Once Is Not Enough (26 page)

When Dee reached the Pierre, Mike was just coming in. He threw his arm around her shoulder. “I went for a hamburger. Did you have a good game?”

He opened the door of the apartment and she tossed her coat on the couch. He came to her and put his arms around her. “Sorry the old man fell asleep.” He grinned. “But I’m up now . . . in every way.”

She pulled away. “No . . . not tonight, Mike . . . please!”

He stood very still for a moment. Then he forced a smile. “What happened? Did you lose in backgammon?”

“Yes. A little. But I’ll get it back. I’ve got to—” She turned to him with a tight smile. “You see, it’s a matter of pride.”

Eleven

A
T MIDNIGHT
, on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, Linda sat in the middle of her bed (with January as her captive audience), damning the hypocrisy of the holiday. “Just what are we celebrating?” she demanded. “The fact that some emotionally disturbed people, who called themselves ‘Settlers,’ came here, met some friendly Indians, and then proceeded to take the whole country away from them.”

“Oh, Linda, they were friendly with the Indians. The fighting came later. In fact, Thanksgiving was to celebrate a year of good crops and friendship with the Indians.”

“Bullshit. And besides, what smartass settler decided to make the celebration come on a Thursday and screw up a whole business week? It’d be different if it was summer and you could go to the Hamptons. But what am I going to do with a long weekend in November?”

“What about your family?” January asked.

“What about them? My father’s new wife is like twenty-five and she just had another baby and the last thing he wants around is a daughter who is older than his wife. Might remind him how old he is. And my mother is on the verge of splitting with her husband. She caught him at a cocktail party groping her best friend in the powder room—so she’s not exactly hanging over a turkey. You’re lucky . . . four glorious days at Palm Beach in a beach-front palace . . . going there in your own jet . . . with two guys in attendance as you soak up the sun . . . Daddy and David. Or is it still just Daddy and will David be in the way?”

January walked to the window. She had been ready to go to bed when Linda called and insisted that she come up to her apartment. She had said it was urgent, but for the last twenty minutes, she had been holding forth on Thanksgiving.

Actually January was looking forward to the trip. Mike had been gone ten days. David had taken her out twice since the dreadful night. They had gone to see
Hair
(he had loathed it . . . she adored it). The next time they had done the early movie and Maxwell’s Plum evening. And both times he had taken her home, held the cab, and said goodnight with that “I’ll-wait-until-
you
-ask-
me
” smile.

She realized the remark about David and Daddy had stemmed from Linda’s own loneliness. Linda was wearing an old pajama top that had belonged to Keith. Suddenly she realized January was staring at it. She smiled. “Every girl has an ex-lover’s old pajama top, that she wears on special occasions . . . to remind her that, at heart, every man is a shit heel.”

“Oh, come on—” January tried to change her mood. “With Keith it’s a career problem.”

“I’m not talking about Keith,” Linda said. “I am talking about Leon . . .
the
asshole of all time. At exactly five o’clock this afternoon he announced that he was going back to his wife. He loves me, but his psychiatrist thinks I’m castrating him. Also, it seems he can’t afford the alimony he would have to pay her, along with the occasional dinners he bought me. And, of course, he’s got his psychiatrist three times a week.” She shrugged. “It’s just as well—he never really appealed to me.”

“Then why did you sleep with him?”

“Darling, Leon is a brilliant art director. He could get much more at another magazine. . . .”

“You mean he’s staying on?”

“Of course. We’ll still be friends. Maybe even sleep together occasionally. Look, one of the main reasons I started the relationship, was to keep him on the job. This way,
he’s
walked out on me to go back to his wife. And I’ve had enough therapy myself to know just how to handle it. I cried . . . told him I really loved him . . . made him promise me he’d enjoy his Thanksgiving . . . that I understood . . . he had a wife and a kid . . . In short, I laid such a guilt trip on him—he’ll
never
leave the magazine.”

“Is that all that matters to you—the magazine?”

Linda lit a cigarette. “When I was at Miss Haddon’s, all the girls there adored me because I was always on, always with it, right? And the boys dated me because I went all the way. But even by going all the way, I was never sure they’d call again, or for how long I’d hold them. Because I guess I knew there would always be someone they’d meet who would go all the way better than I. And when I got out of Miss Haddon’s and had the nose job and tried to be an actress, I saw how girls humiliated themselves auditioning. And I was one of them—singing your guts out on a dark empty stage and then hearing a disembodied voice call out, ‘Thank you very much.’ And even if you were lucky enough to get a job . . . the following season you were back, groveling, begging, walking, trying . . . praying . . . for another chance to stand on some dark stage and hear ‘Thank you very much.’ But when I got hired on at
Gloss
, I knew I’d only have to jump, run, fetch and carry,
once—
on my way up. And if I made it,
Gloss
would always be there. Not like a show that closed after a season . . . not like a man who leaves your bed and doesn’t come back. There will be plenty of Leons . . . maybe even a few more Keiths.”

“Keith . . . wasn’t he the big love?”

Linda smiled. “Oh, come on, January. Do you think he’s the first man I almost died over? I just cared for him in a different way from Leon.”

“But you told me you wanted to marry him. That Keith was—”

“Was important then,” Linda cut in. “Look, I’ll be twentynine next week. That’s a shitty age. Because when you say it no one believes you. Like, twenty-seven they’ll believe. But twenty-eight and twenty-nine both sound phony. And twenty-nine is over the hill to have not even had a
bad
marriage. But it isn’t over the hill when you’re editor-in-chief of
Gloss
. When you’re the youngest editor-in-chief in New York. So you don’t cry yourself to sleep when you realize Keith is gone forever.”

“But how do you know he is?”

“He’s shacked up with an older woman. I mean a really older woman. Would you believe Christina Spencer?” When she saw no sign of recognition on January’s face, she said, “She’s rich
. . . Oh, not in Dee’s class, she never gets full pages in
Vogue
like Dee. This one’s the type that sometimes makes the centerfold of
Women’s Wear
, in one of those tiny pictures coming out of restaurant X, Y, or Z. But she’s got a few million—” Linda put out her cigarette. “God, these women with money. They buy themselves younger faces, younger boyfriends . . . A few days ago I saw a picture of Keith in a new Cardin jacket, escorting her to a Save the Children ball at the Plaza. There they were, right in the centerfold of
Women’s Wear
, only Keith was half cut off and
Women’s Wear
called him an unidentified escort.”

“But what would he want with her?” January asked.

“Christina Spencer’s been taking pieces of Broadway shows for the past ten years. This morning I read in the
Times
that she was a major backer of the new rock musical
Caterpillar
and that Keith Winters has been signed for a featured role.”

“Do you feel bad?” January asked softly.

Linda shook her head. “I haven’t really felt bad since Tony.”

“Tony?”

“Yes, he was the big one. When he split, I took five red dolls and two yellow jackets. I was twenty and thought our love was forever. Well, I survived. Both Tony and the pills. Then there were a lot of quickies. You know—you latch on to someone because he’s available, because you want to show Tony that you aren’t dying, you want to show yourself that it’s ‘Right on, baby . . . all the way.’ But it never becomes a meaningful relationship, because no matter how attractive he is, he isn’t Tony. Oh, it can last several months. Sometimes a year. But something’s wrong with it—maybe it’s because you generate a negative reaction because suddenly he stops calling. He even forgets he’s got three shirts at your place all nice and fresh from the laundry that
you’ve
paid for. I guess that was when I began picking people who could help the magazine. And most of the time, there isn’t even any sex involved. Like right now, a big advertising agency buys full-page color ads for their clients. The president of this agency, Jerry Moss, lives in Darien, has a lovely wife and two children and has been a closet queen all of his life. But a year ago he fell in love with Ted Grant, a male model I know. And I’m their beard. Sometimes I go out with the two of them. Naturally the wife thinks it’s business. I even went
to their house in Darien on Christmas Eve with Ted as
my
date and sat with the wife in the living room making small talk for forty minutes while they did their number in the upstairs John. Then there’s a designer and his wife—they’re both gay. She has her girl, he has his boy, and I’m there to make it a fivesome—confusing to everyone but the principals involved. The designer has been a big help, and his wife gives lovely dinner parties and I go and meet all the best people. Yes . . . I love
Gloss
. It’s been good to me. I can hold its sales growth in my hand better than a penis that goes limp on me. Oh, that’s happened too. When they can’t get it up and the guy just lies there with his limp cock and looks at you like
you’re
the one who’s made him impotent. He lies there and defies you to make him hard. You get a bellyful of them. And then along comes a Keith and you begin to think maybe . . . and you con yourself that it
can
happen. But you know it can’t. And when he splits . . . you don’t really cry.”

“Well . . . I’m sorry.” January started for the door.

“Sit down, you idiot. I didn’t get you here to talk about my sex life. Or to torch over Keith. I’m resilient. And besides, I read my own Tarot cards the other day and they said something big was going to happen in 1971. So tonight when Leon gave me the news, I came home, took a lamb chop out of the freezer, and while I was waiting for it to thaw, I started reading the galleys of Tom Colt’s new novel.”

“Is it as good as some of his others?”

“Better. More commercial. His last few were too good. I mean he went literary. No one but the critics dug him. They didn’t sell at all. But this one is going to be a rocket. That’s why I’m a fatalist. If Leon had been here, we would have had sex and I wouldn’t have gotten to the galleys.”

“What do you want to do?” January asked. “Bid for serial rights?”

“Are you kidding? I hear
Ladies’ Home Journal
has bid up to twenty-five thousand just for two excerpts. We can’t get his book, but we can get him. Understand?”

“Linda, I’m tired and I haven’t packed yet. Let’s not play games. No, I don’t understand.”

Linda’s eyes narrowed. “Listen, you’ve been acting spooky lately. I’m telling you, you better make it with someone or the next thing you know . . . your skin will go.”

“That’s a fallacy, and—” January stopped.

“And what?” She looked at January. “Hey . . . you’re blushing. You’ve made it with David! Well, thank God! Are you on the pill? Is everything divine? No wonder you’re so thrilled about Palm Beach—four long days and nights of sand and love and—”

“Linda! We did it only once, and it was awful.”

Linda paused. “You mean he couldn’t get it up?”

“No . . . he . . . well . . . he was fine . . . I guess. It was awful for me.”

Linda laughed in relief. “It always is . . . the first time. For the woman that is . . . but never for the man. From what I hear, those bastards come like crazy the first time, even if they’re thirteen and do it in a dark hallway with the local ‘bad girl.’
She
may not come—and they may come before they even get it into her bird—but goddamn it . . .
they come!
And that’s something Women’s Liberation is never going to be able to change. A virgin lady is all tight inside even if she’s been finger-fucked. A virgin lady hurts when the glorious prick enters. And a virgin lady—whether you call her Ms., Miss, or Mrs.—rarely comes until she’s properly stretched and oiled with passion. Thank God you’re no longer a virgin lady . . . Only it’s a shame you lost it with David.”

January nodded. “That’s the way I feel . . . I think maybe I should have waited.”

“Sure. I could have fixed you up with someone . . . even Leon.”

“Are you insane!”

“Never do it the first time with someone you care about. As I said, the first fuck is usually awful and you can lose the guy. Did you turn David off completely?”

“I don’t think so, really . . . He says he loves me and wants to marry me.”

Linda stared at her. “Then why are we sitting here having a wake for your lost hymen? You sneaky elegant ones—you’re
always the wild women in the kip. Now look—congratulations and all that. But let’s get back to Tom Colt. From what I hear, he needs money and he’s consented to do the grand tour.”

“But he’s very rich,” January insisted. “I met him when I was little. He had a town house here with one of his wives and my father was buying one of his books for a picture. He’s written about fifteen big novels . . . he has plenty of money.”

“So did your father once. Maybe the dice got cold for Tom Colt too. He’s married . . . pays alimony to three ex-wives . . . gave the fourth a huge settlement. His new wife just presented him with a baby boy. Imagine, at his age . . . he’s never had kids till now. But as I said, his last few books didn’t do well. And when you live in a big home in Beverly Hills, with a Rolls, servants, a projection room—the works—you can’t have three non-selling books and still be solvent. Not with all the upkeep he’s got. He also hasn’t had a picture sale since 1964—and that’s where the big money is, that and paperback. But on this new one he’s back to his old hard-hitting style. Claims he stopped writing for the critics and wants to reach the people again. There was that interview in
Paris Review
a few months ago where he said he doesn’t care if the artsy crowd says he sold out—he wants to be number one, and he wants a big picture sale, so . . .”