Love Me (33 page)

There wasn’t a single man in a dinner jacket, and most of the women were no better dressed than an executive secretary on the Olympus lot. If any of them were famous, they were only New York famous—journalists, press agents, Broadway lyricists. Nobody Amanda recognized. In Hollywood, most everyone you saw out on a given night might be a nobody, but they were gorgeous nobodies, nobodies who looked like somebodies. At 21, the somebodies looked like nobodies. She didn’t see a single face that had a prayer of one day gracing the cover of
Photoplay
or
Picture Palace;
in fact, Amanda noticed quite a few that, as Gabby Preston liked to say, “only a mother could love.” For a girl accustomed to the glittering crowds and meticulously art-directed interiors of the Trocadero or the Cocoanut Grove, it was a little bit of a letdown.

Except for Harry Gordon
.

There he was, in oft-repaired Harris Tweed. An already-emptied rocks glass stood on the tablecloth in front of him.
That’s odd
, Amanda thought. In Hollywood, Harry almost never drank. Alcohol gave him a rash.

He half rose in his chair to greet her as she approached. “Amanda. That’s … that’s quite a dress you almost have on.”

“Funny you say that,” she cooed, presenting her cheek to be kissed. “Because frankly, looking around, I feel a little bit
over
dressed.”

“Yeah, now that you mention it.” Harry shrugged, looking around the room. “The real glamour-pusses hang out at the Stork Club, I guess. But you look beautiful. You always look beautiful.”

“Oh, Harry, thank you.” Her eyes shone.

“What do you want to drink? I’m having Scotch. I can have them bring a bottle. Unless you’d prefer a martini or something like that?”

“Oh, I’ll just have a ginger ale,” Amanda said.

“A ginger ale?” Harry blinked. “Don’t you want anything in it?”

“No, just plain is fine.”

“Are you sure I can’t tempt you with something stronger?”

“Maybe I’ll have something later.”
A celebratory sip of champagne, maybe. But would that hurt the baby?

Harry motioned to the waiter and ordered with an assurance he had never displayed in Hollywood.
It’s like he feels at home here
, thought Amanda, with a mixture of pride and envy.
Like this is where he belongs
.

The drinks came quickly. Harry took a big gulp of his right away. Amanda sipped her ginger ale through a tiny straw, hoping it would help settle the butterflies in her stomach.

“I’m sorry if I was rude this morning,” Harry said. “I think I was in shock.”

Amanda smiled. “I figured you’d be surprised to see me.”

“Surprised? You almost gave me a heart attack, just appearing like that in the aisle. I almost thought you were a ghost.
Broadway theaters are all haunted, you know.” Harry took another gulp. “To be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t have been thrilled to see anyone. Rehearsals aren’t supposed to be open to whoever wanders in off the street.”

“There were all those people there in the back.”

“Stella’s students. That’s different. You could have been anyone. I mean, you’re not, but you know … a critic, a reporter, anyone with some kind of agenda.…” Harry shook his head. “It’s different out here.
The New Yorker, Vanity Fair …
the reporters here are real writers. They don’t just type up whatever press release or glowing notice Larry Julius and his heavies hand them, under pain of death. They know what they’re doing. And they can be vicious.” He took another drink of Scotch.

Amanda gently laid her hand on his sleeve. “Harry, it’s all going to be fine. You told me yourself the screenplay was the best thing you’d ever written. Why should the play be any different?”

“You don’t understand. Whether the play is any good or not is beside the point. They have it in for me no matter what. Think about it: local boy makes it big in Hollywood, comes back to Broadway, flops. I’d be the laughingstock of business. How could they resist?”

“Stella Adler went to Hollywood,” Amanda countered, “and she seems well respected.”

“Stella Adler went to Hollywood and made one picture that nobody saw,” Harry corrected. “Now that she’s back, she can spin it like she was too good for the Philistines out there, and everybody nods and murmurs in agreement. Like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Like she was too good to succeed. They can forgive anything but success.” He drank off the rest of
his Scotch and gazed at her with eyes that were just beginning to haze. “You know, I’m actually glad to see you.”

“Well. Thanks a lot.”

“No, you know. I mean, it’s nice to see you. It’s always nice to see you. But …” Harry looked down at his empty glass. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. Something I need to tell you.”

“Oh, darling,” Amanda breathed, looking up through her lowered lashes. “There’s something I need to tell you too.…”

“Harry Gordon, you sonofabitch!”

The man who blustered over to their table wore a dark gray three-piece suit. His fedora was tipped back on his head to reveal a face that would have been handsome if it weren’t quite so shrewd. “You penniless playwrights are all the same,” he crowed. “One day you’re picking butts out of the ashtray, always hard up for a ten-spot. Then you jaunt over to the coast, come back with some dough in your pocket, and boom! You’re sitting pretty with the prettiest girl in town. Honestly, I oughta come to you for tips.”

“Hello, Walter,” Harry said glumly. “I thought they banned you.”

“Old news, my friend. And as they say in my business, no news may be good news, but old news is no news. Now, are you going to introduce me to this ravishing creature or am I going to have to be a heel and do it myself?”

“Amanda Farraday, this is Walter Winchell. Walter Winchell, Amanda Farraday.”

“You’re Walter Winchell?” Amanda couldn’t help but let out a squeal. “Oh my goodness! I’m such a big fan of yours. I listen to you on the radio practically every day.”

“Those words out of a mouth like that,” Walter Winchell replied, grinning. “That’s what a man works a lifetime to hear. But of course, I know all about you, Miss Farraday, from the picture magazines, or whatever you call those rags out on the Left Coast. Don’t tell me I’m getting the firsthand scoop on the tender reconciliation?”

“All right, Walter, that’s enough,” Harry snapped. “Scram, will ya?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t mind if I do. I’ve got more congenial company waiting for me in the private dining room in the Vault tonight. Not quite in Miss Farraday’s league”—his eyes lingered meaningfully over the neckline of Amanda’s dress—“but she’ll have to do. See you two lovebirds around.”

“What was that all about?” Amanda asked when Winchell was out of earshot. “If you’re worried about the press, Walter Winchell is the most powerful flack in the country. Maybe the world. It can’t pay to be so rude to him.”

“Ah, he’s used to it,” Harry said, waving her concerns away. “Besides, I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

Flushed with pleasure, Amanda smiled.
He cares how men look at me. He still cares
. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Harry sighed. “I’m not sure how to tell you.”

“Just spit it out. It’s easier that way.”

“All right. All right. Here goes.” Harry took another long drink of Scotch, gathering his courage. “Amanda … the whole thing about Olympus dropping your contract … it’s all my fault. It’s because of me. They were only doing what I asked them to.”

Amanda felt like she’d just been shot through the heart. “You … you told them to fire me?”

“No! At least, not in so many words.” Harry couldn’t meet her eye. “It was … after that night we … spent together, after the Oscars … I just, I knew I couldn’t control myself around you. I’d been trying so hard to avoid you. I thought if I didn’t see you, I would get over you. That I would get you out of my system. But when I saw you at the Brown Derby that afternoon, and then at the Governor’s Ball, I knew I never would. You’re eating me from the inside out, Amanda. It’s like a cancer; the only treatment is to just cut it out.”

Amanda flinched, but Harry, looking at a spot somewhere over her shoulder, seemed not to notice. “So I called them that morning after we … well … and I begged them to help me. To fix it so I wouldn’t have to see you anymore, wouldn’t bump into you around the lot, or hear your name mentioned in meetings. And then, just to make sure I didn’t see you around town, I came to New York. But I didn’t know how they were going to do it. I thought …” He fiddled nervously with his glass. “I guess I don’t know what I thought. I’m sorry. I know it must be difficult.”

Difficult?
Amanda didn’t know if she wanted to scream, laugh, or cry. “Why stop at having them drop my contract?” she asked coldly. “Why not just have me killed?”

“Amanda, please …”

“Don’t you ‘Amanda, please’ me!” She tried to keep her voice down.
God knows I’m conspicuous enough as it is
. “What I don’t understand, Harry, is why you
have
to get over me. You know how I feel about you. You know how hard this has been for me. If it’s been like that for you, then I don’t understand what the problem is. I need you, Harry. We need each other. Why isn’t that enough?” She was almost gasping now, choking with
the effort of trying to hold back her tears. “Why can’t we be together?”

“Because of what you used to do,” Harry said quietly. “Because of what you used to be.”

“You mean …”

“You know exactly what I mean. What you did at Olive Moore’s.”

Of course
. Amanda looked down at her hands. They seemed to dissolve before her eyes.
Of course
.

“I’m sorry,” Harry continued. “I wish it could be different. I really do. But ever since Gabby told me that night at the party at Leo Karp’s—”

If Amanda had already suffered one gunshot to the heart, this next shot went straight through her stomach.
“Gabby?”

“Yes, Gabby Preston,” Harry continued calmly, as if the world hadn’t just caved in on itself. “I didn’t believe her at first. I figured she was just angry about losing the part in the
An American Girl
picture and was making things up to hurt you. But then that sleazeball Hunter Payne confirmed it and, well …” Harry shook his head. “It was like the floor fell out from under me.”

Tell me about it
, Amanda thought.

“I loved you, Amanda,” Harry continued. “I really did. I suppose in a way, I always will. But I can’t deal with this. Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve asked myself, what could make it better? What could wipe the past away? And it’s no good. No good at all. I know myself. I know what I’m like. I’m a modern guy. I don’t expect some unspoiled virgin. But this?” He shook his head. “I’d never be able to walk into a room with you without looking at every man there and wondering was it him? Or him?
Or him? Which one of you once ordered up my wife like a plate of eggs from room service in a hotel? Or was it all of you? I’d start to hate you, Amanda. And you’d start to hate me. And then it would be the end of the road for us. Better not to go any farther.”

Wife
, Amanda thought. He said
wife
. But the word bore little hope now. She felt like a marooned islander watching the ship that was supposed to save her disappearing over the horizon. “So you don’t mind me doing it. Only that I got paid.”

“Amanda.” Harry looked at her reproachfully. “That seems a little unfair. Put yourself in my shoes.”

Unfair?
Amanda wanted to scream.
Why don’t
you
put yourself in
my
shoes?
Did Harry have any idea—any goddamn idea—of what a girl could go through in this world? What could lead her to do what Amanda had done? The hunger, the fear, the cold nights sleeping on the street lying still like a possum, hoping that any predator that came along would think you were already dead? How relieved you were to be warm and fed and clothed and relatively safe, and to find out all you had to do to stay that way was the same thing men made you do anyway?

She was about to tell him that, and more, when the crowd parted and for the first time, she saw exactly what it was that kept making Harry’s eye wander.

Sitting at the bar in a tight cocktail dress. With a cigarette in a long gold holder and blond hair set in curls so tight they looked like a devil’s horns. It was Frances, that actress from the play. The actress who was playing the role Harry had written for Amanda.
The actress playing me
.

And suddenly, Amanda understood. She understood
everything
.

Pain coursed through her body, pain like nothing she had ever known. She felt as if she were splitting in two. She staggered to her feet.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached into her evening bag and pulled out the packet of letters. All the letters she had written him and never sent, tied with a pink ribbon torn from the dress he’d bought her. The letters of her life, of his life, or their life together. She held them up, taking a long last look.

Then she threw them into the fire.

“Amanda! What are you doing? Wait!”

“No!” she cried, pushing him away. “No. Leave me alone.”

She pushed through the crowd, pushed past the maître d’. On the sidewalk, she doubled over in agony, letting out a small shriek. It was as if she were being ripped open from the inside, as if whatever was inside her were trying to gnaw its way out. It didn’t matter now. She just had to get somewhere she could be safe, somewhere it would all be over.

So she ran. Blinded by pain, tripping over her hem, her heels; heedless of the taxicabs slowing at the curb at the sight of the half-crumpled girl in the evening gown clawing at her stomach and running as though every demon in hell were after her. When at last she reached her hotel room, she hurled herself into the bathroom and ripped down her underwear, bracing herself for the torrent of blood she was sure was surging out of her.

Nothing
. Not a drop.

She collapsed to the floor like a rag doll, but the moment of relief soon gave way to vast, bottomless panic. So she still had the baby. What the hell was she supposed to do with it? What kind of life could she give it? Harry was gone. Forever. That had
been made horribly clear. He didn’t love her anymore, would never accept her for who she was—even worse, he was the architect of her destruction.
To fix it so I wouldn’t have to see you anymore
. Amanda clapped her hand over her mouth to muffle her sob.