Once Is Not Enough (62 page)

She
wanted
to feel something. She wanted to wake up one morning and feel eager to start the day. Sometimes when she opened her eyes . . . those first few seconds before full consciousness took over, she felt good. Then everything rushed back to her, and she felt the weight of depression take over. Mike was gone . . . Tom was gone . . . even the dream was gone. The man with the beautiful eyes had disappeared along with her father and Tom . . .

Hugh called several times. He gave her pep talks. Told her it was a beautiful day, that she must go out and try to be happy. It was one thing to try . . . but another to make it work.

Her closet was filled with clothes for Marbella and St. Tropez. Each day she had shopped with her new friends and made identical purchases with them. She wore a figa around her neck . . . Gucci shoes . . . Cartier gold loop earrings . . . a
Louis Vuitton shoulder bag. She knew she was beginning to look and dress like Vera and Patty and Debbie because one day Vera showed her their picture in
Women’s Wear
, and she had to look for her name to distinguish herself from the others.

She stretched across the bed. She had told Sadie she would rest for half an hour. But she hadn’t been able to sleep. She wondered where David would want to go for dinner. She hadn’t worn any of the new clothes; maybe she’d wear something special tonight.

She saw the light flash on her phone. She always forgot to turn the sound on. She picked it up just as David was telling Sadie not to bother her if she was resting. “Tell her I have to cancel tonight. There’s been a minor crisis at the office. Tell her I’ll call her tomorrow.”

She walked into the bathroom. It was five o’clock. Might as well take a bath and have a tray. She let the water run and dropped some bubble powder into the tub. Did David really have a crisis . . . or was he just not up to another monotonous evening with her?

She stood very still. Another monotonous evening with her . . .
She
had said it! Until now it had always been another monotonous evening with David . . . but suddenly it was as if she had penetrated into his thought process. . . .

Of course she was monotonous and dull. All she did was try to get through an evening without yawning. Why should he want to spend every evening with her? Come to think of it, Patty hadn’t called in two days, and Vera had said something just today about not having time for lunch anymore—she was too busy buying last-minute things for her trip. She
was
a drag. A king-sized drag . . . And soon everyone would leave her.

She walked back to the bedroom and stared down at the park. The whole world was out there. A world Mike had given her on a platter and she couldn’t rouse herself to take it. What had happened to all that boundless energy she had with the magazine . . . with Linda . . . with Tom?

She stood very still. Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of it before! Instead of taking sleeping pills, she needed a shot! Tom had said they were bad for her. Well, they couldn’t be worse than sleeping pills and this zonked-out feeling of inertia.
She looked at the clock . . . five-thirty. Dr. Alpert would still be in his office. She let the bath water go down the drain and dug into the back of the closet for a pair of blue jeans Sadie had tried to throw out. She got into them, pulled on a T-shirt, grabbed some dark glasses, a bag and dashed out.

She wouldn’t chance calling Dr. Alpert and being told to come the next day. They
had
to take her now.

At first she thought she was in the wrong office. It looked like a motorcycle club convention. Boys and girls sat slouched in jeans and sleeveless T-shirts. The smell of pot hung heavy in the room. The receptionist stared at January in amazement. Then she flashed a bright smile and held out her hand. “Congratulations. I mean . . . I’m sorry about your father, but congratulations on your fortune. I keep reading about you.”

“About me?”

“Of course. You’re in the columns everyday. Are you really going to Marbella or is it St. Tropez? I read you were practically engaged to David Milford.”

January couldn’t answer. She hadn’t read a newspaper since California. She knew there had been a lot in the paper about the funeral. But why were the columnists writing about her? Did having ten million dollars cause the world to suddenly be interested in where she went to lunch or where she planned to vacation?

She looked at the crowded waiting room. “I have no appointment,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sure we can work you in,” the receptionist said. “It’s always hectic at this hour. You see we have the cast of a big Broadway show here now. They come in every night at this hour.” She nodded toward the actors sitting around the waiting room. “But we’ll make an opening for you. Dr. Preston is back from the Coast. So we have both our doctors here now.”

“What happened to all his big clients out there?”

“Oh, he actually has no office out there. He just went because Freddie Dillson couldn’t sing unless Dr. Preston was backstage.”

“But last week . . . on the news on television . . . I saw Freddie being carried out to an ambulance.”

The receptionist nodded sadly. “He had a complete break-down
. . . right in the middle of the show. And after Dr. Preston worked so hard—he stayed out there close to seven weeks trying to get him into shape, but Freddie’s voice is shot.”

“But he was so great,” January said. “I played his records all the time in Switzerland.”

“You should have seen him when he came here two years ago. His wife had walked out on him—he’s a big gambler you know—and he was broke. Dr. Preston took him in hand, and he opened at the Waldorf and made a spectacular comeback. Then he played Vegas and fell apart. Dr. Preston went out there to try and get him in shape for the Los Angeles opening . . . and he did. But he couldn’t stay with him forever. Dr. Preston isn’t a nursemaid, you know.”

“But if he needed the shots?”

The receptionist shugged. “My dear, Dr. Preston has taught two of our biggest senators to give themselves I.V. shots, but Freddie just couldn’t make that scene with the needle. I mean . . . after all . . . suppose one has diabetes . . . We must not be afraid of the needle.”

“I’d rather have Dr. Simon if I can,” January said.

“Well, he has the cast . . . but let’s see what we can do. I’ll tell you what . . . follow me and I’ll sneak you into an inside waiting room. That’s where we always put our V.I.P.’s.”

She followed the receptionist down a hall just as a young man walked out of a cubicle rolling down his sleeve. He stopped when he saw her. For a moment they both stared at each other. Then he threw his arms around her.

“Hey, heiress . . . What are you doing here?”

“Keith!” She hugged him eagerly. He was thinner and his hair was longer. She suddenly was so glad to see him. “Keith, what are
you
doing here?”

“I come here every night. I’m in
Caterpillar
. You’ve seen it, of course.”

“No . . . I’ve been away.”

“I’ve read about you. Wow, have you got it made! What do you need happy shots for?”

She shrugged. “No blood, I guess.”

“Well, anytime you want to see the show—” He stopped. “Say—” Then he shook his head. “Nah . . . forget it.”

“Forget what?”

“There’s a big party tonight. At Christina Spencer’s town house. She’d flip out if you’d come . . . But I guess you’re all booked up.”

“No . . . I’m free.”

“All evening?”

“As soon as I get my shot.”

“Want to see the show?”

“I’d love it.”

“Great! I’ll wait. I’ll put you out front, only this time I can’t sit with you.”

“And this time I won’t run out,” she said.

“There’s some nudity in it,” he said warningly.

“I’m a big girl now, Keith.”

“Okay. Get your happy shot. I’ll wait out there.”

Thirty

S
HE SAT
mesmerized by the frantic activity of the show. Keith had one song, which he “talked.” To her surprise he wasn’t very good. Somehow she had expected him to be more exciting on stage. But the vitality of his own personality never came across. There was one scene with frontal nudity. Keith was in that along with most of the cast. She was suddenly aware that everyone’s penis was the same size. About the size of David’s. Maybe that was standard. It looked as though most men came off the assembly line like that. Except Tom. Poor Tom! Wow, she could really feel sorry for him. Was it the shot? Or was she finally able to see things in their right perspective? She began to giggle. Imagine seeing a bunch of penises floating around on the stage, and here she was, philosophizing about life.

She thought of Mike. She knew he was gone . . . but suddenly she could accept it. For the first time she could think of Mike without feeling dead inside. Mike had lived a full life. As he would have put it—he went out in style. Mike had lived a bigtime life and he had enjoyed every minute of it . . . except, perhaps, the last year. And as Hugh had said, he had lived that year for her . . . so she could have many many good years.

Thank God for Hugh. And thank God for Dr. Alpert. Maybe the shots were bad for you; Tom had said they were. But it couldn’t be worse than all that Jack Daniels he consumed. He was fifty-eight, but even with all that bourbon, he could still write and be what Linda called a “superstar.” And with that small penis of his, he could still afford the luxury of letting her
walk out of his life. Suddenly it struck her as being amusing. How had she ever felt so desolate because it was over? She felt alive and eager sitting in the audience. She was snapping her fingers to the beat. She could think clearly. She was sitting in the third row watching
Caterpillar
and enjoying herself. She wasn’t lying in bed at the Pierre taking sleeping pills. There
was
a world out here, a world where people were leaping about on the stage, girls baring their breasts in a frenzied rock dance . . . and it all seemed just fine.

They decided to walk to the party after the show. Christina Spencer’s town house was in the East Sixties, and the night was warm and clear. January clung to Keith’s arm. She wanted to skip, to run . . . She stared at the dark sky. “Oh, Keith, isn’t it great to really feel good?”

He nodded. “Dr. Alpert probably gave you the full dose. He was so high himself tonight, he probably thought you were a member of the cast.”

She giggled. “Is that why he didn’t even talk to me? You know I felt bad that he didn’t even give me a ‘Welcome Home’ or a ‘Glad to see you.’”

Keith smiled and looked down at her. “Feel great, huh?”

“I feel like I can hear the trees grow, smell the summer coming . . . I
can
see the leaves growing. Keith, look at that tree—can’t you
see
that leaf getting bigger?”

He smiled. “You bet. And it’s important to see and feel all these things. There will only be this Thursday in June just once. Tomorrow will be Friday and this Thursday will never come back.”

“Why did you leave Linda?” she asked suddenly.

“Linda wanted too much of me.”

She nodded. No one could have all of anyone. That was why Tom had put her out of his life. She stopped and stared at the sky. This one minute, she felt on the brink of something . . . as if she could look into the future . . . understand everything . . . She turned to him. “Keith, can you get hooked on these shots?”

“No, but no matter how out of sight everything’s been, it’s a bad scene when it wears off. Because you drop to the bottom
. . . and the colors are gone. You look up and realize there’s dust on the sun and brown on the leaves and shit in the street. Well, if you want to live in a dirty tired world, you can stop taking the shots. Everyone has the right to live the way they want—the Jesus Freaks have their bag, the nature freaks have their thing . . . I’m a speed freak, and as long as it makes everything green and orange . . . fine. And one day, maybe I won’t want it all to be technicolor, and on that day, maybe I’ll quit. But why should I right now?”

They had stopped in front of a brownstone on a tree-lined street. There were several limousines in front. Keith led January inside. She saw a well-known rock singer standing in the hall. They pushed into the living room. It was packed solid with familiar faces. Pop artists, underground movie stars, recording artists, several young screen actresses. There were blue jeans, velvet pants suits, see-through blouses, striped jackets, and a sprinkling of Indian outfits.

And there was Christina Spencer. She floated toward them, her much photographed face a bit toothier in person. Her figure even more fantastic than the photographs showed. She had to be in her late fifties. Her face was taut from several lifts. She wore a midriff outfit of flowered silk. Her full breasts peeked above the low-cut neckline. She had the body of a twenty-year-old.

She welcomed January warmly. “I knew your father, my dear. We had a few gorgeous nights together once in Acapulco. That was right before I met dear Geoffrey.”

Keith steered January away. “Personally, I think she killed Geoffrey,” he whispered. “She’s married three times and each husband died and left her more money. And with her luck she backs
Caterpillar
with her own money and it’s a smash.”

“I thought you were her lover,” January said.

“Oh, I balled her. But she spreads herself around. She needs a new young lover every week to prove to herself that the doctor from Brazil who tightened everything did a good job. But she’s not bad. And what the hell . . . she lets everyone do their own number. Maybe I am top boy, but tonight she thinks I’m balling you . . . and she’s not mad . . .”

A girl walked over to Keith. “Baby . . . the sangria is out of sight, it’s in the den upstairs.”

Keith led January upstairs into a dark sitting room. Everyone was sitting on cushions. He pulled January to the floor and reached into his pocket and took out a skinny cigarette. He lit it and passed it to her. She inhaled deeply and let the smoke out in a thin stream. “Jesus, baby . . . you’re smoking it like it was a Chesterfield.”