Once Is Not Enough (48 page)

By the middle of the week January began to feel unstrung, physically and emotionally. Tom was due back Friday night. He had said he could never be without her. But he was without her now. And he had admitted that his work had always come first. Had this brief separation given him time to have second thoughts?

The following morning she was at Dr. Alpert’s office before he arrived. Once again the receptionist slipped her into a booth without an appointment, and once again Dr. Alpert came shuffling in, and when that needle went into her vein, every doubt about her future with Tom vanished, and she floated out of the office with a golden feeling of confidence.

He returned Friday night and stopped off at her apartment without calling her. She let out a shriek of delight and fell into his arms. They clung together, both talking at once, both insisting each had missed the other more. And as he held her, she knew that her worries had been groundless. He would never leave her.

When he broke the embrace, he turned and looked at the apartment. He was so massive; the room seemed to shrink.

“How long is your lease?”

“It’s a sublet. I have it until August. But Mr. Bailey wrote and said that if I wanted it for another year, he would stay on in Europe.”

“Get rid of it. I’m going to buy us an apartment. You’re going to pick it out. I want it to be on the river, with a wood-burning fireplace, a bedroom, a living room, and another room for me to work in, because that’s where I’m going to write my new book.”

“But what about California?”

“What about it?”

“Don’t you have to go there?”

“Yes. We’re leaving next week.”

“We?”

He looked at her earnestly. “Look, I don’t know about you . . . But these last five days seemed like five years. I did a lot of thinking. In a couple of years I’ll be sixty. You’ll be—well, you’ll still be a child. So we’ve only got now. I don’t know how long ‘now’ will last. But let’s grab it. I love you. I want you with me. I’ve got a final two-week blast of publicity to do out on the Coast. I can’t afford to be separated from you for that long. I called Nina Lou and told her about you. I didn’t tell her your name, but I leveled with her and explained how it was with us. I told her I was bringing you out . . . and that as long as you’d have me, I was going to be with you. I told her I’d check into a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel—the publisher is paying for that. And to make things look okay, I’ll get you a room at the hotel which you won’t use. And for all concerned, you are out there to do the story on me for your magazine. I’ll go to the beach to see my kid. But that’s the extent of it. Nina Lou says it’s fine. She’s pretty hung up on some actor, so as long as I don’t make her look bad to her friends, she couldn’t care less.”

It was all going too fast for January. But she was lightheaded with the knowledge that she hadn’t lost him.

“We’ll be in New York for another week now,” he went on. “So your job will be to find the apartment. Get one all set, so we can move into it when we come back. I know it’s short notice. But a good renting agent should be able to swing it. You go see them all. Then when you’ve narrowed it down to
maybe two or three that you like, I’ll come and see them. And we’ll decide together.”

“But Tom, if you live in New York with me . . . what about seeing your son?”

“I’ll fly to the Coast every other weekend. Don’t worry. It’ll work out. I just know I can’t be without you.”

She spent eight hours a day looking at apartments. Linda was carried away with the idea. She was so expansive she told January to count the trip to the Coast as a paid vacation. “It’s a bonus. You rate it. And remember . . . don’t worry about a thing, just keep the genius happy. And we’ve got to find you the greatest apartment in New York. January, just think—as Tom Colt’s girl, you can run a salon. With his muscle, all the ‘In’ people will come. We can start a whole new thing. Like maybe Sunday brunches. I’ll write them up for
Gloss
. Wow! It’s out of sight! We’ll be the new ‘A’ group in town.
We’ll
make the news . . . set the pace. And will I have muscle with Mr. Donald Oakland! He’s impressed as it is that I know Tom Colt. But when he comes to your salon and sees all the important men I’ll be able to meet . . . January, the timing is perfect. New York is ready for something like this. Now, it has to have a huge living room, one that opens on a dining room preferably, and . . .”

She was amused at Linda’s enthusiasm and felt it was best just to let her ramble on. The apartment was going to be a fortress. Just for Tom. No guests, no parties—just the two of them. But she allowed Linda to come along and visit some of the apartments because she was slightly terrified of the efficient real estate lady who took them around. After four days, January was positive she had been in every great building in New York, and the search had finally narrowed down to an apartment at the U.N. Plaza or a ground floor apartment with a huge terrace hanging over the river on Sutton Place. Linda liked the U.N. building, but Tom was enthusiastic about the Sutton Place apartment.

It was a co-op, and the price of one hundred and ten thousand didn’t seem to bother him. He was pleased with the relatively low monthly maintenance, the ninety-year ground lease—he kept nodding as the woman reeled off all the selling
points of the apartment. Finally he said, “It’s a deal. Draw up the contract and send it to my lawyer on the Coast. He’ll send the check.” He gave the ecstatic real estate lady all the necessary addresses and phone numbers. Then he took January to the nearest bar. He toasted their new apartment with a sad smile. “I like her talk about the ninety-year lease. January, for a man my age to expect this thing to last with a child like you—” He shook his head. “I know I’m crazy . . . but let’s give it a real try. And no matter how long it lasts . . . let’s make it a happy time.”

“Tom, it will last forever.”

He raised his glass. “To forever. I’ll settle for five good years.”

She spent the rest of the days buying clothes for California, cleaning up last-minute things at the office . . . And each night she rushed to the Plaza exhilarated. Her energy was boundless.

They were due to leave for California on a Wednesday afternoon. That morning she visited Dr. Alpert. When he saw her, he seemed surprised. “You were here just two days ago . . . you’re not due until tomorrow.”

“I’m leaving for Los Angeles today,” she said as she watched him fix the syringe. “Dr. Alpert. I’m going to be away for a week at least. Can you give me some long-lasting shot?”

“Where will you be in Los Angeles?”

“The Beverly Hills Hotel.”

He smiled. “You are a lucky girl. My brother, Dr. Preston Alpert, flew out there a week ago. An important singer is out there to make a comeback at some big club, and he must have a vitamin shot every day, so my brother is staying with him throughout the engagement. You call him at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

“Dr. Alpert . . .” She felt a sudden rush of fear. “Are these injections addictive?”

“Why should they be?”

“I mean, if the singer has to have them every day . . .”

“He drinks two quarts of brandy a day . . . doesn’t eat . . . sleeps with a lady every night—of course he needs vitamin
shots. You also have a great need for vitamins. Tell me, before you came to me . . . was there some traumatic thing in your life?”

She smiled. “Like three years of trauma . . . and then a kind of shock. But that was back in September. And everything worked out fine.”

He shook his head. “Delayed reaction. Look, my little girl. There are doctors who treat the head. And why? Because something that happened twenty years ago hurts the mind today. So why do patients feel that things that happened to them some months ago can’t hurt the body? If you’re run down, what’s wrong with taking vitamin shots three times a week if they make you function and feel good? Don’t you have your teeth cleaned every few months . . . don’t you brush them three times a day . . . don’t you use eye lotion at night? Why not help your tired young blood? Today with the food you girls eat . . . or better yet, don’t eat . . .”

He was right. This dear sweet man, taking all this time explaining things to her when he had an office filled with patients. His smile was benevolent. “Have a good time . . . call my brother. And when you get back, make your next appointment in advance.”

She walked home. She knew she would be able to pack in no time at all. It was one of those rare April days—clear and cool, no smog, a Wedgwood sky. She wondered why the New Year always began in the middle of winter when everything was dead. The new year should start in April, on a day like this when new young life was just beginning. She saw it everywhere—a lady walking a tiny puppy, wobbly with its training leash; tiny buds breaking through the bare branches of the new young trees propped up with sticks and braces, burlap around their slim bodies to help them survive in a small patch of earth on a New York City street. Then she saw an old woman, the stockings slipping down her frail legs, walking an arthritic dog—the two of them inching down the street. Tears came to her eyes. She felt sorry for anyone who wasn’t young. In fact, she felt sorry for everyone who wasn’t going to California and for everyone who didn’t know a man like Tom Colt.

As the day progressed her state of euphoria grew. She had never felt so complete and aware of everything around her. She sat beside Tom on the 747. The ride was smooth, the service perfect. Everything was perfect! Until the hostess placed the small glacéed Easter eggs on their dessert plates.

Easter eggs!

This was Wednesday.

Sunday was Easter!

And tomorrow Dee’s plane would be waiting to take her to Palm Beach for the Easter weekend.

She wired her father the moment she reached the hotel. “AM IN LOS ANGELES AT THE BEVERLY HILLS HOTEL DOING A STORY ON TOM COLT. WILL HAVE TO MISS EASTER. LOVE, YOUR CAREER GIRL.”

She hoped that by keeping it light, it would sound like a last-minute assignment rather than complete thoughtlessness on her part. She had checked into her “own room” in the main building, but her luggage went to Tom’s bungalow. “I’ll go there each day and muss up the bed for appearance’s sake,” she said. He laughed and shook his head. “With everyone living together, stars publicly having babies out of wedlock . . . do you really think anyone gives a damn about where you sleep?”

“I do,” she said.

The publisher had set up a tight schedule for the next two days. Breakfast interviews, luncheon interviews, the Merv Griffin show, a news show, and a seven o’clock morning show. She accompanied him everywhere, carrying a notebook and playing Girl Reporter from
Gloss
magazine.

On Saturday Tom sent her to sit at the pool while he went to Malibu to visit his son. Sven, the attractive young man who managed the cabanas, offered her a comfortable chair in the sun. He gave her suntan lotion and brought her some magazines. But she couldn’t relax. After an hour she began to feel nervous. She forced herself to stay at the pool; she could use some sun. Tom had admired her tan when they first met. She clenched her hands and gripped the arms of the chair. She felt she had to hold on. It was as if she was coming unhinged. She told herself she was just restless because Tom was away.
But soon she was forced to admit that the pains in her neck were very real and she had the beginnings of a blinding headache. All of the unmistakable signs . . . it was time to call Dr. Alpert’s brother.

She left the pool and went to her own room. It was a nice room, but even with the nightgown and robe she had hung in the bathroom, it was still obvious that no one used it. She wondered what the maid thought. She lit a cigarette and picked up the phone and asked for Dr. Preston Alpert. The operator said he was expected back at six. He was at Malibu. God, was everyone at Malibu!

It was only three o’clock. How was she going to get through the rest of the afternoon! She lay back on the bed to ease the hammering inside her head. By four o’clock she was hanging over the sink, letting cold water fall on the back of her neck. Two more hours to go. She left the room and went to the bungalow. She changed into slacks and a shirt. Her hands were shaking as she poured some bourbon into a glass. She almost gagged but forced some down. It always seemed to do so much for Tom; maybe it would help her head. She took another swallow. Her throat burned, but the headache didn’t seem quite as intense. She slipped the bottle into her pouch bag and returned to her room. She stretched out on the bed and began drinking the bourbon. It was a restful room. It was sad to keep it and not use it. “I’m sorry, room,” she said aloud. “It’s nothing personal . . . just that my man lives in a bungalow.”

She continued to sip the bourbon. It dulled the headache, but she knew she was getting drunk. She didn’t want Tom to come home and find her that way. Maybe a warm bath would help. At least it would pass the time. She forced herself to stay in the tub until the skin of her fingers began to crinkle. Then she fixed her makeup and looked at her watch. Five-fifteen. She checked Dr. Alpert’s room again. The message was the same. Dr. Alpert was expected back at six.

Her head was aching again, even worse than before. Her neck felt as if it were packed with swollen glands. Oh God. She was probably really anemic now. She hadn’t eaten a thing
today, just coffee with Tom in the morning. Dr. Alpert had warned her she must eat. And she had lost more weight. Even her hip-huggers were slipping down.

The next half hour was interminable. She felt warm and turned on the air-conditioning. Then she felt cold and turned it off. At five forty-five she left another message for Dr. Alpert, adding that it was urgent. At six-fifteen he still hadn’t returned. Oh, God . . . suppose he didn’t get back at all. Suppose he decided to spend the whole weekend at Malibu. She had run out of cigarettes and began smoking the butts. Tom was due back at seven. She wanted to feel great when she saw him. After all, his wife was probably very beautiful. She had to be if she had been a starlet. There weren’t any starlets anymore! She poured herself another drink. She was a bit player! That’s what she was. Just a girl who did extra work, an overaged bit player. So there was no reason to get uptight about her. But even an overaged bit player could be attractive. Look at how many were becoming stars on television. But this was silly . . . Tom had gone to see the baby. But how could you spend a whole day with an eight-month-old baby? It had to sleep a lot, didn’t it?