“But you told me you wanted to marry him. That Keith was—”
“Was important then,” Linda cut in. “Look, I’ll be twentynine next week. That’s a shitty age. Because when you say it no one believes you. Like, twenty-seven they’ll believe. But twenty-eight and twenty-nine both sound phony. And twenty-nine is over the hill to have not even had a bad marriage. But it isn’t over the hill when you’re editor-in-chief of Gloss. When you’re the youngest editor-in-chief in New York. So you don’t cry yourself to sleep when you realize Keith is gone forever.”
“But how do you know he is?”
“He’s shacked up with an older woman. I mean a really older woman. Would you believe Christina Spencer?” When she saw no sign of recognition on January’s face, she said, “She’s rich . . . Oh, not in Dee’s class, she never gets full pages in Vogue like Dee. This one’s the type that sometimes makes the centerfold of Women’s Wear, in one of those tiny pictures coming out of restaurant X, Y, or Z. But she’s got a few million—” Linda put out her cigarette. “God, these women with money. They buy themselves younger faces, younger boyfriends . . . A few days ago I saw a picture of Keith in a new Cardin jacket, escorting her to a Save the Children ball at the Plaza. There they were, right in the centerfold of Women’s Wear, only Keith was half cut off and Women’s Wear called him an unidentified escort.”
“But what would he want with her?” January asked.
“Christina Spencer’s been taking pieces of Broadway shows for the past ten years. This morning I read in the Times that she was a major backer of the new rock musical Caterpillar and that Keith Winters has been signed for a featured role.”
“Do you feel bad?” January asked softly.
Linda shook her head. “I haven’t really felt bad since Tony.”
“Tony?”
“Yes, he was the big one. When he split, I took five red dolls and two yellow jackets. I was twenty and thought our love was forever. Well, I survived. Both Tony and the pills. Then there were a lot of quickies. You know—you latch on to someone because he’s available, because you want to show Tony that you aren’t dying, you want to show yourself that it’s ‘Right on, baby . . . all the way.’ But it never becomes a meaningful relationship, because no matter how attractive he is, he isn’t Tony. Oh, it can last several months. Sometimes a year. But something’s wrong with it—maybe it’s because you generate a negative reaction because suddenly he stops calling. He even forgets he’s got three shirts at your place all nice and fresh from the laundry that you’ve paid for. I guess that was when I began picking people who could help the magazine. And most of the time, there isn’t even any sex involved. Like right now, a big advertising agency buys full-page color ads for their clients. The president of this agency, Jerry Moss, lives in Darien, has a lovely wife and two children and has been a closet queen all of his life. But a year ago he fell in love with Ted Grant, a male model I know. And I’m their beard. Sometimes I go out with the two of them. Naturally the wife thinks it’s business. I even went to their house in Darien on Christmas Eve with Ted as my date and sat with the wife in the living room making small talk for forty minutes while they did their number in the upstairs John. Then there’s a designer and his wife—they’re both gay. She has her girl, he has his boy, and I’m there to make it a fivesome—confusing to everyone but the principals involved. The designer has been a big help, and his wife gives lovely dinner parties and I go and meet all the best people. Yes . . . I love Gloss. It’s been good to me. I can hold its sales growth in my hand better than a penis that goes limp on me. Oh, that’s happened too. When they can’t get it up and the guy just lies there with his limp cock and looks at you like you’re the one who’s made him impotent. He lies there and defies you to make him hard. You get a bellyful of them. And then along comes a Keith and you begin to think maybe . . . and you con yourself that it can happen. But you know it can’t. And when he splits . . . you don’t really cry.”
“Well . . . I’m sorry.” January started for the door.
“Sit down, you idiot. I didn’t get you here to talk about my sex life. Or to torch over Keith. I’m resilient. And besides, I read my own Tarot cards the other day and they said something big was going to happen in 1971. So tonight when Leon gave me the news, I came home, took a lamb chop out of the freezer, and while I was waiting for it to thaw, I started reading the galleys of Tom Colt’s new novel.”
“Is it as good as some of his others?”
“Better. More commercial. His last few were too good. I mean he went literary. No one but the critics dug him. They didn’t sell at all. But this one is going to be a rocket. That’s why I’m a fatalist. If Leon had been here, we would have had sex and I wouldn’t have gotten to the galleys.”
“What do you want to do?” January asked. “Bid for serial rights?”
“Are you kidding? I hear Ladies’ Home Journal has bid up to twenty-five thousand just for two excerpts. We can’t get his book, but we can get him. Understand?”
“Linda, I’m tired and I haven’t packed yet. Let’s not play games. No, I don’t understand.”
Linda’s eyes narrowed. “Listen, you’ve been acting spooky lately. I’m telling you, you better make it with someone or the next thing you know . . . your skin will go.”
“That’s a fallacy, and—” January stopped.
“And what?” She looked at January. “Hey . . . you’re blushing. You’ve made it with David! Well, thank God! Are you on the pill? Is everything divine? No wonder you’re so thrilled about Palm Beach—four long days and nights of sand and love and—”
“Linda! We did it only once, and it was awful.”
Linda paused. “You mean he couldn’t get it up?”
“No . . . he . . . well . . . he was fine . . . I guess. It was awful for me.”
Linda laughed in relief. “It always is . . . the first time. For the woman that is . . . but never for the man. From what I hear, those bastards come like crazy the first time, even if they’re thirteen and do it in a dark hallway with the local ‘bad girl.’ She may not come—and they may come before they even get it into her bird—but goddamn it . . . they come! And that’s something Women’s Liberation is never going to be able to change. A virgin lady is all tight inside even if she’s been finger-fucked. A virgin lady hurts when the glorious prick enters. And a virgin lady—whether you call her Ms., Miss, or Mrs.—rarely comes until she’s properly stretched and oiled with passion. Thank God you’re no longer a virgin lady . . . Only it’s a shame you lost it with David.”
January nodded. “That’s the way I feel . . . I think maybe I should have waited.”
“Sure. I could have fixed you up with someone . . . even Leon.”
“Are you insane!”
“Never do it the first time with someone you care about. As I said, the first fuck is usually awful and you can lose the guy. Did you turn David off completely?”
“I don’t think so, really . . . He says he loves me and wants to marry me.”
Linda stared at her. “Then why are we sitting here having a wake for your lost hymen? You sneaky elegant ones—you’re always the wild women in the kip. Now look—congratulations and all that. But let’s get back to Tom Colt. From what I hear, he needs money and he’s consented to do the grand tour.”
“But he’s very rich,” January insisted. “I met him when I was little. He had a town house here with one of his wives and my father was buying one of his books for a picture. He’s written about fifteen big novels . . . he has plenty of money.”
“So did your father once. Maybe the dice got cold for Tom Colt too. He’s married . . . pays alimony to three ex-wives . . . gave the fourth a huge settlement. His new wife just presented him with a baby boy. Imagine, at his age . . . he’s never had kids till now. But as I said, his last few books didn’t do well. And when you live in a big home in Beverly Hills, with a Rolls, servants, a projection room—the works—you can’t have three non-selling books and still be solvent
. Not with all the upkeep he’s got. He also hasn’t had a picture sale since 1964—and that’s where the big money is, that and paperback. But on this new one he’s back to his old hard-hitting style. Claims he stopped writing for the critics and wants to reach the people again. There was that interview in Paris Review a few months ago where he said he doesn’t care if the artsy crowd says he sold out—he wants to be number one, and he wants a big picture sale, so . . .”
“So?”
“So he will need all the publicity he can get. And he may ask big money for an excerpt from his book. But he could come absolutely free if we offer to do a cover story on him.”
“And what’s to keep Helen Gurley Brown from getting the same idea, if she hasn’t already?” January asked.
“Oh, she probably has . . . but we have you!”
“Me?”
“You know Tom Colt.”
“Oh, Linda . . . I met him when I was about five years old. What do I do? Send him my baby pictures and say, ‘Guess who?’ and let’s get together for old time’s sake. Besides, you said, he lives in Beverly Hills.”
“If necessary, I’ll send you there. First class. Look, the book doesn’t come out until February or March. All you have to do is ask him for an interview . . . for Daddy’s sake.”
January stood up. “I’m tired, Linda. And I have to pack . . .”
“Okay. Have a marvelous time. And while you’re basking in the sun and making love, see if you can’t frame up a good letter to send to Tom Colt. Maybe you could even get Daddy to add a few lines . . .”
Twelve
MIKE WAS WAITING at the airport when the Grumman jet landed. He watched January come down the steps, with David at her elbow. She hadn’t spotted him yet, and for a brief moment he reveled in the pleasure of watching her unobserved. Each time he saw her, there was some almost imperceptible change. A new facet of beauty seemed to emerge. He approved of her casual “today” look. The wide slacks, floppy hat, and long straight hair. She looked like one of those new breed fashion models. And then she saw him, and raced toward him, shouting, “Daddy . . . oh, Daddy . . . I’m so glad to see you.” He smiled when he realized that in an emotional moment she always reverted to Daddy instead of Mike.
“I left Mario making drinks. I’m your chauffeur,” he explained as David sat in the back of the convertible, wedged in between the luggage.
“How many houseguests this time?” David asked.
“Maybe about eight or ten. But you lose count because she gives those lunches for thirty or forty every day. I go off for golf at nine and when I get back at four, half of them are still here. And then at seven the cocktail group arrives. But Dee has decided that the Thanksgiving dinner itself will be an intimate affair. Just two tables of twelve. Meanwhile let’s hope we stay lucky with the sun. You both could use some color.”
The good weather held throughout the weekend. There were always two or three backgammon games going at poolside. Hot and cold buffets were wheeled out by an endless stream of servants. Mike and January sat together; soaked up the sun; walked on the beach and swam together. And when she played tennis with David, Mike watched with amazement as she outwitted him on every volley. Where had she learned to play so well? And then like flash bulbs . . . the memory of all those tennis tournaments he had never attended flashed through his mind. All those scrawled little notes he had received in Los Angeles, Madrid, or London! “Am playing for the Junior Cup. Wish you could come.” “Am representing Miss Haddon’s in the Eastern division. Wish you could be here.” “I won.” “Am sending cup to the Plaza.” “I won.” “Sending cup to Plaza.” “I came in second.” “I won.” “Did you get trophy? This one is real silver.” “I won.” “I won!”
God, how little of himself he had actually given her. And suddenly he found himself wondering what had become of all those cups and trophies. She had never asked him about them. They were probably in some storage place along with the typewriters, the piano, the filing cabinets, and the office furniture he had collected on all those “Comebacks.” And he didn’t even know where the storage slips were.
How much of her childhood he had missed. And how much of her teens she had missed. And now she was hitting her best years and he had to miss them too. He was married . . . only this was one flop he couldn’t just close the office and walk away from.
And suddenly as he sat watching his daughter playing tennis, he was hit with panic at the thought that had just slipped through his subconscious. He had thought of his marriage as a flop. Yet actually nothing had changed. Dee still smiled at him across the table each night. She still slipped her arm through his when they greeted guests. He still went to bed with her twice a week . . . There! That was it! He had just touched the exposed nerve. He went to bed with her. Lately, he had the feeling that she was accommodating him, putting up with him. She wasn’t “acting” anymore. When was the last time she had moaned and clung to him and told him how wonderful it all was? But maybe it was his fault. Maybe because he felt he was accommodating her . . . she sensed it. Things like that can be felt. Yes, it was his fault. The poor broad probably resented that he spent so much time at the club. God knows he certainly wasn’t paying much attention to her. Golf all morning, gin games in the afternoon (he had found a few good pigeons) . . . Sure, he got back only in time to join her in the martini bit. And the evenings were always filled with dinner parties.
Well, from now on things were going to be different. The moment January left, he’d give Dee the old razzle-dazzle. And he’d cut down on the gin games every afternoon. Nothing wrong in spending a few afternoons with her. But he wouldn’t be with her. He’d be hanging around having lunch with all those friends of hers, watching them play backgammon. No, he’d stick to the golf club. Besides, so far he had won close to five thousand bucks at gin. He had opened a savings account. Five thousand was a joke, of course. But it was his money, money he had earned, or won. What the hell, when you earn it in gin, you shoot the same kind of adrenalin you shoot when you earn it anywhere else! But he had to pay more attention to her in the kip. Maybe he was being too perfunctory about it. Well, Sunday, after January and all the houseguests left, the new romantic regime would begin. Suddenly he felt better. It was necessary to take stock of things like this every now and then. Here he had been sitting around thinking something was missing in their relationship when actually he was the one at fault. Hell, she had the same crowds hanging around at Marbella, and she’d have them in Greece next August—and wherever else she decided to go. In London there were never fewer than twenty for cocktails, at the Dorchester. This was her way of life. He knew it when he went into it. He was supposed to supply the romance. That’s what he had done when they first met, and she had flipped out for him, and that’s what he would do now—starting Sunday.
But for the next few days he concentrated on enjoying his daughter. He watched her turn golden brown, watched the marvelous body in the bikini (Dee was so goddamned white), the way her hair swung, the way Dee’s was always in place. Her crazy denims—Dee’s perfect white sharkskin pants. The little silver rings on all of her fingers—Dee’s David Webb jewelry. They were such wild opposites. Dee was a beauty. Yet he was glad his daughter looked the way she did.
There was something so clean and sparkling about her. And he liked her keen interest in everything. Vital interest in Gloss magazine. Casual interest in David. “Pretended” interest in Dee’s small talk about the current romantic affiliations of some of the local socialites. The names all had to be a maze to her, but she listened attentively.
It was hard for him to evaluate David. He was always there . . . smiling . . . the perfect escort. You could tell he and Dee were first cousins. They were cut from the same cloth. The aristocracy was all there. The excellent manners—the way he tirelessly played backgammon with Dee’s guests, his proper clothes for every occasion. His tennis shorts were just the right cut, his sweater was casual and right, even his perspiration was classy, just a little on the brow,
the better to make his suntan glisten. But wasn’t that what he wanted for January? Long before he had ever met Dee, he knew he wanted something better than a show business life for his daughter. That’s why he had chosen the fancy school in Connecticut. That had been on advice from his business manager: “She’ll get to know classy girls, meet their brothers—that’s how it all happens. That’s what good schools are for.”
Well, the only thing she had gotten out of that school was a lot of tennis trophies and a job on a magazine. Of all the girls there, she had to tie up with Linda, a real barracuda, the kind that leaped in and out of a different bed each night. But then, wasn’t that part of the new permissiveness of today? He stared at his daughter on the tennis court. Had she? Nah! Not that he expected her to remain a virgin forever. But she was the kind who would probably do it with a guy after they got engaged. Or maybe just before . . . just to make sure. Right now she was all involved with the magazine. But like Dee said, she’d probably play around with being the career girl for a short time and then marry David.
He wondered why he felt depressed. This was what he wanted for her, wasn’t it? But did he want her to turn into a young Dee? Well, why not? It would be a hell of a lot better than having her go the route some of the other kids went. Moving in with some guy, going funky and East Village. Or suppose she had been more like him—intent on becoming a superstar. Then what? Suppose she made it. She’d catch herself a few hot years on Cloud Nine, but the eventual end for any superstar, including himself, was loneliness and defeat. If a man had money, he lasted a little longer. But for a woman, even with money, the loneliness came quicker. Age was a woman’s defeat. Even a legend like Karla—what kind of a life did she have? Still with the ballet exercises! But without them, where else would she have to go each day? And most of the superstars weren’t lucky enough to be born stupid like Karla, content to go walking and practicing ballet. The more emotional ones—they were the bleeders, sitting home alone in a mansion in Beverly Hills, taking sleeping pills or booze. Anything to get rid of the night so they could wake up to an endless day that stretched before them, to meals served on a tray while they sat alone watching daytime soap operas on television. No, it was turning out right for January. She had learned all the basic things at Miss Haddon’s—and now he had supplied the rest. A place like this to come to—sun in the winter, snow in the summer. Anything she wanted.