Alexandra Waring (57 page)

41
The Complicated Feelings
of Gordon Strenn

Gordon strode down the second—floor hallway of Darenbrook III, ignored Chi Chi’s protests and went straight into Cassy’s office, slamming the door behind him. He went over to her desk and stood there, waiting for her to get off the phone.

Cassy, giving him only a cursory glance, made a few more notes on the legal pad in front of her and then hung up.

“Where the hell is she?” Gordon demanded.

“Indianapolis,” Cassy said, slipping off her reading glasses and placing them on the desk in front of her.

“And you let her go?”

“Yes, I did,” Cassy said evenly.

He was so angry he could not speak. He looked around her office, grabbed the coffee mug on her desk and turned to hurl it at the door. It smashed into pieces. “God damn it!” he yelled, turning back and slamming his hands down on her desk. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you know there’s something wrong with her?”

There was a knock on the door and then it opened. It was Derek, with Chi Chi and Kate standing anxiously behind him. “Everything okay in here?” he said.

“Yes, thanks,” Cassy said calmly, standing up and walking around the desk. “You can close the door,” she told them. When they did, she took Gordon by the arm and led him over to the couch. “If I’d known you were coming home,” she said, sitting first and pulling him down beside her, “I would have told you to fly on to Indianapolis.”

“Oh, yeah?” he said, yanking his tie, loosening it. “Try again. She doesn’t want to see me. She made it very clear, believe me.” He dropped forward, resting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands down between them. “So I thought I’d come back and meet her at home anyway, and what do I find? Alexandra? No. I find all of Jessica’s junk all over our apartment.” He looked at her. “I walk in—oh christ, why bother?” he said, jumping up. “I don’t know what’s going on anymore.” He walked toward the glass wall. “Our apartment—listen to me!” he said, throwing his arm through the air. He turned toward Cassy, holding his hand out. “
We
don’t even have an apartment. She has hers and I have mine.” He leaned forward, pointing at her. “And what do you bet that won’t change after we get married?” He wheeled around to the window, jamming his hands into his pockets.

Cassy sat there, watching him. “You asked me if I didn’t know something was wrong with Alexandra,” she said. “What did you mean by that?”

After a long moment he said, “I meant that everything’s been going to hell between us ever since she got here. To this fucking place,” he added, giving the glass a kick. “She’s pretty hard to live with, you know. She’s not like everybody thinks. Not at home.”

“For instance…?” Cassy said.

He sighed, shifting his weight to both feet, and looked straight out over the square. “For instance,” he said, “she stopped talking. Then she stopped sleeping. Then she started crying in the middle of the night—and every time I ask what’s wrong she’s says, ‘Nothing.’’’ He paused and then said, turning around, “And after years of great sex, ever since she came here to work, that’s gone to hell too.”

Cassy looked down, folding her hands in her lap. “I don’t mean to pry, Gordon.”

“Oh, it’s okay. Believe me, I welcome the chance for someone to explain it to me.” He paused, watching Cassy, and then said, “Oh, she’s been dutiful, Cassy—God forbid anyone should tell Alexandra she hasn’t performed her duties. But that’s what she’s been doing—performing—I know, Cassy, believe me, I know.”

“Stress can do all those things, Gordon,” Cassy said.

“So can falling in love with someone else,” Gordon said.

“What?” Cassy said.

“I didn’t figure it out until this morning—when she called me in London,” he said.

Cassy looked confused.

“I knew it, you know,” he said, walking back toward the window. “In the beginning, somewhere, I knew there was more to it than what she said. I could tell by the way he acted. Even when he congratulated me —I knew something was up at the boat party. I felt it in her and I saw it in him.”

“What?” Cassy said. “Who?”

“Darenbrook,” he said. “And I bet he’s still out there with her. As soon as she told me he flew out there, I knew—”

“No, Gordon,” Cassy said sharply, “he’s not still out there. He came back with me this morning.”

The sound of her voice made him turn around.

Cassy stood up. “And not only are you wrong about Jackson, but I think you’re being horribly unfair to Alexandra. For your information, the job that that young woman’s trying to do right now would be enough to kill the sex drive in five people. And I thought you understood that, Gordon—I thought you understood what the first months of stress and pressure can do—”

“I understand stress and pressure,” Gordon said, “and that’s not what—”

“Alexandra is not having an affair with Jackson!” Cassy said.

“I didn’t say she was,” he said. “I said she’s falling in love with him. Alexandra’s incapable of sleeping with two people—I know that, but—”

“Gordon Strenn, you listen to me!” Cassy said, stamping her foot.

He looked at her.

“I swear to God as I’m standing here that only this morning Alexandra told me how much she wants to marry you. Do you hear me? Alexandra is not cheating on you. She is not in love with Jackson. Yes, she has problems—we all do. And guess what? You take on an extraordinary job, you develop extraordinary problems. And Alexandra’s got some. But she loves you, Gordon,” Cassy said, walking over and touching his arm. “You know she loves you.”

His eyes had fallen to the floor.

“Don’t you?” Cassy said.

He nodded, sighing.

“I know, sweetheart,” Cassy said, rubbing his arm. “It’s very hard on you. But give her some time. And give you two some time. It’s all been happening so fast, coming at you from all directions—you two need some time together.” She picked up his hand and gave it a little shake.

“And you need to trust her.”

Gordon raised his head to look at her. “I guess I should go back to London,” he said.

“I think you should do whatever you need to do,” she told him. “If you need to see Alexandra, go see her.”

Gordon looked at her a moment. “Or trust her,” he said. He sighed. “Leave her alone and trust her.”

Was trusting Alexandra even an issue really? Wasn’t it really projecting his own guilt on her? That, when she called him this morning to tell him that she almost died, he had been on his way to eat breakfast with a woman he was thinking about having an affair with? Wasn’t that really what had happened today? That it had been his own guilt and fear that had put him on the Concorde to New York?

Did he really think Alexandra was falling in love with Jackson?

No.

But she
was
acting strange and she
had
been acting strange.

But did that give him license to sleep with someone else while he was in London?

No.

But yes—at least he had thought so yesterday, when one of the married producers from Canada working at Hargrave Studios for the summer suggested they give it a try. With all the horrible stuff floating around these days, she had no desire to sleep with anyone on the circuit, or so she said, and she had no desire to break up her marriage. And so if Gordon was clean and had been otherwise monogamous to his fiancee (“And it isn’t as if you’re married yet, eh?” she said with such a lovely sly smile), then why didn’t they meet twice a week for an hour or so? No strings attached?

He had been about to leave for the Grosvenor House to discuss the matter further.

But it wasn’t as if Alexandra had made much of an effort to even try and work out some rendezvous weekends for them while she was on tour. (He wondered what she expected him to do, knowing him the way she did. Or did she
want
him to find someone else and just leave her alone while she worked, trusting that he wouldn’t bring anything home with him or anyone or any clues about how he had satisfied himself for nine weeks?)

It was not as if he had not tried to lead a pristine life in London. To date, he had. When he and Betty first arrived on the twenty—sixth of June at the May Fair Hotel on Stratton Street, a block over from Piccadilly, it was Gordon who had been unsure about the suitability of Christopher staying there. It was a very luxurious hotel, but it catered to the La La Land crowd and it was from La La Land that Julie had fled with Christopher in the first place. And Gordon got the feeling that an English nanny named Mrs. Twickem might not think hanging out with crazy Constantine Moscowitz, their director, and a bunch of actors was the best environment for her little charge.

According to Betty, Constantine wanted the May Fair because they had the screening facilities to run dailies each night, and Vanessa Winslow wanted it because she heard Madonna stayed there, and Hargrave Studios wanted it because they had gone to considerable trouble to arrange for the top American cast and crew to stay there as the director and famous actress wished.

Gordon had been assigned to something called the Monte Carlo Suite on the seventh floor, a gorgeously (or ridiculously, depending on one’s affinity to French—harem—New Hollywood decor) appointed suite with a split-level dining room and living room, the latter of which had a domed ceiling, a chandelier with a mass of crystal rod-like things hanging down, and opened out onto a terrace. It had nice furniture, but this strange carpeting with red and blue swirls (not terribly unlike something from the sixties), and all of these big pillows were on the floor. The dining room was all mirrors, or so it appeared, had a glass table and another one of those crystal chandeliers. (“There’s not much point being in London if you live in something like this, is there?” Gordon whispered to Betty, who had come in for a tour with the porter before going on to her room.)

“So did Madonna stay here? Is that true?” Betty asked the porter after he showed them the Jacuzzi.

“Oh, yes,” the porter said with an air of confidentiality. “It was quite an event, that, Miss Madonna.”

“So where did she stay?” Betty said.

The porter looked up at the ceiling. “The penthouse.” He looked back at Betty. “Twelve rooms. We opened the entire floor for her. And it has a separate entrance, you see, which Miss Madonna needed as she is quite popular here. And there is a very nice piano up there too, you see.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s why she stayed here—for the piano,” Gordon said, patting the head of one of the two tremendous gold greyhounds that were sitting at attention on either side of the sitting room, at the top of the steps. “But you’re so skinny,” he whispered to the dog, running his fingers over its ribs. “Christopher will cry because he’ll think you’re starving.”

“Where’s Vanessa Winslow staying?” Betty asked the porter.

“Oh, Miss Winslow, yes,” the porter said, clapping his hands once. “We do so enjoy her television program here.”

“Right, right,” Gordon said, squinting up at the chandelier.

“She’ll be in the Penthouse Suite, I believe. Not the entire floor, mind you, not like Miss Madonna, but still, the nicest suite in the hotel—in all of London, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure,” Gordon said, patting a gold heron statuette on the head.

“Oh, she’ll be happy then,” Betty said. “So long as Madonna stayed there.”

“It’s quite fit for a movie queen,” the porter assured her.

“A movie queen,” Gordon said, laughing.

“The only kind of queen you have over in America,” the porter said, winking to Betty.

“Ooo,” Betty scolded him, shaking a finger, “cheeky, cheeky. We may be ugly Americans, but we do so love our movie queens. Besides,” she added, sweeping up the stairs to the sitting room and waltzing around by herself, “she may not be the only movie queen in the hotel.”

“Sick her, sick her,” Gordon told the gold greyhounds out of the corner of his mouth.

“And you’re an actress too, miss? I thought so,” the porter said, hands clasped behind him, rocking back on his heels once. “You’re quite pretty, miss. If you’ll excuse me for saying so.”

“Excuse you?” Betty said, stopping her dancing. She looked at Gordon. “I think I ought to marry him.” She looked at the porter. “If I brought you back to Valley Stream, I could tell them you were fourth in line to the throne and they’d never know.”

In any event, it was Gordon who decided, the next morning, that they were moving to the quiet, Old World grandeur of the Dorchester on Park Lane. It was right across the way from Hyde Park and it was not that far away from the Ruvaises’ London flat, so Mrs. Twickem was very familiar with the area. It was also close enough so that Gordon could walk over to the May Fair after dinner each night and see the dailies and check on everybody, but was far enough away to keep the inevitable soap opera away from Christopher. And the private offices of Lord Gregory Hargrave, where he had been offered the use of a small office and telephone during his stay, was just over on South Audley Street, literally not a minute’s walk away.

They picked up Christopher and Mrs. Twickem (a lovely woman in her sixties, who was much better natured than she at first appeared to be) at the airport on Friday, and Gordon received an unexpected reward for his choice of hotels on the ride back.