the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning. Maybe you’ll feel differently.”

“Don’t call me tomorrow! I want to say good-bye now while I’m angry so I don’t change my mind.” Adrienne raised her voice. “Do you understand?”

Kip took a deep breath. “It probably would have been wonderful loving you,” he said. “I’m sorry it worked out like this.”

“It’s for the best … I know it is.”

“I hope your ankle feels better real soon,” said Kip. “Look at me. Crying like a kid. If this is what comes from getting in touch with one’s feelings, I think maybe I was better off before we met.”

He turned and walked out of the apartment.

Adrienne stared at her front door several moments before breaking down into uncontrollable sobs.

59 

Ron found in Casey Kramer his long-awaited passport to happiness. The parties he used to dream about were the very fetes he now attended. The plays and concerts he longed to attend were now part of his weekly routine.

He had arrived. He was a regular on the A circuit. He and Casey went everywhere together.

Gossip columnists recognized him and were soon mentioning “Casey Kramer and her new boyfriend, dashing Ron Zinelli.” Whereas Casey had previously been “the girl of the year,”
they
were quickly becoming “the
couple
of the year.”

“Did you see this picture of us?” Casey handed Ron a photo from the
Daily News
of the two of them walking out of the premiere of the Antonioni film.

They were sitting on a couch in her living room, having a nightcap before going to bed.

Ron studied the photo. “Why do I look so unhappy?”

“Probably because you slept through half the movie,” said Casey.

Ron handed the newspaper back to Casey and kissed her on the lips. “You looked adorable at the party tonight,” he whispered. “I heard Truman Capote mention it to Babe Paley.”

“How nice,” said Casey, kicking off her shoes and snuggling her nyloned feet under Ron’s thighs.

He rubbed her toes.

“We have to decide by tomorrow,” said Casey, leaning back against the arm of the couch. “Do we go with my parents to dinner at Gracie Mansion, or do we go to the opening of the new David Merrick musical?”

“Why don’t we just bring in some Chicken Delight?” asked Ron.

“Sure … sure!” Casey lifted one of her toss pillows and gently hit Ron over the head with it. “We’ve been invited to go on the Guinnesses’ yacht next week. They’re sailing to the Bahamas.”

“I can’t miss work again,” said Ron. “I’ve taken so much time off lately, have been late so often, they’re getting mad.”

“But it could be such fun,” mused Casey. “I adore the Bahamas this time of year. No tourists.”

“Sure.” Ron nodded his head. “Just plenty of pirates and a lot of disappearances inside the Bermuda Triangle.”

“Silly!” Casey hit Ron again with her pillow. “Maybe I should go down there without you …”

“You can’t do that,” said Ron, lightly tickling the bottom of her feet.

“Why not?” Casey asked.

“You’d miss me too much. That’s why.”

It was true. Casey was wild for Ron. She loved his humor, his bravado, his need to be important. It had been wild ambition that helped her father build his empire, and she saw the same get-up-and-go in Ron. She identified with his social sensibilities. She adored making an entrance with him at a splashy party. They understood one another. They’d ride up in an elevator, and she’d pull a mirror from her purse, and he’d tell her to adjust her hair in the back, or to add a dash of lipstick, to move her belt an inch to the left. She’d tell him to straighten his tie, to push down his cowlick, to stand up straight.

“Okay, so the Bahamas are out,” said Casey. “But we should go somewhere. April is the cruelest month. All that gray, so much rain.”

“I told you, I can’t take any more time off,” said Ron. “And besides, I can’t afford another trip right now. We went up to Quebec, didn’t we, for the weekend? I’m still paying the bills.”

“Now, listen to me,” said Casey, sitting up straight. “You’ve been very good about spending what you have. Too good. If we stick to our agreement, and you contribute what you can, then we can go everywhere together.”

“I refuse to accept money from a woman!” Ron said defiantly.

“Don’t be so old-fashioned,” said Casey. “I have so much of it, and if it makes me happy to spend it on us, then where is the harm? Don’t you want to see me happy?”

“I’d like to see you happy.” Ron winked. “All the way into your bedroom.”

“Now?” asked Casey, ever amazed and delighted by his sexual appetite. “Aren’t you exhausted from the party?”

“Not too exhausted for you, my sweet,” said Ron even as he slowly insinuated a calculated hand up the side of her thigh.

Casey threw her arms around him. He was the perfect escort, the perfect gentleman, and, God knows, the perfect lover. Arm in arm they walked into the bedroom, feverishly kissing as they helped each other undress.

Just before they fell asleep an hour and a half later, Casey said, “Hey … I’ve been thinking. Why don’t you go back to your apartment tomorrow, pick up some things, and move in for a while? Let’s see how it works out. What do you think?”

Those were the words Ron had been waiting too many weeks to hear. “You don’t think it’s too soon?”

“Let’s find out” was all Casey said.

“Well, that’s it,” Ron said to his roommates the next day after he’d finished packing his belongings. “I’ll certainly miss you guys. Whenever I think of squalor and slum life, I’ll remember our days together here on Poverty Row.”

“You’re too kind,” said Kip.

“True,” said Ron. “But I’m certainly leaving this place in better shape than when I first found it. While I head off into the sunlight, Kip, our young Marlon Brando, having spent the residuals from his TV commercials, is heading to Joe Allen’s to begin his career tonight as a waiter. And Gary, our future Faulkner, is tomorrow on his way back to Flushing Meadow for the second season of the World’s Fair to be a Ford host.”

“At least we finally all have jobs,” said Gary.

“That’s true,” said Ron. “I do think that calls for some kind of celebration, don’t you?”

“Sure!” said Kip.

Ron looked at his watch. “Ten to one. Why don’t I take the three of us to lunch?” he suggested.

“That “
said Kip, “is the best idea I’ve heard since you announced you were moving out!”

“Moving out, yes!” said Ron. “Still paying my share of the rent, though. One mustn’t burn one’s bridges too soon.”

The pool room of the Four Seasons was certainly elegant. The ceiling was high, the tables spaced far apart, the wood highly polished, and the prices, as Ron quickly found out when the three of them were handed menus, astronomical.

“You sure you can afford this?” asked Gary. Ron had by this time turned a pale shade of blue.

“I think I better stick to the relish tray and a glass of water,” said Kip.

“Look”—Gary pointed to the bottom part of the menu—”they even have a cover charge!”

“Make that
half
a glass of water!” said Kip.

“Hey, you guys, will you relax?” said Ron. “Try to remember, I’m now in the big leagues. This week it’s milady’s bedroom I’m sharing. Hopefully by next week it will be her bank account.”

“You mean we should just splurge?” asked Gary.

“Of course!” Ron stated flatly. “And if you order anything more expensive than the tuna-fish platter, I’ll break your arm!”

When their drinks came, Gary lifted his glass of wine into the air, “Well, here’s to our roommate moving out!”

“I’m hardly moving out,” said Ron. “I’m simply heading down to the winter palace on Sutton Place for a spell. I promise to be back to change my underwear and to drop off my laundry.”

“Well, here’s to your enjoying Miss Kramer,” said Kip.

“Here’s to us,” toasted Ron. “To the three musketeers, and to remembering that David O. Selznick said: There are only two kinds of class—first class and no class!’”

“I like this restaurant,” said Kip.

“Hey, you guys,” said Ron. “I’ll tell you what … Today’s the first day of spring. How ‘bout we make a pact? I propose the three of us meet right here, at the Four Seasons, the first day of each season from now on.”

Gary raised his glass into the air. “I’ll drink to that!”

“I’m serious,” said Ron. “This restaurant changes its menu, its decor, even its plates, with every season. Let’s meet here four times a year. It’ll be a great way to keep in touch. So when Gary is Ernest Hemingway and Kip is James Dean and I’m building chains of supermarkets in Staten Island
and
producing movies in Burbank, we can all meet right here, should two or more of us happen to be in New York on the first day of each season.”

The three roommates clicked glasses, sealing their pact. “Hey!” said Ron. “Let’s order some grub. I have to be back at work by three. I’m still only a
junior
executive!”

The captain arrived at the table, and Kip ordered the steak tartare, Gary ordered the cold roast-beef platter, and Ron, future magnate and seeker of incipient fame and fortune, ordered … the tuna-fish platter.