Once Is Not Enough (60 page)

“It’s not over. And I need him more than ever,” January said. “But with all the publicity I’ve gotten . . . well, Tom feels I’m too well known to . . . well . . . to just arrive and move in with him.”

“Well, go out there and rent a big house. A mansion. Good Lord, you can do anything you want now. Hire a press agent, get yourself invited to all the ‘A’ parties. Give a few yourself. Now that you’ve got ten million dollars maybe he’ll be a little more flexible about divorce.”

“Divorce?”

“Look, January, let’s face it. You’re a born pussycat. You need a man, and what’s more, deep down you want it to be all nice and legal. You’ve been trying to go along with this living together stuff. But I can tell, it isn’t sitting right. You
told me way back that he was writing this screen treatment to protect his percentage deal, to pay for the co-op. In other words, just for the money. Well, he doesn’t have to worry about that now.
You
can buy the apartment for him. And if you want to really be the generous lady of all time, you can pay his wife such a big settlement that she’ll hand him
and
the child over to you on a silver platter. And if he’s really freaky about playing Daddy, you can offer to have your own baby with him. I mean, you’re the type who wants all that, aren’t you?”

“I want to be married.
Yes
, I really do. And I could give Tom a baby. I could . . . why not? Linda, you’re right. I’m going to talk to him about it tonight.”

Linda picked up her bag and stared at the pictures on the piano. “Did Dee really know all of these people?”

“Yes.”

“See. It’s just as I said. With money or fame, you can own the world.”

January smiled. “I don’t want the world. I just want to feel there’s a reason to get up each day.”

She thought about it when Linda had gone. She hadn’t slept well the night before. She had waited for the dream. But it hadn’t come. She had awakened feeling desolate, almost as if she had suffered some personal rejection. Lately the dreams were more real than the thoughts she had when she was awake. The beautiful stranger with the blue eyes was tender and compassionate. She could never remember whether they ever spoke . . . or touched . . . she just knew he was there when she went to sleep. Lately she had found herself lying down in the afternoon and trying to drift off. But Dr. Clifford was right. She had to face reality. Tom was real. Tom was working in Bungalow Five, working on that screen treatment just to buy their apartment. She could be furnishing it now, doing something. She’d have that reason to get up each day!

She picked up the phone and started to dial. Then she remembered the time difference. It was eleven o’clock—eight o’clock in Los Angeles. Tom would just be settling down for
his evening’s work. He always worked from eight until eleven. That meant three hours to wait. . . .

She tried to watch television. She switched from Johnny to Merv to Dick. To a late movie. But nothing held her attention. She undressed and took a bath. That took time. Then she stretched out on the bed. She knew she had fallen asleep, because she was aware that she was dreaming. But it wasn’t “the dream.” It was a nightmare. There was water and moonlight. And then she saw a plane going down. Mike’s plane. It was spinning. Down . . . down . . . down . . . until it disappeared into the silvery path the moon spread on the ocean. She felt panic, as if she were falling too. And then she felt some force lift her and she was safe. Then she saw the blue eyes. He was walking to her from a distance. She tried desperately to see his face. It was in the shadows, but somehow she knew it was a beautiful face. . . .

“Do you really want to come to me?” he whispered. And before she could answer, he disappeared, and she woke up.

The dream had been too real. She looked around the bedroom, half expecting to find him standing there. Whoever he was—he was the most beautiful man in the world. And yet she had never seen his face. It was something she just sensed. But this was ridiculous. He didn’t exist. He was a man she had created in her dreams. Maybe she was losing her mind. Wasn’t this the way it happened? People started seeing visions, hearing sounds that weren’t there. She was really frightened. Because she could still hear his voice . . . and there was a jangling noise in the darkness.

It took her a moment to realize the jangling noise was the phone. A very real sound. And she had awakened because it was ringing. In the darkness, the luminous dial of the radio clock said one fifty-five. Who would be calling her at that hour! Except . . .
Tom!

She grabbed the phone, and when she heard his voice she wasn’t at all surprised. Just elated. She needed him more than ever right now. She needed the reassurance of a real man, not a fantasy man.

“Oh, Tom, I’m so glad you called. I was going to call you . . . as soon as you finished writing for the night.”

He laughed. “How come this new burst of consideration?”

She groped for her cigarettes in the darkness. “I don’t understand.”

“January, for the past three weeks you’ve called me at the rate of twenty times a day, at hours ranging from nine
A.M.
my time straight through till five
A.M
.—and now this sudden curfew.”

“Oh, Tom, I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized. . . . It’s just that whenever I’m unhappy or lost I reach out for you. Tom, I can’t stand it. I’m coming out. Tomorrow.”

“Don’t bother, January. All you have to do is cross the street.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m at the Plaza. I just got in.”

“
Tom
!” She sat up in bed and switched on the light. “Oh, Tom, I’ll throw on some slacks and come right over.”

“Baby, hold it! I’m beat. Besides, I have a nine o’clock meeting tomorrow morning at my publisher’s.”

“Well, when do I see you? I can’t wait!”

“Lunch.”

“Lunch? Oh, Tom! Who needs lunch? I want to be alone with you. I want—”

“Honey, my lawyer is meeting me at the publisher’s. We’ll be working out details on the contract for the next book. After that I’ll need to relax and have a few drinks. So let’s make it at Toots Shor’s. Say . . . twelve-thirty?”

“Tom . . .” Her voice was low. “I want to see you now. I can’t bear the idea that you’re just across the street. Please. Let me come over.”

He sighed. “Baby, do you realize you are talking to a fifty-eight-year-old man who feels the jet lag and needs his sleep?”

“Fifty-seven,” she said.

“Fifty-eight. I had a birthday while you were gone.”

“Oh, Tom . . . You should have told me.”

He laughed. “That’s hardly the thing I feel like advertising. See you tomorrow, baby. Twelve-thirty. And, January . . . For God’s sake, don’t bring a birthday cake . . .”

He was standing wedged in at the bar when she walked into Toots Shor’s. He had already met a few old friends and was buying them drinks. He held out his arms when he saw
her, and she snuggled into them as he forced a space for her at the crowded bar. He made the introductions all around, then grinned as he looked at her. “Okay, boys. I’m out of circulation from here on.” He kissed her gently on the cheek. “White wine?”

“No. Whatever you’re having.”

“Jack Daniels for the lady. Heavy on the soda.”

“Tom, you look wonderful. All tanned and—”

“I finally finished the script. That is, the treatment. And spent the last few days at my producer’s pool learning that the ending has to be changed.”

“Tom! You can’t change the end—”

“If I don’t, they’ll assign someone else who will.”

“You mean you have no control?”

“None. Once I take their money for the book, the book belongs to them. And once I take their money to write a screenplay, that means I agree to write a screenplay that will please them.”

“What would happen if you refused?”

“Well, for one thing, they wouldn’t pay me. And then they’d put on a guy who would do exactly what they wanted.” He swallowed the rest of his drink and said, “But don’t look so sad. That’s par for the course. I knew what I was getting into when I signed to do it. The only thing I didn’t know . . . was that it would hurt so much.” Then he signaled the waiter and motioned he was ready to sit down.

She waited until they were at their table and he had ordered another drink. Then she said, “Walk away from it, Tom. Let someone else do it. It’s not worth all the pain.”

He shook his head. “I can’t now. At least this way I’ll have some control. And parts of it are great. And if I have to compromise, at least I want to be there to make sure that the compromise works.”

“But you only did the screen treatment because it would pay for the apartment in New York and—”

“I did it because I have a piece of the profits. Remember? And I’m there to protect my book.”

“But you also said it would pay for the apartment. And now you don’t have to worry about that or . . . I mean . . . Well . . .”

He reached out and took her hand. “January, I canceled the apartment.”

“What!”

“Look, I’ve done a lot of thinking while we’ve been apart. I’ve also gotten a lot of work done while you’ve been gone. And I realize I can never really write if I live with you.”

“Tom . . . don’t say that!”

The waiter placed the menus in front of them. Tom studied his. She wanted to scream! How could he look at food? Or think of anything when their life together was at stake?

“Try the scallops,” he told her. “They’re real tiny—the kind you like.”

“I don’t want anything.”

“Two hamburgers,” he told the waiter. “And bring some hot sauce. Make mine rare. How do you want yours, January?”

“I don’t care.”

“Make the lady’s rare too.”

The moment the waiter left, she turned on him. “Tom, what do you mean? Of course you can write if I’m living with you. Maybe you can’t when we’re in the bungalow. But if we have a large apartment in New York, I’ll never be in your way. I’ll stay in the background. I won’t interfere. I promise.”

He sighed. “Unfortunately, you do, baby. Look. I’ve had a hell of a lot of love in my time. And I always thought I’d go on loving and drinking forever. But each year the work gets harder and the love seems less important. I’ve already faced the fact that I’m fifty-eight and I haven’t written half the books I promised myself I’d write. I don’t think I can allow myself the luxury of love anymore.”

She was trying not to let the tears come to her eyes. But they made her voice hoarse. “Tom . . . don’t you love me?”

“Oh, Jesus, January. . . . I’m so damned grateful to you. You gave me something pretty wonderful. And I’ll never forget it. Look, what we had was great. But it would have ended anyhow. Maybe a few months later . . . But maybe it is best to wash it up now—”

“Tom, once you said you could never be without me. Were they just words?”

“You know damn well I meant them at the time.”

“At the time?”

The busboy came by to fill their water glasses. They were both silent until he left. Then Tom reached out and took both her hands. “Now listen . . . What I said . . . I meant. At the time. And they weren’t lying-on-top-of-a-dame words. I meant them. But things change. . .”

“Nothing’s changed,” she said tensely.

“Okay. Let’s say I’ve changed. Let’s say just the one more year changed things. Honey, at your age, you’ve got the world ahead, you’ve got time. God, that’s a great word—time. And you’ve got it. Time for love, time for dreams, time for crazy escapades . . . And I’ve just been one of them.”

“No!”

“Maybe I’ll be an important one when you’re old enough to do some looking back. Maybe the most important. But baby . . . just think—in thirty-seven years—that’s the year two thousand eight—you’ll just be my age.” He paused and smiled. “Seems inconceivable to you, right? And I’ll lay a few more inconceivable facts before you. In two thousand eight,
if
I am still around, I’ll be ninety-five!”

The waiter arrived with the hamburgers. January forced a smile as he served them. The moment he left, Tom plunged into his. January touched his arm. Her voice was low and urgent. “Tom, you said if we had a year, two years . . . whatever we could grab—it would be worth it.”

He nodded. “That’s exactly what I said.”

“Well, let’s take it. Don’t cancel me out before it’s run its course.”

“But damn it, January, it has run its course. It can’t work any longer. Don’t you see? I’ve got to go back to that bungalow and work. Then I’ve got to write some more books. I’ve got—”

“Tom.” She was swallowing hard and keeping her voice down, because she was positive the people at the banquette beside them were trying to listen. “Tom, please, I’ll do anything you say—just don’t end it now. I can’t live without you. You’re all I’ve got. All I care for.”

He looked at her and smiled sadly. “Twenty-one, worth all that money, loaded with beauty and health—and I’m all you’ve got?”

“All I want.” The tears were brimming in her eyes now.

He was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. “Okay. We’ll try it. It’s not going to be easy. But well try. I once promised you that I’d never leave you, that as long as you wanted us to be together, we’d make it. And I’ll keep that promise.”

“Oh, Tom . . .”

“Now eat your hamburger. Because you’ve got to get home and start packing. I’ve got to be back in L.A. tomorrow.”

She nibbled at the meat and tried to push it around her plate. As the restaurant filled, people he knew stopped at the table to compliment him on his book, to congratulate him because it was still holding the number-one spot. Some asked about the movie, about casting . . . And through it all, she managed to smile as he made introductions. Some of the men gave Tom playful insults, asked her what she saw in an ugly old man like him. But she knew their jokes sprang from genuine admiration and affection for him.

They were finally alone as they had espresso. He spoke first. “Well, if you think you can face it, it’s back to Bungalow Five.”

She tucked her arm in his. “Is it still raining out there?”

“No. At least it wasn’t when I left.” Once again he sighed.

“You don’t really want me to come,” she said.