Once Is Not Enough (36 page)

“What man?”

“Any man who stays over. That’s the one thing they usually demand the next morning—decent coffee.”

“You mean you have to make coffee for them too?”

“Sometimes even eggs. And if you have a health freak like Keith used to be, it’s Granola or one of those nutsy raisiny cereals and Vitamin E and . . . oh, Lord, thank God that’s all out of my life.”

“Don’t you ever think of Keith or miss him?”

Linda shook her head. “When
Caterpillar
opened I almost sent him a wire. But I figured the hell with it. It’s over. I’m glad for Keith the show’s a hit, because he sure has to pay big dues sleeping with Christina. Besides, it takes a man like Tom Colt to make you realize that Keith is just a boy.”

“But Linda . . . he’s married, he has a six-month-old baby.”

“But his wife and baby are on the Coast . . . and I’m here. Besides I’m not looking to take him away from his wife or child.”

“Then why are you after him?”

“Because he turns me on . . . he’s beautiful . . . I want to go to bed with him. And so do you. At least you acted that way last night”

“I did?”

“January, your sign should be Gemini instead of Capricorn—you really are twins. I mean, when you drink, you really become another person. Last night he was kissing us both at P.J.’s . . . like taking turns . . . real deep kisses . . . calling me Vanilla . . . and you Chocolate.”

“He was kissing us at P.J.’s?”

“That he was.”

“Really kissing?”

“Well, he had his tongue down my throat. I don’t know about you.”

“Oh, my God.”

“And what about going home?” Linda asked.

“What about going home?” January sat up straight.

“He reached over, slipped his hand under your top, and said. ‘Tiny buds. But I like them.’”

January buried her head in the pillow. “Linda . . . I don’t believe it.”

“Sure . . . then he kissed my boobs and said they were really wild.”

“What was the driver doing?”

“Watching the rear view mirror like mad, I suppose. But they’re used to everything, including actual rape, I’m told.”

“Linda—” January’s voice was weak. “It’s all gradually coming back to me. I remember thinking as he slipped his hand under my blouse that it was the most natural thing in the world. Oh, good Lord . . . how could I?”

“Because you’re finally turning into a nice normal girl.”

“Is that what being normal is . . . to have a man you’ve just met touch you, in front of another girl?”

“Oh, come on. I’ve never played the three-way scene in my life. When I’m in bed with a man I’ve always felt anything goes as long as there’s just the two of us in that bed. And last night was all in fun. It was nothing to get uptight about.”

January got out of bed and wobbled across the room to get a cigarette. She lit it slowly, inhaled deeply, then she turned to Linda. “Okay, I know I’ve been away from it all, and I know things have changed. Like, you don’t have to be married to love someone . . . or to go to bed with someone. I know that’s the way everyone thinks. But there’s no rule that says I have to think that way. I thought of myself as some kind of freak because I was a virgin. I literally talked myself into thinking I was stuck on David. And it was awful—” She shuddered as she ground out the freshly lit cigarette. “Linda, I want to fall in love. Oh God, how I want to fall in love. And I’ll even go along that marriage isn’t necessary right off. But when I’m in love, and the man I love . . . touches me . . . I want it to be something wonderful between
us
. . . and not just ‘all in fun.’”

“January, when people get high—whether it’s on bourbon, wine, or pot—the things they do . . . or feel . . . are usually true. Drinking just releases the inhibitions. If you let Tom Colt touch you and if as you say you thought it was so natural at the time, then it means deep down, you
wanted
him to touch you.”

January lit another cigarette. “That’s not true. I admire his work . . . I admire his strength . . . but Holy God, what must he think of us? Two gate-crashers, coming after a man in our own limousine . . . allowing him to—” She stopped as she stubbed out her cigarette. “Oh, Linda, what
can
he think of us?”

“January, stop torturing yourself about what he thinks of us. Do you realize how many bourbons he had and how many breasts he’s fondled? He probably doesn’t even remember those little gems of yours. Now, for God’s sake, it’s almost noon. Call him.”

“No.”

“Please . . . for my sake. Let him take us both out and in the middle of the evening you can say you’re not feeling well . . . and leave. But please make the call. I really want him. I mean, there’s no one around quite like him, is there? He looks so mean at times. Yet when he smiles or looks you in the eye, you could die.”

“You mean you want to go to bed with Tom Colt, knowing there’s no future in it? Knowing that he has a good marriage—”

“What are you trying to do to my head? Lay a guilt trip on me? If I dig Tom Colt and he digs me, what’s wrong with us having a few marvelous evenings together? Who is it going to hurt? There are no next-door neighbors who are going to laugh at the poor unsuspecting wife as she hangs out the wash.
His
wife is young and gorgeous and is roughing it at Malibu with a nurse for the baby and probably some big Hollywood celebrities as neighbors. What am I taking from her! She isn’t here, is she? Now . . . will you call him?”

“No. And even if he didn’t have a wife, I wouldn’t call him.”

“Why?”

January walked over to the window and rolled up the blinds. “Looks like snow again. Thank goodness last night’s stuff didn’t stick.”

“Why wouldn’t you call him even if he didn’t have a wife?” Linda demanded.

“Because . . . well . . . you don’t just go calling men. They should call you.”

“Oh, my God . . . I don’t believe it. You sound like something
out of a Priscilla Lane movie. Like Saturday night dates, and little gardenia corsages. Today women don’t have to sit around and wait for a man to call. Besides, Tom Colt isn’t just a man—he’s a superstar—and we’re doing a story on him.” Linda picked up the phone and dialed the Plaza. “I know eventually we’ll have to put that beast Sara Kurtz with him a few times, so she can catch his style . . . Hello . . . Oh, Mr. Tom Colt, please . . .”

“Why Sara Kurtz?” January asked.

“Because this is just about the most important story
Gloss
has ever done. And she is the best writer I’ve got . . . Hello . . . what? . . . Oh . . . Miss January Wayne calling! Yes . . . January . . . like the month.”

“Linda!”

“Hello, Mr. Colt . . . No, this isn’t January. It’s Linda Riggs . . . But January’s sitting right here beside me . . . Yes, we’re fine . . . Well, a little . . . Oh well, we both want to see you. . . . Who?
Hugh Robertson
. Honestly? . . . Oh, great. We’d adore it . . . Fine. Your place at seven . . . the tenth floor . . .” She scribbed down the suite number on a pad. “We’ll be there.” Linda hung up with a beautiful smile. “Hugh Robertson is coming up to his suite for drinks this afternoon. And we’re all to have dinner together. And Tom is sending
his
limousine for us.”

“Why did you call him Mr. Colt on the phone?” January asked.

“Isn’t that wild? But I suddenly got scared. He sounded so cold at first. But after two drinks tonight, it’ll be Tommy. And imagine having Hugh Robertson along as an added starter. I wonder what it would be like to make love to an astronaut.”

“Looks like you’re going to have your chance,” January said. “At least he’s divorced.”

“You
take Hugh . . . I want Tom.”

“Why are you dismissing Hugh?” January asked. “He’s a superstar in his own right. I mean he has made the cover of
Time
and
Newsweek.”

“Look, January, I am not a superstar groupie . . . in fact I’ve never balled a star, let alone a superstar. Keith got into
Caterpillar after
we broke up, and he’s still no star. He never
even got mentioned in the notices. So when I say I want Tom Colt, it’s because he has something special . . . I mean, he’d turn me on even if he were an out-of-work accountant. He’s so strong . . . so completely his own . . . Yet at times, there’s something gentle and melancholy about him. Haven’t you noticed it?”

“No. Unfortunately I got involved with Jack Daniels, and after that I couldn’t see anyone’s eyes. But I’ll look tonight.”

“No, tonight you look into Hugh Robertson’s eyes.
I’m
with Tom. Just think . . . tomorrow at this time, I’ll probably be having breakfast in bed with him at the Plaza.”

Fifteen

T
HEY ARRIVED
at the Plaza at five after seven, looking like two eager schoolgirls on an outing. When they walked into the lobby, January suddenly stood motionless. The place held so many memories. Linda pulled her toward the elevator. “Come on. Well be late.”

“Linda, I haven’t been here since—”

“January, this is not back-to-daddy time. This is now! Tom Colt . . . Hugh Robertson . . . Remember?” She dragged January into the elevator.

Hugh Robertson opened the door. January recognized him from his pictures. He introduced himself and invited them in. “Tom is on the phone in the bedroom talking to his agent in Munich about foreign sales. I’m supposed to make the drinks. I can’t ask what will you have because all we seem to have is Jack Daniels.”

Linda took a drink but January “passed.” She walked over to the window. It was unbelievable . . . Tom Colt in
this
suite. The suite Mike had kept on a year-round basis. Even the same table near the windows. She touched it lightly, almost expecting some kind of a vision to materialize. How many times she had sat there, watching him wheeling and dealing. Sometimes all the phones would ring at once. She turned away. It was spooky, because now all the phones were ringing at once and Tom Colt walked into the room and said, “To hell with them . . . let them ring . . . it’s Saturday and I don’t have to work.” Then he walked over to her and took her hands. “Hello, Princess Feel okay after last night?”

“Yes.” She suddenly felt self-conscious and off balance as she watched him cross the room to greet Linda.

They went to “21.” Tom remained reasonably sober. When he noticed January wasn’t drinking the bourbon he had ordered for her, he sent for a wine list. “White wine, I bet. Is that it?”

“But you said last night—” Linda began.

“This is tonight,” Tom said. “I say different things every night.”

It was a relaxed evening, but January suddenly found herself unable to direct any conversation to Tom. She weighed everything before she said it, then rephrased it in her mind, and then the moment had passed so she didn’t say it. She felt like an idiot. Linda was chattering so easily, telling them about how she had started at
Gloss
, about the miracle she had wrought. January tried to think of something to say. Why did she suddenly feel shy and look away whenever he looked at her? Maybe she should tell him she enjoyed his book. How should she phrase it: “Mr. Colt, I think . . .”
No
. . . “Tom, I adored your book . . .” No, that sounded inane. “Tom, your book has to make number one on the list . . .”—too presumptuous. Who was she to tell him how it would rate with the public? How about . . .

“Oh, Tom,” Linda said. “I must get you to autograph your book for me. It’s so sensational.”

(Well, that polished off the book as conversational opener.)

Tom was promising to get them each a copy at Doubleday’s. “They’re open at night. I’m glad you like it. Lawrence and Company tell me it makes
The New York Times
list in number six spot next week. Actually this book isn’t half as good as some of the others that bombed. But it’s commercial . . . and today that’s the name of the game.” Then, dismissing his book, he turned to Hugh and demanded to know what he was doing holed up in Westhampton. “Has to be a lady involved,” Tom said.

“It’s a very big lady,” Hugh said. “Mother Nature.”

“You mean the ecology thing?” Linda asked.

“No, I’m worried about dear old Mother’s body. She’s liable to fall apart in spots from shock. It’s the faults of our earth I’m interested in. The San Andreas is the best-known, what with all
the mystics predicting that California might sink under the ocean this year. I think Los Angeles is long overdue for an earthquake, but I don’t believe tidal waves will turn it into another Atlantis. It’s the other faults I’m interested in—we have so damn many in our earth. I’m especially interested in finding out whether any new ones have been created. So I’ve gotten a grant, and I’m trying to prove a few theories that in the end might make our tiny little world last a few years longer.”

“Well, if we don’t use the bomb or foul up the air, won’t the world just keep going?” Linda asked.

Hugh smiled. “Linda, the other night when I lay out on the dunes in my sleeping bag and—”

“You lie out on the dunes in February?” Linda asked.

“I have a one-bedroom house smack dab on the beach,” Hugh said. “But I don’t think I spend more than a few hours a day inside. I have my thermal underwear, my sleeping bag . . . I get myself nestled between a couple of dunes to protect me from the wind. Of course it’s much nicer in the summer, but the sky is fascinating in all seasons . . . kind of cuts you down to size. Especially when you realize that in the theory of the universe, our world is just one little cinder. Just think—there are millions of suns out there, maybe breeding the same kind of life. And when you look up there, you realize that there may be worlds fifty million years ahead of us.”

“I was in my second year at Miss Haddon’s when I first learned the stars were huge and could be other worlds,” January said. “Until then I had always thought of them as tiny, warm, comforting . . . God’s lights—” She paused. “I can’t remember who told me that, but I do recall the terrible shock I had when I learned the truth. I lived in constant terror that they might drop on us, crush us. When I told my father about it, he told me every star had its special spot. And that when people died they went on other stars to live.”