The Slipper (35 page)

He gave them both a belligerent look and charged back to his office, flying back out in a minute or so in a green-and-brown checked sport coat that had to be seen to be believed. He rushed out of the office, knocking over a stack of manuscripts as he did so, off to the pokey to bail out his alcoholic superstar.

“I'm crushed,” Nora said. “I thought
I
was his best girl.”

“Those are the breaks,” Sage told her. “I envy you your lunch with Hennesey. He's quiet, reserved and absolutely gorgeous, looks like a scholarly Heathcliff—the kind of guy you'd love to leap your bones.”

“Charming,” Nora said. “No one's leaped my bones in so long I've forgotten what it feels like. You don't meet that many available men in publishing. They're either happily married or happily living with each other.”

“Tell me about it,” Sage said.

At eleven o'clock Nora fetched the contracts from Meg, Ross's private secretary, left the office, walked to the nearest subway station and, fifteen minutes later, was unlocking the door to the apartment she and Julie had taken on West 72nd Street, near the Hudson River. The neighborhood wasn't all that enchanting, but the West Side had its own special color and raffish ambience and the apartment was large and relatively cheap. She thought about dashing up to Hannah Lichtenstein's apartment and giving Danny a hug but decided it might upset his routine. Hannah was a godsend, taking care of Danny all day while Julie worked at the studio and took her classes with Sonia Lezenski. At eleven months old he was a handful: willful, spoiled and utterly enchanting. Locking the door behind her—one did in New York-Nora sighed, undressed and took a quick shower, then settled in front of the television set in an old robe. She had to bang the side of the set to clear the picture.

This Life of Ours
came on at eleven-thirty, one of the most popular soaps on the small screen, and if she was lucky she'd catch one of Julie's scenes before it went off at twelve. Sonia had gotten her the job two months after Danny was born, and in the past nine Julie had been raped by her evil brother-in-law, was committed to an insane asylum, escaped, suffered amnesia and had a touching romance with a handsome truck driver who found her wandering along the side of the highway. She was back in River City now, fully cured, fending off the advances of the resident suave rake and trying to convince her sister to get a divorce. It wasn't art, but it was work, it was good experience, and the pay wasn't bad. Something better would come along soon. Julie was a magnificent actress and she was going to be a star. Nora was sure of it.

She sat through a commercial for Oxydol and a commercial for Gerber's baby food and then watched a fluffy lamb frolic while someone sang, “Pamper, Pamper, new shampoo, gentle as a lamb, so good for you,” and then the screen flickered and there was Julie in closeup, looking distraught, looking noble, tears streaming down her cheeks as she explained to her sister how Bill had left the party with Roger and dropped Phyllis off and stopped by Ann's and had an argument with her over the inheritance and then … then came home and raped her while she, Jane, was in California. Jane recoiled in horror and refused to believe it and Julie told her she must divorce him, she must, he didn't love her at all but was only after the inheritance which Ann and Mark were going to get anyway. Nora couldn't keep track of all the names and relationships, but she was mesmerized by Julie's performance. Artistry. Sheer artistry. She made the rest of them look like amateurs. Jane ordered Julie out of her house and Julie bit her lower lip and fought the tears and shook her head in sad resignation and left and Jane began to shriek in anguish as the credits rolled.

Jesus! Twelve. She'd have to hurry. Something sexy, he said. Sexy was hardly her style, but maybe the dark-red sheath would quality. Carol had sent it over from Paris last Christmas, a perfect fit, perfect lines, deep deep red linen, sleeveless, with form-fitting bodice and waist and a straight, mid-calf-length skirt. Not that there was that much form to fit, Nora thought bitterly, slipping it on. Petite and thin and considerably less than well endowed. The dress was decidedly smart, though, striking if not sexy. She applied red lipstick sparingly and brushed her hair. The short black curls were gone now, replaced by a sleek, shiny pageboy cut that was extremely flattering and made her face look thinner and more interesting. What the hell, she thought, might as well use some eye shadow too, give the guy a real thrill. She smoothed pale blue-gray shadow on her lids, used a little mascara and then moved back to study the effect. A femme fatale I'm not, she decided, but I'm not so bad either. If James Hennesey likes thin, petite Jewish girls it's in the bag.

She had to walk all the way up to Broadway to flag down a taxi, hell with her black high heels. A couple of guys whistled! That made her feel better. In the taxi, black purse with contracts and necessities in her lap, Nora tried to remember all she knew about James Hennesey. Born and raised in North Carolina, he had graduated from Chapel Hill, had been a Marine commando during the Korean War and afterwards took his doctorate at Berkeley on the veteran's program. He had then taught American literature at Clemson and, like every other lit. professor in captivity, dreamed the novel he was working on would liberate him from the politics and poltroonery of the academic world. A trenchant yet sensitive novel about the Korean War and its demolishing effects on three boys from a small southern town,
All Glory Gone
had been hailed by the critics, yet it had only a modest sale. The movie version, with Aldo Ray, John Saxon and a young television actor named Robert Redford, had fared dismally at the box office. Hennesey's second novel,
Together We Fall
, was about a sensitive southern boy's disillusionment when he discovers his idolized older brother is actually a womanizing heel. It got the full first page of
The New York times
book section, was deemed a masterpiece by most of the reviewers across the country, sold barely enough copies to make back its advance. It, too, was filmed, with a screenplay by Hennesey himself. The film was a huge hit, Angela Lansbury receiving an Academy Award nomination as best supporting actress for her portrayal of the boy's fluttery, possessive mother.

Nora sighed, shifting uncomfortably on the taxi seat. While Hennesey was unquestionably a powerful writer, while his was a very prestigious name in literary circles, his books did not sell strongly. Sheridan had just placed his third novel with Prentice-Hall, and Hennesey was going to be less than enchanted when he saw the contracts and the small size of the advance. Ross had done well to get the fifteen thousand he had finally squeezed out of Prentice-Hall. Doubleday and Little, Brown had offered considerably less. Nora was not looking forward to this particular luncheon, even though it was a first for her.

The taxi let her off in front of Copenhagen. Nora gave the cabbie a generous tip—Ross was paying, after all—and started toward the door. She was under the striped awning and reaching for the door handle when she heard someone calling her name. She turned. She felt her blood freeze when she saw him strolling toward her, looking wonderful in his neat gray flannel suit and blue silk tie, looking gorgeous. His blond hair was a bit longer and stylishly cut, and when Brian Gregory smiled that familiar smile, it made her heart melt just as it had two years ago. He took both her hands in his and squeezed them, and Nora tried to smile, tried to act casual when all she wanted to do was run.

“This is wonderful!” he exclaimed.

“Wonderful,” she agreed listlessly.

“Imagine running into you like this—I didn't even know you were here in New York. I've been watching all the best-seller lists, haven't happened upon your name yet.”

Rub it in, you bastard. “I'm working for a literary agency, I'm meeting a client here for lunch, as a matter of fact. You—you're looking wonderfully fit, Brian.”

“You're looking pretty wonderful yourself. I like the new hair style, it makes you look all grown up.”

“I
am
all grown up.”

“It's been a while, hasn't it?”

“Almost two years,” she said.

He smiled again. Jesus, she thought, how did I ever let him get away?

“How are you, Brian?” she asked.

“Things are going great,” he admitted. “I love my work, and I'm married now. Maybe you read about it in the papers?”

“I must have missed it.”

“Her name's Stacey. She's a marvelous girl.”

She would be. “I—I'm happy for you, Brian.”

It was true. She was indeed happy for him. Things had worked out exactly as she had known they would for him. He had gotten over her and he had met a marvelous girl named Stacey who was obviously as blue-blooded as he and would be the perfect wife, the perfect helpmate, an asset to him professionally and socially, but it still hurt, it hurt like hell to realize all she had given up. Nora had never realized just how much she loved him until it was all over, and seeing him now was more painful than she would ever have believed.

“Stacey,” she said. “Vassar?”

“Smith.”

“Westchester county?”

“Boston, actually. Beacon Hill.”

“I'm pleased. Do give her my best.”

“I will,” he said, and his eyes grew serious. He was still holding her hands. “You know—you were right about things, Nora. It—at the time I was ready to kill myself, thought my life was over, but now I realize you had both our best interests at heart when you broke it off.”

He let go of her hands and moved back, smiling that smile again. She was smiling, too. It seemed to be frozen on her lips.

“We had some great times, didn't we?” he said thoughtfully. “I'll remember them always with special fondness in my heart. Hey—why don't we get together for lunch sometime? I'm just on my way back to the office now. Let me give you one of my cards. Call me anytime. We'll make an appointment. It's been swell seeing you again, Nora.”

She took his card and put it into her purse and Brian gave her a friendly hug and, shaken, Nora went inside and went immediately to the ladies' room, to pull herself together. You're a smart, tough New York career girl now, kiddo, she reminded herself, and you made a lucky escape two years ago and you bloody well know it. The tears spilled over her lashes and she was furious with herself and wiped them away and, wouldn't you know it, her mascara was all smeary and she looked like both her eyes had been blacked. You're in an elegant restaurant to meet a famous writer, she scolded, making repairs at one of the mirrors. You'd rather be in New Rochelle darning socks? Baking apple popovers? Waiting for hubby to come home from the city so you can discuss crabgrass and the price of sirloin? You've got an exciting, stimulating life and you're going to be a famous writer so straighten up this minute!

Fifteen minutes later, makeup repaired, looking every inch the efficient, self-assured career girl, Nora followed the maître d' to a table near the corner where James Hennesey had already been seated. Copenhagen was the current favorite with publishing people, and Nora spotted Ayn Rand at a table with her new editor from Random House. Rona Jaffe was at another table, looking like a radiant pixie and exchanging gossip with Aubrey Goodman, the twenty-three-year-old author of
The Golden Youth of Lee Prince
whom the critics were calling the Scott Fitzgerald of his generation. Nora was thrilled, envious, too. One day soon she'd have
her
table at Copenhagen and people would stare at her and envy her success. Hennesey rose slowly to his feet when she reached the table, and Nora felt something very like a shock wave.

He was tall and lean, a bit too lean, perhaps, with broad, bony shoulders and narrow waist and hips. He wore gray slacks, a handsome dark-gray corduroy jacket, a light-blue cotton shirt, a deeper-blue knit tie. His hair was black as coal and naturally wavy, and his face was lean, faint hollows beneath those high, sharp cheekbones. His nose was thin, his mouth wide and pink and undeniably sensual, the lower lip full and curving, but it was those incredible eyes that fascinated her. They were a deep, smoke-gray, sensitive, intelligent and stern, too, eyes that could glow with compassion or flash with hostility. He was not at all handsome in any traditional way, but he was one of the most attractive men she had ever seen.

“Miss Levin?” he said.

“That's right. How did you know my name?”

“Ross called me earlier and said you would be meeting me.”

“I—I hope you're not disappointed, Mr. Hennesey.”

“You're much prettier than Sheridan,” he said.

It was a cool statement of fact, not a compliment at all. His voice was softly husky, each word pronounced slowly, lazily and with a pronounced southern drawl she found wildly appealing. He helped her into her chair, which was just as well, for her knees felt suddenly very weak. He sat down across from her and studied her with those cool, smoke-gray eyes and she dropped her purse and retrieved it, feeling nervous and disoriented, feeling like an idiot. She noticed his hands. They were large, with wide palms and long, blunt fingers, strong hands, beautiful, very masculine. She could imagine them gripping her thighs. The image alarmed her and she quickly banished it, striving to assume a crisp, businesslike manner.

“Are you feeling better?” he inquired.

“Hunh?”

“I saw you come in fifteen minutes ago. You looked very upset. You went directly to the ladies' room.”

“Oh-yeah.”

She was making a great impression. She could see that. Hunh. Yeah. He probably thought she was some kind of mental retard. She was still upset over the encounter with Brian and … and in no condition to cope with this intimidating stranger. Jesus, he was attractive. Beneath that icy, reserved exterior, one could sense wiry strength and potent sexuality, made all the more intriguing because of his tight control. Those eyes studied her with cool objectivity, as though she were some unusual specimen he was attempting to classify and file away mentally. Nora had the feeling he could look straight into her soul and see all the scars.