The Slipper (36 page)

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked quietly.

“I—uh—maybe a glass of white wine.”

Hennesey signaled the waiter and ordered a glass of white wine and another bourbon for himself. Nora managed to compose herself. He was still looking at her. His eyes were kind now and full of interest. His mouth was perfectly chiseled, that lower lip so full, so pink. She longed to rub her thumb over its wide curve. Let's face it, kiddo, you're horny. It's nothing to be ashamed of. He's a vastly intriguing man, and you haven't slept with a single male since coming to New York. Little Miss Prim and Proper, trying to compensate for all those jocks back at Claymore. Their drinks came. She sipped her wine slowly. It helped. He made no attempt at light chatter. A cool one, he was. Terribly self-possessed, terribly confident. Probably superior as well. A college professor. A literary writer. Probably looked down his long, aquiline nose at anyone who didn't write like James Joyce or William Faulkner.

“I've brought the contracts,” she said crisply.

“So I assumed.”

“I'm sure Ross spoke to you about them. It—this sale isn't quite what we hoped to get for you, but, frankly, the market is tight right now and we're not getting as much for any of our top authors at the moment.”

“That right?”

“On the plus side, Prentice-Hall is one of the best houses. Ross is convinced they'll do very well by your book. You should make good royalties even if the advance isn't what—what we may have hoped for.”

“You're extremely diplomatic, Miss Levin,” he said quietly. “I can see why Sheridan sent you to do his dirty work. What did he think? Did he think I was going to grab him by the throat because he couldn't get the kind of money for me he gets for Jason Pollen?”

“I—we were disappointed. We had hoped—”

“I am a realist, Miss Levin. I have published two novels which have been extremely well received by the critics. The second one won a Southern Fiction award which was quite gratifying to my ego but meant absolutely nothing to the book-buying public. I have been fortunate enough to have two film sales, but my books have sold dismally. How much did he get?”

“Fifteen thousand,” she said.

“Under the circumstances, I find that more than generous. Prentice-Hall is taking a big risk. May I see the contracts?”

Nora took them out of her purse and handed them to him. There were five copies, the bottom four onion skin. Hennesey quickly scanned the top copy and frowned once or twice, nodded, then gave a resigned sigh. He took a pen from his breast pocket and signed all five copies. She asked him to initial clauses seven and twelve, where indicated. He did so, then gave the contracts back to her. Nora put them into her purse, vastly relieved.

“Shall we order?” he inquired.

She nodded. He signaled the waiter again and ordered for both of them. It was rather presumptuous of him, she thought, but his selection was perfect, and she wouldn't have dared order anything so expensive herself. She finished her wine. All around them voices chirped brightly and ice tinkled in glasses and cutlery rattled against china, but the two of them might have been utterly alone. He was studying her again, the interest in his eyes quite apparent. A slight frown made a furrow above the bridge of his nose.

“Over it now?” he asked.

“I think so. I—you must have thought me some kind of idiot.”

“A man?”

“Someone I used to know. I ran into him just outside.”

“You must have loved him.”

“I did. I—I didn't realize how much until—until it was over.”

“All the sad young women,” he said thoughtfully. “They come to New York hoping for fame and fortune, hoping to find Mr. Right and a fairy tale ending, finding instead disillusionment and pain. Rona Jaffe captured the milieu perfectly in her novel—” He indicated the table where the vivacious young author was now enjoying a dish of chocolate mousse.

“Do you know her?” Nora asked.

“I met her at a party in Beverly Hills.”

“I think she's wonderful. I loved
The Best of Everything
.”

“It was a remarkable book.”

“You think I'm one of the sad young women?”

“Aren't you?”

“Not at all. I—I'm very positive. I'm one of the ones who is going to make it.”

“You're not looking for Mr. Right?”

“I don't even date,” she informed him. “Oh, occasionally I go out with my roommate, her friend Jim Burke and one of his actor pals, but it's strictly buddy-buddy time. Actors have only the one subject, you know—themselves. If the subject begins to stray from their looks, their talent, their achievements and prospects, their eyes begin to glaze over.”

“And the man who upset you?”

“Past history,” she said.

Their food arrived, and Nora concentrated on her salad. James Hennesey seemed to be musing over what she had told him, his gray eyes thoughtful. He asked no more questions, might have been alone at the table. So much for being a femme fatale, she thought, spearing a shrimp. As she was leaving, Rona Jaffe happened to spy Hennesey, waved and came over to their table. Hennesey stood up, greeted the young author politely and introduced Nora as his agent. Nora told her how much she had enjoyed her book. Rona looked pleased, thanking her warmly. It didn't seem fair for anyone to be so young, so attractive and so successful. I could learn to hate her, Nora thought.

“Have you read any of
my
books?” Hennesey asked after the charming Miss Jaffe departed.

Nora nodded. “I thought
Together We Fall
was marvelous, very touching, very sad, beautifully written.”

“And
All Glory Gone
?”

“It was a—a little brutal for my taste.”

“It was a brutal war,” he told her.

“Did you—did you actually do things like that?”

“Like Clark Davis, you mean? I was a Marine commando. I went out on a number of night missions when silence and secrecy were imperative. I learned to use a piano wire, just like Clark.”

“It must have been dreadful.”

“It was necessary.”

“And you went from that to teaching American literature. It seems so incongruous.”

“I frequently longed to garrote my students, too,” he confessed. “Trying to teach the niceties of Robert Frost to a pack of yawning football players and tittering cheerleaders isn't the most gratifying work I can think of, nor is exchanging pleasantries with empty-headed faculty wives and their neurotic, brown-nosing husbands, each and every one of them working on the great American novel and scared shitless they won't get tenure.”

“So you went to Hollywood,” she said.

“I have a place in Malibu. I write screenplays, most of which never get produced. The work is mindless and undemanding, the pay is good, and I have plenty of time left over to do some real writing.”

“You sound quite cynical about it.”

“I told you before, Miss Levin, I'm a realist. I could starve in a garret to produce my masterpieces, but I'd much prefer to be well fed in Malibu, the ocean washing the sand outside my back door, Vivaldi playing on the hi-fi and my two golden labs curled up beside the hearth.”

“You like dogs, then?”

“I like dogs.”

“Maybe you're not so bad after all.”

His eyes met hers, held them. Nora felt another shock wave. James Hennesey was the sexiest man she had ever met, not in any obvious, macho way but exuding pure virility all the more exciting because of his cool restraint and detachment. She lowered her eyes, quickly finished her food and refused dessert. The waiter brought their bill, and Nora handed him the credit card Meg had given her to use. Hennesey continued to watch her as she nervously took out her compact and checked her face in the small round mirror. Her cheeks looked a bit flushed. Thank God this was almost over with. The waiter came back again and she added a generous tip to the bill, added the total up, then signed it and put the card back into her purse.

“I'm going to be in New York for the rest of the week,” he said as they moved toward the door. “I'd like to see you again.”

“I don't think—”

“I'd like to see you tonight.”

“I'm afraid I have other plans for tonight, Mr. Hennesey.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“I—”

“Afraid?”

“Extremely cautious.”

“I'm really quite a nice guy, once you get to know me. I rarely garrote the women I take out.”

“Considerate of you,” she said.

He opened the door for her. They stepped outside under the awning.

“Tomorrow night?” he repeated.

Nora didn't answer. His lips curled into a faint half smile.

“I'll get your number from Sheridan. I'll give you a call.”

He turned then and left, stepping out to the curb halfway down the block and hailing a cab. Nora stood there under the awning, watching him. She had rarely been so frightened. She had never met anyone like James Hennesey, and every instinct told her any kind of involvement with him could only mean emotional disaster. She didn't have time for anything like that right now. She had a best-seller to write, a world to conquer. If he
did
call, she vowed she would be too busy to see him. Only fools went around asking for trouble.

Julie was in the kitchen with Danny when Nora got back to the apartment. It was after five and she was exhausted and there was still the party she had to attend. Julie looked up and smiled and hoisted another spoonful of mashed potatoes into Danny's yawning mouth. He gurgled, rolled his eyes at Nora and banged his fists on the plastic tray of his high chair. Nora grinned, melting with adoration when he yelled, “No-No!” and lifted his arms to be rescued from his mother's ministrations. He was a plump, stockily built creature with his father's slate-blue eyes and dark-brown hair.

“No-No!” he yelled again.

“Finish your potatoes, kiddo. Jesus, you're a messy eater. Look at the gook on your face. Yuck! That's spelled with a Y, Buster. Almost finished, Julie?”

“Almost. He's already had his carrots.”

Julie was wearing old white sandals and a simple blue cotton dress. Her face, without makeup, looked rather pale. Her violet-blue eyes looked enormous. She was exhausted, too. Nora could see that. Julie worked very, very hard at the studio and at her classes, giving her all at all times. When she wasn't toiling in front of the cameras or in Lezenski's class, she was studying lines and working on interpretation. Wiping Danny's face with a dampened cloth, she lifted him out of the high chair and set him on his feet. He waddled over and plopped down amidst a pile of wooden blocks Nora had bought for him a few days earlier.

“See, No-No,” he said, holding up a red-and-blue block.

“I see, pumpkin. You play with your blocks like a good boy and let your mother and Auntie No-No visit for a while. Okay?”

“'Kay, No-No.”

Nora sat down at the kitchen table, and Julie began to cloan up the mess feeding had created. For some reason strained orange carrots were splattered all over the front of the old refrigerator.

“I saw some of the show today,” Nora said. “Your last scene. I had to come back here and change for a luncheon engagement, managed to check out the last fifteen minutes. You were marvelous, love.”

“Thank you.”

“Jane gonna divorce Bill?”

Julie shook her head. “Bill's going to murder Ann and blame it on Jane. I have an affair with the randy young attorney who defends her when Jane goes on trial.”

“Randy young attorney. Hmmm. About time you found happiness.”

“He's involved with the mob,” Julie told her.

“Figures,” Nora said.

“Want a cup of coffee?”

Nora shook her head. “I'm just gonna sit for a few minutes then go take a long soak in the tub—I've got this fucking party tonight. Ross sold the film rights to Jason Pollen's new novel and some Hollywood people are coming. Big deal. I'll try to sneak some snacks home.”

“Interesting luncheon?”

“I had lunch with James Hennesey. Gave me the willies. He's frightfully attractive and he'd like to see me again and it scares the shit out of me. I—I have the feeling I could easily lose my senses where Mr. James Hennesey is concerned, and I'm not about to risk it.”

Julie finished cleaning up, poured herself a cup of black coffee and sat down, promptly lighting a cigarette. She had taken up smoking shortly after the divorce, it soothed her nerves, she said, and she smoked incessantly now. Julie was under a great deal of strain, raising a baby, making a living, pursuing her career in the theater, and the strain was beginning to show in that lovely face. Although the pit marks were gone, the hot lights and the heavy makeup she had to wear for the cameras had given her complexion a pasty look and the skin seemed to be stretched tightly across those delicate cheekbones. She still looked like a child, but a child who has been battered and betrayed by life. The glorious violet-blue eyes were full of lost illusions.

“What are your plans for the evening?” Nora asked.

“Jim's coming over. We're going to order Chinese, and I'm going to help him with his lines. He got the part, you know. The play opens at the Schubert in two months. They leave for New Haven in five weeks.”

“Is it a good part?”

“It's the second lead, a showcase part. He plays a psychopathic college student who murders his girlfriend and tries to pin it on Sean Garrison. He has a couple of wonderful scenes. I—I really think this is the one that's going to make him a star.”

“Maybe so.”

“He's a marvelous actor,” Julie assured her.

“I agree wholeheartedly, love.”

Jim had already appeared in three plays, one modest success off Broadway and two flops on Broadway, and he was getting quite a lot of attention, Walter Kerr deeming him an exciting new personality and a star of the future. He and Julie were very close, and she was pleased for him, feeling not the least resentment that Jim was getting the breaks sooner than she. They spent most of their spare time together, taking Danny to the zoo, eating in cheap cafes, taking in the film festivals at the Thalia. It was close friendship, not romance, although Nora suspected that Jim was in love with Julie, afraid to declare himself lest she send him away.