Once Is Not Enough (27 page)

“So?”

“So he will need all the publicity he can get. And he may ask big money for an excerpt from his book. But he could come absolutely free if we offer to do a cover story on him.”

“And what’s to keep Helen Gurley Brown from getting the same idea, if she hasn’t already?” January asked.

“Oh, she probably has . . . but
we
have
you
!”

“Me?”

“
You
know Tom Colt.”

“Oh, Linda . . . I met him when I was about five years old. What do I do? Send him my baby pictures and say, ‘Guess who?’ and let’s get together for old time’s sake. Besides, you said, he lives in Beverly Hills.”

“If necessary, I’ll send you there. First class. Look, the book doesn’t come out until February or March. All you have to do is ask him for an interview . . . for Daddy’s sake.”

January stood up. “I’m tired, Linda. And I have to pack . . .”

“Okay. Have a marvelous time. And while you’re basking in the sun and making love, see if you can’t frame up a good letter to send to Tom Colt. Maybe you could even get Daddy to add a few lines . . .”

Twelve

M
IKE
W
AS
W
AITING
at the airport when the Grumman jet landed. He watched January come down the steps, with David at her elbow. She hadn’t spotted him yet, and for a brief moment he reveled in the pleasure of watching her unobserved. Each time he saw her, there was some almost imperceptible change. A new facet of beauty seemed to emerge. He approved of her casual “today” look. The wide slacks, floppy hat, and long straight hair. She looked like one of those new breed fashion models. And then she saw him, and raced toward him, shouting, “Daddy . . . oh, Daddy . . . I’m so glad to see you.” He smiled when he realized that in an emotional moment she always reverted to
Daddy
instead of
Mike
.

“I left Mario making drinks. I’m your chauffeur,” he explained as David sat in the back of the convertible, wedged in between the luggage.

“How many houseguests this time?” David asked.

“Maybe about eight or ten. But you lose count because she gives those lunches for thirty or forty every day. I go off for golf at nine and when I get back at four, half of them are still here. And then at seven the cocktail group arrives. But Dee has decided that the Thanksgiving dinner itself will be an intimate affair. Just two tables of twelve. Meanwhile let’s hope we stay lucky with the sun. You both could use some color.”

The good weather held throughout the weekend. There were always two or three backgammon games going at poolside. Hot and cold buffets were wheeled out by an endless stream
of servants. Mike and January sat together; soaked up the sun; walked on the beach and swam together. And when she played tennis with David, Mike watched with amazement as she outwitted him on every volley. Where had she learned to play so well? And then like flash bulbs . . . the memory of all those tennis tournaments he had never attended flashed through his mind. All those scrawled little notes he had received in Los Angeles, Madrid, or London! “Am playing for the Junior Cup. Wish you could come.” “Am representing Miss Haddon’s in the Eastern division. Wish you could be here.” “I won.” “Am sending cup to the Plaza.” “I won.” “Sending cup to Plaza.” “I came in second.” “I won.” “Did you get trophy? This one is real silver.” “I won.” “I won!”

God, how little of himself he had actually given her. And suddenly he found himself wondering what had become of all those cups and trophies. She had never asked him about them. They were probably in some storage place along with the typewriters, the piano, the filing cabinets, and the office furniture he had collected on all those “Comebacks.” And he didn’t even know where the storage slips were.

How much of her childhood he had missed. And how much of her teens
she
had missed. And now she was hitting her best years and he had to miss them too. He was married . . . only this was one flop he couldn’t just close the office and walk away from.

And suddenly as he sat watching his daughter playing tennis, he was hit with panic at the thought that had just slipped through his subconscious. He had thought of his marriage as a flop. Yet actually nothing had changed. Dee still smiled at him across the table each night. She still slipped her arm through his when they greeted guests. He still went to bed with her twice a week . . . There! That was it! He had just touched the exposed nerve.
He
went to bed with
her
. Lately, he had the feeling that she was accommodating him, putting up with him. She wasn’t “acting” anymore. When was the last time she had moaned and clung to him and told him how wonderful it all was? But maybe it was his fault. Maybe because he felt he was accommodating her . . . she sensed it. Things like that can be felt. Yes, it was his
fault. The poor broad probably resented that he spent so much time at the club. God knows he certainly wasn’t paying much attention to her. Golf all morning, gin games in the afternoon (he had found a few good pigeons) . . . Sure, he got back only in time to join her in the martini bit. And the evenings were always filled with dinner parties.

Well, from now on things were going to be different. The moment January left, he’d give Dee the old razzle-dazzle. And he’d cut down on the gin games every afternoon. Nothing wrong in spending a few afternoons with her. But he wouldn’t be
with
her. He’d be hanging around having lunch with all those friends of hers, watching them play backgammon. No, he’d stick to the golf club. Besides, so far he had won close to five thousand bucks at gin. He had opened a savings account. Five thousand was a joke, of course. But it was
his
money, money
he
had earned, or won. What the hell, when you earn it in gin, you shoot the same kind of adrenalin you shoot when you earn it anywhere else! But he had to pay more attention to her in the kip. Maybe he was being too perfunctory about it. Well, Sunday, after January and all the houseguests left, the new romantic regime would begin. Suddenly he felt better. It was necessary to take stock of things like this every now and then. Here he had been sitting around thinking something was missing in their relationship when actually he was the one at fault. Hell, she had the same crowds hanging around at Marbella, and she’d have them in Greece next August—and wherever else she decided to go. In London there were never fewer than twenty for cocktails, at the Dorchester. This was her way of life. He knew it when he went into it. He was supposed to supply the romance. That’s what he had done when they first met, and she had flipped out for him, and that’s what he would do now—starting Sunday.

But for the next few days he concentrated on enjoying his daughter. He watched her turn golden brown, watched the marvelous body in the bikini (Dee was so goddamned white), the way her hair swung, the way Dee’s was always in place. Her crazy denims—Dee’s perfect white sharkskin pants. The little silver rings on all of her fingers—Dee’s David Webb jewelry. They were such wild opposites. Dee was a beauty. Yet he was glad his daughter looked the way she did.

There was something so clean and sparkling about her. And he liked her keen interest in everything. Vital interest in
Gloss
magazine. Casual interest in David. “Pretended” interest in Dee’s small talk about the current romantic affiliations of some of the local socialites. The names all had to be a maze to her, but she listened attentively.

It was hard for him to evaluate David. He was always there . . . smiling . . . the perfect escort. You could tell he and Dee were first cousins. They were cut from the same cloth. The aristocracy was all there. The excellent manners—the way he tirelessly played backgammon with Dee’s guests, his proper clothes for every occasion. His tennis shorts were just the right cut, his sweater was casual and right, even his perspiration was classy, just a little on the brow, the better to make his suntan glisten. But wasn’t that what he wanted for January? Long before he had ever met Dee, he knew he wanted something better than a show business life for his daughter. That’s why he had chosen the fancy school in Connecticut. That had been on advice from his business manager: “She’ll get to know classy girls, meet their brothers—that’s how it all happens. That’s what good schools are for.”

Well, the only thing she had gotten out of that school was a lot of tennis trophies and a job on a magazine. Of all the girls there, she had to tie up with Linda, a real barracuda, the kind that leaped in and out of a different bed each night. But then, wasn’t that part of the new permissiveness of today? He stared at his daughter on the tennis court. Had she? Nah! Not that he expected her to remain a virgin forever. But she was the kind who would probably do it with a guy after they got engaged. Or maybe just before . . . just to make sure. Right now she was all involved with the magazine. But like Dee said, she’d probably play around with being the career girl for a short time and then marry David.

He wondered why he felt depressed. This was what he wanted for her, wasn’t it? But did he want her to turn into a young Dee? Well, why not? It would be a hell of a lot better than having her go the route some of the other kids went. Moving in with some guy, going funky and East Village. Or suppose she had been more like him—intent on becoming a superstar. Then what? Suppose she made it. She’d catch
herself a few hot years on Cloud Nine, but the eventual end for any superstar, including himself, was loneliness and defeat. If a man had money, he lasted a little longer. But for a woman, even with money, the loneliness came quicker. Age was a woman’s defeat. Even a legend like Karla—what kind of a life did she have? Still with the ballet exercises! But without them, where else would she have to go each day? And most of the superstars weren’t lucky enough to be born stupid like Karla, content to go walking and practicing ballet. The more emotional ones—they were the bleeders, sitting home alone in a mansion in Beverly Hills, taking sleeping pills or booze. Anything to get rid of the night so they could wake up to an endless day that stretched before them, to meals served on a tray while they sat alone watching daytime soap operas on television. No, it was turning out right for January. She had learned all the basic things at Miss Haddon’s—and now he had supplied the rest. A place like this to come to—sun in the winter, snow in the summer. Anything she wanted.

And he had gotten it for her. He watched her walk off the tennis court with David. She had beaten him again. That was his daughter—a champion. But David was also a champion. Losing gracefully was a hard art to come by. And David had mastered it. The way he leaped over the net to congratulate her, the way he put his arm around her shoulders while the other guests applauded. But most of all, Mike admired the charm and enthusiasm he engendered at all the endless parties they attended each night.

But January had seemed to enjoy the weekend too. Maybe he had done it all right. Maybe it was all working out as he had hoped it would. Maybe when they came back to Palm Beach for the Christmas holidays they’d be really serious about each other. Dee would like that. But hell . . . not yet. She wouldn’t be twenty-one until January. She deserved some free time.

Free time for what? She was a girl . . . he was thinking of her subjectively. Girls didn’t need to play the field. They were content to settle for one man for life. She wasn’t one of those half-baked Women’s Liberationists. Anyhow, he didn’t even believe them. Sometimes when he saw them on TV, he’d talk
back to the screen. “Yeah, baby . . . just one good fuck and you’d sing a different tune.” That’s all they were—broads without a guy. And his daughter would never have to worry about that.

He got up early on Sunday. He had promised to have an early breakfast with her at the pool. She was leaving around four. Then he and Dee would be alone. And he was determined to keep his vow. He hadn’t been to bed with Dee in a week. He wondered if she noticed it. They both had their own rooms here. Rooms! His bedroom was forty feet by thirty five, facing the ocean. He also had a sauna, a shower and a black marble bathroom with a sunken tub. His bedroom adjoined hers, but as he put it, it was a sleeper jump to get there. First he had to walk through her dressing room . . . and her bathroom—a huge white and gold marble affair with a real tree growing in it and one whole wall filled with tropical fish. That wall was also a wall of her bedroom; it was slightly smaller than his, but its ocean-front terrace was almost the size of a ballroom. They breakfasted there occasionally under an umbrella.

Today he started his training—no Bloody Marys at lunch, no martinis at cocktails . . . Tonight he’d make love to her with his old passion.

He spent the morning with January. She glanced through the magazine section of the
Times
, and he went for the sports pages. That was another great thing they had together—they didn’t feel conversation was necessary for communication. It wasn’t until he had finished the sports section and the theatrical section that he noticed she was reading a set of galleys.

“Any good?” he asked.

“Very good.” She looked up and pushed her sunglasses up into her hair. “Tom Colt . . . remember him?”

“How could I forget?” he said. “I made a three-million-dollar profit on the picture I did of his book.”

“I meant, do you remember the time you took me to his house?”

“I did? Oh, of course. A brownstone in the East Sixties, wasn’t it?”

“Gloss
may do an article on him. What’s he like?”

“He was having a love affair with himself in those days. He had won a Pulitzer Prize with his first novel, but instead of being impressed with it, he blandly told me he was after the big one. The Nobel. He had written only about six books when he told me that, and the way he figured it, ten more prolific years would do it. But I guess all those marriages and bar fights killed that dream.” Mike looked thoughtful. “I know his last books haven’t been selling well. But I still didn’t think he’d panic enough to go for an interview with a magazine like
Gloss.”