Private affairs : a novel (54 page)

"I have to get away," she said, almost inaudibly and opened the door. "I hope you find—" She stopped, then pushed the words from her, one by one. "I hope you find everything you want." She looked at him once more, at the lines she hadn't smoothed away after all, and his shadowed eyes. "I love you, Matt," she said, and quickly left, pulling the door closed behind her.

She ran to the elevator, shivering with the ache inside her, nervous because she thought he might follow her and she didn't know what else to say to him. But his door remained closed and that was what stayed in her

memory as she took a taxi to the airport and flew back to Santa Fe: Matt Lovell's closed door, separating them.

It stayed with her, as solid and real in her thoughts as it had been when she closed it, and it was so vivid that when she walked in her own door, at home, and heard the telephone ringing, she thought it had to be Matt, because how could he not have felt exactly what she was feeling?

But it was not Matt; it was Tony. "I can't talk now," she said. "I just walked in, Tony, and I can't—"

"I know. I've been calling. Elizabeth, just tell me what happened. I couldn't stand not knowing. If you're packing your bags to return to Houston and live happily ever after, I'll say goodbye. If you're about to join the great army of the divorced, I offer myself as comforter and adoring companion. Please tell me, Elizabeth; I have to know."

"I'm not packing for Houston. But I don't want to talk, Tony—"

"You don't have to. Just listen. Now that you've told me you're not packing I have something else to say. Are you listening?"

She closed her eyes. "Yes."

"Well, then. Bo and I have been working on a schedule of interviews of wildly famous people who are living or filming or writing or whatever in Europe. We decided yesterday to pair mine with yours, the way we do in America. What do you think?"

"About what?"

"I told you to listen. 'Private Affairs' would focus on American tourists or temporary workers who want the experience of living in Europe. Probably Paris and Rome; we're still ironing out the details. Are you following me? My famous people and your unknown ones—in Europe. How the world looks when you're famous; how it looks when you're unknown; how it treats you; how you feel about being an American, famous or unknown . . . and so on, limited only by our fertile imaginations. When we're finished, Bo wants to turn it into a book. I don't care a hoot about that, but it's right up your alley, isn't it? And you could write your column from Europe, too; is there any rule that says 'Private Affairs' has to be done only in America? I need you, Elizabeth; you're wonderful on my show; the contrast between your people and mine is so damned exciting, to everybody . . . and I work better when you're near me. I promise I will be a gentleman, but I also remind you that I adore you. What do you think?"

The rush of his words had cut through her other thoughts. "You're asking me to come to Europe with you."

"How well you put it."

Behind her closed eyes, Elizabeth saw Matt standing on his terrace

with the Transco Building in the distance. She saw his study with Nicole's amber eyes and small smile framed in silver; she remembered his silence and closed door. She held the telephone tightly in her hand. "Yes," she said.

T

.he Plaza Athenee has a warm grandeur that overcomes even the grayest rain of Paris in November, and Tony sighed with exaggerated relief as he and Elizabeth walked to the registration desk in the corner of the lobby. "May and June are the best months, and September, of course; why did we choose November for this caper? Never mind; I know the answer." He handed Elizabeth's passport to the official behind the ormolu desk. "We want to devastate the competition in the ratings sweeps in February. More important, it gave me an excuse to lure you to exotic spots where I am irresistible. And you see, here we are, registering at the Plaza."

"Only one of us," said Elizabeth lightly. "You're staying at the Ritz." "True, that was the plan. How quickly one forgets." She smiled, liking him for his easy companionship. In the week since she had agreed to go to Europe with him— the first time since I was seventeen that I said yes to Tony —he had not said a word to show that he knew that yes meant everything would be different between them. Even now, in the silken luxury of the Plaza's lobby, he waited. And Elizabeth, keyed-up by the strangeness of a city and a continent she had never seen,

lightheaded from twenty-four hours without sleep, felt grateful and, once again, affectionate.

For days, preparing for the trip in Santa Fe and then meeting Tony in Los Angeles, she had felt no affection at all; in fact, she wasn't even sure she liked Tony Rourke. Why in heaven's name had she agreed to go to Europe with him? But at the same time, she was excited about the trip, a new adventure that she wanted more and more the longer she thought about it. On the plane her doubts grew stronger; she didn't know what she wanted. And then she heard Matt's voice in her mind, as she had since leaving Houston. . . . she gave me what I'd been wanting from you: she listened, she admired, she encouraged me.

Fourteen hours later, when they landed, her thoughts were going in circles. It was almost a relief to discover they barely had time to stop at their hotels to change before plunging into work.

It was morning in Paris, and they were met at the airport by Bo Boyle, who had been there for three days with a television crew, filming background shots and confirming interviews. "Your schedule for today," Boyle said as they walked through the terminal. "Tony interviews Sidney Kidd, world-famous author of novels of terror, in Paris to study ancient torture chambers for his next book. The interview is in a dungeon; if his descriptions get too gory, cut him off and ask him about scenes with sex and beautiful people. Lizz—Elizabeth—has a young man from Vermont who came here to be the world's greatest painter; works instead in a meat market on the Rue de Buci. I know you like to choose your own people, Elizabeth, but we have so much to do and so little time that I risked choosing one for you. I have names for the rest of the time in Paris, and then for Rome; you can select from them after today. Now, as far as Kidd and the Vermont meat cutter, I have background notes for both of you; I have photos, I have lists of suggested questions—"

"But no heart in that sunken chest," Tony said. "Elizabeth and I have spent fourteen cramped hours aloft. When do we take a nap, wash our weary bodies, comb our rumpled hair, and drink gallons of restorative coffee?"

"You weren't cramped; you lounged in first-class comfort. You have an hour for combing your hair and downing gallons of coffee; you can take a nap before dinner. But when have you ever needed a nap?"

He never did, Elizabeth thought. In Paris even more than Los Angeles, Tony Rourke exuded an inexhaustible nervous energy. Even when he rebelled against Boyle's schedule, after the taping of his dungeon interview and Elizabeth's with the young man from Vermont, he did it light-heartedly, as if nothing could spoil his mood. "Enough for today," he

said, watching Boyle drive off in one car while he and Elizabeth sat back in their limousine. "It's raining and we've done our duty. We are now going to transform ourselves from working people to civilized citizens of Paris. I wangled a reservation at Taillevent for dinner and though you don't know what a miracle that is, I expect to be admired, nonetheless. The Plaza," he said to their driver, and they drove through the steady gray downpour to the glowing warmth of the hotel where Tony escorted Elizabeth to the reception desk.

"If Madame will follow me," the official said, and led them through the lobby, past palm trees and vases of bright gladioli that seemed to blend into the murals of the walls, to an elevator, and then along a hushed corridor. "Madame's suite," he said.

"Madame's suite," Tony repeated when they were alone. "And what of monsieur? Of course the Ritz is quite pleasant—I have nothing against it —and my room there will certainly help keep the rumors down, but I thought we would—"

"So did I," Elizabeth said. The day of work, the atmosphere so far from home, Tony's closeness, and the recurring memory of Matt's voice had wiped away her confusion and reluctance. She was barely aware of the beauty of the rooms, with their cut-velvet wall panels and silk taffeta drapes and, in the bedroom, flowered silk drapes and bedcovering and two enormous armoires awaiting her clothes; far more powerful was an inner voice saying, Damn it, why not? Her fingers shook as she unbuckled her raincoat. Then Tony's hands were on her shoulders, removing the coat, and as quickly as it began the shaking stopped.

"Let me look at you," he said. "My damned producer has kept us so busy I haven't had a minute to gaze at you in private." She wore a burgundy suit and amethyst silk blouse—warm colors and simple lines chosen for television, but also perfect for the warmth of her golden beauty. "Exquisite. A little paler than usual, but that only makes your loveliness more bewitching. Dearest Elizabeth, I have waited for you so long."

He slipped her suit jacket back from her shoulders and Elizabeth let it fall to the floor as she moved into his arms. She felt a brief shock of surprise as she put her arms around him—the shoulders were not as broad as she was used to, the muscles of the upper arms not as strong, the mouth pressing on hers not as firm—but then it was gone. Of course everything was different, but it wasn't important; she was so hungry for the warmth of arms holding her close, of urgent lips on hers and the murmured endearments that made her feel young and desirable that nothing could interfere, nothing else mattered.

With one hand, Tony unbuttoned her blouse and bent his head to kiss her throat and move his lips in small kisses to the shadow between her breasts. He undressed her slowly, his mouth following his hands, refusing to let her do anything for him. "Let me," he murmured. "I've dreamed of this so often; next time we'll do what you want. . . ."

She lay on the bed, watching him pull off his clothes. "I feel as if I'm seventeen again," she said. "You did the same thing then, undressing me first, only I was afraid to look at you. I'd never seen a naked man."

"Did it frighten you?"

"I didn't look."

He paused, looking down at her. "Didn't you? I'd forgotten that. What did you do?"

"Closed my eyes, of course. Tony, you're taking a very long time."

He smiled. "I'm prolonging it."

"How you've changed."

"Not nearly as much as you." Naked, he bent over her, looking at her pale, faintly shadowed curves and rose nipples and the small patch of golden hair where her thighs met. He drew in his breath. "Exquisite woman . . . unreachable for so long . . . except in my dreams; fresh and lovely and seventeen ..." Kneeling on the bed, he kissed the soles of her feet and spread her legs, caressing the insides of her thighs and around her hips. With his hands spanning her waist, he moved his tongue across the firm silken skin of her stomach, around the golden patch of hair and below it, licking with slow strokes as his hands had stroked her thighs.

Elizabeth's fingers were in his hair. "Tony," she said, her voice husky, almost a whisper.

"Lie still," he murmured. "Let me—"

"No. I want you."

He raised his head and smiled. "Yes, my sweet."

He moved upward, covering her, and Elizabeth pulled him into her, thrusting against him, filling the emptiness inside her. Her arms were around him, her palms against the sharpness of his shoulder blades, her nipples crushed by the thick black curls on his chest. His waist had thickened over the years; lying on her, he felt heavier than— Stop it! Don *t compare . . . don't remember. She repeated it until the words were drowned out by the dark roaring in her ears and at last there was no inner voice to remind her of anything else and she could lose herself in the rhythm of their bodies and the steady drumming of the November rain.

• • •

Bo Boyle had organized every hour of every day. "No way around it," he said. "We have to tape twice as many interviews as we need so we can choose the best, and Elizabeth insisted on being back for Thanksgiving. You cramp my style, I have to cramp yours."

So the days and nights quickly fell into a pattern of sharing work, sharing their evenings, sharing their bed. Each day began with croissants and fresh fruit jam and cafe au lait in their room, as they read Boyle's notes to prepare for the day's interviews. Then Tony would tape his first interview while Elizabeth watched. He was not as sharp with his guests as he had been when his show was new, and though he had always refused to talk about it in Los Angeles, on their second morning in Europe he casually asked her advice about questions he might use in that afternoon's interview. Later, after he used them and the interview went well, he asked more easily, and Elizabeth was more confident in making suggestions. Soon, as she watched his tapings, she heard him using as many of her questions as his own to skewer self-important celebrities. And at the end of each interview, he would look her way, and wink conspiratorially.

He watched her interviews, too, smiling his approval, throwing an admiring kiss as her questions slid beneath the protective masks most people wear in public. Between tapings, they ate lunch together and, much later, dinner, always at intimate restaurants Tony frequented whenever he was in Paris, where he was known and addressed by name. And after a brief visit to one or another night club, they returned to their dimly-lit room and turned-down bed and came together with the same hunger of their first day in Paris.

Longing for love and comfort, Elizabeth thought she would never have enough of it. And as Tony held and caressed her, murmuring how lovely she was, how he adored the sensuality that was a woman's, the body that was a girl's, she found it easier to close off whole areas of her thoughts, let desire build, and give herself to pleasure.

Her body woke to all the joys she had locked away for five months; she was strung as tightly as a high-wire, responding to the sound of Tony's voice, the lightest brush of his sleeve against her arm, the touch of his hand on her breast when he took off her dress at night. She was young and alive, her senses heightened, her appetite growing as Tony's skilled hands and mouth brought her to a pitch and a fulfillment she had forgotten she'd ever known.