The Love Machine (18 page)

“Take me home,” she said tightly.

“Oh, Jesus. Doll, I’m sorry.” He took her hand and looked at her intently. He placed her hand on his chest. “I go for you, Mandy—this is the first time I’ve ever said it and meant it. I really go for you. And it could be for keeps.”

She saw the large blue eyes pleading. The open, homely face was vulnerable and she knew he was telling the truth. Tonight on the air he had intentionally sung “Mandy”—the song Al Jolson made famous. When he got to the line “Mandy, there’s a minister handy,” he had turned and looked right at her in the wings. The camera crew had gone crazy trying to change shots. She didn’t want to hurt him, she
knew
what hurt was—she had been living with it for so long. She patted his hand. “Look, Chris, you’re going to be a big star, you’ve got everything good ahead for you. You’ll have millions of girls, nice girls, beautiful girls—”

“I don’t want
them
. I want
you.”

“Chris, we’ve only been out together a few times. You couldn’t love me, you don’t
know
me.”

“Doll, I’ve knocked around plenty. I’ve seen the dregs—low-down nightclubs, low-down girls. All my life I wanted something better. That’s why I stayed single-o this long. I’d grab off a hooker when I needed it, but I never made no emotional attachment. See what I mean? Then, wham! Along comes this show—and you! All in one package. For the first time I’m in the big leagues, with a hit show and a lady at my side. Oh, I’ve seen ladies before—classy broads at benefits I’ve played—so I can tell the real McCoy. Only all the ones I’ve seen have been buck-toothed and flat-chested. But you’re the whole package—and I want you.”

She blanched, thinking of her small breasts. But what difference did it make? He’d never know. She looked at him with candor. “I like you, Chris. But I’m not in love with you.”

“That’s enough for me,” he said. “I’m willing to wait. But just promise me one thing: give me a chance. Go out with me, date me, and eventually you’ll want to go to bed with me. And if it works out—it’ll be for keeps. Maybe it’ll even be marriage.” He stopped her objections. “Wait. Just wait—that’s all I ask.”

She knew what he was feeling. And if letting him hope made him happy, what harm would it do? At least tonight he would go to bed with a dream. Eventually he would be a big star—and the bigger he got, the less she would matter.

She kissed him good night outside her apartment. When she let herself in, she found a telegram had been slipped under the door. She picked it up and opened it lethargically—probably an invitation to a new discothèque:

ARRIVING AT IDLEWILD AT
2
A.M. YOUR TIME, TWA FLIGHT
3.
NOW IF YOU ARE REALLY MY GIRL, YOU’LL HIRE A CAR AND BE IN IT.     ROBIN
.

She looked at her watch. Eleven forty-five. Oh, thank God, she could make it! She rushed to the phone and ordered a car. She’d never be able to figure Robin. He wouldn’t waste a dime to call and say goodbye, yet he’d send a wire to announce his arrival. She would have time to change her makeup, her dress—she had to look her best when she met him. She was singing as she rubbed the cream on her face. And for the first time in four weeks and four days she wasn’t the least bit tired.

She stood at Gate 7. The plane had just arrived. Passengers began to disembark. She saw Robin immediately. He was different from other men. Other men walked. Robin sort of sailed through people. He dropped his attaché case and threw his arms around her. “How’s the new television star?” he asked.

“Thrilled to see the world’s greatest newsman.” She matched his tone and vowed not to mention the baroness.

He put his arm around her and walked to the car.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “I thought you were in London. But your wire came from Los Angeles.”

“I took the polar route and stopped off in Los Angeles for a few days.” He reached into his pocket and handed her a small package. “A gift for you—I forgot to declare it. I’m a smuggler.”

In the car, she snuggled against him and opened the package. It was a beautiful antique Wedgwood cigarette box. She knew it
was expensive, but she would have preferred something half the price and more personal.

“I hope you still smoke.” He laughed, reached for a crumpled pack of English cigarettes and offered her one.

She inhaled and almost choked on the strong tobacco. He took it away from her and kissed her lips lightly. “Miss me?”

“Well—you took off leaving me with two steaks. I didn’t know whether to miss you or kill you.”

He stared at her absently, as if trying to recall.

“I mean, you could have called me and said, ‘Hey, baby, take the steaks out of the oven, I can’t make it.’ “

“Didn’t I?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

“Forget it. The cat had a marvelous meal.”

“But you knew I had gone.” He seemed vaguely troubled.

“Well, I heard you announce it on the air. But, Robin, you were gone for so long.”

He put his arm around her and drew her closer. “Well, now I’m back. Tired?”

She clung to him. “Never for you.”

His kiss was long and deep. His eyes were gentle and he touched her face with his hands almost like a blind man trying to see. “My lovely Amanda. You are beautiful.”

“Robin, while you were away I went out with Christie Lane.” He appeared to be trying to place the name. She added, “The star of the show.”

“Oh. Yes, I hear he’s catching on big. I’ve kept up with the ratings.”

“My name was coupled with his in the columns.”

“Did it raise your modeling fee?” His grin was friendly.

She shrugged. “It’s quite high.”

“Good.”

She looked at him. “People—well, some people—think I’m his girl. I wanted you to know it’s just talk. I didn’t want it to bother you.”

“Why should it bother me?”

“I thought it might… .”

He lit another cigarette.

“I guess I was foolish to worry,” she said.

He laughed. “You’re a celebrity. Celebrities get their names in columns.”

“And you don’t mind that I went out with Chris?”

“Why should I? I wasn’t exactly a hermit in London.”

She pulled away from him and turned toward the window. She stared at the darkness of the night and the cars flashing by in the opposite lane. He reached out and took her hand. She pulled it away.

“Robin, are you trying to hurt me?”

“No.” He was looking at her honestly. “Nor are you trying to hurt me.”

“But I’m your girl-aren’t I?”

“You bet you are.” (That damned grin of his.) “But, Amanda, I never said I wanted you on a leash.”

“You mean you don’t mind that I went out with him, or you wouldn’t mind if I continued to see him?”

“Of course I wouldn’t mind.”

“What if I slept with him?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Would you care?”

“If you told me—yes, I would care.”

“You mean you’d want me to hide it.”

“All right, Amanda: are you sleeping with him?”

“No. But he wants me to. He even talks about marriage.”

“Suit yourself… .”

“Robin, tell the driver to stop at my place first.”

“Why?”

“I want to go home—alone.”

He pulled her back into his arms. “Baby—you came all the way out to Idlewild to meet me. Why the switch?”

“Robin, don’t you see that—” Suddenly he kissed her and she stopped trying to explain.

They spent the night together, locked in one another’s arms. There was no more talk about Christie Lane. It was as if Robin had never been away—it was like it had been in the beginning.
Like it was every time they were alone, in bed. Urgent, exciting and tender.

Later as they lay together smoking and relaxed in a peaceful closeness, she said, “Who is the baroness?” It had just slipped out. She regretted it instantly.

His expression didn’t change. “A broad.”

“Now, Robin, I read about her, she’s a baroness.”

“Oh, the title is real, but she’s a broad. One of those kids spawned during the war. At twelve she was doing it with GIs for candy bars. Then she married the baron—he was a fag, also a voyeur. Ericka knew all the tricks. She’s not a bad girl, she’s got a bona fide title, money for the first time and she likes to swing. I met her at an orgy.”

She sat up in the darkness. “An orgy!”

“They’re very large in London. I hear they’re catching on in Los Angeles, too.”

“And you like that sort of thing?”

He grinned. “What’s not to like about it? It’s better than television over there. They only have two channels, you know.”

“Robin, be serious.”

“I am. Did you ever meet Ike Ryan?”

The name was familiar. Suddenly she recalled. He was an American film producer who was based in Italy and France, and was making quite a name for himself.

“You’ll like him. We met in London. I was feeling rotten. The weather was getting me down and he invited me to one of his parties. There were three Italian movie actresses, the baroness, Ike and me. It was ladies’ night in a Turkish bath.”

“And you participated?”

“Sure, why not? First I watched the girls with each other, then Ike and I lay back and the harem took care of us. Ericka was the best—trust the Germans to perfect any art—so I carted her off for myself. But Ike’s a real good guy. He’s going to L.A. to set up his own company. He’ll give that town a shot in the arm.”

“With orgies?”

“No, with pictures. He’s a gambler, and he has great style. He’s also good-looking. Women like him.”

“I think he’s disgusting.”

“Why?”

“Because, I mean, to do things like that!”

He laughed. “Am I disgusting?”

“No. I think you’re like a bad little boy who feels he’s being very daring. But this Ike Ryan, he originated it—”

“Baby, it started way back with the Greeks.”

“And you’d want me to meet a man like that? Be seen out in public with him? If I were seen with him and you, everyone would think I was that kind of a girl. Would you want that?”

He turned and looked at her very seriously. “No, Amanda, I promise you: I’ll never take you out with Ike Ryan.”

Then he had gotten up and taken a sleeping pill along with a beer. “I’m still on European time. I’m overtired. Want one?”

“No, I have to be up at ten.”

He got back into bed and took her in his arms. “My beautiful Amanda, it’s good to be with you. Don’t wake me when you leave in the morning. I have a busy afternoon ahead—mail piled up, appointments—I need some sleep.”

In the morning she dressed and left his apartment quickly. She was tired that day and not very good in her work. And her hair was coming out again. She called Nick and asked him for a dermatologist. He laughed. “You’re molting, darling. It’s just nerves.”

“It probably is,” she said. “Robin’s back.”

“Call your doctor and get a B-12 shot or something—and for God’s sake, don’t spend every night making love.”

“I don’t have a doctor.” She laughed. “I’ve never needed one. Do you know someone good?”

“Amanda my love, you are so young and healthy it’s disgusting. I have six doctors. One for throat and ears, one for my prostate, one for my slipped disc. Want my advice, stay away from them all. Get a good night’s sleep, and once that
Life
story comes out all your worries will be over.”

He was probably right. She was finished with her work by three. She went home to take a nap. Slugger jumped into bed and curled up in her arms. She kissed his tawny head. “It’s not night, darling. We’re just resting.” He purred gravelly in contentment. “You’re the only male who’s reliable, darling, but Robin’s back
and when he comes tonight, don’t hate me for exiling you into the living room.”

She knew she had slept. She sat up with a jolt. It was dark—she tried to orient herself. What day was it? Suddenly she remembered. She turned on the light. Nine o’clock. Slugger jumped off of the bed and growled, demanding dinner.

Nine o’clock! And Robin hadn’t called! She checked with her service. No calls. She dialed Robin. After ten empty rings she clicked the receiver. She didn’t sleep the rest of the night. Slugger, sensing something was wrong, nestled close to her.

The following day she waited until six, then she called him. After all, he might be ill. He answered, and he was fine. It was just all the desk work that had piled up. He said he would call tomorrow.

The following morning she caught his name as she scanned one of the columns: