The Love Machine (37 page)

Robin smiled. “I’m awful with names. Well, let’s all meet and kick this thing around. See if there’s a network show in it.”

They finished their drink and said good night in the lobby. Maggie watched Robin stride to the elevator.

She was silent as they drove away. In the darkness of the car Andy said, “Look, don’t be hurt because Robin forgot your name. That’s the way he is. Unless he’s banging a girl, he doesn’t know she’s alive.”

“Take me home, Andy.”

He drove silently down the drive. “Headache again?” His voice was cold.

“I’m tired.”

He was sullen as he stopped in front of her apartment. She didn’t even try to appease him. She jumped out of the car and ran into the building. She didn’t wait for the elevator, just ran up the two flights of stairs to her apartment. Once inside, she slammed the door and leaned against it. Tears ran down her face. Then her sobs came in dry choking gasps. Not only didn’t he remember her name—he didn’t remember that they had ever met before!

Maggie made an effort to study the script. She hadn’t looked at it since Robin’s arrival. Of course the first performance at the Players’ Club was still three weeks off—but she wanted to be good. After all, this was Eugene O’Neill, and Hy Mandel was coming from California to see her. Probably nothing would come of it. The director of an independent film company had seen her on
television and asked her if she was interested in a screen test. She said she was interested in becoming an actress—but no screen test. She couldn’t take time from her television show to fly to California. Perhaps it had been her lack of interest that had caused him to pursue it. He had called Hy Mandel, a top Hollywood agent, and put in a rave about her. And now he was actually coming to see her perform in a semiprofessional group.

Well, after tonight she’d have plenty of time to concentrate on O’Neill.

This was Robin Stone’s final night in town. He hadn’t seen Betty Lou again. The second night he had come up with a swimming teacher named Anna. Then there was a divorcee named Beatrice. Then he had chartered a boat for three days and gone off alone to fish. He had returned this afternoon and Andy told her they’d have dinner together. She wondered who’d be his date—Betty Lou? Anna? Or the divorcée?

Andy called just as she was finishing her makeup. He was in high spirits. “I’ve just had a long talk with Robin. Guess what! He doesn’t want to do the saucer thing as an
In Depth
. He wants to make it a special on its own—and he wants us to work on it. That’ll mean a trip to New York and all expenses paid!”

“I hope it doesn’t happen while I’m doing the O’Neill play.”

“Maggie, twenty-six is a little old for a girl to tackle Hollywood. You belong right here—with me.”

“Andy, I—” She had to tell him it was all over between them. That there never had really been anything.

But he cut in. “Listen, Maggie, don’t say anything to Robin about Amanda.”

“Amanda?”

“The girl whose picture I showed you in the newspaper the day before yesterday.”

“Oh, the one who died of leukemia?”

“Yes. She was a friend of Robin’s. He was on the boat when it happened and probably doesn’t know about it. There’s nothing he can do: the funeral was today, so why ruin his vacation?”

“But she was married to Ike Ryan,” Maggie said.

“Yes, but she and Robin were a big deal for a long time. He went with her for almost two years.”

Maggie thought about it as she finished her makeup. Two years—that meant Amanda had been his girl the night they had been together at the Bellevue. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at herself in the mirror. “All right, you fool. You’re acting like a twentysix-year-old virgin! Did you secretly nurture the idea that you had really been something special to Robin Stone?”

She parked her car at the Diplomat. She was aware that several men turned to stare as she walked through the lobby. Had they been staring like this all along? Had she been living in such a vacuum that she had never noticed? Suddenly she felt a current of excitement as she walked into the bar. Robin stood up and smiled. “Andy will be right back. He’s being a cruise director. I’m booked out on the noon flight tomorrow but he’s trying to switch me to a later plane so we can get in one last round of golf.” He signaled the waiter. “What’s it going to be? The usual Scotch?”

She nodded. “And who is your date tonight? The usual divorcée?” The strange inner excitement gave her voice just the right tone of flippancy.

He grinned. “You’re my date tonight. You and Andy. I just want to drink and relax with two good friends. Maybe even get smashed.”

Andy’s smile was victorious when he returned to the table. “You’re all set. Six o’clock tomorrow. Personally, I think you’re crazy going back. Ellie, my connection with National, says it’s fifteen degrees in New York. And Santa Claus is coming to town. All that slush and those Santas standing in front of department stores with tinny little bells, and no taxis—” He shook his head and shuddered.

Robin stared at his empty glass and signaled for another drink. “I’d like to stay, but I have a very special date Christmas night in Los Angeles.”

Robin had four martinis. Maggie toyed with her second Scotch and once again marveled at his capacity. But he had appeared perfectly sober that night in Philadelphia when he admitted he was very drunk. Drunk enough not even to remember her! They went to the Fontainebleau and caught Sammy Davis. She had a steak. Robin ignored food, and methodically drank vodka. Andy tried to keep up with him.

They wound up at a bar on the Seventy-ninth Street Causeway. The place was heavy with smoke. Robin had a bottle of vodka placed at the table. Maggie stuck to Scotch. It was too noisy to attempt conversation. Robin drank silently and Andy sloshed at his drink.

At one in the morning Andy passed out. Maggie and Robin struggled to help him into the car.

Robin said, “We’ll dump him at his place, then I’ll drop you.”

“But my car’s at the Diplomat,” she said.

“No sweat, take a cab there tomorrow. Put it on expenses—tell Andy he okayed it before he passed out.” She directed him to Andy’s building. Robin tried to lift Andy out of the car. “He’s a dead weight,” he groaned. “Come on, Maggie, I need some help.” Between them they half carried, half dragged Andy to his apartment. Robin dropped him on the bed and loosened his tie. Maggie stared at him with concern. She had never seen anyone pass out from drinking. Robin’s smile was reassuring. “Not even one of your flying saucers could wake him now. He’ll feel horrible in the morning—but he’ll live.”

They returned to the car. “I’m just a few blocks away, that long low building down there,” she said.

“How about going somewhere for a nightcap first?”

She directed him to a small bar nearby. The owner recognized Robin, placed the bottle of vodka on the bar and immediately launched into a discussion on professional football. Maggie sat with a watery Scotch and listened. It was incredible—Robin seemed absolutely sober.

They closed the bar and he drove her to her apartment. For a moment they sat in the darkened car.

“Do you have any vodka up there?” he asked.

“No, just Scotch.”

“Too bad. Good night, Maggie, it’s been great.”

“Good night, Robin.” She turned toward the door, then impulsively turned back and kissed him. Then she dashed out of the car and rushed to her apartment.

She felt exhilarated. If a man wanted to kiss a girl, he just upped and did it. This time, she had taken the initiative. She felt as if she had struck out for female emancipation. She had broken
one of the ironclad rules. From now on she was going to break a lot of rules. She sang as she undressed. She started to put on her nightgown, then tossed it aside. From now on she would sleep in the nude. She always wanted to, but it hadn’t seemed proper. She went to the bureau drawer and took out all the filmy nightgowns and put them in a shopping bag. Tomorrow the maid would have a bonanza. She slid into bed and turned off the lights. The cold sheets felt wonderful—she felt a sense of freedom she had never known. She wasn’t sleepy but she shut her eyes… .

Someone was banging on her door. She switched on the light and looked at the clock. Only four thirty. She must have just fallen asleep. The banging became more insistent. She threw on her robe and opened the door, leaving the safety chain intact. Robin Stone was standing there, brandishing a bottle of vodka.

“I’ve brought my own nightcap!” he said.

She let him in.

“It was in my room, gift of the management. But I didn’t feel like drinking alone.”

“Do you want some ice?”

“No, I’ll drink it neat.”

She handed him a glass and sat on the couch and watched him drink. Suddenly he turned to her. “I’m smashed.”

She smiled slightly. A pulse began to beat in her throat.

“Want me, baby?” he asked.

She got up from the couch and walked across the room. “I want you,” she said slowly. “But not tonight.”

“It’s got to be tonight—I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Put it off a day.”

“What will make tomorrow any different than today?”

“I want you to remember me!”

“Be good, baby, then I’ll never forget you.”

She turned and faced him. “Sorry, but I’ve already auditioned.”

His eyes were mildly curious. Suddenly he was at her side, and with a swift movement opened her robe. She grabbed at it, but he wrenched it off. He stood back, staring at her speculatively. She fought her embarrassment and met his gaze defiantly.

“Big beautiful tits,” he said. “I hate big tits.” With another quick unexpected move, he lifted her in his arms, carried her into
the bedroom and flung her on the bed. “I hate brunettes, too.” He took off his coat and loosened his tie. She was frightened suddenly. There was an odd expression in his eyes—as if he was looking at her without seeing her. She jumped up, but he pushed her down. “You’re not leaving me. I’m a big boy now.” He sounded strange, as if he was talking to himself. His eyes had the stare of a sightless man.

She watched him undress. She could make a dash for it, call for help—but she felt frozen with curiosity. Perhaps this was the way a victim of a murderer felt. Paralyzed—unable to resist. He stripped off his clothes and came to her. He sat on the bed and stared at her with strange expressionless eyes, and when he leaned over and kissed her gently, her fear evaporated and she responded eagerly. He stretched out beside her, their bodies close. She felt him sigh—his body relaxed. His mouth searched for her breasts. She clung to him—every resolve disappeared. She was fused with excitement and emotion, and when he took her, she reached a climax with him. And as he clung to her he shouted the same three words he had shouted in Philadelphia:
“Mutter!
Mother!
Mother!”

Then he fell off her. In the darkness she saw the same glazed look in his eyes. He caressed her cheek and smiled slightly. “I’m smashed, baby—but this was different, this is not like the others.”

“You said that to me once before in Philadelphia.”

“Did I?” He showed no reaction.

She snuggled against him. “Robin, has it been different with many girls?”

“No … yes … I don’t know.” He sounded drowsy. “Just don’t leave me.” He held her close. “Promise me that—never leave me.

She clung to him in the darkness. All right, she told herself. This is your chance. Throw him out of bed. Say “Goodbye, newsman.” But she couldn’t.

“I’ll never leave you, Robin, I swear.”

He was half asleep. “You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’ve never said that to anyone in my life. I promise. I love you.”

“No, you’ll leave me … to go …”

“To go where?” She had to know.

But he was asleep.

She saw the sky lighten and she lay there wide-awake. She stared at his handsome head. His cheek was warm against her breast. It didn’t seem possible. He was
here
—sleeping in her arms. He belonged to her! She was glad she had told him about Philadephia. He had asked her not to leave him then. And she had—perhaps he had been really hurt. That would explain tonight: in his drunken state he thought she was still married—of course! She felt she would explode with happiness.

She lay there half dozing, waking every few minutes to stare at the man in her arms to reassure herself that it had really happened. She saw the streaks of dawn—and marveled at the suddenness with which the sun claimed the sky, the sea gulls calling to one another, announcing a new day. It
was
a new day, a wonderful day! The sun filtered into the room; soon it would reach the man in her arms. She had forgotten to draw the drapes last night. She eased herself out of bed and tiptoed across the room. Soon the cool darkness covered the room. It was nine o’clock. She slipped into the bathroom. She wanted him to sleep off all the vodka. She wanted him to feel good when he awoke. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Good Lord—she must have been in a daze last night, she had never bothered to remove her makeup. She was glad she had wakened first. Her lipstick and mascara were smeared. She creamed her face, took a shower and put on light makeup. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and put on a blouse and slacks and went into the kitchen. Did he like eggs? Bacon? Maybe the smell of it would make him ill after all that vodka. She put the coffee on and opened a jar of tomato juice. That was supposed to be good for a hangover. She left the frying pan out—if he wanted eggs she’d make them. God, she’d do anything for him.