Angels All Over Town (25 page)

Emile and the maître d’ stood erect, like armed guards or subordinates, while I sat down. Then Emile took his seat, and we smiled, listening to strains of piano music.

“Well,” he said, still smiling. “I have something to tell you.”

I already knew. I could tell by his pleased expression, by the way he tapped his knife with perfectly manicured fingernails. I smiled back with what I hoped was a curious expression on my face. A waiter came to ask what we would like to drink, but Emile and I were engaged in smiling at each other, and the waiter soon left.

“I am prepared to offer you Anya,” Emile said. “You will be perfect for her. You have an elusive quality about you…but you have been told that before,
non
?”

“No, not exactly,” I said, my heart racing, wanting to hear more.

“You are well-known in the United States, but by a very precious group. Your viewers are dominantly female.”

“That’s true,” I said, seeing an image of dominant female viewers: dressed in tattered loincloths, muscled and brown, sun-bleached hair askew, dragging their men around by their neckties. “Mainly women watch the show, but there are some men—”

Emile waved his hand, dismissing the need to say more. “We want you because you are a newcomer to movies, but a proven talent. With a very loyal following. New but not new. We have it both ways. Also, it is very camp to cast a big soap opera actress.”

“Thank you.” It took a supreme physical effort to remain seated. I willed myself to not fly to the telephone and call Sam, Margo, Lily, Chance…I sat on my hands instead.

“Those men at the studio,” I said. “Were they producers?”

“Yes.”

“And they liked me?”

“They like who I tell them to like. They give me total artistic control, or they don’t get me to direct. You are prepared to spend four months on Corsica next summer?”

Next summer. Now it was October, and I would have all winter to prepare myself for the part and to leave home. Home: Hudson Street, New York, the eastern seaboard, the United States. I had never lived outside the United States before; I had taken vacations in St. Barthélemy, Canada, and Scotland before, and I had just spent over two weeks touring Europe. But I had never lived in a foreign country. Could Corsicans speak English? I thought of a thousand questions, but I didn’t ask them. I just sat there, smiling with ecstasy at Emile while he ordered champagne, and thought of the things I would miss most.
Not
New York in the summer. But other things. By then Lily’s baby would be six months old. I would miss half of its first year. And Matt and Margo would be married, and I could take another vacation at the Ninigret Inn. By then it would be family turf. Sam. I would miss Sam.

“What did you mean when you said it was camp to cast a soap opera actress?” I asked.

“I am already imagining promotion for the film. It will be unlike anything I have done before. No lonely landscapes, no stormy seas. It will be very forties, with a red heart framing you and your lover, and splashy graphics. It will be fantastic.”

I thought this over, feeling slightly disappointed that
Together Forever
would not be a
typical
Balfour film. “Who will play Domingo?” I asked.

“Another unknown. We have not cast him yet. He will be French.”

Horrible thought! “I don’t speak French—will I have to learn it?”

Emile laughed loudly. “Una, you can’t learn French in eight months. I mean, you can learn what the words mean, but forget speaking it like a Frenchman. No, we’re filming in English. Everything about
Together Forever
will be new for me. New faces, new style. It will be larger than life. What did you think of the script?”

“I adored it,” I said, grinning at the memory. I shivered with pleasure at the idea of being Anya. The part
was
a little camp; it was funny in ways that Balfour heroines never were.

“So, you accept the part?”

I tilted my head. “I’d say yes, but I have to talk—”

“Of course, of course. You need an advisor. But it will mean fabulous things for your career. The next time we dine here, everyone will be looking at you instead of me.”

The champagne arrived; this time Emile allowed the waiter to open the bottle. He raised his glass to toast.

“I drink to your mystery,” he said.

“My mystery!” I put on my best Mata Hari face.

But Emile was serious. He rested his arm across the back of my seat, waiting for my giggles to pass. “You laugh?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.

“A little,” I said, feeling stupid for saying so, so soon after I had had such obvious difficulty stopping.

“But why? When you are so veiled? Isn’t that mystery? Do you think I read you wrong?”

“Oh, no.” Vehement headshaking. “Not at all. I’m flattered, and I guess flattery makes me nervous. So I giggle.” Giggle, giggle.

“You see. That is just what I mean. An actress like you, with millions and millions of fans, and you are uncomfortable with flattery. I find that a fresh quality.” He touched the back of my neck with one finger.

Now I knew what was happening. Emile ordered our dinner, speaking to the waiter but watching me the entire time. Bring her to Paris, send out the word that you are lovers, offer her a part, and make your word come true. I would end up in bed with Emile Balfour before the night was through.

Our beautiful food looked like paint on a palette. The delicately sliced vegetables, so bright against the saffron sauce…the tiny sprigs of mint…the tiny pink sea urchins…the thin slices of rare beef. Midway through our entrée, a waiter whispered something to Emile. He raised his eyes toward the medallion of clouds, then leaned toward me. “A telephone call which I must take. You will excuse me for a minute?”

“Oh, of course.”

I prodded julienned bits around my plate, creating wells of sauce. Moments passed, and tension flooded my brain. I felt that I had a very short time to decide
what to do
. All through this trip I had lamented tradeoffs. Give me love, I give you sex. Give me love, I give you loyalty. Give me a part in your next movie, I give you anything you ask. It wasn’t as if they had to torture me to do it. I went willingly up the golden stairs. All the men I had slept with had been nice, attractive, loving. I could truthfully say that I loved them all—then and now. Even John Luddington. We had given each other pleasure, and they had given me the feeling of love.

When Lily and I were in high school and Margo was still in eighth grade, we had believed the lyrics of love songs: Oscar Hammerstein, Carly Simon, Jackson Browne, Cole Porter. I thought of one now and hummed it while gazing at the frieze of cherubs. My sisters and I would drive along, six breasts abreast in the Volvo’s front seat, singing songs while Margo smoked and Lily gave the tit to oncoming cars. Would it be so bad for me to sleep with Emile Balfour? I wondered about that for a while, then I hated myself for wondering it. Three weeks ago I had fallen in love with Sam Chamberlain. Did it matter that I hadn’t heard from him? I knew it shouldn’t. I knew that I should coast on blind faith, counting the days until I could return home again.
His
was the sort of love I had been seeking all these years. Emile was only a director, albeit handsome as hell, offering me a lovely part and loads of lovely money. It was time I learned the difference.

When Emile returned I had eaten all the julienned strips off my plate. I grinned widely. “Anything important?”

“Nothing that can’t wait.” He summoned the waiter and ordered espresso and
glace caramel.

As if given the nod, a tuxedoed man sidled to our table, tape recorder in palm, and spoke to Emile in French. Emile graciously gestured at the empty space across the table, and a waiter whisked over a chair. I figured it out. I was an old hand at this. Emile had tipped this reporter that we would be dining at Les Ambassadeurs, and that he would be welcome to interview us after dessert had been ordered.

The man made a ceremony of clearing a space for the tape recorder, turning it on, and blowing into the speaker. Then, leaning his folded arms on the white tablecloth, he looked solemnly from Emile to me. “There is a rumor,” he said without inflection, as if he were about to ask us about graft or corruption instead of a movie.

“Excuse me,” I said, “but I don’t know your name.”

The man looked wildly at Emile, then relaxed. “
Pardonnezmoi
. I am Claude Troublais, Mademoiselle Cavan. I am a journalist.”

“But you already knew
that
, didn’t you, Una?” Emile asked, twinkling at me. I nodded.

“There is a rumor,” Claude began again, “that you have just signed Mademoiselle Cavan to do your next picture. That filming will take place on Corsica. Is that true?”

“Claude, everyone knows I will shoot my picture on Corsica. I have already been quoted in the press. It is truth, not rumor.”

Claude cracked his first smile. “Okay, but what about Una Cavan? We have heard that contracts are being negotiated, and here you are at Les Ambassadeurs. Who is your agent, Mademoiselle?”

“Georgianna Atwood,” I said, thinking how tickled Georgie would be to read her name in the gossip columns.

“And is it true? That she is negotiating with Emile Balfour’s lawyers for your contract?”

“Una would rather not discuss that, Claude,” Emile said, cupping my hand with his. He patted it, keeping it under cover. “Let us just say that if we are lucky we shall have her.”

“Then she said yes?” Excitement danced across his face, as if he were asking his brother or best friend about popping the question.

Emile nodded at me, letting me know I should speak for myself. “Probably,” I said.

“
Magnifique!
” Claude said, clapping his hands together. Then he turned to Emile and started questioning him in French, the way Arnaud had that time at Palace. I was excluded, but this time I did not mind. I sat there feeling liberated of indecision. I was Una, not Delilah or Anya. I loved Sam Chamberlain, not Emile Balfour. I would thank Emile profoundly, but I wouldn’t sleep with him out of hope or gratefulness. I would act in his movie. People of the world would read “Celebrity File” and think that Emile and I were lovers, but I would know that we were not. Sam would know that we were not, because as soon as this interview was over I would call to tell him. Meanwhile, waiting for Claude to go away, I looked around the dining room, at each diner, at each cherub, and I hummed “Loads of Love.” For that moment, I was full of it.

Alone in my room I stripped out of my body stocking and put on my white nightshirt. Then I sat in my armchair and dialed Sam’s number in New York.

“Hello?” came his warm, lovely, Sammish voice, answering his phone with a question.

“
Bonjour!
This is your movie star calling.” I bounced on my seat with excitement. I felt so
connected
!

“Una?”

I went a little flat.
He
didn’t sound very excited at all. “Yes, it’s Una. Do we have a bad connection?”

“No, no. It’s fine.”

Then why do you sound so strange? I thought angrily. “Guess what? I got the part! I just finished dinner with Emile, so don’t worry when you read about it in the paper, it was just a regular business dinner with a reporter for dessert, but he offered me
the part
!”

“That is great. Congratulations. When do you start?”

“Next summer. I have to be in Corsica from June through September. It’s an island in the Mediterranean—French, even though it’s closer to Italy, supposedly very wild and rugged, and…” I was babbling. I took a deep breath and tried to stop thinking
what’s wrong what’s wrong what’s wrong
…

“I’ve been to Corsica. It’s great for snorkeling, except for the currents. They’re wicked. I know a biologist, got sucked into a cave by a current.”

Here we were, having a transatlantic conversation about our professions. Wonderful. The line went silent for a few seconds. I hated myself, but I had to ask: “Is something wrong?”

Pause. Breath. Longer pause. “No, not really.”

“Come on. Tell me.”

“I said nothing was wrong.”

“Then why do you sound so pissed off?” My voice rose with hysteria on “off.” I fought to keep it down.

“Well, I suppose it’s the photos I keep seeing of you and Emile Balfour all over the papers.”

“
Photos
? I’ve only been with him twice. Three times, if you count my audition, but then we were in a
crowd
.”

“Granted, it’s the same photo, but it’s all over town. You’re the new hot couple.”

“I thought
we
were.”

“Yeah, so did I.”

How touching! Sam was jealous. Instead of feeling warm and loved, however, I felt uncomfortable. I had no idea of how to reassure him. I had been away from him for longer than we had been together in Watch Hill. I turned brusque. “Listen, I’m coming back to New York tomorrow. I just wanted to tell you.” In case you
care
—what a joke!

“Good. I’m glad. Call me when you get home.”

“Of course.” Pause. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

I had expected him to be thrilled for me, slavering with passion, promising to meet me at Kennedy Airport. When Emile had thought about framing
Together Forever
with red hearts, it had made me think of reuniting with Sam. I lay on my back, looking up at the beautifully molded ceiling. I was sleepless in the Hôtel de Crillon, but it might as well have been that fleabag in Brussels. Sleepless is sleepless.

Chapter 16

O
n the flight back to New York, Jason asked me all about my audition and plans to leave the show. We talked nervously, as though our words were converging but our thoughts going in separate directions. I imagined bubbles over our heads. Jason’s bubble contained an image of himself and Terry, back to back, angry expressions on their faces, and the word “Why?” My bubble contained an image of me and Sam, back to back, angry expressions on our faces, and the word “Who?”

“So, after the four months on Corsica, do you think you’ll come back to
Beyond
?” Jason asked, fidgeting with his ascot.

“I don’t know. I guess it depends.”

“Yes, you might get another movie role.”

“Or maybe Chance will replace me.”

“Oh, I doubt that. He’s so fond of you.”

I tried to think of some polite rejoinder. Chatter was the only way to fill the time, to keep from hoping that Sam had decided to surprise me at the airport.

“He’ll have to find a new love interest for Beck,” I said.

“What did he say when you told him about the audition?”

“I haven’t spoken to him yet. I sent a telegram.”

“I can’t believe you have a movie to do. In some ways, I could kill you.”

“Thank you,” I said, smiling at Jason. It was so nice to have the envy of my colleagues. He knew what I meant; he smiled back at me. It was the only time during our flight that we actually connected. But immediately we went back to our waltz of distraction, asking polite questions, giving polite answers, wondering what would happen back in New York.

Terry met Jason at the airport. Coming through customs, we could see him craning his neck and waving madly.

“I knew it,” Jason said, exhaling a long breath. His face and neck glistened with a thin sheen of sweat. “I bought him a present in Stuttgart, just in case.”

For the first time in nearly three weeks, I had to hail a cab.

My apartment smelled like dust and old sunlight. I opened a window to let in some October air. Oktoberair. It made me think of Germany and beer. Then I began looking through my mail. Going through the motions as though I were improvising for Emile Balfour: woman returns home alone from Europe. I didn’t even have a dog waiting for me at some kennel. For a second I considered calling Margo or Lily, to fill in the details I had been too cheap to include in my telegrams, but I didn’t. I sat at my kitchen table feeling very far from home.

I had told Sam I would call when I returned. Dutifully I dialed his apartment number, but he did not answer. He would still be at Columbia, and I didn’t have his office number there. I considered calling the switchboard. Then I remembered how hurt I had felt in Paris, and I went into my bedroom to sleep off the jet lag.

Some enchanted promontory…sleeping, I dreamed of Watch Hill, Sam, and the black zone of shore. Suddenly I was in a romantic New England Brigadoon…
Beyond the Bridge
…over the rainbow…where things could happen that would never happen in New York or real life. I slept, wakened, slept, wakened. The word “fitfully” flew to mind in one of those dream-scoured moments of awareness. That same instant I grabbed the phone and dialed Sam’s number.

“Hello?” He answered his telephone, as he had when I had called from Paris, with a question.

“Hi, Sam. I’m back.”

“You’re in New York?”

“In fact, I’m in my apartment.” In my bed.

“Have you had dinner yet?”

Dinner? What time was it, anyway? “No, I haven’t.”

“Okay, what’s your address again? I’ll be right over with something. Unless you want to come here.”

He was coming over. I ran to the bathroom and examined my eyes in the mirror. Cloudy and shadowed. I splashed cool water on them, wishing I had time to lie down and cover them with damp tea bags for ten minutes or so. I pulled on a pair of faded jeans under my white nightshirt and paced the apartment until he arrived. He rang the doorbell downstairs and I buzzed him in. Then I paced in a two-foot-square patch of foyer while I listened to the elevator rise on its ancient, creaky cables. First floor, second floor, up, up, up. Then the elevator doors opened and Sam Chamberlain was standing in my hallway. He was right on the other side of my door. I had been all through Europe and returned to New York, and at last Sam and I were separated by nothing vaster than a door. No ocean, no transatlantic cable, no “Celebrity File.” I waited half a second after his knock, then pulled open the last barrier.

We stood there staring at each other. His hair looked longer, not quite as messy as it had in windy Watch Hill. His tan had faded, and there were tiny white lines around his hazel eyes. The eyes of a faun; they gleamed and smiled at the sight of me. I took it all in: the blue oxford-cloth shirt, the brown tweed jacket, his khaki trousers. The only unfamiliar apparel were his shoes, black wingtips instead of holey sneakers or bare feet. He held an aromatic bag of Chinese food in his left hand.

“Hello,” he said, stepping into my apartment, swinging his arms around me and pressing the hot bag of food into my back while he kissed me, long and lovingly, until I was unsure whether I was melting from the back or from the front.

“It is so good to be back,” I said into his mouth.

“It is so, so good to have you back,” he said into mine.

I took the bag from him and placed it on my spotless kitchen counter. Holding hands, we walked into my bedroom, to my bed still warm from my recent, fitful sleep. Warm orange light from my reading lamp cast cozy shadows around the room. The lampshade was amber glass painted with two frolicking figures; I had bought it from an antique dealer who had told me it dated back to the 1800s. Sam looked at it, then at my bookshelf, my tall mahogany bureau, my wicker rocking chair, getting acquainted with it all. Then he looked back at me and we started kissing again, as though we had an unspoken agreement to not break physical contact for more than seconds at a time. Pressing close, I could feel his erection through our clothes. It dug into my belly. Our mouths partly open, our kisses were softer now, because we knew we had all the time we wanted. They made me feel as if I might faint.

We drew apart. Sam’s expression looked startled for an instant, as if he hadn’t quite expected to see me standing there.

“What?” I asked, amused, but he only smiled and shook his head.

“I can’t believe you’re back.”

“I can’t either. This feels different from Watch Hill.”

“It’s not.” He stared directly into my eyes, beginning to unbutton my shirt buttons. I wore no bra; Sam lowered his head to my breasts and began to kiss my nipples. He undid his belt. I heard the scratchy sound of his zipper going down. He eased me onto the bed; I lay back, watching him undress in the orange light. His erect penis stood at a sharp angle to his flat belly, bobbing as he bent to pull off his pants, then as he came to me and pulled off my jeans. He gazed at my body which I knew was very pale. I made a self-conscious move to cover my breasts with my hands, but he took my hands in his and held them out on the bed. Lowering himself onto me, his body felt hot. It made me forget the cool October air swirling around us. He kissed my throat and the hollow of my neck and then my mouth until I felt as though I might faint again. He kissed me all the way down my body. I closed my eyes and felt him let go of my hands. Then he was gently probing me with his tongue, until I shuddered into a violent orgasm.

But he wouldn’t let me rest. He knelt above me, so that I was looking straight up at his body, and I reached for his narrow hips, pulling them down so I could kiss his penis. I was shivering from the chilly air because I no longer had the heat of his body against me. He must have known; he came down beside me and rolled me onto my side, and began to move in a slow rhythm like waves of good jazz. He thrust in and out; we had never done it that way before, his front pressed against my back, and I shivered with boldness. I touched myself with my own fingers, which excited him further and made him move urgently, reaching around to touch my breasts, rolling the nipple of first one, then the other, between his fingers, making me groan with pleasure. I felt myself starting to come, and as I began to, I felt it growing in him, felt him grip one breast, and heard his sound, a fierce exhalation that made me think of a warrior, and we both climaxed, I about twenty seconds later than he.

They were the longest twenty seconds of my life.

“That was amazing,” he said, grinning, holding me tight.

“Now are you convinced that the ‘Celebrity File’ was nothing?” I asked, snuggling under the covers into Sam’s armpit.

“Yes. I’m very relieved. I know it sounds mental, but you should have been here, walking into a drugstore and seeing your face smiling up from every tabloid in town. With Pretty Boy Emily.”

“Emile,” I corrected. “He’s not bad at all. He just wants some free publicity.”

“Oh, sure. But I bet he made a pass at you.”

I still was unsure of how to interpret that last night at the Crillon, when Emile had touched the back of my neck. My father would have said it was a pass. In any event, I wanted to test my powers. “Well, a little one. But it was firmly rejected.”

“But you were probably tempted. After all, you and I haven’t been together for long, and you couldn’t have felt as though you had much of a commitment to me.”

“Well, yes and no,” I said, suddenly feeling profound. “I mean, we haven’t pledged undying love to each other, but on the other hand, we
did
say that we loved each other.

“Even though I didn’t get one letter the entire time.”

“You’re kidding. I sent a bunch to Nuremberg. The day you left, in fact, I wrote a long one in the turret room. Matt and Margo insisted I stay there.”

“They did?” I had a great image of Sam, alone and lonely in the turret room, writing me a letter on the same bed where we had made torrential love during the lightning storm. “I never got any letters at all. Did you get mine?”

“Three of them,” he said. “They kept me from completely believing that news story about you and Emily.”

“I am really sorry about that,” I said, not feeling sorry at all. It was wonderful to know that Sam had suffered the same doubts I had. Insecurity had not been mine alone, a fact which caused me pause and relief.

“You are forgiven. Now tell me about the movie.”

I spared no details. I synopsized the story, then told about the audition, the offer, the arrangement for next summer.

“Four months, huh?”

“Yes, four months, which seems like a long time but probably won’t feel like it.” I spoke breezily, trying to disguise my fear that the idea of an upcoming four-month separation would prove to be more than our precarious reunion could take. But I had a fantasy: that he would get grant money to study seaweed on Corsica or nearby Sardinia, and that we could live together like Anya and Domingo in a white bungalow with bougainvillea dripping over the windows. We would get married by the black-clad parish priest (his sturdy hat topped by a black pompom), and spend summer afternoons shredding olive leaves and giving each other open-mouthed kisses on the hillside. The steep hillside. Keeping Sam/Domingo away from dangerous underwater currents and Gangster. Marriage to Sam. The thought made me slide closer to him.

The next day Sam left for work while I slept late. I called Lily just before noon.

“Darling, welcome back!” she said in a tone so sure and confident it made me suspicious. No one her age should have the authority to say “darling.”

“Did you get my lamb?” I asked.

“Yes, we did. It was sweet. Henk loved it too. You were so darl—dear to do it.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” Alarms were ringing. Lily sounded less like Lily than she had the last time I had spoken to her. There was a veneer, a coating that was not quite dry, and I would see if I could crack or at least bend it. “Will you and Henk come for dinner? I’d love to see you, and I want you to meet Sam. Remember Sam?”

“The voice from Watch Hill?”

“Right. How’s tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow. Hmmm. I’d better see. Can you hold on?”

“Sure.” I waited patiently while Lily covered the mouthpiece and shuffled through some papers.

“Actually, it turns out, tomorrow isn’t very good.” Lily paused, and I could hear her sharp breath, as if she were crying.

“Lily, what’s wrong?” I asked.

Pause. “Nothing at all. What makes you ask
that
?” She made it sound as if
that
was the worst question in the world.

“I don’t know. You sound…upset.”

“I’m not upset.” More wobbly breaths. “We got your telegram. Congratulations on the movie.” Her tone was flat and nasal.

“Thank you. As a matter of fact, I’d love to celebrate with you. How’s about I take you out for lunch? I’ll buy you a milk-shake. Are you supposed to drink lots of milk?”

“I thought you wanted to have dinner with me
and
Henk,” she snapped, ignoring my question. “What’s the matter—don’t you like Henk?”

“I do like him. But I’d like to see you alone once in a while. Aren’t we allowed to tell a few secrets?”

Snort. Bitter laughter, the sort Delilah would laugh when she wanted to drop hints to Beck: you don’t understand
at all
. “Una, I know you’re not married, so I can’t expect you to understand. But no. I don’t have secrets from Henk. If you want to see me, you’ll have to see both of us.”

This was bizarre. I felt as though I were having a carousel dream, the sort where you keep going round and round, never getting anywhere, unable to get off. If I asked Lily and Henk to dinner, she declined. If I asked her out to lunch alone, she accused me of hating Henk.
Did
I hate Henk? I was beginning to think so.

“Okay,” I said. “I would like to have dinner with you and Henk. When will it be most convenient?”

“‘When will it be most convenient?’” Lily said, mocking me. “You’re so formal. I swear, Una. I feel as though I don’t know you.”

“I’m beginning to feel the same way about
you
,” I said, listening to my voice rise to a screech. It was out of my control. Lily and I sat at opposite ends of the phone wire, at opposite sides of the city, weeping.