Once Is Not Enough (10 page)

“Stop it,” she moaned. “Oh God, stop it! I’m sorry for what I said. I know you did it for me.” She felt her throat close with tears but she forced herself to go on. “Couldn’t we have gotten a small apartment somewhere? Maybe I could have gotten a job.”

“Doing what?”

“Acting maybe, or even working for a producer . . . reading scripts.”

He shook his head. “The whole business has changed. Some of the top playwrights refuse to write for the theater now. Why should they? Work their asses off for two years and have a guy on the
Times
close it in one night. Sure there’s Neil Simon who rarely misses; but even stars stand in line to get into one of his plays. Then there’s Off Broadway . . . and even Off Off Broadway. But that’s another civilization. I know nothing about it. And it’s not what I want for you.”

“What do you want for me?” she asked quietly.

“To hand you the world.”

“And by marrying Deirdre Granger do you think you’ve given me that?”

“At least I’m handing you a bright new world. A world where people talk about something else besides theater or box-office grosses. Look, for you, show business can be like a great dessert. Something you enjoy maybe a few evenings a week. But it shouldn’t be your whole life. Besides, you saw it as Mike Wayne’s daughter. When you went backstage you only saw the star’s dressing room. Never the drafty ones on the third floor in Baltimore or Philadelphia. You saw success, baby. The bright side of the moon. It’s only normal for you to think that it’s your world. What other world have I ever given you?”

“But why should I want another world? You loved show business. I know you did.”

“Nah, I loved the horses just as much. I loved the gamble of doing a show or a picture. I loved the money, the fame the broads. Look, you don’t think I took you to the theater every Saturday because I loved it, do you? Hell, I took you there because I didn’t know what else to do with you. Now don’t get
angry,” he said as he saw the color come to her face. “But what does a man do with a little girl every weekend? I had no real social life. Only broads who I shacked up with. Some of them were divorcées with kids your age who called me Uncle Daddy. That would have made a big hit with you, right? Jesus, it’s a wonder you turned out as perfect as you did. Because I sure as hell gave you nothing. But that’s all changed now. At least I can give you a chance at another kind of life. All I ask is that you try it this way.”

“And what is this way?”

“See how other people live. Meet Dee’s friends. Give it a shot. If you don’t, then I’ve struck out all around.”

She managed a smile. “Of course I’ll try.”

“And try to give Dee a chance, too. She’s a great broad. I don’t know what she ever wanted with me.”

“The same thing Tina St. Claire wanted,” January said. “And Melba Delitto . . . and probably every girl you meet.”

He shook his head. “Sex isn’t all that important to Dee.” He looked thoughtful. “I get the feeling that she wants something more than that with me. Companionship maybe . . . a togetherness . . . to be part of a team. I don’t know too much about that kind of life. But please give Dee a chance. If you could see all the trouble she went to arranging tonight’s dinner party. And she’s invited her cousin, David Milford, as your escort.”

“Is David Milford also one of the six richest people in the world?”

“No. Dee’s father had all the big money. And—”

“And he died when Dee was ten,” January chanted. “And six months later Dee’s beautiful young mother committed suicide because of his death. Oh, Daddy, at Miss Haddon’s we all read about Dee’s life story every time she got married. The magazines called her ‘The Lonely Little Princess’ always seeking happiness.” She stopped. “That sounds bitchy, and I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that I may have been out of touch with the world during the past three years, but at Miss Haddon’s Deirdre Milford Granger was like an institution. Some of the girls had mothers who knew someone who knew her. I grew
up knowing everything about her—except that one day my father would marry her.”

He was silent and waved to the waiter for the check. She tried to smile. “Mike, I’m sorry.” She made her voice soft and traced his fingers with her fingertips. “Come on, tell me about David. Have you met him?”

“Several times,” he said slowly. “He’s good-looking. In his late twenties. Dee never had any children. Her mother and David’s father were brother and sister. The Milfords have no real money. Oh, they live well. In fact, they do very well.” He paid the check. “He works at a brokerage house. He handles Dee’s accounts. His father is a lawyer with his own firm and David is Dee’s principal heir and—”

“Wow,” January said softly. “You really made a package deal. A girl for you . . . a boy for me . . .”

His eyes flashed. “Boy, you sure as hell are my daughter. Always a direct hit. But first . . . I haven’t got David lined up for you. I think David has his own idea of who
he
wants to marry. But I’d be a goddamned liar if I didn’t admit that through Dee I hope you meet someone with class. David probably has a lot of friends. He’ll introduce you around. In that way maybe you’ll meet someone you really like, someone you’ll eventually marry. I’d love to have a grandchild, maybe two . . . three. Sure, I’d like it. But I’ll tell you what I wouldn’t like—to have you wind up a female version of me.”

“That’s too bad.” she said softly. “Because that’s exactly what I am. And what’s more, I planned it that way.”

“Why?” His voice was almost a snarl. “What kind of a model am I? I’ve never given a woman a fair shake in my life. But I’m gonna play it straight with Dee. It’s about time I started paying my dues. And between you and me, I owe plenty.”

She was silent for a moment. When she spoke she looked off into space. “But my dues are paid in full. Maybe I could have brought us some luck. We could have tried it together.” Then she smiled. “But that’s in the past. I’m sure I’ll like David Milford and I’ll do my best to charm him so he’ll introduce me to all his fancy friends. So the first thing I’d better do is buy something dreamy to wear tonight.” She stopped suddenly.

“Don’t worry. That’s all arranged. No, not what you think.” He dug into his pocket and took out a card. “Here, go to this bank and ask for a Miss Anna Cole. You’ll have to sign some things. There’s money in trust for you. You can open a checking account right away.”

“Mike, I don’t—”

“It’s not Dee’s money,” he snapped. “When your mother died, she left a small insurance policy—fifteen thousand dollars. I stuck it in trust for you. Thank God I did . . . or I would have gone through that, too. With the interest and all, there should be close to twenty-two or twenty-three thousand bucks waiting for you. Now go buy out Bonwit’s and Saks.”

They walked down the street and stopped in front of the Pierre. Subconsciously they both looked up half expecting to see Dee at the window. Mike laughed. “She took another sleeping pill when I left. Besides, she rarely gets up before noon. Oh . . . here’s a key to the suite. You’re registered, so always check at the desk for your messages.”

She laughed. “Mike, you’re the only person I know in New York. So maybe you ought to leave me a message—”

“I don’t have to. I think you got it.” Then he turned and walked into the building.

Three

S
HE WAS EXHAUSTED
when she returned to the Pierre. It was almost four o’clock and she was carrying only one large box. And it hadn’t been easy to decide on that! She didn’t know
what
to wear to a dinner party with Dee. At Bergdorf’s, a saleslady told her
midi
skirts were
in
and
mini
skirts were
out
. But at noon, as girls poured out of office buildings on their lunch breaks, Fifth Avenue became flooded with minis and
micro minis
. On Lexington Avenue she saw Indian headbands, blue jeans, knickers, and long granny skirts. It was like a costume parade. She finally settled on the long patchwork skirt and red jersey blouse she saw on the mannequin in Bloomingdale’s window. The saleslady assured her it would fit any occasion.

When she walked into the hotel she stopped at the desk on a whim and asked if there were any messages. To her amazement the clerk handed her two slips of paper. Balancing the box under her chin and one arm, she studied them as she rang for the elevator. One had come at three, the other at three-thirty. Both asked her to call the same Plaza number and ask for Extension 36. She looked at the name on the message form. It was for her, all right. Suddenly she smiled. Of course . . . the Plaza number was probably Mike’s office.

When she came into the apartment, a maid was dusting some little jade elephants on the mantel. In the daylight the apartment looked even more beautiful. The sunlight mirrored itself on the silver frames that covered the top of the piano. There were so many pictures. She recognized a United States Senator,
Nureyev, an Ambassador, and the remarkable face of Karla. She walked over and studied the childish scrawl in faded ink. “To Deirdre . . . Karla.” January stared at the high cheekbones, the fantastic eyes. The maid came over. “There are three princes on the left. And a Rajah.”

January nodded. “I was looking at Karla.”

“Yes, she’s very beautiful,” the maid said. “Oh, by the way, I’m Sadie. And I’m glad to meet you, Miss January.”

January smiled. The woman was in her mid-sixties and looked Scandinavian. Her light faded hair was pulled into a tiny skimpy knot and her face was clean and shiny. She looked spare, bony and strong. “Miss Deirdre told me to hang your things. I took the liberty of rearranging your drawer space. When do your trunks arrive?”

“They don’t,” January said. “There’s just what you saw. And now this new outfit from Bloomingdale’s.”

“I’ll press it out. Miss Deirdre is out now, but if you want anything, there is a button beside your bed. It connects with the kitchen and my bedroom out back. I’ll hear it wherever I am. And I didn’t know if you smoked, but I put cigarettes in all the boxes in your room. If you prefer a certain brand, let me know.”

“Thank you, no. I think I’ll take a bath and rest.”

“Be sure and ring if you need anything. I also left all the latest fashion magazines in your room. Miss Deirdre thought you might like them. She said something about you had a lot of catching up to do.” Then Sadie took the Bloomingdale box and left the room. In less than a second she had popped back. “And Ernest comes at six if you need him.”

“Ernest?”

“Miss Deirdre’s hairdresser . . . every night at six.”

January suddenly remembered the phone messages she was holding. She went into her bedroom, flopped on the bed and gave the number to the operator. After three rings a switchboard operator answered. January dutifully asked for Extension 36.

There was a pause . . . a click . . . another voice. “Miss Riggs’ office.”

“Who?” January sat up.

“Who are you?” The voice was annoyed.

“I’m January Wayne. And who is Miss Riggs?”

“Oh, I’m Miss Riggs’ secretary. One moment, Miss Wayne. We called you. I’ll connect you.” There was some more clicking. Then a voice drawled, “January, is that really you?” It was a sleek voice, aristocratic, smooth and cool.

January tried to place it. “Who is this?” she asked.

“Good God, January. It’s me . . . Linda. Linda Riggs!”

“Linda . . . you mean from Miss Haddon’s?”

“Of course. You think there’s another?”

“Oh, wow! Well, it’s been so long. How are you, Linda? How did you find me? And what’ve you been doing?”

Linda laughed. “I should ask you that. But first things first. Why was your father so snotty to Keith Winters?”

“Keith?”

“Keith Winters . . . the photographer . . .”

“Oh, you mean last night?” (Good Lord, was it
just
last night?)

“Yes, I sent him down to get a picture of you for our magazine.”

“What magazine?”

There was a slight pause. Then in a voice tinged with annoyance, Linda said, “Well, I am editor-in-chief of
Gloss
, you know, and—”

“Editor-in-chief!”

“January, where on earth have you been? I was a smash on the Mike Douglas show last month. And I’ve been asked to do the Merv Griffin show the next time I’m on the Coast.”

“Oh, well. I’ve been in Europe and—”

“But everyone knows what I’ve done for
Gloss
magazine. I’m one of the youngest and most famous editors-in-chief in the world. Of course, I’m not Helen Gurley Brown. But then
Gloss
is no
Cosmopolitan
. But give me time. I’m going to make this magazine the biggest thing going.”

“That’s marvelous, Linda. I remember after you left Miss Haddon’s. I was about ten. And we all went crazy when we saw you were a . . . a . . .”

“Junior editor,” Linda finished the sentence for her. “It might have looked impressive to everyone at Miss Haddon’s, but it was just a fancy label for slave. My God, I ran all over town sixteen hours a day. Tracking down jewelry for fashion layouts
. . . getting coffee for photographers and models . . . running errands for people in the art department . . . returning an earring left by a fashion director—all this for seventy-five dollars a week. But at eighteen it seemed like a lark. I’d get four hours’ sleep and still manage to get to Le Club every night and dance. God, I’m weary just thinking about it now. Incidentally . . . how old are you?”

“I’ll be twenty-one in January.”

“That’s right. I’m twenty-eight. Funny how it evens out now. The age thing. When I was sixteen and you were about eight, I didn’t think you were even human. I mean, as I recall, you were one of the moppets who followed me around at Miss Haddon’s, weren’t you?”

“I suppose so.” January saw no reason to tell her she had never been a “Linda follower.”

“That’s why I sent Keith Winters to the Pierre. Celebrity Service had it that you were arriving from Europe and I thought I’d run a picture of you and Daddy in
Gloss
along with a cute story about Daddy’s young lady meeting Daddy’s new lady. Your father was a real horror to Keith, but the picture turned out fine. Either you’re very photogenic or you’ve turned into a real tearing beauty. Listen, why not pop in tomorrow . . . say about three-ish. I’ll dream up some kind of story and well take some good pictures.”