Laura nodded and stared thoughtfully at the girl beside her. It was true. She was a prig. And selfish, too. She had no right to expect other people to rearrange their lives at a moment’s notice just because it was what she wanted. Besides, how did she really know how long she would go on wanting this. Maybe it was just a form of temporary insanity—or a kind of psychic rash that would disappear like measles after the fever passed. Hell of a thing to ask anyone—
to revamp a whole future on the basis of one wild night. Looking at it this way, she certainly had no right to ask Ginny to give up everything on just the transient kind of love two women have for each other.
Everyone knew these “affairs” never lasted. And of all the people to choose, she had to pick an actress—where success meant being under constant public scrutiny. Oh, no, Laura, me girl, it would never have lasted anyhow.
All right. Now that my mind knows all this, she asked herself, when does my heart catch on? Why do I still love her? Can two people walk out of my life like that? Can I go through this all over again?
She’s not walking out on you, Laura told herself resignedly—
she’s willing to just go on this way.
But I’m not! Damn it, I’m not!
“Laura?” Ginny asked quietly.
Laura wished she could cry then but knew she wouldn’t. What for? “Yes,” she replied heavily.
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“Do you hate me?” Ginny burst into tears, burying her face in Laura’s breasts. “I didn’t mean to hurt you . . . honest.”
It was almost more than Laura could take at that moment. She stroked Ginny’s head and held her close with a slight rocking movement. “No, Ginny. I don’t hate you.”
She had to take a deep breath before continuing. She hurt inside.
In fact, the only way to think of the pain was that her guts were killing her.
Ginny kept repeating that she had not wanted to hurt Laura, that if she could she would undo the whole thing.
But it was too late now . . . too late for undoing. And she wanted Ginny too much to sit on the sideline waiting for bones. She wanted everything or nothing—and it looked as though it would be nothing.
Maybe she was being bourgeois and immature, but her pride—
and her heart—simply would not let her conduct an illicit-illicit affair. She had not been playing with Ginny. . . . It had not been just a game to fill the hours. . . .
She would have to get up now and go through the day somehow.
She would have to take Ginny home, pick up her own car, and go to work. She would have to stay away from Ginny. . . .
She would have to.
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Chapter 9
It was a strained and awkward ride to Saundra’s house. Ginny had become increasingly defensive, but Laura refused to rise to the bait. Talk would lead to charges and countercharges. Better to leave it alone. She would call Ginny later, Laura decided, when both of them had had a chance to put things in their proper perspective.
She recalled briefly the wire she had opened while Ginny showered.
It had been from Walter, as she had suspected: he wanted her to come to New York as soon as possible.
She wouldn’t answer him just yet—she had to decide what to do with herself first, then Ginny, and then and only then, Walter. It would be pointless for her to go to New York until this was settled.
She wanted time—time to think, time for Ginny to reconsider, and time to make her own decisions. How much time? She didn’t know.
At the office she went through the day in a frenzy of application to her work. She tried not to think about Ginny or last night or the conversation this morning. Each time her mind wandered back to Ginny, hot chords vibrated throughout her body, and her hands became cold. It seemed that she really didn’t think of Ginny as a person but as a fleshly embodiment of her own passionate fantasies—
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something responsive to hold and kiss, to let out a torrent of emotions and love upon.
Finally, the unending day became evening, and at last Laura looked around the office and was surprised to see that she was alone. She knew she must have talked to people during the day—
Helen, at least. But she couldn’t remember anything that had happened, not even if she had had lunch or where, or what she had done.
Go home, Laura, she told herself, before you crack up. Home.
It was an empty word when there was no love.
She let herself into the apartment and found that it was near agony to remember that Ginny had sat in that chair, had crossed the room here holding a glass in her hand, and that it had been on that couch where they had first kissed. . . . She had to see Ginny here again.
“Call her,” she said aloud. “Call her and tell her you’re sorry about the way you behaved.”
She walked over to the telephone, feeling her hands grow cold, and a thick heavyness touched the base of her skull.
Rrupp! Tic-a-tic-a-tic. Operation Apology under way.
The line rang exactly three and one-quarter times.
A short silence.
“Ye-es?” A very hesitant and falsely bright Ginny answered.
What will I say? Laura wondered frantically.
“Ginny?”
Silence, then, “Where are you calling from?” Laura heard Ginny’s breathing, short and quick. “You shouldn’t have called me here.”
“I wanted to talk to you. . . .”
“But Saundra’s back. I mean, she’s just taking a shower upstairs.
She’ll be out in a minute, and I don’t want her to know you’ve called. We’ve had a furious fight.”
That wretched hurt again, that miserable sick pain in the pit of her stomach. How can one person hurt you so much with a few simple words? Laura pushed her fist hard against the edge of the table to steady herself, to keep the choke out of her voice.
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“I’m . . . I’m sorry, Ginny. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just wanted to talk to you. . . .”
“Not now, Laura, please. I’ll call you. Later on, maybe, if I can think of an excuse to get out of the house. But not now. Please don’t call here again. I’ve just gotten her calmed down. She’d be in an awful rage if she thought . . .”
Laura hung up quietly. She wanted to cry, to scream, to throw something. So this would be their life—don’t call me; I’ll call you.
And what happens when you run out of excuses, Ginny? Or if we get caught, Ginny . . . Who wins you in a hands-down fight?
My God, everything would have to be geared to keeping Saundra pacified. No. Damn it. No!
Laura walked into the kitchen and put some ice in a glass and brought the half-full bottle of Scotch to the living room. She sat down on the couch and filled the glass to the brim. Slowly she raised the glass to her lips and smiled at the television set across from her: dead, imageless—a prideless, sightless standin for life.
Ersatz pleasure.
That’s what I would be, she said inwardly . . . an instrument of amusement to be turned on and off, filling a need of sorts but not enough to be an entity. No. Not amusement, not even amusement.
That’s too healthy a word. Diversion. Yes. That’s it.
Laura drained the glass without stopping for air. She threw off her shoes and stretched out on the couch, facing the TV set.
Then, she fell asleep while holding a silent conversation with the blank set, mulling over the things they had in common.
As she drove to work the next day, she decided, today I must make up my mind.
Somebody honked when she failed to move on a green light.
Always pushing . . . Some bastard’s always there to keep you moving, she cursed under her breath with unusual vehemence.
If Walter wants me in New York right away . . . if I could catch a plane this afternoon . . . if I could leave today . . . I wouldn’t have
time to change my mind or worry about the consequences.
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She sighed as she pulled the car into the office parking area, and sat a moment after she turned off the ignition. Then, slowly, she climbed the stairs to her office.
If I can get reservations today, that will be it. No arguments, no decisions. Just Kismet.
As Laura entered the office, the receptionist gave her a bright
“Good morning, Miss Garraway.”
Laura mumbled something and headed for her desk. She wished she could talk to Helen about this but imagined the shock on Helen’s face if she did.
“Morning, Laura. Coffee?” Helen said cheerfully. “Must say, you’ve looked a wreck these past few days,” she chuckled good-naturedly. “Tours l’amour?”
One more word, Laura thought with exasperation. Just one more word and I’ll punch her in the nose! Wouldn’t that be ladylike, she told herself sarcastically. Calm down, Laura, old girl. Helen is your friend—she can’t know your problems. Take it easy or the only place you’ll go to is an institution. Lesbians Anonymous, she joked bitterly, a quaint Village home for shook-up broads.
She saw Helen’s hand place a cup of steaming coffee on her desk, then felt Helen’s other hand on her shoulder.
“What’s the matter, Laura?” she asked with serious concern.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Oh, yes, Helen,” she answered guiltily. “Got a wire from Mr.
Hobson.” She gave the news as a peace offering. “Wants me to leave for New York right away and I’m trying to figure out how I’ll do it.”
With an effort Laura smiled. “Would you be a doll, Helen, and call the airport? Find out if I can get on a plane this afternoon . . . nonstop. Buy a ticket and charge it to Fanfare.”
“Sure, Laura. Sure.” Helen returned to her desk, leaving Laura alone to think things out. She’d just have to let Walter handle the loose ends around here when he got back. Walter, she thought. Her own part in his life seemed like an adolescent fling now.
Compared to what she and Ginny had shared . . . Ginny, Ginny.
Kismet. Reservations were available. Helen got her a seat on a 4:10 plane leaving from International Airport. With all the hectic arranging for her departure, the morning passed quickly.
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At last Laura picked up her purse, looked over her desk to be sure she had forgotten nothing, and in an unexpected moment of fear of what she was venturing upon, hugged Helen quickly. “Thanks for everything, Helen. Take care of the boss for me when he comes back.”
She turned quickly to hide the unwanted tears coming into her eyes and walked swiftly out of the office. She hardly heard Helen’s call of good luck.
She was leaving behind everything that she knew, everything familiar . . . for what? This wasn’t the way to go, was it? But she knew the tears were mostly for Ginny. Never to see Ginny again . . .
never touch her soft cheek with her own, never feel the young breasts with her own . . .
It had been so strange and so wonderful.
Laura drove home like a madwoman, packing hastily in constant fear that her phone would ring—or that like an alcoholic, she would weaken and make that “one call” just to say good-bye.
But nothing happened.
Ready at last, Laura ran out of the apartment.
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Chapter 10
“Eleven,” Laura told the bored-looking hotel elevator operator. The car was crowded with people who looked even more bored.
Laura leaned against the back of the elevator with a soft sigh of relief. The worst was over—at least for the moment. She’d made the break, and the trip itself had been quite painless. As soon as she had boarded the plane, she had taken a sleeping pill so that she wouldn’t have those idle hours to think. . . .
So far, so good.
She wondered if Ginny had ever called her.
“Nine,” the operator called out in a dry little voice.
Ginny. Forget Ginny, damn it. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?
“Eleven.”
Laura took a deep breath and stepped out of the car, grateful for the freedom. There was something about elevators that was too confining.
She stood a moment in the hallway, breathing the musty air and staring blankly at the opposing arrows indicating the division of rooms. Forcing herself to focus on the numbers, she turned left down the corridor, her footsteps making a muffled sound on the thick, worn carpet.
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From the fire escape window at the end of the hall she could hear faint strands of dance music from the cocktail lounge in the hotel.
Funny, she thought, how most hotel dance bands sound the same . . . But the couples on the floor don’t notice it. If I were dancing with Ginny, I wouldn’t notice it.
And then that terrible stab of loss, of injustice. She could never go dancing with Ginny in public, never look at her with love in her eyes across a public dining table, never do any of the little things that people in love do.
Well, she barely whispered, that’s why you’re here, old girl, and not with her. . . .
She stopped at room 1107. Her knock sounded loud enough in the silence to wake the whole floor. No answer. Suddenly she was very impatient. The clerk had said Walter was in—why didn’t he answer? Where else could he be at this ungodly hour?
“Laura!” The door opened, and Walter stood there, smiling broadly. He put his arms around her and hugged her fraternally.
No kiss.
He has company, she guessed. She could feel it in his reception.
Besides, he never played a radio when he was alone—always said it made him nervous.
“Come in, Laura. Come in.” Walter helped her off with her coat swiftly.
He gave her another little affectionate hug, then whispered in her ear, “We have a guest . . .” and led her into the suite.
“Madeline,” Walter said enthusiastically, “I want you to meet the best little feature writer this side of Hedda Hopper.” He grinned.
“Madeline Van Norden. Laura Garraway.”
Laura saw a strikingly handsome woman seated on the divan. Her clothes were exquisitely simple. Her poised, easy manner, her pleasantly attentive glance—everything about her suggested wealth . . . and taste. Intelligence, too. Laura guessed her to be in her mid-thirties.
So this is our backer, she mused. Our gay divorcée. Even sight unseen Walter could pick ’em.
“Welcome to New York, Laura.” Madeline raised a half-empty cocktail glass in salute. The soft, cultivated tones were exactly what Laura expected. “I can see you’ll get along well here.”
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She smiled and winked at Walter with a sort of mutual-appreciation expression.
Shades of Saundra Simons, Laura thought.
But she managed a polite smile and mumbled acknowledgment.
Walter fussed over her and praised her to Madeline.
“If you’re going to talk about me as if I weren’t here, Walter,”
Laura said dryly but keeping a twinkle in her eyes, “I’ll need a drink.”
Madeline laughed heartily. “Get the poor girl a drink!” The ex-plosiveness of her laugh struck Laura as oddly out of keeping with the rest of her. Walter walked over to the small improvised bar on the writing desk.
“Scotch, Laura?”
“Fine. I haven’t checked in yet. My baggage is in the lobby; wanted to be sure you were still here and”—Laura glanced confidentially at Madeline, “that you hadn’t made reservations for me at some hotel on the other side of town.”
Walter brought her the drink and sat down on the arm of her chair. “No, I didn’t register you anywhere, but getting a room at this time of the year isn’t any problem. I thought it would be easier for you if you stayed in this hotel, but decided
to consult you first.”
His tone was elaborately businesslike, but Laura could sense an under-current of uneasiness in his manner.
Laura watched him with amusement. She was thoroughly enjoying his predicament: he wanted to keep his tomcat privacy for himself, play the faithful lover for her, and yet hide all this from Madeline.
As always, Walter’s juggling was very adept, but this time he had failed. She had the feeling that Madeline was not missing a thing.
Laura feigned a look of indecision.
“Well . . .” she began.
“Had you any special hotel in mind?” he asked hesitantly.
Laura grinned mischievously. “Expense account?”
Walter stood up and laughed. “If you’re a good girl.”
He reached over and took Madeline’s glass. “Freshener?”
“Please.” Madeline reached across the small round table between their chairs and took out a cigarette, then handed the pack to Laura.
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“This hotel would be convenient for you, Laura,” she said evenly.
“Yeah,” Walter added enthusiastically. “Fanfare on Madison Avenue. How do you like that for dreams coming true?”
“Sounds elegant,” Laura replied, feeling oddly disturbed by Madeline’s curious glances.
“Tell you what,” Walter continued as if in one breath, “I’ll call downstairs and have them register you and send your bags up.”
Laura sat quietly while Walter called. She listened with detached interest as he made the arrangements. She didn’t want to look over at Madeline, and she felt strangely on guard.
“Is it difficult to find an apartment?” she asked Madeline finally.
Madeline laughed, and Laura decided that her laugh was not really loud or boisterous—just sincere, and full of a pleasant childlike gusto. There was no obvious attempt on Madeline’s part to play the urban sophisticate. Laura thought that her naturalness made Madeline all the more genuinely sophisticated.
“A nice apartment is very hard to find,” she explained without snobbery, “even if price is no object.”
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