The Slipper (62 page)

A discouraged Ted Andrews took Nora back to the hotel at midnight. Andrea had left earlier with one of her girlfriends. The handsome young man dutifully escorted Nora to the door of her room and told her it had been an honor for him to be her official date for the evening. Nora smiled and touched his cheek and then, impulsively, she asked him in for a drink. Over a Scotch and soda in the sitting room, Ted woefully poured out his side of the story. Andrea liked him, sure, but she treated him like a big brother. She kept pining for that cad who had led her on with promises of marriage and then dropped her when he'd had his fill. She couldn't seem to forget him.

“Make her forget him,” Nora said. “Stop treating her like an invalid and start treating her like a desirable woman. Get tough with her. Get romantic. If you don't want her to treat you like a big brother, stop acting like one.”

“Is—” Ted paused, thinking. “Is that how I've been acting?”

“Looks that way, pet.”

“You think I should make a pass?”

“I think you should do more than that. You're a very attractive guy, Ted. Pack up your merit badges and take out the Aqua Velva. If you want to win her, you've gotta woo her.”

“Gee, Miss Levin, I—thank you,” he said, standing. “Thank you for the Scotch and thank you for being so understanding. I guess you famous novelists know all about love and stuff like that.”

“You betcha,” she said.

Nora showed Ted out and changed into a white terrycloth robe. She wouldn't be around long enough to see how it all turned out, but she'd put her money on Ted.
Peter
would win
Heather
, but only after shaking her silly, tossing her into the sack and proving to her he was twice the man Ricardo had been. Ideas were coming fast and furiously now. Nora whipped out her notebook and sat down on the sofa, curled her legs under her and began to scribble away. The stories of Andrea, Lilian and Ellen were quickly transferred to paper in a hurried outline, but the facts were only a starting point. Her imagination took over, one idea suggesting another. Janice loses her lifeguard to the young sexpot, yes, but she is consoled by the handsome Swedish explorer—better make that Norwegian—and, abandoning her indifferent husband and the luxurious life in Mexico City, she takes off to the Amazon with her new lover. The Amazon? We'll have to think about that. By three-thirty she had fifteen pages of notes and a very rough outline for her next novel.

Jesus, I hope I can read this in the morning, she thought wearily, staggering into the bedroom. The whole bloody book had come to her almost full-blown, and she couldn't wait to get started on it. She had missed writing. She hadn't realized just how much until now. I loved the son of a bitch and I suppose I learned something from the affair, I suppose I grew up a little, but I damned near let him sabotage my career.
He
was the writer. I was a hack who happened to hit it lucky. Fuck that. Fuck him, too. I may not be literary and pretentious and I may never pen a masterpiece but I'm a better writer than James Hennesey will
ever
be. Jesus, can I pick 'em. Nora wrapped her arms around the extra pillow in the darkness, trying to forget. She was better off without the moody bastard, wouldn't take him back for a million bucks, didn't
want
him back, but it still hurt nevertheless.

Noisy, persistent pounding on the door penetrated her brain. It wouldn't go away, no matter how she tossed, no matter how she turned, and finally she gave an anguished moan and opened her eyes and the room was flooded with bright sunlight and someone was still pounding noisily on the door. “Jesus Christ!” she exclaimed, struggling into a sitting position. She was still wearing the white terrycloth robe. It was horribly wrinkled. Her eyelids felt like they weighed about forty pounds each, and her head might have been stuffed with damp cotton. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and moaned again and somehow managed to stand up, weaving precariously. The pounding continued. It sounded like someone was using a battering ram.

“Will you please the fuck hold on a minute!” she shrieked.

The pounding ceased immediately.

She staggered out of the bedroom and into the sitting room, tightening the sash of the short, wrinkled robe. She ran her fingers through her hair, finding a dozen tangles. She hadn't bothered to remove her makeup before she went to sleep. Her face must be a hideous mess. She must make the Bride of Frankenstein look like a beauty queen. Fuck it. Whoever the hell woke her up at this ungodly hour deserved a good fright. Blinking her eyes, feeling like hammered shit, Nora unlocked the door and flung it open, glaring defiantly at the cretin who had dared disturb her beauty sleep. He'd bloody well have a good reason or there'd be hell to pay.

He was wearing fancy tooled black leather boots and tight, faded jeans and a loose shirt of thin white handkerchief linen with the full, billowing sleeves gathered at the wrist. Over it he wore a brightly colored serape, red and gold and yellow and orange and blue, gaudy as hell, and a huge sombrero perched atop his head, the enormous brim slanted forward, hiding his eyes. The wide, perfectly chiseled mouth was grinning an idiot grin. He tilted his head back and Nora saw his eyes. They were full of mischief.

“You son of a bitch!” she cried.

“Is that any way to greet an old and treasured friend?” he protested.

“What the hell are
you
doing here? And what the hell makes you think you can come battering my door down at six o'clock in the morning?”

“It's almost noon,” he informed her.

“Who
gives
a shit!”

“My, my, this isn't the Nora Levin I know and love. I don't mean to hurt your feelings, my love, but you look a fright. There're black streaks running down your cheeks, mascara, I presume, and your makeup is all caked and cracking and your lipstick is—”

“Go to hell!”

“Hung?” he inquired kindly.

“I am not hung! I stay up half the night, making notes, and then someone pounds on my door with a medieval battering ram and wakes me out of a perfectly sound sleep and—Jesus! I need coffee. Lots of it.”

Jim Burke grinned, moved to one side and then pushed a heavily laden room service cart through the door, almost running her down. Nora staggered to one side, glaring at him as he whipped out a white linen cloth, spread it over the round table near the window and began to remove the dishes from the cart, making a hideous din as he did so. There was a rack of toast, a pot of jam, four plump sausage links, a heavenly-looking omelet covered with orange sauce and a huge silver pot of coffee. She hadn't eaten any dinner the night before and had had nothing but a few canapés at the party. She realized she was ravenously hungry. Jim poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she said sullenly.

“I've already eaten, several hours ago. I checked at the desk downstairs and found you hadn't ordered anything yet so I arranged to surprise you myself like the thoughtful friend I am.”

“Thoughtful my ass. Pounding on the door like that. I thought I was being besieged by Saxon warriors. You never answered my question. What are you doing here?”

“Promotion. The top Mexican network is picking up
Market Street West
and the studio sent me down to shake hands and spread goodwill and make appreciative noises. Ran me ragged all day yesterday. Today I'm on my own. Knew you were here—tried to get you last night, you weren't in—and decided I'd show you the town.”

“I've seen the town,” she snapped. “I feel like shit. I'm spending the day in bed.”

“Splendid. I'll join you.”

“Fuck off, Burke.”

“Drink your coffee. Eat your breakfast. You'll feel much better.”

“I really should shower and clean up first, but—to hell with it. I'll clean up later. That omelet looks fabulous. Are you staying here at the hotel?”

He nodded, sombrero brim flapping. “I fly back tomorrow morning.”

“I fly back tomorrow afternoon.”

“I'll change my flight. We'll go back together, and you can hold my hand during takeoff. I usually get airsick. So what have you been doing?”

“Busting my buns. I've interviewed over a hundred American women living and working in Mexico City and gathered reams of fascinating material and have written a positively brilliant article that's gonna knock their socks off, and I've also gotten a tremendous premise for a new novel. That's why I was up so late, I was jotting down ideas, sketching out an outline.”

Jim perched on the arm of the sofa, watching her eat. That garish Technicolor serape was too bloody much. So was the sombrero. He must have picked them up at one of those tacky tourist stalls.

“Had any good sex?” he inquired.

“That's none of your bloody business.”

“Bet you have,” he teased.

“As a matter of fact, I've had none at all, but not for lack of opportunity. All the men down here are horny as hell. Last night I was propositioned by an arrogant Latin diplomat, a bearded Swedish explorer and, just before the party broke up, a glass-blower from Venezuela on a mission for the South American Trade Commission.”

“It's that incredible body of yours and those come-hither eyes,” he told her. “I'd like to jump you right now, even if your hair does look like it exploded during the night.”

“Thanks, Burke. You're great for a girl's ego.”

“What're friends for? Hurry up and finish your breakfast, babe. We've got places to go, things to do. You've been hobnobbing with the aristocracy and doing the diplomatic circuit. Today you're gonna have fun.”

“Yeah?”

“I promise.”

It took Nora one solid hour to pull herself together. She showered. She styled her hair. She did her face. She put on white sandals and a fetching yellow sundress appliquéd with white daisies and was stuffing necessities into a square white straw purse with a yellow scarf tied around the handle when Jim returned to fetch her. He was still wearing the sombrero and serape. They received several shocked stares as they made their way through the elegant lobby downstairs, but Jim carried it off with grand aplomb, nodding regally at a horrified British matron in a purple silk suit who peered at him through her lorgnette. A long, sleek black limousine was waiting for them outside.

“How do we rate this?” Nora inquired.

“I'm a big television star, remember? Think I'm gonna travel around in a dusty old taxi held together with chicken wire?”

“The studio's paying?”

“The studio's paying,” he said, helping her into the backseat. “By the way, you look almost human now. I love that yellow dress. You ever made it in the backseat of a limo?”

“Lay off, Burke. I'm still not awake yet.”

Jim grinned and gave her a hug.

“So how are you?” he asked as the limo pulled away. “Really, I mean.”

“Really? I'm fine, Jim.”

“Over it yet?”

“I think. Almost. I still—once in a while I still think of him, and I kick myself for wasting a full year with the son of a bitch, but—I've got my act back together. I guess I needed someone like him to keep me from getting too cocky and full of myself. I guess—oh, hell. It's over now and I'm older and wiser.”

“Poor baby.”

“Fuck you, Burke, and take your hand off my knee. Where are we going?”

“We're going shopping.”

“I've already been shopping. My friend Ellen took me to the most exquisite shops—I thought I was in Paris again. I bought a cocktail dress that'll knock your eyes out. It's patterned on a flamenco costume, cleverly modified for evening wear. Cost me a mint, but—”

“You haven't been to the Market?”

“Why would I want to go to the Market? That's for tourists. Mexico City has some of the most elegant shops in—”

“Today you're gonna be a tourist,” he informed her.

“Jesus,” Nora groaned.

When they arrived and alighted from the limousine, the Market was already aswarm with dozens of shoppers who couldn't possibly be anything but tourists: women in stretch pants and overblouses, men in print shirts and Bermuda shorts with cameras slung around their necks, many of them, alas, with noisy children in tow. Jim's sombrero and serape caused no stir whatsoever, although one man from Pittsburgh did come over and ask, “Hey, buddy, where'd-ja get that? I gotta have one.” There were hundreds of stalls, it seemed, where one could haggle for baskets, leather goods, shawls, linen, jewelry, bright pottery, alabaster bookends, wooden chests, picture frames and, of course, every kind of junk food, Mexican variety. It was gaudy and noisy and congested, yes, but it was also exciting, and Nora found herself enjoying it all immensely. Jim bought a set of colorful wooden puppets for Danny—señor, señorita and piebald horse—and Nora found some beautiful lace mantillas, as fine as anything she had seen in the shops. She bought two, pale violet-blue for Julie, creamy beige for Carol, and haggled ardently with the vendor. Haggling was a great sport at the Market, for the vendors normally asked at least twenty-five percent more than they expected to get.

Two hours later, both of them laden with purchases, they tumbled into the limousine.

“Having fun?” Jim inquired.

“I love all my bargains. I had no idea you could buy so many really wonderful things. Julie and Carol are going to adore their mantillas, and those carved ivory combs are exquisite. I really shouldn't have bought the pottery, but it was so pretty, so inexpensive.”

“And so heavy,” Jim groaned. “I had to drag both boxes full back here to the limo and stash them in the trunk.”

“I'll have them shipped home. I promise to ask you over for a wonderful meal so you can eat off them.”

“You gonna cook it?”

“Are you kidding? I'll have it catered.”

“In that case, you're on.”