Glitter Baby (31 page)

As the final dress cleared the runway, Charlie let out his breath in a long, tortured exhalation. “I feel like I’ve lived a lifetime in the last fifteen minutes.”

Her fingers cramped, and she realized she’d been digging them into his knee. “Only one?”

Two more tableaux followed, each greeted more enthusiastically than the last. A steamy
Night of the Iguana
rain forest showcased Kissy in a second monologue and also served as a background for informal wear in wildly colorful jungle blossom prints. Finally Kissy performed her dazzling Maggie the Cat against the shadowy outline of a huge brass bed as an introduction to an exotic collection of evening gowns that evoked images of delicious decadence and brought the house to its feet.

When the show was over, Fleur watched Michel and Kissy take their bows. Life would never be the same for either one of them. She couldn’t have found a better way to thank Kissy for her unwavering friendship and Michel for all those years of misplaced hatred than by making sure they each received the public recognition they deserved. As she hugged Charlie, she realized the success of her two clients would impact her own career, too. This afternoon had given her a giant shot of credibility.

The audience began to swarm around her, and she caught sight of Jake at the very back of the ballroom. Just before he slipped away, he gave her a silent thumbs-up.

The next week passed in a whirlwind of telephone calls and interviews.
Women’s Wear Daily
did a cover story on Michel’s collection, calling it the “New Femininity,” and fashion editors lined up for news about his future plans. Michel
sailed through the press conference Fleur scheduled for him and afterward took her to dinner. They grinned at each other over their menus.

“The Savagar brats haven’t done too badly for themselves, have they, Big Sis?”

“Not badly at all, Little Bro.” She touched the poplin sleeve of the safari jacket he wore over a burgundy silk shirt, French commando sweater, and Swiss Army necktie. “I love you, Michel. Big heaps. I should tell you more often.”

“Me, too. Even bigger heaps.” He was quiet for a moment, then he cocked his head so that his hair brushed his shoulder. “Does it bother you that I’m gay?”

She propped her hand on her chin. “I’d rather see you live happily ever after with someone who’d give me a tribe of nieces and nephews, but since I’m not going to have that, I want to see you in a stable relationship with a man who’s worthy of you.”

“Someone like Simon Kale?”

“Now that you mention it…”

He set down his menu and looked at her with sad eyes. “It’s not going to work, Fleur. I know you’ve been counting on it, but it’s not going to happen.”

She was embarrassed. “I’ve stepped over the line, haven’t I?”

“Yes.” He smiled. “And do you know how much it means to me that somebody cares whether I’m happy?”

“I’m going to take that as a free license to interfere in your life.”

“Don’t.” He took a sip from his wineglass. “Simon is a special person, and we’ve developed a solid friendship, but that’s all it’ll ever be. Simon is strong and self-sufficient. He doesn’t really need anybody.”

“That’s important to you, isn’t it? Being needed?”

He nodded. “I know you don’t like Damon. And you’re right. He can be selfish, and he’s not the most intellectual person I’ve met. But he loves me, Fleur, and he needs me.”

Fleur swallowed her disappointment. “I never said Damon didn’t have good taste.”

She thought about Jake. His erotic pull on her grew stronger every time she saw him. She didn’t trust him, but she wanted him. And why couldn’t she have him? She turned the idea over in her mind. No emotional commitment. Just good, dirty sex. That’s all her attraction to him had ever been about. And wasn’t that the essence of real liberation? Women didn’t have to play games. They shouldn’t play games. She should look Jake straight in the eye and tell him she wanted to—

To what? “Go to bed” was too wishy-washy, “make love” had implications, “screw” was tacky, and “fuck” was just plain awful.

Was she going to buckle under just because of a language barrier? How would a man do it? How would Jake do it?

Why wouldn’t Jake do it?

Right then she knew she could never be the sexual aggressor, no matter how much she wanted him. Whether her reluctance was rooted in cultural conditioning or biological instinct made no difference because women’s liberation got all tangled up when it hit the bedroom door.

Fleur tried to tune out the typewriter. Instead she concentrated on sending Kissy from one audition to the next and attempted to figure out what Alexi’s next move would be. All the people who’d been dodging her phone calls now wanted to talk to her, and by the first week of December, a month after Michel’s showing, Kissy was signed to appear in a limited run of
The Fifth of July.
Afterward, she’d fly to London for a supporting role in a big-budget action-adventure film.

She and Kissy hadn’t talked about anything but business for weeks, and she was more than happy one evening to open her front door and see her friend standing there with a
pizza and a big bottle of Tab. Before long, they were settled in the living room around Fleur’s new coffee table.

“Just like old times, huh, Fleurinda?” Kissy said as “Tequila Sunrise” played in the background. “Except now that we’re rich and famous, maybe we should switch to beluga, although I can’t imagine trading in an all-American pepperoni pizza for Commie fish food.”

Fleur took a sip from one of the Baccarat goblets Olivia Creighton had given her. “Do you think we’re hypocrites because we drink diet soda with pizza? It seems like we should commit ourselves one way or the other.”

“You worry about ethics while I eat. I haven’t had anything since breakfast, and I’m starved.” She bit into the piece she’d just pulled from the box. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy in my life.”

“You really do love pizza.”

“It’s not the pizza.” Kissy sank her teeth into another bite, but this time she swallowed before she spoke. “It’s the play, the movie, everything. Bob Fosse said hello to me yesterday. Not ‘Hi, kid’ but ‘Hello, Kissy.’ Bob Fosse!”

Fleur felt a bubble of pleasure growing inside her. She’d made this happen.

The image of Belinda’s happy face flashed through her mind, and her pleasure vanished. Was this how her mother had felt manipulating Fleur’s career?

Kissy was nervous about the film she’d be making in London, and she pumped Fleur about
Eclipse.
Eventually she switched to the subject of Jake. “You haven’t said much about him lately.”

Fleur set aside her pizza. “He’s barely looked up from his typewriter in weeks. When I go upstairs to check on him, he doesn’t even see me.” But they still ran together sometimes in the morning, although they never spoke about anything important, and Jake had shown up in her kitchen for breakfast a couple of times.

“Translated that means that you’re not sleeping together.”

The topic of Jake was too complicated, so she settled on the simplest response. “He was my mother’s lover.”

“Not technically,” Kissy replied. “And I’ve been thinking about that. Everything I’ve heard about her indicates Belinda’s a very seductive woman. Jake was a young guy. She came on to him. You and Jake weren’t lovers at the time, and whatever happened between them didn’t have anything to do with you.”

“She had to know how I felt about him,” Fleur said bitterly, “but she jumped into bed with him anyway.”

“That speaks volumes about her, but not about him.” Kissy tucked her legs under her. “You don’t really still believe that old garbage about Jake seducing you for the sake of his movie, do you? I’ve only met him a few times, but that’s obviously not his style. I’m sure he has his faults, but blind ambition doesn’t seem to be one of them.”

“He has his faults, all right. He’s the most emotionally dishonest person I’ve ever met. You should see the way he puts up a barrier against anyone who gets too close. He’ll give me little glimpses of who he is, then he slams the door. That’s fine in a casual friendship, but not for someone who loves him.”

Kissy set down the pizza crust and stared at her. Fleur’s cheeks grew hot. “I’m not in love with him! God, Kissy, I was talking generally. Yes, there are things about him I love—mainly his looks and his body. But…” She let her hand fall into her lap. “I can’t afford him. I’ve had too many dishonest, manipulative people in my life, and I don’t need another one.”

Kissy mercifully changed the subject. They chatted about Olivia Creighton’s latest neurosis, and what clothes Kissy should take to London. Eventually, however, Kissy seemed to run out of things to say, and that’s when Fleur realized the name “Charlie Kincannon” hadn’t crossed her lips all evening. But Kissy’s eyes were sparkling, and she could barely sit still to eat. Maybe her excitement wasn’t all about work. “Something’s going on with you and Charlie.”

“Charlie?”

“It is! Spit it out.”

“Really, Fleur, such a vulgar expression.”

She pulled the pizza crust from Kissy’s fingers. “No more food until you tell me what’s happening.”

Kissy hesitated and then pulled her knees up. “Don’t laugh, okay? I know you’ll think this is silly…” She twisted a curl around her finger. “Actually…” Her throat worked as she swallowed. “I think I might be in love.”

“Why would I think that’s silly?”

“Because Charlie isn’t exactly the most likely companion for me, considering my history.”

Fleur smiled. “I’ve always thought you and Charlie were the most likely of companions. You were the one who didn’t agree.”

Now that Kissy’s news was out, she wanted to tell everything before she lost her nerve. “I feel so stupid. He’s the most wonderful man I ever met, but I didn’t know how to relate to a guy who wanted me for something other than sex. Every time I tried to seduce him, he started talking about Kierkegaard, or dadaism, or the Knicks, for God’s sake. And…listen to this…No matter what we were talking about, he never once tried to dominate the conversation. He didn’t talk
at
me like other men do. He was genuinely interested in my opinions. He
challenged
me. And the more we talked, the more I remembered how smart I really am.” Kissy’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Fleur, it felt so good.”

Fleur’s own eyes stung. “Charlie’s a special person, and so are you.”

“The funny thing was that at first all I could think about was getting him into bed, which, let’s face it, is where I’m most comfortable. I’d brush up against him or tell him my muscles were sore and I needed a back rub. Or when he’d come to pick me up, I wouldn’t quite have all my clothes on. But no matter how brazen I acted, he didn’t seem to
notice. After a while, I started to forget about seducing him and just started enjoying his company. That’s when I realized he wasn’t quite as unaffected by me as he pretended. But it still took forever for him to get serious.”

At Kissy’s dreamy expression, Fleur smiled. “Looks like it was worth the wait.”

Kissy grinned. “I didn’t let him touch me.”

“You’re kidding?”

“It was so nice being
courted.
Then, two weeks ago, he came over to the apartment one night after rehearsal. He started kissing me, and I was really enjoying it, but I started to feel afraid. You know. Afraid that after everything that had gone on, I’d disappoint him. I could tell by his expression that he knew how I felt because he just smiled that sweet, understanding smile of his. And then he said we ought to play Scrabble.”

“Scrabble?” There was such a thing as carrying restraint too far, and Fleur was disappointed in Charlie.

“Well…not regular Scrabble. Sort of—strip Scrabble.”

Good for you, Charlie.
Fleur arched an eyebrow. “Might one ask how this particular perversion is played?”

“It’s really pretty simple. For every twenty points your opponent scores, you have to take off one item of clothing. And you know, Fleur, as much as I wanted to go to bed with him, I really did like being courted, and I happen to be a truly exceptional Scrabble player.” She swept a dramatic arc through the air. “I started out strong with ‘klepht’ and ‘pewit.’”

“I’m impressed.”

“Then I hit him right between the eyes with ‘whey’ and ‘jargon’ on a double word score.”

“That must have taken his breath away.”

“It did. But he came back with ‘jaw’ off my ‘jargon’ and ‘wax’ off ‘pewit.’ Still, it was obvious that we weren’t in the same league—I
never
do three-letter words unless I’m desperate. By the time I made ‘viscacha,’ he was down to
his briefs and one sock. I still had my slip and everything under it.” Her forehead puckered in a frown. “That’s when it happened.”

“I’m breathless with anticipation.”

“He hit me with ‘qaid.’”

“There’s no such word.”

“Oh yes there is. A Northern African tribal leader, although generally only world-class Scrabble players and crossword addicts know it.”

“And?”

“Don’t you see? The son of a bitch was hustling me!”

“Dear God.”

“To make a long story short, he laid ‘zebu’ in on a horizontal and then capped it with ‘zloty’ on the vertical. My ‘quail’ looked pretty pitiful after that, but worse was to come.”

“I don’t know if I can bear the tension.”

“‘Phlox’ on a triple word score.”

“That devil.”

By Christmas, Fleur
had picked up three great new clients—two actors and a singer. Alexi hadn’t made any new moves against her, and the old stories about her broken contracts seem to be fading. The gossip about her relationship with Jake continued, but word had started to leak that he was writing again, and the gossip no longer held as much sting. Rough Harbor’s first album was performing above expectations, and the unqualified success of Michel’s collection was still bringing an avalanche of good publicity. When Kissy got rave reviews after her play premiered on January 3, Fleur felt as if all her own dreams were coming true. So why wasn’t she happier? She avoided probing her inner psyche too deeply by working even harder.

Jake stopped showing up for their morning run, and when she went upstairs to check on him, he barely spoke. He’d been working on his book for nearly three months, and he’d grown increasingly gaunt. His hair hung long over his collar, and he forgot to shave for days at a time.

One cold Friday night in the second week of January, something awakened her. Total silence. What had happened to the typewriter? She stirred.

“It’s okay, Flower,” a rough voice whispered. “It’s just me.”

The dim lights sifting in from her winter garden illuminated the room just enough so she could see Jake hunched in a chair not far from her bed, his rangy legs stretched in front of him.

“What are you doing?” she muttered.

“Watching you sleep.” His voice was as soft and dark as the night room. “The light’s a paintbrush in your hair. Do you remember how we wrapped your hair around us when we made love?”

The blood rushed through her sleep-heavy body. “I remember.”

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said raggedly. “You got caught in the crossfire.”

She didn’t want to think about the past. “That was a long time ago. I’m not so naïve now.”

“I don’t know about that.” His voice developed an edge. “For somebody who wants me to believe she’s made a career out of sleeping around, you don’t seem to have a lot of men coming through here.”

She wanted him to stay soft and sweet. She wanted him talking about paintbrushes and the light in her hair. “Not with you living over my head, that’s for sure. We go to their places.”

“Is that so?” Slowly he uncurled from the chair and began unbuttoning his shirt. “If you’re passing it out for free, I guess it’s time I took my turn.”

She bolted up in bed. “I’m not passing it out for free!”

He stripped off his shirt. “This could have happened between us months ago. All you had to do was ask.”

“Me! What about you?”

He didn’t say anything. Instead his hand went to the snap on his jeans.

“Stop right there.”

“Let’s not.” His zipper fell open in a V, revealing a bare, flat stomach. “The book’s done.”

“It is?”

“And I can’t quit thinking about you.”

Her emotions tangled into a knot. She wanted him so much. But something was terribly wrong. If his book was finished, he should be relieved. Instead he seemed haunted, and she needed to find out why. “Zip your pants, cowboy,” she said quietly. “We need to talk first.”

“The hell we do.” He kicked off his shoes, whipped away the blankets covering her, and gazed down at the ice-blue nightgown twisted high on her thighs. “Nice.” He peeled off his jeans.

“No.”

“Just be quiet, will you?” He reached for the hem of her gown.

“We’re going to talk.” She started to pull away, but he snared the skirt of her nightgown, holding her in place.

“Later.”

She clamped her fingers around his wrist. “I’m not into recreational sex, not with you.”

He let her go abruptly and slapped the wall above her head with the flat of his hand. “How about mercy fucking then? Are you into mercy fucking, because if you are, you’ve got yourself one hell of an opportunity here.”

She saw the pain he couldn’t hide, and her heart ached. “Oh, Jake.”

The shutters banged shut. “Forget it!” He grabbed his jeans and shoved his legs into them. “Forget I was ever here.” He snatched up his shirt and headed into the hallway.

“Wait!” She pushed herself out of bed, only to get tangled in the cast-off blankets. By the time she freed herself, her front door had slammed. She heard the thud of his feet on the steps leading to the attic. She remembered the deep shadows under his eyes, the feeling of desperation rolling off him. Without thinking it through, she went into the hallway and up the stairs to the attic.

The door was locked against her. “Open up.”

Nothing but silence came from the other side.

“I mean it, Jake. Open this door right now.”

“Go away.”

She swore under her breath and went back downstairs to get her key. By the time she got his door unlocked, she was shaking.

He sat on the unmade bed, leaning against the headboard with a bottle of beer propped on his bare chest and his jeans still unzipped. His hostility crackled like dry ice. “You ever heard of tenant’s rights?”

“You don’t have a lease.” She stepped over his shirt, which lay crumpled on the floor, and walked toward him. When she reached the bed, she studied him, trying to read his mind, but all she saw were the harsh lines of exhaustion around his mouth and the desperation that had etched itself into the shadows under his eyes. “If anybody needs mercy,” she said quietly, “it’s me. It’s been a long time.”

His expression tightened, and she realized right away that he wasn’t going to make this easy for himself. He’d revealed too much need, and now he had to throw up some camouflage. He took a swig of beer and looked at her as if she were a cockroach who’d just crawled across his floor. “Maybe some poor slob would take you to bed if you weren’t such a ballbuster.”

She’d love to take a swing at him, but he was only capable of self-destruction tonight, and she suspected that’s what he wanted. “It’s not like I haven’t had plenty of offers.”

“I’ll just bet you have.” He sneered. “Pretty boys with Cuisinarts and BMWs.”

“Among others.”

“How many?”

Why couldn’t he just admit he needed her instead of putting them both through this? She had to stay in charge of this dangerous game he wanted to play. “Dozens,” she replied. “Hundreds.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I’m legendary.”

“In your own mind.” He took another slug of beer, then swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And now you want me to take the edge off your sexual frustrations. Play stud for you.”

The man was shameless. “If you don’t have anything better to do.”

He shrugged and kicked the blankets away. “I guess not. Take off your nightgown.”

“No way, cowboy. You want it off—you take it off. And while you’re at it, get rid of those jeans so I can see what you’ve got.”

“What
I’ve
got?”

“Consider this an audition.”

He couldn’t even manage a smile, and she knew he’d reached his breaking point. “On second thought,” she said, “why don’t you just lie there? I’m feeling aggressive.” She peeled her nightgown over her head, but her hair got tangled in the strap. She was standing naked and vulnerable in front of him. Her fingers trembled as she tried to free her hair, but she only made the snare worse.

“Lean over,” he said softly.

He pulled her down to the side of the bed. She sat with her back to him and her bare hip brushing his denim-covered thigh.

The nightgown slipped free. “There.”

He made no move to touch her. She gazed across the room, her spine stiff, her hands crossed in her lap, and she knew she couldn’t go any further. She heard him sliding off his jeans. Why did he have to make this so difficult? Maybe he wouldn’t even kiss her. Maybe he’d just pull her back on the bed and have sex with her without even kissing her. Wham, bam—nice knowing you, kiddo, but I’ll be moving on now. And wouldn’t that be just like him? He was such a son of a bitch. Playing on her sympathies. Refusing to talk except to insult her. Getting ready to run out on her again!

“Flower?” His hand touched her shoulder.

She spun on him. “I won’t do it if you don’t kiss me. I mean it! If you don’t kiss me, you can go to hell.”

He blinked.

“And don’t you think for one minute—”

He caught her by the back of her neck and dragged her down over his bare chest. “I need you, Flower,” he whispered. “I need you real bad.”

His mouth closed over hers in a deep, sweet tongue kiss. She floated through the kiss, bathed in it, drank it and ate it, and didn’t want it ever to stop. He rolled her onto her back and pressed her into the mattress with his weight.

The kiss lost its sweetness, becoming dark and desperate. His breathing grew more ragged, and she arched her back to press her hips closer. Sweat broke out on his body, mingling with her own, and suddenly his hands were all over her. Rough, clumsy hands—at her breasts and waist, on her hips and buttocks, pushing inside her.

There was something so desperate about his touch. She was frightened for him, frightened for herself. All the frustration, the years of denial, formed a fiery ball in her chest. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and met his fierceness with her own. “Love me, Jake,” she whispered. “Please love me.”

His fingers dug into the soft skin of her thighs, spreading them far apart, and his weight settled between them. Without warning, he thrust deep and hard within her. She cried out. He grabbed her head between his hands and covered her mouth with his own. He kissed her desperately as he drove inside her. She came at once, breaking apart in a joyless orgasm. He didn’t stop. He stayed with her, tongue in her mouth, hands in her hair, pushing harder…faster…letting out a harsh, anguished cry as he spilled himself deep within her.

He pulled away as soon as it was over. She lay staring at the ceiling. His desperation…his dark silence…the bleakness of their lovemaking…His book was done, and he’d just said good-bye.

Love me, Jake. Please love me.
The words she’d spoken in the throes of lovemaking came back to her, and she felt sick inside.

They lay on the bed, not even their hands touching. Nothing.

“Flower?”

In her mind she saw a long stretch of sun-scorched sand spreading bleak and empty before her. She had so much—her job, her friends—but all she could see was the barren sand.

“Flower, I want to talk to you.”

She turned her back to him and burrowed her face into the pillow. Now he wanted to talk. Now that it was all over. Her head ached and her mouth felt dry and acrid. The mattress creaked as he left the bed. “I know you’re not asleep.”

“What do you want?” she finally said.

He switched on the gooseneck lamp that sat on his desk. She rolled over to face him. He stood next to the desk, unself-conscious in his nakedness. “Do you have anything going this weekend that you can’t cancel?” he said. “Anything important?”

He wanted to play out the final scene, the great good-bye. “Let me reach under the pillow and check my appointment calendar,” she said wearily.

“Damn it! Go throw some things in a suitcase. I’ll get you in half an hour.”

Two hours later they were in a chartered jet flying to God-knew-where, and Jake was asleep in the seat next to her. Was there some basic flaw in her makeup that made her keep falling in love with this man who couldn’t love her back? She didn’t try to slide around it anymore. She loved Jake Koranda.

She’d fallen in love with him when she was nineteen years old, and now she’d done it all over again. He was the only man she’d ever known who seemed to belong to her.
Jake, who went out of his way to close himself off, was part of her. Maybe she had a death wish. Again and again, he left her emotionally stranded at the gates of the
couvent
. He didn’t
give
anything back. He wouldn’t talk about anything important—the war, his first marriage, what had happened when they were making
Eclipse.
Instead he deflected her with wisecracks. And if she wanted to be honest, she knew she did the same to him. But it was different with her. She did it because she had to protect herself. What did he have to protect?

It was seven in the morning when they landed in Santa Barbara. Jake turned up the collar on his leather jacket against the early chill, or maybe the prying eyes of a lurking fan. He carried an attaché case in one hand and guided her by the elbow toward the parking lot with the other. They stopped next to a dark maroon Jaguar sedan. He unlocked the door and slung his case, along with her overnight bag, into the back.

“It’ll be a while before we get there,” he said with an unexpected gentleness. “Try to get some sleep.”

The cantilevered glass and concrete house looked almost the same as she remembered it. What a perfect spot for the farewell they still had to play out. “A return to the scene of the crime?” she said as he pulled up in front.

He turned off the ignition. “I don’t know that I’d exactly call it a crime, but we have some ghosts to put to rest, and this seems like the right place to do it.”

She was tired and upset, and she couldn’t help sniping at him. “Too bad you couldn’t find a root beer stand. As long as we’re dealing with the business of lost innocence…”

He ignored her.

While he took a shower, she changed into a swimsuit. After she’d wrapped herself in a warm robe, she went out to test the water in the pool. It wasn’t heated nearly enough to combat the late morning January chill, but she shed her robe anyway and dived in. She gasped from the chill and began to swim laps, but the tension coiled inside her
refused to unravel. She got out, pulled an oversized bath towel around her, and lay down on one of the chaises in the sun, where she instantly fell asleep.

Hours later, a small Mexican woman with shiny black hair awakened her and announced that dinner would be ready soon if she’d like to change first. Fleur deliberately avoided the big bathroom with the sunken tub where they’d made love all those years ago, choosing a smaller guest bathroom instead. By the time she’d finished her shower and swept her hair back from her face with a set of combs, her grogginess had disappeared. She pulled on light gray slacks and an open-necked sage-green blouse. Just before she stepped out into the living room, she slipped on the necklace Jake had given her, but then she fastened the button between her breasts so he wouldn’t see she was wearing it.