The Polka Dot Nude (5 page)

His eyes strayed to the top of my blouse, which had a tendency to gap when I was sitting down. Before his hand decided to follow his eyes, I took it and put it at my waist.

“What you sees is what you—” An incipient smile alerted me to danger. “Is all there is.”

“And I don’t get it, right?” He laughed. “All that pulchritude—seems a waste.”

“You must subscribe to the theory that good things come in small packages. I’m scrawny.”

“Willowy.”

“We’ll compromise. I’m thin.”

“‘Less is more’—Browning.”

“Also the motto of modern architects. The same guys who tell us houses are machines for living in, and by corollary I suppose women are for—”

“You’re putting words in my mouth!”

“Fine, just so I don’t put ideas in your head.”

Meanwhile our hands were involved in a power struggle, mine trying to hold his down. When he realized I wasn’t kidding, he pulled away, and looked sheepish. “Sorry, I guess I got carried away.”

“Feet first, next time,” I warned, but lightly, to show I wasn’t really shocked or horrified.

He moved along to the far end of the sofa and examined me for a minute, then said, rather tentatively, “A lot of people nowadays are into celibacy?” His inflection made it a question, and his eyes revealed why he wanted to know.

For a fleeting moment, I caught a resemblance to Garth in him. The indirect question, the interest that didn’t want to quite reveal itself, in case of rejection. “I’ve been reading that too. Personally, I just like to know a man well before I know him intimately.” I was pleased with this well-balanced assertion, and cast a cool, bright smile on him.

His answering smile was less cool. He nodded, as though accepting it, and said, “Fine, we’ll talk and become well acquainted.” But already he’d left his corner and was shimmying along the sofa toward me. “I appreciate that restraint in a woman,” he said. His voice sounded as though he were eating marshmallows. Within two seconds, his arm reached for my waist.

“I’d appreciate a little of it from you as well.” I flicked his fingers away as though they were flies. “Funny, you know, I didn’t take you for a sex fiend. You seemed so civilized when I first met you.”

The offending hand was slowly withdrawn. His eyes narrowed momentarily, then he settled back and let a grin steal across his lips. "'Fiend' is overdoing it, surely. I’m passionate. You know what they say. If you don’t play, you can’t win. Are you afraid to play the game of life?”

I gave him a derisive smile. “Children play games, Brad. I’m not a child, and I’m not susceptible to fuzzy amateur psychology.”

His good humor remained unimpaired. “Not to that particular line,” he countered.

“I’m sure you have a dozen others you’re dying to cast out. Testing your lures, as unsuccessfully as you did this afternoon. I had hoped to have some interesting conversation with an intellectual like you.”

He was ridiculously susceptible to this line. We talked about novels and our writing. I admitted to a forlorn hope of someday writing a serious novel; he admitted there was a lack of satisfaction in literary criticism, and a lack of financial reward too, which made me wonder how he’d bought half a French restaurant. The radio played softly in the background, hardly noticed. If it hadn’t been for the startling words “Rosalie Hart,” we wouldn’t have heard it at all. We both jumped and looked at each other with shocked eyes, while the announcer continued.

“Rosalie Hart, former star of stage and screen, died today in her home, Hartland, in California. The doctor has announced she choked on caviar, while sharing a bottle of champagne with her companion, Lorraine Taylor. The death was accidental. Foul play is not suspected. Details of the funeral will be announced later.”

“My God, she’s dead!” I gasped.

Brad’s reaction was possibly stronger than my own. He turned a shade paler, before he jumped up and ran to the radio, to turn up the volume, but the announcer had already gone on to the next item.

“What a shock for you!” he exclaimed.

“I can’t believe it.”

“It’s the end of an era.” He sat down and stared at the floor.

“I wonder how this will affect my book. Brad, I’m going home and turning on the TV. There might be something, some more details.”

“I’ll go with you, if you don’t mind. I’d like to hear it too, and I don’t have a TV.”

We went to my place, but the regular TV programs were in progress. “Maybe the late news will have something,” I said. “I’m going to call my editor. She might not have heard.”

“I’ll run along then, but do you mind if I come back for the late news?”

“Of course not.”

I had to go over to Simcoe’s to make the call, since my phone wasn’t being installed till the next morning. I was grudgingly admitted, and after a little haggling, it was agreed I’d ask for the long-distance charge and pay him on the spot. After all that, my editor wasn’t home. I’d have to call her first thing in the morning.

“How are you and young O’Malley making out?” Mr. Simcoe asked. His wife was not visible, though I heard a rocking chair creaking in the next room. It stopped to allow her better hearing of my answer.

“Just fine. Brad’s very nice.”

“It’s too bad you’ve got to work so hard. It hardly seems worth his while coming, when you’re so busy all day.”

“I don’t think I’m the only reason he’s here, Mr. Simcoe.” I laughed.

He looked quite surprised at this. What strange world did he inhabit, that he thought a man like Brad O’Malley would come seeking out somebody like me, in the wilderness?

“He mentioned the fishing,” he said doubtfully.

“Yes. Well, thanks for the use of the phone. There won’t be any charge after all. I couldn’t reach my editor.”

“You won’t have to pay for using it then.” His suspenders expanded with this beneficence, and he accompanied me to the door.

I went back to my cottage and watched TV. Rosalie’s death didn’t bother me in a deeply emotional way. I hadn’t known her well enough or long enough for that. To me, the major concern was how it would affect my book. I turned the volume down and left the picture on, glancing at the screen once in a while, while I looked over my research.

At ten, Brad came back, bringing the borrowed diary with him. “It’s too bad she didn’t live another six months, and then this death would have been a big boost for my book,” I said.

“That’s a pretty crude way to look at it,” he said, rather sharply.

“Take it easy! I was just thinking out loud. So it was selfish, but if she was going to die anyway, it would have been good for me if she’d died when the book was ready for release. Do you want some coffee?” I asked, to smooth his ruffled feathers.

“No, thanks,” He just sat staring at the screen, as though his mind were miles away, till the item came on. Rosalie had been big enough in her day that her death led off the news. They had accumulated a short tape on her life, showing cuts from a few of her hit movies, and some personal footage as well. Most of it had been seen before; all of it was at least twenty-five years old.

“Well, that’s the end of Rosalie Hart,” Brad said sadly. “I wish I’d known her.”

“You sound as though you’re half in love with her.”

“Maybe—half. At my age, death’s upsetting.”

“Your age!” I laughed. “How old are you anyway? All of thirty-four or -five, I imagine.”

He gave a self-conscious look that made me raise his probable age a few years. “Thereabouts. I won’t sleep much tonight. Is it all right if I take another of her diaries?”

“Help yourself. I wish I had something really boring to put me to sleep.”

Then I remembered
The Art of Eliot,
and knew my problem was solved. Brad took a while, sorting through the volumes.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“What you were talking about—the period when she was in Europe, and you think she had a baby.”

“I told you, that space of time is missing, Brad. Try this one,” I said, and offered him one of the racier books.

“You mentioned one where she complained of gaining weight.” He kept rooting till he found the one he wanted.

He left, with no romantic interlude that night. He seemed awfully preoccupied, and I couldn’t believe it was the thought of his own death that caused it. It was Rosalie’s. Funny how attached people became to movie stars. You’d almost think he had known her personally. She wasn’t a coeval of his. I remembered how upset people had been when Elvis Presley died, and John Lennon was killed. But that was different—it was people the same age as the stars who had felt that deeply about the deaths. Rosalie was old enough to be Brad’s grandmother. Of course what he was mourning wasn’t the wrinkled little woman I knew, but the winsome face seen on the screen. The face smiling at me from the gilt frame.

I went to bed, and was soon lulled to sleep by
The Art of Eliot,
and the gentle lap of water against the rocky shore.

CHAPTER 4

As soon as Bell installed my phone the next morning, I called Eileen Haddon. My editor had already heard about Rosalie’s death.

“Bad news for us, huh?” I asked.

“That’s debatable. If we could get your book out soon, it would help sales. What’s your best date on the manuscript?”

“My deadline’s October. I’ll be ready by then, not much sooner.”

A nervous laugh trickled down the wire. “I hope you can do better than that. Is August out of the question? August the first, I mean?”

“August! Eileen, look at your calendar. It’s late June already.”

“Is it absolutely out of the question?” she persisted.

“Absolutely.”

“Well, do it as quickly as you can. The end of August is already later than we want. There’s a TV special planned, and some talk of a Rosalie Hart movie festival as well. The magazines will do something, and we’d like to cash in on the free publicity. Belton is going to put out one of their trashy quickies, an unauthorized biography. In fact, Mason is at work on it already. Hume Mason, the king of quickies, began one last month, as soon as Belton heard we were doing Rosalie.”

My insides clenched up like a fist at this news. Panic warred with pride. I guess it was pride that said, “I wanted to make this really good, a meaningful book.”

“Of course, Audrey, but do it fast too.” Eileen was obviously ruled by panic. “Send me in what you’ve got. I’ll edit as you go along, to save time. How many chapters are done?”

“Two, but they’re only in rough. They have to be polished and retyped.”

“Two chapters?” she howled. “What have you been doing all this time?”

“I’ve got about fifty pounds of research to digest.”

“I know. Guard it with your life. The estate will want it back in good order. Keep yourself informed on the funeral too. It might make a good closing chapter. Wraps it all up nice and tidy. I’ll let you get back to work now. Work hard! Bye.”

I muttered to myself as I banged down the receiver. “Work hard. What do you think I’ve been doing, playing the violin?”

I went at it harder than before, only stopping at noon to grab an apple and a slice of rye bread. I could do with some reducing after Brad’s gluttonous feasts. I wondered if he’d make me dinner again, after I’d refused to go along with his fun and games last night. I hadn’t lowered myself to buying meals and company at the price of my body, if that was all he was after. I wasn’t ready for another devastating jilting either, and that was the likeliest conclusion to an affair with Brad. First I had to staunch the bleeding from losing Garth.

By four, the ache between my shoulders told me I’d overdone it. My head throbbed, and my sentences were all turning compound. It came as a surprise when I looked out the window and remembered where I was. Tall pines hewn to grotesque shapes by the wind replaced the more familiar skyscrapers. Instead of solid concrete, sun-dappled grass waved underfoot. Through the rear window the river was visible, rippled by wind and sparkling. Brad’s car was home. I changed into shorts and a halter and went to the rocky shore to test the water with my toes. It was perishingly cold. The dock between my cottage and Brad’s was a good place for sunbathing. A derelict striped canvas chair coaxed me into its sagging nest. It felt exactly like the famous Barcelona chair—very uncomfortable. Simcoe’s boat was at his dock, so Brad wasn’t out fishing. Maybe he’d started another essay on poetry.

After angling the chair to gather the maximum rays from the sun, I half closed my eyes and gazed dreamily across the water. That was Canada over there, so close you could swim to it, if the currents allowed. The St. Lawrence was a mile wide here, Simcoe had told me. Two enormous ships crossed in the seaway, with a haunting hoot from their horns. It was a sound often heard at night in bed, eerie and unsettling, like a distant train whistle, carrying a hint of excitement and far-off places. All so peaceful and different from New York. A nice place to visit, but how could anyone bear to live there? Didn’t the constant racket of the crickets drive them around the bend?

Brad must be tired of working by now. I’d go and ask him if he wanted a beer. In fact, I wanted one myself. I went to my cottage, planning to take two over to his place, to sniff the air for dinner. When I opened the door, I got the fright of my life. There was a man there, at my desk, his head bent over my box of research, which he was riffling through. The soft pad of my bare feet hid my approach from him. With my eyes dazzled from the sun, I didn’t recognize Brad for a minute.

My voice was rough with shock. “What are you doing?” I demanded.

His head came up then, and I realized who it was. “I just came to ask you if I could borrow another of those interesting books for tonight. Sorry if I frightened you. Is it okay if I take this?”

“I guess so, but please don’t take anything without asking me. Remember, these are the originals, and there aren’t any copies. I was just coming to get a beer. Would you like one?”

“Sure, why don’t we take it down to the dock and have a swim first? The water’s quite clean here.”

“It’s also frigid. Just ask my toe—the blue one. It’s been in."