Once Is Not Enough (14 page)

“I’d love lunch . . . another day. I’ve got to get some clothes. David said the kind of places I’d like are on Third Avenue. So I’m heading there. And I have a three o’clock appointment with Linda Riggs.”

“What’s a Linda Riggs?”

“She’s the girl from Miss Haddon’s—the one we all thought would be a star. That is, everyone but you. She’s editor-in-chief at
Gloss
magazine now.”

“Okay. That takes care of your day. Now tonight Dee is
having some people in for cocktails at seven, and then we’re going to “21.” Do you want to join us? Or are you all set with David?”

She laughed. “Last night we went to Le Club. It was mobbed . . . the music was so loud . . . David knew everyone there. It was impossible to talk. And . . . well . . . we just forgot about making a date. That’s crazy, isn’t it?”

He lit a cigarette. “No, it happens.” He paused. “Look, babe, don’t go off the deep end for him. Take it real slow and easy.”

“Mike, you wanted me to like David. Something is bothering you. What is it?”

“Well, I can see right now that you’re in a pretty vulnerable spot. You come back . . . New York is strange . . . I’ve got a new wife . . . you’re at loose ends . . . a sitting duck for the first halfway attractive guy who comes along. I like the idea that you like him, but there are a lot of beautiful broads in this town, and he’s a very eligible guy.”

“And?”

“Well, he might not have
forgotten
to make a date. He might just be booked up for the time being.”

“Mike, you know something?”

He got up and walked to the window. “I know nothing. I saw him coming out of an art movie with Karla last week. I have to admit I was very impressed, because that’s one lady I want to meet. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. But two days ago, I also saw him standing on Fifty-seventh Street outside of Carnegie Hall. Dee tells me Karla rents a studio there. And sure enough, down she comes, and they go off. He didn’t see me. And I’ve said nothing to Dee.”

“Are you trying to tell me he goes with Karla?”

“I’m also trying to tell you there’s a gorgeous Dutch model named Kim Voren. She’s on the cover of
Vogue
this month. Maybe I gave you the idea that we were serving David to you on a silver platter. Dee would like it that way. But David is his own man. And I don’t want you to be hurt. I would like to plunk the world in your lap. Last night I did a lot of thinking, maybe because I saw you for the first time as a gorgeous girl out on a date. A gorgeous vulnerable girl. And I don’t want you sitting around just waiting for this guy to call.”

“I have no intention of doing that. I want to work.”

He walked over and poured himself another cup of coffee and lit a fresh cigarette. “What do you want to do?”

She shrugged. “Until now I always assumed I’d be in show business because of you. In some way, I guess I’ve felt as if I’ve been in it all of my life. I think I can act. But I’ve had no experience. And I know there aren’t many jobs open. But there’s Off Broadway. Maybe I could try for an assistant stage manager . . . or an understudy . . . a walk-on . . . anything. Dee was right about one thing—I do want to do something.”

He looked thoughtful. “Most of the producers and directors I know are on the Coast now. As for Off Broadway, that’s a whole new breed. Tell you what—I’ll call the Johnson Harris agency. It’s a hell of a good talent agency. Sammy Tebet is vice-president in charge of motion pictures. He owes me a few favors. I’ll get him to introduce you to whoever runs the legit department there.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll try them in about an hour.”

“That would be great. Maybe they can see me tomorrow.” She stood up. “And now I’m off to buy out New York—like you told me to do yesterday.”

He smiled. “Only today . . . you really feel like doing it.”

She nodded. “Just shows you what a good night’s sleep will do.”

Five

T
HIRD
A
VENUE WAS
a whole new world. She had dropped off boxes at the Pierre loaded with pants, long skirts, shirts, dungarees—enough to fill most of those heavy brass hangers Dee had put in her closets. Now her wardrobe was as freaked-out as everyone else’s in New York.

Gloss
was a factory of mod clothes and frenetic activity. The receptionist announced her, then pointed the way down a long hall. People stood in clusters studying layouts. Young men carried art portfolios. Girls rushed about carrying sketches. Bright simulated daylight flooded most of the windowless offices. There was a “now” look about everyone, from the skinny girls with the long hair and tinted glasses to the young men with the well trimmed beards. She was glad she was wearing one of her new outfits.

She stopped at the end of the hall before a large lacquered white door with the name
LINDA RIGGS
in impressive block wooden letters. The secretary, sitting in the small cubicle outside, led January into a striking corner office with windows from floor to ceiling. A beautiful young woman was sitting at the desk, a phone cradled against her shoulder, making notes as she listened. The office was colorfully modern. White walls . . . orange rugs on stained black wooden floors . . . paintings that looked like colored Rorschach tests . . . white leather chairs . . . a black velvet couch . . . plexiglass tables . . . copies of
Gloss
everywhere. In spite of the decor, there was a worked-in feeling about the office. January sat down and waited until the woman got off the phone. It was incredible to envision Linda of the shaggy hair and funny face in this sleek setup.
The woman on the phone smiled, and signaled that she was trying to get off. January returned an understanding smile and stared at the manuscripts that lay piled on the windowsill.
Ladies’ Home Journal, Cosmopolitan, Vogue
, and other rival magazines lay on a table.

The woman got off the phone. “I’m sorry. That call was endless.” Then she looked at January and smiled. “Well, you really are quite a beauty. But then why not—with a father like Mike Wayne.”

January smiled politely and wondered where Linda was. This smooth attractive woman was staring at her as if she were some kind of a specimen. January stood up. “I’m supposed to see Miss Riggs at three and—”

The woman laughed. “January! Who do you think
I
am!”

January looked bewildered. But Linda only laughed. “I forgot. Good Lord! How long has it been?”

“About ten years.” January finally managed to speak.

Linda nodded. “That’s right! Well, you didn’t think I intended to stay stuck with that face all of my life, did you? The braces came off, a few caps were added, and of course the nose job—that was my graduation present—and I’ve lost about twenty pounds of what we used to call baby fat . . .”

“It’s unbelievable,” January said. “Linda, you’re beautiful. I mean . . . your personality was always so great that people thought you were beautiful, but—”

“I was kinky-looking—before it was ‘in’ to look kinky. Now that I’ve gone all through this, the uglies have come in. I swear, sometimes I wish I had my old nose back. Incidentally, Keith doesn’t know about the nose job or the teeth or anything.” She pressed a buzzer and the receptionist’s voice came through the box on her desk. “Norma, when Keith Winters arrives, send him right in.” Then she turned to January. “I wish you had worn something with more color. I love those pants, and the suede jacket is divine . . . but it’s all so beigy and Keith is coming with reams of color film.”

“Linda, I didn’t come here to be photographed. I came to see you. I want to hear all about you and the magazine. I think it’s just fabulous.”

Linda came out from behind the desk and sat on the couch.
She reached for a pack of cigarettes in a large glass bowl. “We’ve got just about every brand here . . . except grass . . . so help yourself.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“I wish I didn’t. How do you manage to stay so thin without it? I worry sometimes with all that cancer talk, but they say until women have the menopause, they have some secret ingredient that protects them. Speaking of menopause, tell me about Deirdre Milford Granger.”

“She’s Mrs. Michael Wayne now.”

“Of course.” Linda smiled. “I’d love to get a story on her and your father. We cater to the twenty-to-thirty crowd, but
everyone
loves to read about the really filthy rich. We’ve tried and tried, but she’s always turned us down. That’s why I’m keen to do a story on you. It will really grab our readers. I’m surprised Helen Gurley Brown or Lenore Hershey hasn’t gotten to you. Although it’s more of a
Cosmo
story than
Ladies’ Home Journal
. I swear that Helen Gurley Brown will drive me back to my analyst.”

“Why?”

“She’s so damned successful. And it all started from writing about how a single girl landed a divine husband. And the wild part is, no one gets married anymore . . . except older people. Anyway, that’s going to be my angle. Stories don’t drop in your lap. You’ve got to find them . . . be first. That’s why I’m in my office from eight in the morning until eight at night. It’s not easy. But it’s the only way. Because I intend to make
Gloss
bigger than
Cosmo
. Bigger than them all one day.”

“Don’t you believe in marriage?” January asked.

“Of course not. I live with Keith and we’re divinely happy. We live for today. Because nothing is permanent . . . not even life.”

“He’s the photographer?”

Linda smiled. “Actually he’s really an actor. He moonlights as a photographer. I give him all the jobs I can. He’s damn good. Of course he’s no Halsman or Scavullo. He could be, if he dedicated himself to it, but he’s determined to become the Marlon Brando of the seventies. He’s really marvelous. I saw him do
Streetcar
in an Equity Library thing. But there are just
no jobs. And he hasn’t really ever had a break on Broadway.”

“I thought you’d be the big star,” January said. “We all did at Miss Haddon’s.”

Linda shook her head. “I tried. But even with the nose job and all . . . nothing really happened. I mean it was all so tacky—girls working as waitresses at night so they could study and job hunt during the day. I tried it for a while. I even got a job as a waitress in a coffeehouse. And then one day I saw a girl applying for a job who was also an actress, only she was in her thirties. That’s when I quit . . . and got the job on
Gloss
. The magazine was on the verge of folding, and I had a lot of ideas of things that could make it go. But no one would listen to me. I stayed on as a gofer for about two years. And then someone in the advertising department dropped it to me that John Hamer was going to close
Gloss
down. He’s chairman of the board of Jenrose—they own
Gloss
and several other publications. Everyone was already looking for other jobs. So on a wild chance I went to him and told him my ideas. I told him it should stop competing with
Vogue
for high fashion . . . to gear it to the younger woman . . . the working girl . . . or housewife . . . to go after ads for new bras . . . buy stories that didn’t all have an ‘up’ ending. To do articles on marriages that
couldn’t
be saved by a pastor or a marriage counselor . . . stories about the ‘other woman’ who suffered while the wife who didn’t give a damn had a ball. He took a chance and made me editor of special subjects. After a year we had doubled our circulation. At the end of that year I became editor-in-chief. We were the first to do a photo layout on the topless beach at the Riviera. I also did articles for and against natural childbirth, for and against children . . . We’ve done great and we’re still climbing in circulation. But if I want to beat out
Ladies’ Home Journal
and
Cosmo
, I have to keep coming up with firsts. And if I can’t get Deirdre Milford Granger
Wayne
. . . then I want January Wayne. I want to run a picture layout of you in our January issue, with the heading: ‘January is not a month. She’s a girl who has everything.’”

“Linda, I don’t want a story done on me.”

For a moment Linda stared. “Then why did you come to see me?”

“Because . . . well . . . I had hoped we could be friends. I . . . don’t really know anyone in New York.”

“The lonely little princess? Come on, that’s your stepmother’s bag. Or at least it was until she married your father. He must be a great stud. Know something? I’ve always had a thing for him.”

January stood up, but Linda grabbed her arm. “Oh, for God’s sake. Don’t take it that way. Look . . . okay . . . so you’re lonely. Everyone’s lonely. And the only way not to be lonely is to go to bed with the man you care about . . . and waking up the next morning and finding yourself still in his arms. I’ve got that with Keith, and that’s one of the reasons I want this story. Because I’ll be able to give him some decent money on the assignment. You see, I feel that if he got some real recognition for his photography he’d take it more seriously. Then I wouldn’t have to worry that he might take off for six months with a bus and truck company of some show.” The intensity of Linda’s feelings changed her entire face, and suddenly January was looking at the Linda of Miss Haddon’s. The Linda who was raucous. The Linda of
Annie Get Your Gun
.

They were both silent. Then January said, “Linda, if you care this much for Keith, why don’t you get married?”

“Because as I told you—we don’t believe in it.” She was Linda Riggs of
Gloss
magazine again. “He’s my mate and we live together and it’s fine and . . .”

They both looked up as the door swung open and Keith Winters walked into the room. January recognized him immediately as the photographer in the Pierre lobby. His hair was long and shaggy, he wore a Dutch boy cap, an army surplus jacket, a T-shirt, sneakers, and dungarees.

“Sorry, Keith,” Linda said. “I’m afraid there is no assignment. The lady says no.”

He shrugged and took off the camera he had slung across his shoulder. He also had one around his neck. January began to feel slightly guilty.