The Lonely Lady (27 page)

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Not your fault,” he said. “You tried.”

The waiter came and refilled our cups.

“Have you ever been to Vegas?” Chad asked.

“No.”

“Why don’t you stay then?” he asked. “A gang of us are going down tomorrow night to catch Sinatra’s opening. We’ll have a few laughs and you can fly back from there.”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“There won’t be any heat. You’ll have your own room.”

“No, thanks. I’m not up to it. I’m going home and spend the next few days in bed.”

He was silent for a moment. “Anything serious between you and John?”

“No.”

“You didn’t have to answer that,” he said quickly. “It wasn’t any of my business.”

“I already did,” I said.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he said.

“Why?”

“If you go, I’ll feel I’ve failed. And I don’t like failing.”

I was beginning to get irritated. “You mean you don’t want me to leave until you fuck me, is that it?”

“Not exactly. Well, maybe. I really don’t know.”

“Why can’t you say exactly what you mean?” I asked. “Or is that the way the men here play the game?”

“I’m not playing any game,” he said defensively.

“What’s on your mind then?”

“Look,” he snapped, “I don’t see any reason why I should have to be cross-examined like this. I went out on a limb for you.”

“You’re absolutely right,” I said. “I apologize.”

He relaxed and smiled. “Don’t apologize,” he said. “You were absolutely right. I do want to fuck you.”

When I didn’t answer, he signaled for the check. Back at the motel he followed me into the room and began to take off his jacket.

I stopped him. “Are we friends?”

“Yes.”

“Would you understand it if I told you my head isn’t ready for you yet? I’ve got too much shit goin’ on in there that I have to get rid of before we can make it.”

He was silent for a moment. “You’re not putting me on?”

“It’s straight. You’re okay. I like you. I’m just not up there yet.”

He slipped his arm back into his sleeve. “They’ll think I’m crazy but I believe you.”

“Thanks, Chad.”

“Can I call you if I come to New York?” he asked.

“I’ll feel bad if you don’t,” I said.

I followed him to the door. “I’ll see you then,” he said, kissing me quickly.

The phone began to ring almost the moment I closed the door.

It was John. “I’ve been calling all night,” he said.

“I’ve just got back from dinner.”

“I know, but I’ve got to see you.”

“I’ve got to pack,” I said. “I’m going back on the first plane in the morning.”

“I heard what happened out at the studio,” he said. “But all I want is a few minutes. You can’t go without giving me a chance to explain.”

I thought for a moment. “How long will it take you to get here?” I asked.

“One minute,” he answered. “I’m in the motel office downstairs.”

He was there as soon as I put down the phone. “Come in,” I said.

He followed me into the room. I gestured at the half empty bottle of scotch that Chad had left. “Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, please.”

I took some ice cubes from the refrigerator and gave him a healthy drink. He looked drawn and tired. He took a good belt and some of the color seemed to come back into his face. I gestured at the couch and sat down in the chair opposite him.

“I don’t know what got into me,” he said. “I’m not usually like this.”

I didn’t answer.

“I want to apologize,” he said.

“Don’t. It’s as much my fault as it is yours. I didn’t know the rules of the game.”

“It wasn’t a game,” he said. “I care for you. I really do.”

There was nothing I could say.

He took another sip of his drink. “I don’t want you to go back tomorrow. I want you to come back to the beach with me so we can start over. This time it will be right. I promise.”

“It won’t work,” I said gently. “I know that now.”

His voice grew more earnest. “It will. I know it will. Remember how beautiful it was that night? It will be like that again if you just give it a chance.”

Looking at him, I thought there was so much he didn’t understand. All he could remember was the way he felt then. By some strange quirk he seemed to have erased everything that happened afterward.

But I could not. Everything that had happened between us came together in the way I viewed him now. And the way I felt about him had changed. But seeing him so abject, I knew that there was no way of telling him the truth without bringing him down further. So instead I lied.

“I have to go back,” I said. “Fannon and Guy have some ideas they want me to work on right away. They’re going to try to get the play on a month earlier than they’d planned.”

He took a deep breath. I could see some of the tension leave his face. This was the kind of rejection he could cope with. It was business, not personal. “Was it beautiful for you too?” he asked.

I got to my feet. “It was beautiful.”

He rose from the couch and reached for me.

I put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “No.”

He looked at me questioningly.

“I’m exhausted,” I said. “I wouldn’t be any good tonight.” I remembered the nightmare. “I’ve been going back and forth so much the last two days I feel like a football.”

He didn’t speak.

“Do you understand that?” I asked. “I’m not a machine. I’m human. And I have to get some rest.”

He nodded. “I keep forgetting. Women don’t adapt to the time changes as well as men.”

I stared at him. That made no sense at all. But all I wanted to do at this point was to go to bed, so I agreed.

“I’ll let you get some rest then,” he said.

He kissed me. I felt nothing but he didn’t seem to be aware of it. “We’ll be in touch,” he said.

“Yes.”

He smiled. “I’m glad we were able to have this talk.”

“So am I.”

“Call me when you have time,” he said.

He kissed me again and I closed the door behind him. I walked back into the room and stared at the whiskey bottle. I picked it up and dropped it in the wastebasket. Then I went into the bedroom and undressed. I crawled naked between the sheets and closed my eyes. I remember the last thought I had before drifting off.

Oh, shit.

Men.

Chapter 16

The snow was still falling heavily as we came out of the darkened theater. Max, the fat little company manager, came hurrying toward us through the lobby.

“Mr. Fannon took the limo back to the hotel. He had some important calls to make. He said that he’d send the car right back.” He was puffing with exertion. “It won’t be long,” he added.

I glanced at Guy. “Feel like walking?” I asked.

“The snow will be up to our ass,” he said.

“What the hell. It’s only three blocks. Besides I think it will do me some good.”

“Okay.” He looked at Max. “Hold the car for the cast.”

“Yes, Mr. Jackson.”

Heads down, we walked stolidly for two blocks before exchanging a word. A plow moved past us spraying snow to the sides of the street. We paused at the corner to let it go by.

The whole performance was running through my head. The echo of the actors’ voices in an almost empty theater, the laughter that never came, the lines that fell flat, the critics’ averted faces as they left. “The play stinks,” I said.

“You’re not being fair to yourself. Look what we had to open against. The worst fucking snowstorm in five years.”

“It wasn’t snowing inside the theater,” I said. “Nothing worked. And the cast kept blowing their cues. One after the other.”

“They were nervous,” he said. “Tomorrow night they’ll be better. That’s why shows go on the road. To work out the kinks.”

We were almost at the hotel. “We ran too long,” I said. “I think if I took about five minutes out of each act it would help.”

“Ten minutes out of the first,” he said. “That’s where our big problem is. We don’t hook them early enough.”

We pushed open the door and were hit by the blast of warm air from the lobby. “Feel up to working tonight?” he asked as we went to the desk for our keys.

“That’s what I’m here for.”

He grinned. “Your room or mine?”

“Yours,” I said. “I’ll bring the typewriter.” Directors and stars got suites. Authors were the low end of the totem and got small singles. Unless they happened to be my ex-husband.

We walked to the elevator. “I’ll order some sandwiches and coffee,” he said.

“Give me a half hour to shower and change into dry clothing,” I said.

“Good enough,” he answered.

The first thing I saw when I entered my room was the giant basket of flowers on the dresser. I read the card.

Love and success.

We’re very proud of our little girl.

Mother and Daddy.

I looked out the window at the falling curtain of snow, then back at the flowers and began to cry.

***

We had been working almost three hours when the knock came at the door.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Jackson,” Max said apologetically, “but Mr. Fannon wants to see you up in his suite right away.”

“Tell him I’ll be right there,” Guy said.

“What do you think he wants at this hour?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Probably wants to tell me the play needs fixing and what to fix.” He slipped into a cardigan. “Finish off that bit on the first act. I think we’ve helped it a lot. I’ll be right back.”

It was a half hour before he returned. By that time I had finished the first act rewrite and was working on the second. I took one look at his face and knew it was bad news.

“He wants to close it down,” he said.

“He can’t do that,” I said. “We’re entitled to more than one night.”

“He’s the producer; he can do whatever the hell he wants. He controls the money.”

“Why?” I asked. “We haven’t even seen the reviews yet.”

“He’s got them all,” he answered. “He has spies at the newspapers. He’s got slugs of every one just as they’ll be in the papers tomorrow morning.”

“What did they say?” I asked.

“Slaughter. Every one of them. Bloody slaughter.”

“Did you tell him what we were doing?”

“I did,” he answered. “He said we should have thought of that before we opened. I did manage to get one thing out of him though. I asked him not to make his final decision until after he talks to you. After all, it’s your play.”

“He wants to see me now?” I asked.

He nodded.

“What am I supposed to tell him?”

“Explain to him again what we’re doing. You got to convince him that the play has a chance. You know what we’re doing is right. Don’t let him cut us off at the pass. We got to get this play into New York.”

I got to my feet. “What if he won’t listen to me?”

For the first time in all the years I’d known him I saw the bitch come out. His lips drew back over his teeth in a contemptuous smile, and unconsciously his voice went a register higher. “For Christ’s sake, JeriLee! If he liked boys I’d suck his cock to get this play on Broadway. It’s got to be worth that to you. You’re a woman. Just this once try using your cunt instead of your head!”

All the way up to the Presidential Suite where Fannon was staying Guy’s words kept running through my head. For me it wasn’t only the money. If the play went on I would be alive at the agency. Without it I was dead.

He opened the door, wearing a red velvet robe that I thought exited only in old movies. “Hello, my dear,” he said. “I have a cold bottle of champagne. I find it always helps to have a little lift when you’re facing the facts of life.”

I followed him into the room without answering. The wine was in a bucket next to the window. Solemnly he filled to glasses and gave me one. “Cheers,” he said.

We drank.

“Dom Perignon,” he said. “Nothing but the best.”

I nodded.

“Guy told you about the reviews?”

“Yes, but I don’t think it’s fair to go on them. Comedy doesn’t play in an empty house. That’s why TV shows have laugh tracks. Too bad we can’t do the same thing in the theater.”

He refilled the glasses. “That’s not being realistic. Believe me, my dear, I’ve had years of experience with these things. They never go right after a start like this.”

“But it will work, Mr. Fannon,” I said. “I know it will. Guy and I have been rewriting. We have got all the problems out of the first act and we can lick the others.”

“Cheers,” he said again and took another sip of champagne.

I wondered if he’d even heard me. “You’ve got to give us the chance,” I said. Then in spite of myself I began to cry.

He led me to the couch, took some Kleenex from the desk and pressed it into my hand. “There, there, my dear. You mustn’t take it so hard. You must think of it as experience. After all, this is your first play. There will be others.”

I couldn’t stop crying. “It will work,” I said. “I know it will work.”

He sat down on the couch beside me and drew my head to his chest. He stroked my hair gently. “Listen to the words of a man almost old enough to be your father. I know how you feel. After all, I feel just as bad. I don’t like to lose eighty thousand dollars. But it’s better than going into New York and losing seventy thousand more. A man has to learn when to cut his losses. And, in a way, that’s what you’re doing. Nobody will remember the reviews you get in New Haven when it comes time to get your next play produced. But if you get bad reviews in New York they never forget it.”

“I don’t care,” I cried. “I know the play will work.”

He continued stroking my hair while the arm around my waist moved up toward my breasts.

I turned and let my breast fill his hand. “Adolph,” I said, “you don’t know how much I’ve always admired your courage as a producer. You were the one man I felt would never quit on me.”

“I’m not quitting.” He cleared his throat. “I’m just trying to be practical.”

This time I let him feel both breasts. A curious flush blotched his face.

Then abruptly he got to his feet. He picked up the champagne glasses and gave one to me. “Drink it,” he ordered.

There was something in his voice I hadn’t heard before. And I suddenly realized that this little monster was really a man. I drained my glass.