Once Is Not Enough (41 page)

Seventeen

S
HE DIDN’T SLEEP
all night. In some ways it was a more tormented night than the night she had learned Mike was married. That night she had just sat by the window in a stupor, unable to feel any distinct emotion other than a sense of loss. This sleepless night had been different. She had smoked an entire pack of cigarettes.
“It’s just for a few days
. . .
Maybe it’s for the best
. . .
It will give us both a chance to think.”
The words haunted her.
Think about what?
Think about ending it before it really started. How could she have been so stupid? Demanding that he love her . . . What was it he had said? He had lied about love many times, but with her it would be a heavy word. Of course—she had scared him off. You don’t go asking a man if he really loves you right off, not if you’re cool. But she wasn’t cool. She didn’t want to play games with Tom. If they had anything between them, it would be rough enough because of his marriage . . . let alone playing games. She wanted an honest relationship with him, she wanted to be able to tell him how she felt, how much she loved him. . . .

At nine o’clock she dragged herself to the office. She had toyed with the idea of calling in sick to avoid the confrontation with Linda. But Linda had to be faced . . . sooner or later. She decided to get it over with and went directly to Linda’s office.

To her amazement, Linda was smiling when she walked in. “Sit down. Have some coffee and give me the fabulous details.”

“Linda . . . about last night . . . I—”

“January, I’m not upset,” Linda said cheerfully. “At least,
not now. I must admit that I did contemplate various forms of suicide last night. But this morning I was back at my shrink’s, sitting out in front of his office, at seven-thirty, waiting for him to come and open shop. I made him give me twenty minutes, even though there was a hysterical menopausal lady waiting in the outer office. And I told him everything. And by the time I finished I was sobbing louder than the menopausal lady. Then he said, ‘Linda, I usually wait for you to find your own solutions. But for now, I will tell you that Tom Colt is not in love with you or January. For a man his age to have had so many women means he has to constantly prove something to himself. And for him to choose January definitely relates to her father.’ Then he explained how in taking you, Tom Colt is getting back at your father.”

“Wow,” January said softly. “Remind me never to get involved with a shrink.”

“You had one at that Clinique in Switzerland, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but we never talked about anything personal. I mean he would just talk to give me confidence that I would walk and get back into the world and be with my father again. But that was all. I mean, how can you sit there and tell your innermost thoughts to a strange man, even if he is a psychiatrist?”

“Dr. Galens is not a strange man. He’s a Freudian analyst, but he does believe in therapy for situational problems. Like me getting tossed out of bed for you. Later on, he’ll still deal with it in a Freudian way and prove how it all relates back to my past. You see, even with my nose job and all, inside there is still an ugly little girl screaming to get out. That’s why I need sex—to prove I’m attractive. And with you . . . everything relates to your father. Like even in the accident on the motorcycle. You got on the damn thing just to punish your father for going with Melba.”

“You mean you told him about me!”

“Yes. He said you had an Electra complex. That’s why you can’t dig David. He’s too young and handsome.”

“Linda, you didn’t tell him about that too!”

“Of course. He’s my shrink, and he not only has to know everything about me, but also about the people I associate with. And as you can see, he’s just great. You see, basically I’m a very
shallow person . . . Oh, don’t look shocked. I know I am. I have a superstar complex. Unfortunately, I can’t sing as well as Barbra Streisand. As an actress, I’m not exactly Glenda Jackson. And Ann-Margret doesn’t have to worry about me crowding her as a sex symbol. So how do I go about becoming a superstar? With
Gloss
magazine. Dr. Galens forced me to admit that my dedication to the magazine is not because I believe in it . . . but because I AM
Gloss
. And if
Gloss
makes it, so do I. I’m not a Democrat or a Republican. But in Seventy-two, no matter what the publisher says,
Gloss
will go all-out for the Democratic candidate, because I want to be part of the political picture. I don’t know whether it’s going to be Muskie, Lindsay, Humphrey, or Ted Kennedy. But nothing is going to stop me.”

Then she smiled. “But the hell with that. I pay Dr. Galens to put my head in order. Tell me about last night. Was it great?”

“We didn’t do anything. I mean . . . we just talked.”

“You what?”

“Because—Linda, I’d rather not talk about it.”

Linda nodded good-naturedly. “Don’t feel bad. He was probably too drunk.” Her voice changed and became all business. “Look, do you know how to work a tape recorder?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Take this.” She handed January a small compact machine. “I guess it’s obvious who is going to tour with Tom Colt. So each night, or each morning, or whatever . . . talk into it and tell about the tour. Tell everything as you see it. And from your tapes, Sara will write the story. Talk into the machine as if it were a diary. Don’t leave anything out—”

“Linda, I can’t.”

“I don’t mean your sex life. I just want you to tell
me
about that. Although from your track record, it could be a total disaster.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look what happened with David.”

“But I didn’t love him. I . . . I care about Tom Colt.”

Linda sighed. “Look, loving a guy, or caring about him, doesn’t necessarily mean you’re going to be great in the kip.
Some of the biggest courtesans in the world were lesbians, yet they made men go out of their minds. It takes finesse, not just love. And this isn’t just a man. This is Tom Colt—a legend in his own lifetime and all that jazz.”

“I’ve lived with a legend. And they’re human.”

“Oh, is that it? So that’s why you’ve fallen for him. Because your father has shown his cracks you’re looking for someone who is bigger and better. Your own private superman. Right?”

“Linda . . . know what? I think you’re over-analyzed.”

“Okay. But take this tape machine. And maybe in the end when we play them back, we’ll not only find out what Tom Colt is like . . . but maybe we’ll find the real January Wayne.”

She tried talking into the tape—about Tom . . . her first impressions of him . . . the cocktail party . . . his strength . . . his gentleness. But when she played it back, it sounded like a high school girl’s diary.

She spent a murderous day. Suppose Tom never called again. Suppose he decided he wanted out. Had she really bungled it? At four o’clock she left the office. Maybe if she tried to write about it, if she faced a typewriter and a blank piece of paper she might be able to write dispassionately of her meeting with Tom . . . and then read it off to the tape machine. She decided to walk home to clear her head. She tried to tell herself everything would be all right. But she kept hearing the words—
Perhaps it’s for the best. It will give us both time to think things over
.

“Think things over.” What did that mean? It had to mean that he wanted to pull out. Oh God, if only Mike were here, if only there was someone she could talk to . . .

She got home and checked with her message service. Nothing. Suddenly the room seemed to close in on her. Empty Coke bottles, littered ashtrays . . . Remnants of last night’s ordeal were strewn around the apartment. She began to clean up. Suddenly she felt she had to get out of that room. She had to talk to someone.

She rushed to the phone and called David. He answered on the second ring. “January, this is a nice surprise. It goes down with all of the big firsts in my life. This is the first time you’ve called me.”

“I . . . well . . . I’ve been working hard on a story, and I’m afraid I’m stumped. I need a man’s point of view. David . . . could you take me to dinner tonight? I need to talk things out with someone.”

“Oh, my poor angel . . . of all nights. I have a seven-thirty dinner date with a client. But look . . . I’m free until then. Want me to come up for a drink? It’s only five-thirty.”

“No, let me meet you somewhere. I’ve got to get out of here.”

“January . . . is anything wrong?”

“No, it’s just that I’ve been cooped up in the apartment writing.”

He laughed. “I’m very impressed. Look, I have to be somewhere on the East Side at seven-thirty. Could we meet at the Unicorn? That way it will give us more time.”

“Yes, David. I can be there in ten minutes.”

“Make it fifteen,” he laughed. “I just got home and I want to give my face a fast runover with the electric shaver.”

They sat in the Unicorn at a small table. David stared in amazement when she ordered a Jack Daniels. She hated the drink, but somehow it made her feel close to Tom.

“All right.” He smiled. “Now, tell me what’s the big hang-up with America’s newest and most beautiful writer.”

“Well, it’s a short story I’m trying my hand at. And I just realized I’m writing it all from the woman’s angle and I’ve got to get the man’s point of view.”

He nodded seriously. “Good thinking.” He looked at his watch. “Go ahead. Tell me about it.”

“Well, I have my heroine in love with a married man, a man much older than she is . . .”

“Oh, he’s got grandchildren and all that?”

“No, he has a baby . . . and a wife. No grandchildren.”

“How old is he?”

“In his late fifties.”

“Then you’re writing it wrong. A man in his late fifties should have grandchildren, not a baby. Make it grandchildren . . . more pathos already.”

“That’s not important. The crux of my story is the relationship between the man and the girl.”

“How old is the girl?”

She took a good swallow of the bourbon. “She’s . . . I haven’t really decided.”

“Make her around thirty-two. A man in his fifties rarely marries anyone younger. Otherwise it won’t work. And if he has a baby with the other woman . . . well, she has to be in her thirties, too.”

“Why couldn’t the girl be in her twenties?”

“Well, only if the man is an unmitigated louse. Then you could even make her fourteen. But if he has a wife and baby and falls in love with another woman—she has to be a woman, not a girl.”

“All right, suppose she is in her thirties, and they fall in love and she has a guilt feeling about the wife and baby . . . and refuses to go along with it for like a one-night stand. But she’s mad about him, and tells him she doesn’t expect to break up his marriage or anything like that, but if they have a relationship it has to be love . . .”

“So, what’s your problem?”

“Do you think she would be wrong in telling him that?”

He looked at his drink. ‘Why would she be wrong? Every girl says that, even if it’s a one-night stand.”

“I don’t mean it that way, David. I mean, what if they were together for several days . . . no sex . . . just thrown together . . . then separated. And when he came back, he told her he wanted her, and she said, ‘You’ll have to say you love me, and—’”

“Oh, no,” he groaned. “January, what are you writing for,
Screen Romances?
A girl knows better than to demand that a guy says he loves her.”

“She does?”

“Of course. That’s the quickest way to scare him off.”

“Okay. The girl in my story is kind of an idiot. And what’s more, she says it just before he goes off on a business trip. She tells him she won’t settle for less than love, and also that she’ll miss him the few days that he’s gone. And he says, ‘It’s just for a few days. Maybe it’s for the best. It will give us both a chance to think.’”

He was silent for a second. Then he smiled. “Beautiful!”

“What?”

“January, maybe you can really write at that. What a finish. I can see it. That’s your last line, followed by dot dot dot. And then you leave it to your reader. Does he . . . or doesn’t he come back!”

She took another sip of the bourbon. “As a reader, what would you think?”

He laughed as he waved for the check. “She’s blown it. She’ll never see him again.”

“Will everyone feel that way?”

He scribbled his name on the check and shook his head. “No, that’s why it’s great. Women will probably feel he will, but a man will understand. It’s the biggest cop-out line in the world. That ‘Give us both a chance to think’ bit.”

“You make it all seem so final,” she said.

He stood up and helped her with her coat.

“Well, honey, you’re the one who wrote it.”

Eighteen

T
HE FOLLOWING NIGHT
she accepted a date from Ned Crane, a dull but attractive young man she had met with David. He had called her several times, and she had always refused. But suddenly anything seemed preferable to another long, sleepless night. They went to Le Club, joined up with a group of his friends, and for a short time she almost welcomed the noise and frenzied activity. She sipped white wine, allowed herself to be pushed around the floor, and even tried to join in the conversation. By eleven o’clock, she suddenly felt drained. She fought to hide her yawns and wondered how she could break away. She was saved at eleven-thirty when someone suggested going over to Vera’s for backgammon. January said she didn’t know Vera and she didn’t play backgammon, and she finally convinced Ned that she would be perfectly safe taking a cab home.

She fell into bed at midnight and was so exhausted that she slept. She was still asleep when her phone service rang her at eight-thirty.

“Miss Wayne, I just came on duty and I notice you didn’t call in and get your messages last night.”

“Oh. Holy smoke. I was so tired . . . I even forgot to set the alarm. Thanks for calling. I’ve got to get up anyway.”

“Don’t you want your messages?”