Once Is Not Enough (18 page)

January shrugged. “That’s not true. Besides I rarely see them. But I do feel funny about living there. I mean, it’s her apartment and I feel like an interloper.”

“Then move.”

“He doesn’t want me to.”

“Look, when you try to please everyone, you wind up pleasing no one.”

January stubbed out her cigarette. “Trouble is, I don’t really know what I want. Probably because all my life I never really thought about anything except being with my father. And now I find when I go out on a date it’s like . . . I don’t know what to do . . . how to act.”

Linda whistled. “Boy, do you need a shrink!”

“I had enough of that at the Clinique.”

“What?”

“Oh, Linda . . . it’s a long story. But look. When you grow up without a mother, it’s a natural thing to make your father the major thing in your life. And when you have a father like Mike . . . why not?”

“I agree,” Linda said. “Your father is damned attractive. But then, so is David Milford. Ronnie Wolfe had it in his column that you were at Raffles with him the other night. I don’t dig that phony social scene. But if you have to go that route, going with David Milford is the only way to go.”

“That was Dee’s party. We also had a date last night. He asked me back to his apartment, but I wouldn’t go. When he took me home he didn’t even try to kiss me goodnight.”

Linda stood up. “Let’s go to Louise’s. We both could use a drink.”

January liked the restaurant. Louise was a warm motherly woman who brought them a plate of her homemade chicken liver. She welcomed January to New York and told her she looked like a movie star. The whole atmosphere was homelike, and January began to relax. She ordered a glass of white wine, and Linda ordered a double Tanqueray martini on the rocks. For a few moments they both sat in silence.

Linda took a long swallow of her drink and swished it around on the ice. Then she said, “What did you think of Keith?”

“He’s very nice.”

“Have you seen him since?”

“Me? Why would I see him?”

“Well,
I
haven’t,” Linda snapped. Then she took another long swallow of the martini. “Tell me, please. Tell me the truth. Did he come on to you?”

“Did he what?”

“Make a pass . . .”

“Of course not! We went to see the show and—”

“And what?”

“I walked out on it . . . and him, I guess.”

They were both silent. Then January said, “Look, Linda, maybe I’m old-fashioned. But I was shocked and—”

“Well, I have nothing against nudity,” Linda said. “But—” She stopped. “What is this bullshit I’m giving you? I sound as brainwashed as Keith. Sure, we’re the big liberated generation. The body is beautiful—so show it. Well, I went down there last night. Keith was sitting in the audience. He didn’t see me. But you tell me what’s beautiful about a bunch of ugly people rubbing their bodies against one another in a dirty theater on a dirty stage. Their feet were black with dirt—it was revolting. And don’t think those people with the limos come to see art! They come to see a lot of starving actors demean themselves. God, an actor has to go through enough rejection in his life . . . at least, let him have
some
personal privacy. But no, there’s no such thing as personal dignity anymore. That’s for squares. We’re the new generation. We’re liberated. Marriage is out . . . bastards are in. . . .”

“But yesterday you said you didn’t believe in marriage.”

Linda shook her head. “I don’t know what I believe anymore. Look, my mother has had four husbands and is working on getting her fifth. My father had three wives. Between them I have seven half-brothers and sisters, whom I hardly know. They’re all off in some version of Miss Haddon’s. But they were born in wedlock so everything’s all very proper. At least my mother thinks so—because that’s what she was taught. But now our generation is against marriage—because that’s what we’ve been taught.”

“By whom?”

“By the people we meet and care about.”

“Linda, you
do
want to marry Keith, don’t you?”

“Maybe. But if he thought I felt that way I’d lose him. That is, if I haven’t already.”

“But what’s happened?”

“He never came home that night. He called and said he’s decided to live at that filthy commune for a while so he can think things out. He knows I’m against his being in that play. He hadn’t told me which play it was that day in the office. Look, if nudity is important to a plot, if it’s realism, then okay. But the way they’re doing it in that play—” She shook her head. “But I know what’s really bugging Keith. It’s the fact that I earn thirty-five thousand a year plus a Christmas bonus and he earns thirty-five hundred a year including his unemployment
insurance. To him I’m Establishment. I’m so mixed up. Look, I’ve tried to do it his way. I’ve sat with his friends. I’ve drunk beer instead of martinis. I’ve worn dungarees instead of slacks. But there’s no law that says I have to live like a pig. I pay four hundred a month for my apartment. It’s in a good neighborhood, in a good building, with a doorman and elevator operators. I’m in my office every morning before eight and sometimes I don’t leave until midnight. I’ve earned the right to have a nice place to come home to. Why should I give it up and work on some underground newspaper for fifty bucks an article?”

“Is that what he wants you to do?”

“All I know is he’s always putting down me,
Gloss
and every article I dream up. But he raves about a guy he knows who sells dirty poems to newspapers that run pictures of a man’s penis on the cover. He claims the man is writing because he has something to say and isn’t looking for plastic glory. I tell you I’m so sick of all these phrases. But I love him and I want him. It’s not that I’m forcing him to do things my way . . . but if only we could compromise. I know we could have a great life together. I want it. Oh, God, I want it!”

“It must be a good feeling to really know what you want.” January said.

“Don’t you? Didn’t they give you any direction at that fancy Swiss University? By the way, what was the name of the school? Sara will at least want your college credits.”

“Linda, I’ll tell you all about it . . . after dinner.”

They sat over coffee and Linda listened silently as January told her about the Clinique. She sipped some brandy and tears came to her eyes when January had finished. “Jesus,” she said softly. “You really had the shit kicked out of you. Three years out of your life . . . three years of waiting to come back to Daddy Dream Man. And then to find him married . . .”

January managed a smile. “Well, it’s not as if he’s deserted me. He isn’t my lover.”

“Isn’t he?”

“Linda!”

“Oh, come on, January. You didn’t sleep with that divine Italian who was responsible for you breaking your skull. You
rejected David Milford. Any psychiatrist would tell you that on your second date with David you had a subconscious desire to cool the relationship because you liked him too much. You had the guilts. It was like cheating on Daddy.”

“That’s not true. Look at how he arranged the date. Our first time alone together. No candlelight and wine . . . no small talk . . . he arrives at five-thirty . . . calls me from the lobby . . . won’t even come up for a drink. Then we sprint five blocks to the movie. Then he rushes me to Maxwell’s Plum. It’s a great swinging place. But you don’t take a girl there when you want to talk and get really acquainted.
Then
he suddenly asks me up to his apartment.”

Linda looked thoughtful. “I agree. There must be some conversation before you leap into bed. And when a man invites you to his apartment, it is usually for just one thing. Somehow it’s different if
you
invite him up for a nightcap to your apartment. You’re in control, and whatever happens seems natural and not planned. But you can’t very well invite him up to the Pierre. Really, January, the first thing you’ve got to do is find an apartment of your own.”

“I’d like to, but—”

“But what? Look, whether you realize it or not, you’re eating your heart out every time you see your father with Dee. It’s not fair to you . . . or them. Take my word for it—you’re never going to have an affair until you move out on Daddy. And as for your career in the theater . . . well, I’m the last one to give you any advice there. . . .”

“I’m not Keith. I realize I’m not serious about acting,” January said. “But I know I want to do something. To be part of the scene. I don’t want to be like my mother.”

“Why? What did she do besides die when you were young?”

“Oh, she . . . well, she sat around on the sidelines . . . with her big brown eyes just watching life. Watching . . . while Mike was
doing
. I want to
do
too!”

“Well, as I said, there’s always an opening at
Gloss
for you.”

“I don’t want an ‘in-name-only’ job, Linda.”

“It wouldn’t be that kind of a job. I’d really put you to work.”

“Are you serious?”

Linda nodded. “And so what if I asked you to use whatever
pull you could to get to certain people—or to get a story? I do that myself. My mother’s sister is married to a golf pro. I used her to get me permission to travel on a big tournament. That’s how I did my story on how the golf wives live. Now the money won’t be too great to start with.”

“I have over fifteen thousand of my own,” January said. “And you’re right—I’m going to get out of the Pierre.”

“Listen.” Linda snapped her fingers. “There’s a bachelor in my building. Edgar Bailey. I think he’s a closet queen. Anyway, he teaches at Columbia and he’s going to Europe on a year’s sabbatical. He asked me just the other day if I knew anyone who wanted to sublet. It’s only one room . . . a studio job. He pays nothing for it. His rent’s frozen. In fact, I think they built the building around him. Want me to find out the price?”

January looked at her watch. “It’s only nine o’clock. Call him now. Maybe we could go over.”

Edgar Bailey was enchanted with January. Her name enthralled him. He showed her the large walk-in closet, the small dressing room, the
marvelous
Castro Convertible, and the kitchen with a window. He said he paid one seventy-nine, but because of his furnishings he would have to ask two hundred and seventy-five.

“Come on, Mr. Bailey,” Linda cut in. “You’re paying one thirty-nine. I know from the super. They’d like to bomb you out of here. January will pay you two twenty-five a month—that’s all it’s worth. There isn’t a stick of furniture that costs anything. Including the Castro. It’s over ten years old.”

He pursed his lips for a moment. Then he reached for a bottle of sherry and three tiny glasses. “To my new tenant. I know I could get much more, but I’ll feel better knowing someone lovely will take care of my little home.”

Linda raised her glass. “You also know you have to leave in ten days and you’re getting panicky.”

January raised her glass and smiled. “To your trip, Mr. Bailey. And to you, Linda.”

Linda shook her head. “No, this one’s for you. Here’s to Ms. January.”

Seven

J
ANUARY SAT
propped up in the Castro bed, surrounded by a pile of back issues of
Gloss
. She was working on her first assignment, an article called “Breakfasts of the ‘B.T.W.’” B.T.W. stood for Beautiful Thin Women. She hadn’t been able to get to Babe Paley or Lee Radziwill. But Dee had given permission to quote her as saying,
“Who
gets up before lunch! Only children eat breakfast.” She also had quotes from a skinny lady poet, a skinny screen starlet, and a writer who was a militant member of Women’s Lib. She was still trying to contact Bess Meyerson and Barbara Walters. Did Barbara Walters eat breakfast
before
or
after
the
Today
show? Just trying to reach these people was practically a full-time assignment.

She had made a careful study of all the current articles in the leading magazines and found the stories that caught her attention had openings that hooked the reader. She had tried ten different approaches, but none of them seemed right. Of course Linda expected to put a rewrite girl on it, but January wanted to surprise her and have the article stand on its own. Working on the magazine had given her the first identity she had ever known. The little windowless cubbyhole she went to every day was
her
office. Mr. Bailey’s sublet was now
her
apartment. She paid the rent with money
she
earned.

The past three weeks had been hectic. But they had been three weeks of being on her own; making her own decisions. Getting through the first week had been the roughest. Especially breaking the news to Mike and Dee that she was moving. Dee’s eyes had narrowed angrily, but before she could voice
any objection, Mike had cut in and said, “I figured you’d want your own pad. Most girls do. And if that’s what you really want . . . well, you sure as hell are entitled to it.”

Dee insisted on looking at the apartment before January signed the lease. Edgar Bailey seemed stunned when she walked in. “Oh, Miss Granger . . . I mean Mrs. Wayne . . . Oh . . . I had no idea January was your daughter.” January knew he was ready to collapse for settling for two hundred and twenty-five dollars.

“You mean it only has
one
room?” Dee asked.

“But it’s so spacious,” Edgar Bailey insisted. “And I’m so pleased to have someone like January live among my things in my little home.”

Dee walked past him, pulled the drapes and groaned. “Good Lord, January. It’s on the court!”

“A garden?” Edgar Bailey said timidly.

“No sunlight and only one room. But I suppose this is the new generation.” Dee sighed. “Leave a luxury apartment for a slum.”

Edgar Bailey came to life. “Mrs. Wayne, this is a very fine building.”

Dee waved him off. “Well, I suppose we could make it more cheerful. Get rid of those awful drapes . . . change the rug . . . get some new throw pillows—”

“Mrs. Wayne.” Mr. Bailey’s voice cracked in near hysteria. “Nothing can be changed. Those drapes were made for me by—”