Once Is Not Enough (39 page)

“Book?” Tom Colt looked vague. “Look, right now there’s an earthquake going on. I have a wife and son, and all I’m interested in is making sure they’re safe.” Then he pushed past the reporter and got on the plane.

Linda suddenly stood up and snapped off the set. “Well . . . we’ve got to get back to work. The worst is over. Los Angeles may have its problems with property damage, but at least it’s not going to sink under the sea and disappear.” Everyone quickly dispersed. There were murmurings. “Come to my office . . . I have a radio.” “We can always catch it during lunch hour at a bar!” When they were alone, Linda looked out the window and whispered, “I can’t believe it!” Then she spun her chair around and said, “I mean, I really can’t believe it. My love life is doomed. Even nature is against me. It’s hard enough to hold a man against the usual competition. But
I
have to have an earthquake!” She sighed. “Well, as long as I’m obviously free tonight, how about going to Louise’s for dinner?”

“No, I think I’ll stay in and work on the cat article.” Then January dashed back to her office. He was gone. Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. Four nights of her life . . . four nights with Tom Colt. And even though nothing had happened between them, it had been wonderful . . . And it was still wonderful to have someone to think about. Even if he never came back. . . .

The next day she got an answering service. But when a
week passed without word from him, even Linda grew discouraged. “I guess I blew it. His book is up to number four spot in
Time
. I guess he’ll do his shows from out there. Why not? Johnny Carson goes out there enough. Merv Griffin is there . . . Steve Allen. . . He’s got enough to keep him busy for a month. But the least the man could have done was call and tell me that.”

January decided to try to put Tom Colt out of her thoughts. She told herself it was a sign. Maybe God was telling her, “Stop before anything happens.” Maybe it was His way of telling her He disapproved. She wasn’t particularly religious. But at times she found herself speaking to the God of her childhood, the wonderful old man with the long white beard who presided over all the heavens with his big book, like a ledger—keeping score, marking down the good deeds on one page, the sins on the other.

But each day she checked with her answering service and found excuses to duck going to dinner with Linda. She spent another dreary evening at Le Club with David. Everyone was talking about the upcoming backgammon tournament at Gstaad. Dee was going . . . it was a three-day affair . . . David couldn’t take the time off from work . . . but he envied Mike . . . Gstaad was great at this time of the year . . . everyone would be at the Palace Hotel . . . then the Eagle Club.

David dropped her home at eleven-thirty and didn’t even ask to come up for a nightcap. But she was excited. If Dee and Mike were going to Gstaad, they’d come through to New York first. She’d see Mike. It was just what she needed—a long lunch with him, a good long talk . . . She’d tell him about her mixed-up feelings about Tom Colt. He’d help set her straight, and he’d understand. After all, he had been there so many times himself.

She called Palm Beach the following morning. When the butler said Mr. and Mrs. Granger had left for Gstaad three days ago, she hung up and sat staring dumbly at the phone. He had been in New York and hadn’t called. There had to be some explanation. She had talked to Mike just a few days ago . . . Suddenly she began to panic. Maybe something had
happened. But that was ridiculous. Nothing could have happened. It would be in the newspapers. Unless he was sick . . . Maybe he was lying in a hospital with a heart attack or something. And Dee was playing backgammon. She placed a call to the Palace Hotel. Then she dressed and sat waiting for the call to be completed. Ten minutes later Mike’s voice sounded as if it were in the next room.

“How are you?” she yelled.

“Just great. Anything wrong! You okay?”

“Yes . . .” She sighed. “Oh, Mike, I was frightened.”

“About what?”

“Well, last night David told me where you were. And I knew you’d have to come through to New York. And I called Palm Beach and they told me you had gone . . . and I thought that . . .”

“Hold it,” He laughed. “First, we arrived at the airport at five in the morning. Stayed just long enough for the plane to be refueled. I didn’t want to wake you. And I figured we’d stop over a few days on the way back. Listen, I’ve got great news—I finally broke the back of this idiotic game. I won a few bucks the last few weeks in Palm Beach. I’m not up to playing in
this
yet. But at the Calcutta auction, I’ll buy me a player. It’s a great game, babe . . . wait till you get the hang of it.”

“Yes, Mike . . .”

“Listen, you’re paying for this. Jiggle the operator, tell her to reverse the charges to me.”

“No, Mike. It’s my nickel. I want it that way.”

“Okay. Listen, I got to run. I’ve got me a pigeon for gin. While we were waiting for the plane to be refueled, I beat Freddie out of three big ones . . . in one hour. And he’s come on this trip with us, and I got him eager to play every day.”

“Who’s Freddie?”

“Oh, some young schmuck married to a rich broad. I thought you met him in Palm Beach . . . sure you did.”

“Okay, Mike. Good luck with Freddie.”

“Bye, baby. See you soon.”

That night she accepted an invitation to go to dinner with
Linda and a friend of hers who was bringing along a “friend.” They went to a small restaurant on Fifty-sixth Street and Linda warned her to pick the cheapest thing on the menu. “Mine is paying two alimonies and yours is paying alimony plus shrink fees for his son.”

January decided her date looked like a long skinny pig. He was tall and thin, but from there on all resemblance to a man ended. His face was pink and his nose was absolutely a snout. He had wisps of pink hair that barely covered his scalp, and patchy little sideburns that refused to grow. He talked about his squash game and his jogging and the ulcerous work of Madison Avenue. Both men worked at the same advertising agency and during the better part of the evening they discussed their accounts and inside gossip at the office. It was obvious from their conversation that they lunched together every day. Why talk about it now? But she realized they were nervous . . . and they were, as Mike would put it, born losers. They were with two girls they hoped to impress, and somehow they felt “big business” talk was the key. She marveled at the unreality of it all. Didn’t they look in the mirror when they shaved? If the pig (who answered to the name of Wally)
owned
the advertising agency, he couldn’t impress her. She was sorry she had accepted the date. At the moment she would rather be home eating a TV dinner and reading a good book. At ten-thirty the dinner finally dragged to a finish. It was freezing, but the pig said he hadn’t done all of his jogging so they walked home. Linda immediately invited everyone up for a nightcap, but January said she was tired.

The pig insisted on going into the building and escorting her to her door. When she put the key in the lock and turned to say goodnight, he stared at her. “You must be kidding.”

“No. Goodnight and thanks for a very nice dinner.”

“But what about us?”

“Well . . . what about us?” she asked.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those frigid types?”

“No . . . right now, I’m just a tired type.”

“Well, let’s fix that.” He leaned over and immediately his tongue was pushing its way down her throat and his hands
were all over her body . . . groping under her coat . . . trying to slide up her blouse. In a burst of anger she lifted her knee and it made its mark. He leaped away with a groan. For a split second his little pig eyes smarted with tears of pain. Then his mouth went ugly. She was frightened now and tried to open the door and get inside, but he pulled her around and slapped her across the face. “You lousy little cunt! You stone-assed virgin types kill me. Well, I’ll show you.” He grabbed for her. She was now more angry than frightened, and with a sudden surge of strength, she shoved him away, pushed open the door, slipped inside and slammed it in his face. For a moment she stood trembling from anger and shock. He had expected her to go to bed with him for a $3.95 table d’hôte dinner.

She undressed slowly and turned on the bath. She needed a lot of bubbles and perfume to wash away the ugly evening. She was just about to get into the tub when the phone rang. It was Linda in a muffled voice. “January . . . is Wally there?”

“Of course not!”

“Oh. Well, listen. Steve is in the bathroom. I just checked with my service. And guess what. Tom Colt called!”

“He did!”

“Yes. He’s in town. My service said he called at ten thirty. Call him now. He’s at the Plaza.”

“Me? But he called you.”

“January . . . I can’t. I’m in bed with Steve—that is, I will be when he gets out of the bathroom. Look, tell him you’re calling for me . . . that I’m having a late conference . . . you know . . . but find out if he plans to see me tomorrow.”

“I can’t. Honestly, Linda.”

“Do it. Come on, now. I’ll tell you what . . . you can even cut yourself in on the date.”

“No.”

“Please! Oh, hi . . . Steve . . . I was just checking with my service.” There was a pause, then Linda said in an impersonal tone, “All right, Miss Green. Thank you for my messages, and
please
make that call for me.”

January sat on the bed. The water in the bath had cooled. Twenty minutes had passed and she still hadn’t made the call. She couldn’t. How
could
she call him? But then she owed it to Linda. She was letting her own feelings hold her back. She picked up the phone.

The night operator at the Plaza said Mr. Colt had left a
DO NOT DISTURB.
She left a message that Miss Linda Riggs had returned his call. Then she hung up and wondered whether she was disappointed at not being able to talk to him . . . or grateful that he’d never know she had called.

Linda’s call came before the alarm went off. “January . . . wake up. I only have a second. Steve’s in the john. Then he’s going to give me an early morning fuck. Tell me . . . did you talk to Tom?”

“Oh, my God. What time is it?”

“Seven o’clock. Did you talk to him?”

“No, he had his phone turned off, but I left a message saying you had returned his call.”

“Good girrrl! Talk to you later.”

At eleven-thirty Linda summoned January into her office. “I just spoke to him,” she said. “And I’m keeping my word. We’re all going to see
No, No, Nanette
tonight.”

“Oh . . .”

“Aren’t you going to thank me?”

“Linda, I don’t have to go really. In fact I think I’d rather not.”

“No. It’s all right. He said, ‘Last time
I
picked the show . . . now what do you want to see?’ And when I said
No, No, Nanette
, he said, great, because Patsy Kelly has always been a favorite of his. Then he said, ‘Do you want to ask January along?’ and I said, ‘Yes, I think it looks better. After all, you are married. On the road it won’t matter because everyone will know I’m there to do the story.’ So that’s how we left it. Only tonight, I think I want to clinch it. So let’s not do the Sardi’s bit. Let’s make it some place where he’ll really drink. Then at the proper time you can cut out. Or if I get him to come up to my place for a nightcap . . . you don’t come.”

“Linda, maybe he’ll invite Patsy to Sardi’s . . .”

“Oh shit. That means we sit and talk theater and everyone is very proper like last time.”

“He obviously likes the theater.”

“Well, let’s play it by ear. We’re to meet in his suite at six. He said he’d have some hors d’oeuvres and a drink to hold us until after the show. Now if I can just get him drinking on an empty stomach . . . I’ll score . . .”

They arrived at the Plaza at six. Rita Lewis was there, along with a subdued young man from
Life
magazine. Tom was holding a glass of bourbon and made the introductions. Rita went into a state of shock when she saw Linda and January. Tom fixed them a drink and they both sat quietly while the interview continued. January noticed that Tom looked at the clock on the mantle several times. At six-thirty, the young man was still asking questions. At quarter to seven, Tom said, “How much longer will this take? We have tickets for a show.”

“Mr. Colt,” Rita’s voice veered on quiet hysteria. “This is for
Life
magazine. Mr. Harvey will be here for quite some time. I mean . . . there is no time limit. And a photographer is coming at eight thirty.”

“Looks like we’ll have to postpone the session,” Tom said. He turned to the reporter. “I’m sorry, young man, but—”

Rita jumped up. “Mr. Colt . . . you can’t do this. You’ve already upset our schedule by two weeks. I had to change all the bookings—the Mike Douglas show, Kup in Chicago . . .”

“Well, next time when you say I have a five o’clock interview, don’t spring any surprises on me.”

“But I left an envelope with your schedule for you last night. It distinctly said,
‘Life
reporter and pictures at five . . . first session.’ Anyone knows that a session means several hours. And a photographer can’t be rushed either. We’ve got Rocco Garazzo—he’s one of the best.”

“Sorry, kid . . .” Tom said. “We’ll do it another time. Look, the booze is all set up over there. Enjoy yourself.”

“Mr. Colt . . .” Rita’s voice broke. Her eyes were glassy with tears. “You’re going to make me lose my job. They’ll say
I goofed. And it would keep me from getting other jobs because the word would go out that I wasn’t competent enough to handle a star author. I’ll also blow all my personal contacts . . . like with
Life
magazine . . . because what you’re doing is insulting to the reporter. He’s a writer . . . doing his best, and—”

“Cut it,” he said quietly. “You’ve made your point.” He turned to Linda. “The tickets are in my name. You kids go see the show. Come back here when it’s over. Use my car. It’s out front.” Then he took off his jacket, poured himself a stiff drink and said to the reporter, “Okay, Mr. Harvey. I’m sorry about the misunderstanding. Let’s have a few blasts together, and take all the time you want.”