The Love Machine (17 page)

She reread the story. It was horrible—horrible! She stared at the open, vacant face of Christie Lane and felt nausea. So far they had been surrounded with stooges and comics and backslappers. But what would happen if there ever came a time when they were alone?

A few minutes later the phone rang and a jubilant Christie bellowed, “Doll—did you see the jazz in the papers? Well, this is only the beginning. Christie is going up, up, and up. And tonight we celebrate. Alone. I got Danton to get us a good table at ‘21’ for cocktails and then we’re going to dinner at El Morocco. Dan-ton is fixing it—so we sit in the right place and not in Squaresville.”

“I’m sorry, Christie,” she answered. “I have a late booking, and a very early appointment tomorrow morning.”

“Break it. You’re going out with the new King—”

“I can’t cancel my bookings. I earn too much money.”

“Doll, whatever you lose, I’ll pay you! What’s the total?”

She thought quickly. She had no early bookings and her last appointment was at five. “Well, three hours tonight, and two tomorrow morning.”

“Okay-what’s the tab?”

She could hear him chewing on one of those foul cigars. She started calculating. “Between three hundred and seventy-five and four hundred dollars.”

He whistled. “You make that kind of loot?”

“I get seventy-five dollars an hour.”

“You’re fulla shit!”

She clicked the receiver in his ear.

Two minutes later he rang back. “Doll, forgive me. It’s just an expression. I mean, you knocked me on my ass. Eddie’s girl, Aggie, well, she models for those confession magazines—and she gets ten bucks an hour. Fifteen if she wears a bathing suit, and twenty if she shows her tits.”

“I don’t do that kind of modeling.”

“Maybe I better wise Aggie up. If there’s this kind of cash in modeling, what the hell is she doing posing for that crummy kind of dough?”

“Christie, I have to leave, I’m late as it is—”

“You’re right. Listen, doll, for that kind of money, you need your sleep. We’ll make the big leagues another night. But I have to keep the ‘21’ bit—a lady from
Life
magazine is coming to have a drink with me. It’s a shame you can’t make it, you could cash in on the publicity if
Life
decides to do me.”

“I’m sorry, Christie.”

She hung up and resolved never to go out with him again. Never!

Then Ivan called. “I guess by now you’ve read
all
the papers,” he said. “Well, at least the Christie Lane story saves your face, pussycat.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought America’s top model would automatically go to the society columns first—you mean you haven’t seen them?”

“No.” She began rustling through the papers.

“Page twenty-seven. I’ll hang on while you cut your wrists.”

Robin’s familiar grin hit her immediately. He had his arm around someone called Baroness Ericka von Gratz.

“Are you still there, pussycat?”

“Do you enjoy being sadistic, Ivan?”

“No, Amanda.” His voice was low and serious. “I just want you to face facts. I’ll be home if you need me.”

She hung up slowly and stared at the paper. Baroness Ericka von Gratz was attractive. Robin was relaxed, from the look of it. She read the story:

Baroness Ericka von Gratz has not been around London since the death of her husband, Baron Kurt von Gratz. Those of us who have missed the fashionable pair are delighted to know she has come out of her mourning since the arrival of Robin Stone, American television journalist. The baron was killed in the Monte Carlo races, and for some time it was feared the lovely baroness would not recover from her mental depression. But for the past ten days she has gone to the theater and several intimate dinner parties with Mr. Stone. And now the pair have gone off to Switzerland to stay with the Ramey Blacktons in their Swiss chalet. Skiing or romancing—it’s hard to tell—but everyone is delighted that our lovely Ericka is smiling again.

She thumbed through the other paper. There was another picture of Robin and the baroness. She threw herself on the bed and sobbed. She pounded the pillow as if she were slashing at Robin’s smiling face. Then, with a sudden change of mood, she sat up. Good Lord, she had a three o’clock sitting for Halston and his new summer hats! She rushed and got ice cubes, wrapped them in a towel and put them on her eyes. Then she ran the hot water for compresses: if she alternated with the hot and cold on her eyes
for half an hour, she would look all right. She had to keep the appointment—she wasn’t going to lose a job because of Robin. He certainly wasn’t pining away for her!

Then, with another swift change of mood, she dialed Christie Lane. He answered immediately. “Doll, I was just half out of the door on my way to the Friars. You just caught me.”

“I’ve canceled my late bookings,” she said.

“Look, I was only kidding when I said I’d make it up—I can’t afford that kind of scratch.” He sounded frightened.

“I’m not asking you to pay me. I just suddenly decided I was working too hard.”

His voice changed immediately. “Oh, great! So everything’s still on. Meet me at ‘21’ at six-thirty. That’s when the broad from
Life
will be there.”

The evening went off easier than she had expected. The waiters had obviously been primed by Danton Miller. The table at “21” was in the center section downstairs. She forced herself to drink a Scotch—it might make the evening more palatable. The girl from
Life
was extremely nice. She explained that she had been sent over to “talk” to Christie about an interview. Then she was to write her impressions and the senior editors would decide whether they wanted to follow it up and assign someone to do a story.

Christie managed a weak laugh. “This is a new slant—being interviewed for an interview! How classy can a magazine be!” The unexpected humiliation deflated his ego. Amanda suddenly realized that most of his bravado was merely a pretense to cover his terrible insecurity. Her heart went out to him. She reached over and took his hand.

The girl from
Life
was also sensitive to his mood. She forced an easy laugh. “They do this with everyone, Mr. Lane. Why, just last week I did research on an important senator and the editors turned the story down.”

Some of Christie’s self-assurance returned. He insisted that she accompany them to El Morocco. Amanda realized that he was desperate for the story. He told the reporter about his humble beginnings, the early poverty, the honky-tonk nightclubs he had played. To Amanda’s surprise, the girl was actually interested. As she began to take notes, Christie’s enthusiasm soared. He threw
his arm around Amanda and winked at the reporter: “Imagine a bum like me winding up with a fancy society-type cover girl!”

At the end of the evening, Amanda asked to be dropped off first. -She closed the door wearily as she entered her apartment. She was bone-tired. It was an effort to take off her clothes. She wanted to flop on the bed and go right to sleep. She took off her makeup and automatically began the hundred strokes on her heavy blond hair. She stared at the brush. Good Lord, it was filled with hair. She’d have to stop using the Alwayso spray. No matter how much Jerry praised it, the stuff was murdering her hair. She dropped the can into the wastebasket. She finally fell into bed and was gratified that she was so tired—at least she wouldn’t lie awake and think of Robin and the baroness.

She spent the next four evenings with Christie, followed by a reporter from
Life
and his photographer. But she couldn’t forget Robin Stone. At the end of the week, the
Life
story was finished. It looked fairly certain that they would use it. But as the reporter had said, you couldn’t be positive until it was “locked in.” The final shots were taken while she was doing her commercial on the show.

Christie stood backstage with her and watched them leave. “It’s in the bag!” he said, throwing his arm around her. “Tonight we’re really going to celebrate. And we’ve got something even more important to celebrate—the new ratings just came out. Now I’m in the top ten! Do you hear that, doll? Two weeks ago I was number nineteen. This week I’m number eight! Only seven shows to beat! We gotta celebrate. And there’s something else: we never really been alone. Tonight, you and me, we’re gonna go to Danny’s Hideaway together—alone.”

When they were ushered to the front table, Christie was like a child in his happiness. To Amanda it seemed as if the ratings had been posted on the front page of
The New York Times
. The entire restaurant seemed to know. Everyone, including Cliff, the public relations man, stopped by to congratulate him. Christie basked in his new glory. He called out to other performers, left her alone several times while he “table-hopped.” Then he ordered steaks for both of them. She sat stiffly and picked at her food, while he ate with enthusiasm, his elbow on the table, his head
lowered to the food. When he had finished, he used two fingers to dig for a fragment of food lodged between his back teeth.

He stared at her half-eaten steak. “Something wrong with the meat?”

“No, I’ve had enough. I’ll get a doggy bag.”

“You got a dog?”

“A cat.”

“I hate cats.” Then he smiled. “Does it jump on your bed at night?”

“Yes, it snuggles with me.”

“Then tonight we go to my place.” He looked at her dress. It was a beaded sheath she had worn on the show. “We’ll stop at your place and you can feed the cat and change your dress.”

“Why do I change my dress?”

He grinned awkwardly. “Well, look, doll, tomorrow morning how’s it gonna look, you traipsing through the Astor lobby in that getup?”

“I have no intention of traipsing through the Astor lobby. Tomorrow morning I will be in my own bed.”

“Oh, you mean you want to do it—and go home?”

“I want to go home. Now.”

“What about the fucking?”

She colored visibly. “Chris, I don’t want to get up and walk out on you. But if you ever use that language again, that is exactly what I will do.”

“Come on, doll, you know it don’t mean anything when I say things like that. But I’ll be careful. Shit, I was raised backstage, I learned those words when most kids were reciting nursery rhymes. Tell you what—every time I say one of them words, I’ll give you a buck. No, better make it a quarter. With a buck a throw and my vocabulary—you could retire.”

She managed a smile. He was trying to be nice. It wasn’t his fault that she felt such physical revulsion for him, but she longed to get away from him. “Chris, I want to go home, alone. I have a headache, it’s been a long day.”

“Oh sure, you stood around holding up that heavy lipstick. I only sing and dance and do sketches.”

“But you’re talented. You’ve been doing it all your life. I panic
every time I see those three cameras coming at me. And facing that audience—it takes a lot out of me. You’re born to it.”

“Maybe. All right, we’ll let the fuck—the lovemaking—go till tomorrow night. No, I got a benefit tomorrow, maybe the following night. Is that a date?”

“I don’t know-”

“Whadya mean?”

“I just don’t leap into things like this.”

“We been going together a long time—”

“Three weeks and four days.” (It had been four weeks and four days since Robin left.)

“Hey, you must care to number the days like that. Well then, when? Or are you still carrying a torch for Robin Stone?”

She knew she had reacted visibly. The question had caught her off guard.

He seemed pleased. “Oh, I been doing my own investigating.”

“It’s no secret that I’ve gone out with Robin Stone. He’s a very good friend. An old friend. I’ve known him over a year.”

“Then you’re not carrying the torch?”

“Who ever told you that?”

“Ethel Evans.”

She was silent. She had no idea that Ethel was so perceptive. Only this evening, while Ethel was backstage, she had acted as if she hadn’t a thought in the world for anyone but Christie Lane.

Christie mistook her silence for bewilderment. “You remember Ethel Evans—the big-assed publicity dame with the loud mouth. She’s laid every guy from coast to coast and brags about it. God, did you see her tonight? Falling all over the guest star. She’s living up to her title: the Celebrity Fucker.”

“Maybe it’s men like you who make her bad news,” she answered.

“Meaning what?”

“Hanging such a title on her and spreading gossip. After all, have you ever had an affair with her?”

“No, but everyone I know has had her—every big shot, I mean.”

“Then you’re giving lip service to something you’ve only heard.”

“Why the big defense for that big-assed dame? You should hear her knock you.”