Once Is Not Enough (17 page)

Dee and Mike invited her to dinner. She begged off, explaining she had an audition the following morning and had to bone up on a script for a “reading.” She spent the rest of the evening alternating between trying to inhale and fighting off bouts of nausea.

At eleven o’clock at night she finally stood in front of the mirror, inhaled and managed not to feel faint. As if to punctuate her accomplishment, the phone rang!

It was David. “I expected to leave a message. I didn’t think I’d find you at home.”

“I’ve been practicing inhaling.”

“Inhaling what?”

“Cigarettes.”

“What kind of cigarettes?”

She looked at the pack. “True.”

“Oh . . . why?”

“Why True? I just liked the name.”

“No, why the inhaling?”

He listened carefully as she explained about the commercial. Then he said, “Look, try not to take it any farther than your throat. The effect will be the same. No use lousing up your lungs. And after you get the commercial—throw away the cigarettes.”

She laughed. “I bet you think I’m some kind of a nut sitting here and getting sick, just for a commercial.”

“No, I think you’re a girl with determination. I like that in you.”

“Oh . . . well . . . yes.” She knew she sounded flustered.

“Are you busy tomorrow night?” he asked.

“No.”

“Well, how about having dinner with me? I’ll coach you while you smoke. Maybe even teach you to blow some rings.”

“Oh, great! What time?”

“I’ll leave a message for you during the day.”

“Okay . . . Goodnight David.”

She was up early the next morning. Rhoda had called telling her to be at a producer’s office at eleven for a reading. She was really excited. Rhoda said that Mr. Copeland said she was a natural for the part. Maybe this was really going to be her day. She’d think positive. She was going to get the part. After all,
someone
had to get it. And tonight she was seeing David.

As she dressed she thought about the evening. She had worn the gypsy outfit with David. What should she wear tonight? The long suede skirt with boots? Or should she wear the wet look—the black pants and jacket that were featured in
Vogue?
The man in the Third Avenue shop had said this was a perfect “rip-off!” Well, she had all day to think about it.

Her sense of well-being persisted even as she sat in the crowded office, waiting to see the producer. But Keith was
right. There was so little casting . . . and so
many
actors. Actors who had experience. As she waited she heard bits of their conversation. They talked about residuals, unemployment insurance. And some even joked about their experiences modeling at body-painting parlors. Nothing was demeaning if it brought in the rent and enabled the actor to job hunt and study. She marveled at their attitude. In spite of all the rejections they received, none of them seemed depressed. They were actors, and all the letdowns and disappointments were part of it. They might not have money for food all the time, but they all managed to go to classes. She heard snatches of conversation about Uta . . . Stella . . . the Studio . . . And she noticed they all had picture composites with their credits Xeroxed on the back. Another staple was the “Week-at-a-Glance” book, dogeared and crammed with appointments for “go-sees,” auditions, and lessons.

She waited two hours, and was finally ushered in to see a tired man who looked at her and sighed, “Who sent you here?”

“Mr. Copeland.”

Another sigh. “Why does Sheldon do this? I told him yesterday—we need a tired-looking blonde in her late twenties. It’s not fair to you . . . it’s not fair to me. He thinks he’s keeping you busy by sending you around, but he’s wasting your time . . . and mine. Okay, honey, better luck on your next stop.” Then he turned to his secretary. “How many more are waiting?”

January walked out as a tall red-haired girl went in. She wondered if Sheldon had sent her also. Did he think just seeing a weary producer at the end of his day would make an “impression” on him for another time? Maybe she should tell all this to “Sheldon.” She walked outside. A little whirlpool of a wind blew some dust in her eyes. Her mascara began to run as she dabbed at her eye. She hailed a cab, but it passed her by. Every cab she hailed seemed to have an
OFF DUTY
sign on it. She began to walk toward the Pierre. Mike was right. It was not the sparkling world she had seen on her weekends from Miss Haddon’s. She walked up Broadway. The afternoon was ending. Prostitutes in their oversized wigs were beginning to take their positions on the corners. A blind man with a sad-looking
dog shuffled along. A group of young Japanese men with cameras were taking pictures of the street. She wanted to shout, “It wasn’t always like this.” But maybe it was, maybe from her seat in the limousine with Mike it had just seemed different. And now, after two days of job hunting, it hit her that she really didn’t give a damn about the theater—not without Mike.

It was four-thirty when she reached the Pierre. She would soak in the bathtub and wash away all the discouragement and grime of the day. Tonight she would feel fresh and wonderful for her dinner with David. She felt better just thinking about it. She wanted to go to some quiet candlelit place and talk. She wanted to learn more about him. Somehow she felt he would understand the confusion she was feeling. Mike would only say, “I told you so.” Because he had been right.

There was a message in her box. She stared at it with disbelief. It was from David. He would pick her up at five-thirty. Five-thirty! Why five-thirty? Maybe it was a cocktail party. Yes, that was probably it. She dashed into the apartment, took a quick shower, and got into the long skirt. She was just putting on her lipstick when he called from the lobby.

“Come on up,” she said. “I can’t make a martini. But Mario is here. And Mike should be home any second.”

“No. We have to hurry. You come down.”

She grabbed a woolen shawl and went down to meet him. He looked at her and frowned. “I’m stupid. I should have told you to wear dungarees.” She noticed he was wearing an old pair of corduroy pants and a jacket and sport shirt.

He took her arm. “There’s a great espionage movie at the Baronet. I never get to see the movies I want to see, and there’s always a line for this one. So I figured if we caught the six o’clock show we’d get in. We can grab a bite afterward.”

The evening had been a total disaster. She thought about it as she lay soaking in the tub. David had adored the movie, and when it was over, they had walked to a restaurant called Maxwell’s Plum. It was mobbed, but David knew the captain, and they were immediately wedged into a small table against
the wall. David also knew the people at the next table. He made the introductions, ordered her a hamburger, and then talked to his friends throughout dinner. At ten o’clock they left the restaurant.

“Will you come home with me?” he asked.

“What?”

“Come home with me.” He held her hand as he signaled for a cab.

“Why don’t you come back to the Pierre?” she said.

“Dee and Mike might be there. Besides, I’d be uncomfortable sleeping with you knowing they might be in the same apartment.” The cab pulled up before she could answer and he helped her in. Then he leaned across and she heard him give the driver an address in the East Seventies.

“David, I’m not going to bed with you!” She had almost shouted it. Then in a lower voice she said, “Please take me home.”

“Change of plans,” he called out to the driver. “Make it the Pierre Hotel.” Then he turned to her with a tight smile. “Okay. Let’s talk about more important things. How’d you do on the commercial? Did you get it?”

“That’s not until tomorrow. David, don’t be angry. But I . . . well . . . I just can’t go to bed with someone I barely know.”

“Forget it,” he said quietly. “It was just a suggestion.”

“I do like you, David.” (Why was she apologizing! After all, it wasn’t as if she had turned him down for a dance.)

“Fine, January. I understand.” His voice was cold. “Oh, here we are.” And when he walked her to the door and kissed her on the brow she felt as if she had been slapped across the face.

She got into bed and turned the radio to an album station. She liked David. That is, she
could
like David—if only he gave her a chance to
learn
to like him. She needed to like him, she wanted to like him, because she suddenly felt so lonely.

It seemed she had just fallen asleep when the phone rang.

“Did I wake you?” Linda said cheerfully.

“What time is it?”

“Seven-thirty in the morning . . . sixty-eight degrees . . . air quality acceptable, and I’m sitting at my desk and have already done an hour of yoga.”

January switched on the lamp. “My drapes are closed. It still looks like midnight in here.”

“January, I’ve got to see you. It’s important.” Linda was still cheerful but there was an urgency in her voice. “How about throwing on a pair of slacks and coming up here for breakfast? I’ll send out for it.”

“I can’t. I have a nine o’clock appointment at the Landis agency. Hey, congratulate me. I’ve learned to smoke.”

“Quit before it grabs you.”

“Oh, I’m only doing it for the commercial. Although I must admit it helped get me through a dilly of an evening last night. When you’re staring into space and your date is talking to the next table . . . a cigarette can be a girl’s best friend.”

“January, I’ve got to see you.”

“Is it about the story?”

There was a split second of silence before Linda said, “Of coursel Listen, you wouldn’t by any chance be free for dinner?”

“Very free.”

“Fine . . . then come by around five-thirty. We’ll sit with Sara Kurtz and discuss the story. Then we can go to Louise’s. It’s a good Italian place where two ladies can go without people thinking they’re trying to score. See you later. . . .”

Linda was just ending an editorial meeting when January arrived. She motioned for her to sit on the couch in the back of the room. Linda was sitting at her desk. Her editors and assistant editors sat in a semicircle surrounding her.

“I think that’ll about wrap up most of the plans for the February issue,” she said. There was a slight scuffling of chairs as everyone began to rise. Suddenly Linda said, “Oh, Carol, check on John Weitz. He said he might take over the Colony and give a Valentine’s Day party. Find out if he is. Maybe we could simulate some shots of the decor so we could run it in the February issue. Also, if he has any idea of his guest list . . . I know it’s early, but he must have about ten or twelve names that he knows he’s going to invite.” She stood up, signifying
the meeting had come to an official end. Her hint of a weary smile conveyed that a real smile would take too much out of her. Her eyes clocked the group who were hastily disbanding. “Where’s Sara Kurtz?” she demanded.

“She’s on the phone with London,” a young man answered. “She’s trying to track down an idea she has that the Bow Bell Boys are not really English.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Linda snapped. “They’re the biggest sensation to hit the States since the Rolling Stones.”

The young man nodded almost apologetically. “Yes, but Sara swears she saw the lead singer doing a disc jockey gig in Cleveland in 1965. She claims he’s straight from Shaker Heights. And you know Sara—she never forgets a face.”

“Well, send her in. I need her now.”

Everyone left in little groups. Linda walked over to January and flopped down on the couch. “And this was an easy day,” she sighed. She watched January light a cigarette. “Oh, you got the commercial, I see.”

“Wrong. I was among the last three to be eliminated. Seems I inhale like a champ . . . but my exhaling needs work.”

Linda laughed and walked to her desk. She pressed an intercom buzzer. “Tell Sara Kurtz to come here immediately. I can’t wait all night while she tracks down one of her neuroses.”

“Do you think the boy really comes from Cleveland?”

Linda shrugged. “Sara digs disc jockeys. The boy in Cleveland probably gave her a real brush. And she won’t rest until she gets even. Gold help him if he
is
one of the Bow Bell Boys.”

“She sounds dreadful . . .”

“She is. Well get this over with. Then well talk.”

Within seconds, an enormously tall girl, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Tiny Tim, loped into the room. Linda introduced Sara Kurtz, who stooped over as she shook hands with January. Then she pulled a crumpled pad out of a beat-up denim bag and began scratching away. She was mostly concerned with the spelling of January’s name and was amazed to learn it was spelled like the month. After a few more questions, she uncoiled herself and backed out of the room.

“She’s a beast,” Linda said. “Keith claims she looks as if she could play for the New York Knicks, but her father was a good
newspaperman, and oddly enough she’s inherited a kind of style by osmosis. We save her for our shaft pieces. She gets her orgasms doing them. I told her that this has to be an ‘up’ piece—that’s why she looks even more miserable than usual.”

“Why does she like to shaft people?” January asked. “I would think she wouldn’t be able to face them afterwards.”

“Maybe when you look like Sara you just naturally hate the world.”

“But I thought you said being ugly was in.”

“I did. But there’s an ‘In’ ugly and an ‘Out’ ugly. Sara is definitely out. But don’t worry. You have complete approval of the article. Here’s the paper . . . all signed.” She handed January an envelope. “Tell Daddy he doesn’t have to worry.”

January put it in her bag. Linda stared at her closely. “Hey, does losing that commercial really bug you?”

“Of course not. Why?”

“For a second there . . . you looked like it was the end of the world.”

January forced a smile. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve got everything to be happy about. I’m in New York . . . my father has a wonderful wife . . . I have a beautiful room all redecorated for me at the Pierre.”

“Bullshit!”

“What?”

“I said bullshit. January, who are you trying to con? You hate living there and you can’t stand seeing your father with Deirdre Milford Granger.”