Hot Properties (56 page)

Paula Kramer answered the door herself. The apartment was huge, decorated sparsely—to Fred’s mind, like a museum. A few superb antiques were in each room, set far apart from each other, the enormous Oriental rug stretching across the living-room floor with only a single object on it— a coffee table that seemed to be some sort of chest—the beautiful Victorian couches way off, beyond the border of the rug. Paula greeted him warmly. She was thin and energetic, her long frizzy hair sprouting off her head as though her brain were electrifying it, her wide mouth flashing big bright teeth in a cheerful, welcoming smile.

Life had been dreamily successful since the end of summer and his return to New York. Holder was on the phone almost every other day with more talk of how hot Fred’s book was becoming. Using the hook that
The Locker Room
was a statement of the “new man’s” sexuality. Holder seemed to have created the possibility of a book tour (making the rounds of television and radio talk shows), a common promotional technique with nonaction, but rare or nonexistent with novels. In the midst of these bulletins, Paula Kramer had phoned to say she loved his book, was fascinated by its frank revelation of the male response to feminism. She had talked to
New York Times Book Review
about doing a piece on the emerging novelists under thirty-five, had gotten approval for the piece, and she wanted to use Fred as the central focus, since she felt his book was the most dynamic and important of the first-novels of the season.

Holder’s reaction to this news was unrestrained: “
Un
believable!
Un
believable!
Un
fucking-believable! Do you know how much free publicity that is! Fred, I’ve got to tell the people here now! Right away! This is going to affect the entire campaign.”

Paula asked him if he wanted coffee and went to get him some when he said yes. He felt intimidated by her and her living room. He also had no idea what to say about his book. Obviously she expected some sort of intellectual discussion, that his novel had a point to make. Did it? Men aren’t monogamous, women are. That had been his original idea. But Holder’s changes had occupied him during the writing, alterations that concentrated on keeping the story lively and sexy, with surprising twists and turns of fortune.

“My husband,” she said, entering with the coffee in a large china cup and saucer, “is a fan of your sportswriting.” Her husband, Brian Stoppard, was one of the most famous criminal lawyers in the country. “So many good American novelists began as sportswriters—why do you think that is?”

She was so charming and friendly that he forgot his nervousness. “’Cause it pays steady,” he answered.

She laughed, a quick ringing chime. He guffawed back at her. “I thought it was an interesting arena—pardon the pun—for you to come out of, given
The Locker Room’s
theme. You know, the machismo of sports, modern male sexuality.”

“You know, the athletes aren’t really macho. They’re little boys putting it on. ‘Mine is bigger than yours.’ The biggest shock you get when you first meet a team, first time you meet an athlete face to face, is that they’re kids!” She nodded eagerly at this observation, her eyes opening with surprise. “You know, twenty, twenty-one. Babies. And they stay babies, ’cause their life is playing.”

“Fascinating,” she said. “Do you mind if I use a tape recorder?”

“No, I always use one.”

Paula walked to built-in shelves (they were so discreet, painted the same white as the walls, that he hadn’t noticed them) and brought out a machine, turning it on and placing it on the table between them. “Is your book autobiographical?”

Fred smiled worriedly. He had expected this question, but still hadn’t settled on a satisfactory answer.

Paula smiled back. “Terrible question. I hate it when I’m asked. I know that all characters, in a way, are autobiographical, but some are more than others, if you know what I mean. I feel a lot of you in this book. It’s very honest. I really admire that kind of courage.”

“Thank you. You gotta put a lot of yourself into something to make it real and meaningful, don’t you think?”

“Oh, absolutely.” She nodded. “How does your wife feel about it?” she said in a mild wondering tone.

“She loves the book.” Fred answered, telling the truth insofar as he knew it. He suspected Marion thought it was too sensational, but she had made no criticisms.

“I’m sure. It’s wonderful. But … I know that Brian sometimes is sensitive about my work. Does she feel at all exposed—the affairs the character has and so on.”

“Oh, none of that’s true!” Fred said quickly, horrified. “I didn’t mean it was autobiographical that way. I’ve never had any affairs.”

“Your fans will be so disappointed,” Paula answered, smiling. “Sure you’re not being modest?”

“No, no. Honest.”

“So how is it autobiographical? The affairs are a substantial portion of the narrative.”

“The feelings. You know, I … uh … uh …”

“Extrapolated?”

“Yeah, I extrapolated fantasies into reality.”

“Hmmmm.” She looked let-down. Almost cool to him now. Maybe she had been hot for him, he suddenly thought. The sex scenes were pretty steamy. Maybe she figured he was a good lay and this was all a prelude to … No, impossible. She looked up at him quickly, as though she had made a decision, and turned off the tape recorder. My God, she’s gonna end the interview, throw me out, Fred thought. “Off the record, Fred—I don’t want to screw up your marriage. But just for my own curiosity—it’s not all fantasies, is it? The whole book is about faithfulness, how difficult it is for a man to sustain. Why would somebody who’s managed to do it write about its being impossible? If it’s possible for you, doesn’t that make nonsense of the whole book?”

Fred felt caught. Obviously she had believed, from reading his book, that he was a serious and talented man. Such a reaction was so unexpected that he hadn’t considered that the effect of meeting him might be a letdown. Of course he couldn’t tell her that Holder’s infidelities had driven the narrative. It was Bob who insisted on the restless sexuality of the hero. Fred’s original intention had been to have only one instance of adultery; he hadn’t considered—

“I don’t want to put you in a funny position,” she went on. “I understand about privacy—”

“I’ll explain, I’ll explain. You see, writing the book made me very aware of this … uh … problem. And Marion and I split up for a while—separated for six months.”

Paula looked relieved. “I see. Over this point?”

“Yes,” Fred answered, knowing it was a complete lie, but gambling that Marion, if it ever got out, wouldn’t bother to contradict him. Anyway, Paula had turned the tape off.

“And you worked it out openly?” Paula prompted, now energetic again.

“Yeah, uh-huh. See, I don’t consider that being unfaithful.”

“Of course not.” She nodded admiringly at him. “You know, Fred, I’ll be sensitive about it, but I can’t keep that out of the interview without its being pretty bland.”

“What part of it?” he asked nervously.

“Just the fact of the separation. Not the fact that you saw other people then. But this open way of handling the monogamy crisis you went through—without it, I don’t have a piece the
Times
would run.”

There was now in the room a heavy, heavy silence. Paula looked at him gently, considerately. He couldn’t blame her. She was right. He thought of Holder, bouncing up and down the halls of Garlands, lobbying for more ads and bigger print runs.

“Okay,” Fred said. “Carefully, though.”

She turned on the recorder. “Don’t worry. Trust me— women will love you for your honesty.”

A little thrill went through him at that. He began to talk. …

Tony Winters, his black hair shining, his face pink from the air, emerged from the swivel doors into the warm and smoky gold-and-red Russian Tea Room, unbuttoning his camel’s-hair greatcoat and meeting the apparently casual but supervisory glances of the famous, near-famous, and companions of the famous seated at the semicircle booths opposite and beside the bar. He handed his coat through the cloakroom’s half-door to the woman. She handed him a plastic check. “Hi,” he said to the wave of Donald Binns, the now ancient and quite mad Broadway producer seated with his chorus-girl wife and faggy assistant.

“How’s your mother?” Binns croaked out.

The glances returned, this time as puzzling stares. “Rich and famous in Hollywood,” Tony answered.

“That’s good.” Binns groaned when he spoke, as though the flattering lies and blustering rages of a half-century had corroded his vocal cords. “You still writing?”

Tony nodded with an indulgent smile, giving the impression that he was humoring a senile uncle. In a way, he was.

“Send me something!” Binns almost shouted. The stares were now mixed with speculative whispers. “What’s the matter? Broadway’s not good enough for you?”

“I will,” Tony answered, and moved on. “Good to see you,” he said. The heads returned to their companions as he passed. He saw himself in the mirror out of the corner of his eye. He looked great. Life is a performance, assholes, he thought to himself. No one knew Binns had rejected all three of Tony’s plays—probably even Binns himself had forgotten. All that mattered was Tony’s crisp walk, his clear bold eyes, the slight witty smile wavering on his lips. “I’m meeting Gloria Fowler for lunch,” he said.

“Of course, Mr. Winters. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Tony said, acknowledging the hostess, now that he had been recognized.

Gloria rated a booth on the left (number seven, Tony guessed, remembering from his childhood the station numbers; explained to him by the waiters with whom he would play while his mother got progressively drunker), and she was already there—her expensive haircut, her creamy silk blouse, and her simple (but unbelievably costly) rope of pearls leavened by the modest pair of blue jeans hidden beneath the pink tablecloth.

“You look lovely,” Tony said, kissing her on the cheek and then sliding in.

“Deal’s made,” she said.

“You’re kidding.”

“No, when Garth wants somebody, it’s done. Want something to drink?” He ordered and then she went on, “He wants you to call him tonight—the afternoon out there—at his home. I’ll give you the number. He’s very hot about you staying with him in Malibu to do the rewrites.”

“Really?” Tony looked around the room with mastery, owning it. Mom must have felt like this when a hit was running, he thought to himself. “Well, I guess if I do it, the movie’ll get made.”

“It’ll keep his attention and make him feel he’s part of the writing of the script. Would Betty be a problem? Can she get time off?”

“She can’t leave now—or rather, she doesn’t want to. She’s got a …” It sounded so trivial and small-time, Tony hesitated. “She’s got a book coming out—”

“She’s written a book?”

“No, no. I mean a novel she’s edited. But she wouldn’t make a fuss about my going. I’ve been so moody, she’d probably feel relieved.”

“I’m sure she’d miss you terribly. Garth says it’ll only take a few weeks—”

“They always say that—then it goes on for months.”

“You could stay with your father if Garth gets to be too much.”

“God, I’d rather stay at a hotel.”

Gloria frowned at her glass and lifted it to her lips, sipping. When she put it down she smiled and put her hand on Tony’s shoulder. “It’s just a rumor, Tony, but I think you should know …” She paused and smiled encouragingly.

He was baffled. “Yes … ?”

“Your father—they say—is probably going to be named CEO of International Pictures.”

Tony swallowed. “CEO?”

“Chief executive officer. The head of the company, overseeing television and features.”

He looked away from the band of mirrored glass—reflecting the glittering hairstyles, sparkling glasses, and open laughing mouths—down at the brilliant red leather of the booth. He closed his eyes as the humiliation fell over him like a shroud. Don’t show it! Life is a performance. “I see. That’s why Garth wanted me back.”

“No!” Gloria said, like someone commanding a dog not to pee on the rug. “That’s why I wanted to warn you about it. I knew you’d think that. But Garth has no idea of—”

“Gloria, that town is worse than high school. Somebody pops a pimple out there and everybody knows how much pus came out. If you’ve heard the rumor, he’s heard it.”

“Not true. I know it and I’m the only one who does, because of my association with someone—I can’t explain. I know that no one else knows. Have you heard anything about it?”

“No, of course—”

“You see!”

“But that—”

“Listen to me, Tony. Garth has had two other writers do drafts since yours.”

“You’re kidding me. Two?”

“Yes. They’re awful. Whatever problems your draft has, at least there’s a movie there. These other drafts are unusable.
He
wants you back. I was afraid that the rumor might come true and be announced while you’re out there and you’d get paranoid and pissed off and walk off. I don’t want that to happen.”

Tony stared into her eyes. “Forget it, Gloria. Don’t bother with the speech. I don’t care why I’ve gotten the job back. I was going crazy. I’m just glad I’m working. Garth wants me to live at his house—I’ll live at his house. He wants me to do the dishes, I’ll do the dishes. I don’t care.” He straightened his shoulders and smiled. Life is a performance, his mother’s ringing youthful voice spoke through time in his head. “To a
go
picture,” he said, raising his glass.

Patty entered the loft grimly. She had discussed it thoroughly with Betty at lunch. She had to get away from these men. She couldn’t think clearly about her life while living with Grumpy David and seeing Demanding Gelb. Tony was going to Los Angeles for at least a month and Betty had offered to put Patty up for as long as he was gone. Four weeks of male abstinence, both sexual and emotional, might clear her head.

She had decided to blurt it out—her desire for a temporary separation was the story she planned to tell David—the moment she entered, afraid that any hesitation would end up in cowardly silence. She walked to the bed area, where she saw light, and stopped, amazed: David was packing a suitcase. It stunned her. How did he know?