Loving (11 page)

"Oh, Ivo...." She looked at him as he handed her the dark blue box. "What more can you give me? You've already given me so much."

"Go ahead, open it." And when at last she did, he smiled at her small gasp.

"Oh, Ivo! No!"

"Oh, yes." It was a magnificent pearl and diamond choker she had seen and admired at Van Cleef's. She had told him about it after they first married, in a funny, half-joking confidence, when she told him that one knew one had really grown up when one had a choker of pearls. He had been amused by her theory, and she had gone on to describe the elegant women who had worn chokers at her father's parties, sapphires, diamonds, rubies ... but only the truly "grown-up" women had had the good taste to wear chokers made of pearls. He had enjoyed the story and, like everything else she told him, he never forgot. He had been waiting impatiently for her twenty-first birthday to give her the choker of pearls. The one he had chosen was also enhanced by diamonds that hung together in a handsome oval clasp, which could be worn in the back or front. As she fumbled to put it on and he watched her, he could see bright tears standing out in her eyes, and then suddenly she was crushed against him, holding tightly to him, as she bowed her head against his chest. "It's all right, darling.... Happy birthday, my beloved...." He tilted her face toward him then and kissed her ever so softly on the lips.

But there was something more than just gratitude in her face when she kissed him. "Don't ever leave me, Ivo ... never ... I couldn't bear it. ..." It wasn't the diamonds and the pearls that he gave her, it was that he always understood, he always knew, he was always there. She knew that she could always count on him. But the terrifying thing was--what if one day he wasn't there? She couldn't bear to think of it. What if he stopped loving her one day? Or what if he left her helpless and gasping as her father had.... But as he looked at her Ivo understood the horror he could see hiding in her eyes.

"As long as I can help it, darling, I'll never leave you. Never."

And then they wandered downstairs, his arm firmly around her shoulders. It was only a few moments later when the doorbell rang with the first guests. Mathilde was being assisted by a bartender and two rented butlers, and a caterer had been arranged for the food. For once Bettina had to do absolutely nothing. Everything had been organized by Ivo. All she had to do was relax, have a good time, and be one of the guests.

"But shouldn't I just take a look in the kitchen?" She whispered it to him softly as they wandered away from a group of guests, but he held on to her firmly with a long, tender smile.

"No, you should not. Tonight I want you out here, with me."

"As you wish, sire." She swept a low curtsy and he patted her gently on the fanny as she rose. "Fresh!"

"Absolutely!" Their love life hadn't dwindled either in the past year. She still found him exciting and appealing, and they spent a remarkable amount of their time in bed.

She stood in tiny, regal splendor, Ivo at her side, a champagne glass in one hand, the other on her choker, surveying her domain. She felt like she had turned a corner. She was a woman, a lover, a wife.

"Ready to call it a night, little one?" Ivo looked down at her with a gentle smile as they circled the dance floor for a last time. She nodded as she looked up at him. For once the emeralds in her ears shone more than her eyes. She looked tired and troubled, despite the brilliantly beautiful green and gold sari dress she was wearing, and the new emerald earrings, which were an almost perfect match for her mother's ring. Ivo had just bought her the earrings the previous Christmas and she loved them.

As they turned to go back to their table, all of the guests stood and applauded. She was so used to the sound of applause, that she was comforted by it. But tonight the applause wasn't for the repertory group but for Ivo, who was retiring, finally, after thirty-six years at the paper, twenty-one years as its chief. He had decided, after much agony, to end his career at sixty-eight rather than push it all the way to mandatory retirement in two years. Bettina had not yet quite adjusted to what was happening, and he knew that it troubled her more than she would admit. Together they had shared six untroubled, endlessly happy years of winters in the city, summers in the country, trips to Europe, and moments that they shared. And at twenty-five she enjoyed it, and he indulged her, although now when she worked, he had his chauffeur pick her up around the corner from work. He no longer bowed to all of her ideas about her independence, and having proven herself with the rep group, she was less fierce about the little things. Yet it was comfortable to depend on Ivo. He made life so easy and so happy.

"Come on, my darling." He took her gently by the hand and led her through the crowd of well-wishing friends in evening dresses and tuxedos. In fact as he looked at them he was grateful for the touch of her hand. There was so much that he was leaving, and suddenly he wondered if he had been wrong. But it was too late to reverse his decision. The announcement of the new publisher had already been made. And Ivo was becoming the chief adviser to the chairman of the board. It was an illustrious title, which in fact held very little power. He would simply become now a respected elder, and as he rode home in the limousine with Bettina, he found himself close to tears.

But they had already done some careful planning. She had taken three months off from the rep group and they were leaving the next day for the South of France. He had arranged their passage by ship, since suddenly they had so much spare time.

They drove down in leisurely fashion from Paris to St.-Jean-Gap-Ferrat, after a two-week stay at the Ritz, where Bettina teasingly said they did nothing but eat. Cap-Ferrat was heavenly in September, and in October they went on to Rome. And at last, in November, they regretfully returned to the States. Ivo called a vast number of his cronies and arranged to have lunch with everyone at their assorted favorite hangouts and clubs. And Bettina went back to The Players. Things were on the upswing for them, the previews good, the audiences plentiful, and Bettina was happy with her job. Steve was finally directing, and she had his old job as theater manager, for which she had gotten her equity card at last. The play they were doing was an original work, by an unknown playwright, but it had seemed different to her right from the beginning. There was a tension, an excitement, a kind of tangible magic one could feel in the air.

"All right, I believe you." Ivo had said it teasingly as she told him about it with excited, emphatic eyes.

"Will you come and see it?"

"Sure." He went back to his paper and his breakfast with a smile. It was rare, but the night before, he hadn't waited up for her. He had had a long day himself. Now and then his age peeked at him around corners, but most of the time nothing much had changed.

"When will you come and see it?"

He looked up at her again with a rueful smile. "Will you please stop pushing, Mrs. Stewart?"

But she grinned at him and firmly shook her head. "No. I won't. This is the best play I've ever worked on. It's brilliant, Ivo, and it's exactly the kind of play I want to write."

"All right, all right, I'll see it."

"You promise?"

"I promise. Now can I read my paper?"

She looked at him sheepishly. "Yes."

But by noon she was already anxious to get back to the theater. She watched Ivo dress for a luncheon at the Press Club, and then she showered and climbed into jeans. She left him a note that she had left early, and she'd see him late that night. She suspected he wouldn't mind it. Since they'd gotten back from Europe, he'd been very tired, and it would probably do him good to take it easy for the rest of the day. Besides, he was used to her crazy theater schedule.

She jumped out of the cab hastily and walked the rest of the way, humming to herself and feeling the bitter winter wind in her hair. She still wore it long to please Ivo, and today it flew out past her shoulders, like fine copper thread.

"What's your hurry, lover? You can't be late for work." As she crossed the street near the theater she looked over her shoulder in surprise. The voice was British and familiar, and when she saw him, he was wearing a warm tweed coat and a red cap. He was the star of their new play.

"Hi, Anthony. I just thought I'd tie up some loose ends."

"Me too. And we have a quick rehearsal at four thirty. They're going to change the opening of the second act."

"Why?" She looked at him with interest, and as they reached the theater he held open the door.

"Don't ask me." He shrugged boyishly. "I just work here. I never understand why playwrights do all that scribbling and switching. Paranoia, if you ask me. But that's the theater, love." He stood for a moment in front of his dressing room and eyed her with a long, friendly smile. He was more than a head taller man she and he had enormous blue eyes and soft brown hair. There was something enchanting and innocent about him, probably due to his very British intonations and the light in his eyes. "Are you doing anything for dinner tonight?"

She looked pensive, and then shook her head. "Probably not. I'll just eat a sandwich here."

"Me too." He made a face and they both grinned. "Care to join me?" He waved behind him into the dressing room, and she hesitated for a moment, and then slowly nodded.

"Sure."

"And then what?" He was looking at her with fascination over the pastrami. They had been chatting, sitting on two canvas chairs in his dressing room for half an hour.

"Then I worked on Fox in the Hen House, Little City, let's see ..." She hesitated pensively, and then grinned. "Oh, and Clavello."

"You worked on that?" He looked impressed. "Christ, Bett, you've had more work than I've had, and I've been at it for ten years."

She looked surprised as she surveyed him, nibbling at the remains of her pickle. "You don't look old enough to have been at it for that long. How old are you?" She wasn't embarrassed to ask him questions. In the past half hour they had somehow become friends. He was easy to be with and fun to talk to, unlike the others she had met in the theatrical world. Despite the camaraderie, jealousy was always thick in the air. But it rarely touched her. She was only the stage manager, after all. Yet she never tired of what she saw in the theater, and the magic was there for her, every night.

"I'm twenty-six." He looked at her enchantingly. A small boy in a man's clothes, pretending to be in a play.

"How long have you been in the States?"

"Just since rehearsals. Four months."

"You like it?" She finished the last of the pastrami and the pickle and cast a jeans-clad leg over the arm of her chair.

"I love it. I'd give my ears to stay."

"Can't you?"

"Sure, on temporary visas. But, Christ, that's all such a mess. I take it you don't know about the never-ending search for the almighty green card."

She shook her head. "What's that?"

"Permanent resident's card, working permit, et cetera. They'd be worth a fortune if you could buy them on the black market. But you can't."

"What do you have to do to get one?"

"Work a minor miracle, I think. I don't know, it's too bloody complicated. Don't ask. And what about you?" He stirred his coffee and looked at her seriously for a moment. She was startled, she felt almost caressed by the blue eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know," he shrugged, smiling. "Vital statistics, age, rank, shoe size, do you wear a bra?"

She grinned back at him, startled, and then shrugged. "All right, let's see. I'm twenty-five, I wear a size five-and-a-half shoe, and the rest of it is none of your business."

"Married?" He looked casually intrigued.

"Yes."

"Damn." He snapped his fingers regretfully and they both laughed. "Been married long?"

"Six and a half years."

"Kids?" But this time she shook her head. "That's smart."

"Don't you like children?" She looked surprised, but he was noncommittal.

"They're not the greatest thing ever to happen to a career. Distracting little bastards at best." It reminded her of the egocentricity of most actors and made her think of her father too. And then he smiled at her again. "Well, Bettina, I'm damn sorry to hear you're married. But"--he looked up at her cheerfully--"don't forget to give me a call when you get divorced." But as he said it she stood up with a broad grin.

"Anthony Pearce, my friend, don't hold your breath while you're waiting." And then with a wave and a smile she walked to the door and saluted. "See you later, kid."

She saw Anthony again that night as she left the theater, and they both pulled their collars up against the cold.

"Jesus, it's freezing. God knows why you want to stay in the States."

"Sometimes I ask myself that too."

And then she smiled at him again as they walked toward the corner, trying to avoid the patches of ice. "Nice performance tonight."

"Thank you." He turned to her questioningly. "Want a lift?" He was about to hail a cab.

"Hi, darling." It was bright and sunny the next morning at breakfast. Again Ivo had been asleep the night before when she came in. It was unlike him. And they hadn't made love in a week. She felt guilty keeping track of it, but he had spoiled her so much for so long that now she was suddenly aware of any change.

"Missed you last night."

"Think I'm over the hill, little one?" He said it softly with a kindly light in his eyes. It was clear that he didn't think so, and Bettina rapidly shook her head.