She asked Dr. Clifford for more sleeping pills, and he suggested that she start trying to sleep without them. “If you were a widow or an older woman, who was alone in the world, I might give sleeping pills for a longer time to help you through the loneliness. But you are a young beautiful girl with a fiancé who adores you, and you must start trying to function.”
She spent a sleepless night, and then in desperation, when her head ached and her throat felt thick, she went to Dee’s medicine chest for an aspirin and stumbled into the Comstock Lode. Bottle after bottle of sleeping pills. None of them had Dr. Clifford’s name on the label. Evidently Dee had a “pill doctor” all her own. There were dieting pills (she recognized them because Linda occasionally used them), two bottles of yellow sleeping pills, three bottles of Seconal, a bottle of Tuinals, and several boxes of the French suppositories. She quickly took them all from the cabinet and hid them.
The dream came every night now. Sometimes it was just the eyes. They seemed to be trying to comfort her, trying to give her hope, telling her there was a wonderful world waiting for her. . . . But when she woke up there was just the loneliness of the dark room and the empty bed. Then she would call Tom . . . and talk to him until her speech grew thick and she fell back to sleep.
It was in the middle of the third week that the pills stopped working. She would fall asleep immediately . . . and wake up a few hours later. And then one night she woke up and realized she hadn’t had the dream. Sleep had just been a few dark hours of nothingness. She went to the closet where she kept the pills and took another Seconal and tried a yellow one with it. She felt groggy but she couldn’t sleep. She called Tom. It took several rings before he answered. He sounded groggy.
“January, for God’s sake . . . it’s two in the morning.”
“Well, at least I didn’t get you in the middle of your writing.”
“No, but you woke me. Honey, I’m way behind. The studio is on my back. I’ve got to finish this thing.”
“Tom . . . I’ll be finished with everything in a few days. Then I’ll be back.”
There was a slight pause. Then he said. “Look, I think it’s best if you wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“Wait until I finish the treatment. If you come out here, you can’t move in with me now . . .”
“Why not?”
“For God’s sake, haven’t you been reading the newspapers?”
“No.”
“You’ve been plastered all over them. That ten million bucks turned you into an instant celebrity.”
“You sound like Linda. She . . . she . . . she keeps saying . . . I’m—” She stopped. Her tongue was getting thick and she couldn’t remember what she was trying to say.
“January, have you taken anything?”
“Sleeping pills.”
“How many?”
“Just two.”
“Well, go to sleep. Look, I’ll be through with the script soon. Then we’ll talk it over.”
She fell asleep with the phone in her hand. And when Sadie woke her the next day at noon, she couldn’t remember any of the conversation. But she had the feeling that something hadn’t gone quite right.
A few days later, she invited Linda up for dinner. The room service was excellent. Sadie had chilled a bottle of Dee’s best wine. But something in their old relationship was missing. Linda had let her hair grow past her shoulders, picked at her food, and was wearing a body stocking that made her look thinner than usual. “I want to be bone thin,” she said. “That’s my new image. How do you like my glasses?”
“They’re great. But I didn’t know you needed them.”
“I always wore contact lenses. But I like this look better. I’m dating Benjamin James now.” She waited for January’s reaction. When there was none, she said, “Look, darling. He’s not exactly Tom Colt. But he’s won a lot of minor prizes. Actually, he’s considered too literary to ever really make it. His last book of poems only sold nine hundred copies. But there’s a real ‘In’ group that consider him to be a genius. Besides, he’s very good for me right now.”
“Linda, don’t you ever want a permanent man?”
“Not anymore. When I saw your pictures in the papers—” She paused and looked around the room. “When I look at this layout, it only proves my point. There’s only two ways to make it. With money . . . or fame. If you’ve got either of those things, then you can have any man you want. And when I’m famous I won’t really need a permanent man.”
“Why not?”
“Because when I make it, there’s going to be room for only one superstar in my setup . . . me. Until then, there has to be the Benjamins who can help. But once I get there, then I’ll take no more shit from any man. That’s the way I want to live—not being part of a man, but being the Linda Riggs. And that’s why I wash Benjamin’s socks and cook for him—because he’s bright and he’s in with a lot of cerebral people. I need him for now. Until the convention. In fact I’ll start working for my candidate in September. Then I’ll go all out.”
“For whom?”
“Muskie. Benjamin says he can’t lose.” Then, almost as an afterthought, Linda said, “Now, what’s happening with you and Tom?”
“He’s finishing his screen treatment.”
“You’re going back then, I take it.”
“No.”
“Don’t tell me it’s over. But then you don’t really need him now.”
“It’s not over. And I need him more than ever,” January said. “But with all the publicity I’ve gotten . . . well, Tom feels I’m too well known to . . . well . . . to just arrive and move in with him.”
“Well, go out there and rent a big house. A mansion. Good Lord, you can do anything you want now. Hire a press agent, get yourself invited to all the ‘A’ parties. Give a few yourself. Now that you’ve got ten million dollars maybe he’ll be a little more flexible about divorce.”
“Divorce?”
“Look, January, let’s face it. You’re a born pussycat. You need a man, and what’s more, deep down you want it to be all nice and legal. You’ve been trying to go along with this living together stuff. But I can tell, it isn’t sitting right. You told me way back that he was writing this screen treatment to protect his percentage deal, to pay for the co-op. In other words, just for the money. Well, he doesn’t have to worry about that now. You can buy the apartment for him. And if you want to really be the generous lady of all time, you can pay his wife such a big settlement that she’ll hand him and the child over to you on a silver platter. And if he’s really freaky about playing Daddy, you can offer to have your own baby with him. I mean, you’re the type who wants all that, aren’t you?”
“I want to be married. Yes, I really do. And I could give Tom a baby. I could . . . why not? Linda, you’re right. I’m going to talk to him about it tonight.”
Linda picked up her bag and stared at the pictures on the piano. “Did Dee really know all of these people?”
“Yes.”
“See. It’s just as I said. With money or fame, you can own the world.”
January smiled. “I don’t want the world. I just want to feel there’s a reason to get up each day.”
She thought about it when Linda had gone. She hadn’t slept well the night before. She had waited for the dream. But it hadn’t come. She had awakened feeling desolate, almost as if she had suffered some personal rejection. Lately the dreams were more real than the thoughts she had when she was awake. The beautiful stranger with the blue eyes was tender and compassionate. She could never remember whether they ever spoke . . . or touched . . . she just knew he was there when she went to sleep. Lately she had found herself lying down in the afternoon and trying to drift off. But Dr. Clifford was right. She had to face reality. Tom was real. Tom was working in Bungalow Five, working on that screen treatment just to buy their apartment. She could be furnishing it now, doing something. She’d have that reason to get up each day!
She picked up the phone
and started to dial. Then she remembered the time difference. It was eleven o’clock—eight o’clock in Los Angeles. Tom would just be settling down for his evening’s work. He always worked from eight until eleven. That meant three hours to wait. . . .
She tried to watch television. She switched from Johnny to Merv to Dick. To a late movie. But nothing held her attention. She undressed and took a bath. That took time. Then she stretched out on the bed. She knew she had fallen asleep, because she was aware that she was dreaming. But it wasn’t “the dream.” It was a nightmare. There was water and moonlight. And then she saw a plane going down. Mike’s plane. It was spinning. Down . . . down . . . down . . . until it disappeared into the silvery path the moon spread on the ocean. She felt panic, as if she were falling too. And then she felt some force lift her and she was safe. Then she saw the blue eyes. He was walking to her from a distance. She tried desperately to see his face. It was in the shadows, but somehow she knew it was a beautiful face. . . .
“Do you really want to come to me?” he whispered. And before she could answer, he disappeared, and she woke up.
The dream had been too real. She looked around the bedroom, half expecting to find him standing there. Whoever he was—he was the most beautiful man in the world. And yet she had never seen his face. It was something she just sensed. But this was ridiculous. He didn’t exist. He was a man she had created in her dreams. Maybe she was losing her mind. Wasn’t this the way it happened? People started seeing visions, hearing sounds that weren’t there. She was really frightened. Because she could still hear his voice . . . and there was a jangling noise in the darkness.
It took her a moment to realize the jangling noise was the phone. A very real sound. And she had awakened because it was ringing. In the darkness, the luminous dial of the radio clock said one fifty-five. Who would be calling her at that hour! Except . . . Tom!
She grabbed the phone, and when she heard his voice she wasn’t at all surprised. Just elated. She needed him more than ever right now. She needed the reassurance of a real man, not a fantasy man.
“Oh, Tom, I’m so glad you called. I was going to call you . . . as soon as you finished writing for the night.”
He laughed. “How come this new burst of consideration?”
She groped for her cigarettes in the darkness. “I don’t understand.”
“January, for the past three weeks you’ve called me at the rate of twenty times a day, at hours ranging from nine A.M. my time straight through till five A.M.—and now this sudden curfew.”
“Oh, Tom, I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized. . . . It’s just that whenever I’m unhappy or lost I reach out for you. Tom, I can’t stand it. I’m coming out. Tomorrow.”
“Don’t bother, January. All you have to do is cross the street.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m at the Plaza. I just got in.”
“Tom!” She sat up in bed and switched on the light. “Oh, Tom, I’ll throw on some slacks and come right over.”
“Baby, hold it! I’m beat. Besides, I have a nine o’clock meeting tomorrow morning at my publisher’s.”
“Well, when do I see you? I can’t wait!”
“Lunch.”
“Lunch? Oh, Tom! Who needs lunch? I want to be alone with you. I want—”
“Honey, my lawyer is meeting me at the publisher’s. We’ll be working out details on the contract for the next book. After that I’ll need to relax and have a few drinks. So let’s make it at Toots Shor’s. Say . . . twelve-thirty?”
“Tom . . .” Her voice was low. “I want to see you now. I can’t bear the idea that you’re just across the street. Please. Let me come over.”
He sighed. “Baby, do you realize you are talking to a fifty-eight-year-old man who feels the jet lag and needs his sleep?”
“Fifty-seven,” she said.
“Fifty-eight. I had a birthday while you were gone.”
“Oh, Tom . . . You should have told me.”
He laughed. “That’s hardly the thing I feel like advertising. See you tomorrow, baby. Twelve-thirty. And, January . . . For God’s sake, don’t bring a birthday cake . . .”
He was standing wedged in at the bar when she walked into Toots Shor’s. He had already met a few old friends and was buying them drinks. He held out his arms when he saw her, and she snuggled into them as he forced a space for her at the crowded bar. He made the introductions all around, then grinned as he looked at her. “Okay, boys. I’m out of circulation from here on.” He kissed her gently on the cheek. “White wine?”
“No. Whatever you’re having.”
“Jack Daniels for the lady. Heavy on the soda.”
“Tom, you look wonderful. All tanned and—”
“I finally finished the script. That is, the treatment. And spent the last few days at my producer’s pool learning that the ending has to be changed.”
“Tom! You can’t change the end—”
“If I don’t, they’ll assign someone else who will.”
“You mean you have no control?”
“None. Once I take their money for the book, the book belongs to them. And once I take their money to write a screenplay, that means I agree to write a screenplay that will please them.”
“What would happen if you refused?”
“Well, for one thing, they wouldn’t pay me. And then they’d put on a guy who would do exactly what they wanted.” He swallowed the rest of his drink and said, “But don’t look so sad. That’s par for the course. I knew what I was getting into when I signed to do it. The only thing I didn’t know . . . was that it would hurt so much.” Then he signaled the waiter and motioned he was ready to sit down.
She waited until they were at their table and he had ordered another drink. Then she said, “Walk away from it, Tom. Let someone else do it. It’s not worth all the pain.”
He shook his head. “I can’t now. At least this way I’ll have some control. And parts of it are great. And if I have to compromise, at least I want to be there to make sure that the compromise works.”
“But you only did the screen treatment because it would pay for the apartment in New York and—”
“I did it because I have a piece of the profits. Remember? And I’m there to protect my book.”
“But you also said it would pay for the apartment. And now you don’t have to worry about that or . . . I mean . . . Well . . .”
He reached out and took her hand. “January, I canceled the apartment.”
“What!”
“Look, I’ve done a lot of thinking while we’ve been apart. I’ve also gotten a lot of work done while you’ve been gone. And I realize I can never really write if I live with you.”
“Tom . . . don’t say that!”
The waiter placed the menus in front of them. Tom studied his. She wanted to scream! How could he look at food? Or think of anything when their life together was at stake?
“Try the scallops,” he told her. “They’re real tiny—the kind you like.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“Two hamburgers,” he told the waiter. “And bring some hot sauce. Make mine rare. How do you want yours, January?”
“I don’t care.”
“Make the lady’s rare too.”
The moment the waiter left, she turned on him. “Tom, what do you mean? Of course you can write if I’m living with you. Maybe you can’t when we’re in the bungalow. But if we have a large apartment in New York, I’ll never be in your way. I’ll stay in the background. I won’t interfere. I promise.”
He sighed. “Unfortunately, you do, baby. Look. I’ve had a hell of a lot of love in my time. And I always thought I’d go on loving and drinking forever. But each year the work gets harder and the love seems less important. I’ve already faced the fact that I’m fifty-eight and I haven’t written half the books I promised myself I’d write. I don’t think I can allow myself the luxury of love anymore.”
She was trying not to let the t
ears come to her eyes. But they made her voice hoarse. “Tom . . . don’t you love me?”
“Oh, Jesus, January. . . . I’m so damned grateful to you. You gave me something pretty wonderful. And I’ll never forget it. Look, what we had was great. But it would have ended anyhow. Maybe a few months later . . . But maybe it is best to wash it up now—”
“Tom, once you said you could never be without me. Were they just words?”
“You know damn well I meant them at the time.”
“At the time?”
The busboy came by to fill their water glasses. They were both silent until he left. Then Tom reached out and took both her hands. “Now listen . . . What I said . . . I meant. At the time. And they weren’t lying-on-top-of-a-dame words. I meant them. But things change. . .”
“Nothing’s changed,” she said tensely.
“Okay. Let’s say I’ve changed. Let’s say just the one more year changed things. Honey, at your age, you’ve got the world ahead, you’ve got time. God, that’s a great word—time. And you’ve got it. Time for love, time for dreams, time for crazy escapades . . . And I’ve just been one of them.”
“No!”
“Maybe I’ll be an important one when you’re old enough to do some looking back. Maybe the most important. But baby . . . just think—in thirty-seven years—that’s the year two thousand eight—you’ll just be my age.” He paused and smiled. “Seems inconceivable to you, right? And I’ll lay a few more inconceivable facts before you. In two thousand eight, if I am still around, I’ll be ninety-five!”
The waiter arrived with the hamburgers. January forced a smile as he served them. The moment he left, Tom plunged into his. January touched his arm. Her voice was low and urgent. “Tom, you said if we had a year, two years . . . whatever we could grab—it would be worth it.”