The Love Machine

by Jacqueline Susann

  “Except the only man I want.”

  He sighed. “Look, I know you’re a sweet, regular girl or I wouldn’t be sitting here wasting all this time when I’ve got a lot of work piled up and three chicks I could score with at the drop of a dime. Face it—Robin doesn’t function like other people. He’s like a great big beautiful machine. Fight back, baby, it’s your only chance.”

  She nodded absently and scribbled the initials R.S. on the table with the swizzle stick.

  ELEVEN

  JERRY MOSS ALSO WAS OUTRAGED at Robin’s departure. He had checked with Robin at lunch and Robin had said, “Lancer’s at five.”

  Jerry had waited until seven and only found out what had happened from Mary, who had accidentally heard Robin on the seven o’clock news.

  He had a long session with Dr. Gold the following day. No, Dr. Gold did not think Robin was intentionally sadistic—he felt most of Robin’s actions were based on an unconscious effort to avoid close ties with anyone. He demanded nothing of his friends and in turn wanted no demands made on him.

  Amanda’s talk with Ivan had helped her. When she arrived to do the second Christie Lane Show she had worked herself from deep depression into a state of self-righteous anger. The rehearsals had the same frantic excitement but the tension was gone. There was a sense of fun and goodwill, a certain confidence that permeates the atmosphere when there is the smell of a hit.

  This time, when Christie Lane asked her to go out after the show, she accepted. They went to Danny’s Hideaway with his “gofors” and Agnes, a show girl from the Latin Quarter who obviously belonged to one of them. Amanda sat beside Christie, but aside from asking her, “What do you want to eat, doll?” no other conversation passed between them. Jack E. Leonard, Milton Berle and several other comedians came by to congratulate Christie. He was thrilled with the attention and tried to trade jokes with them. Then, as he watched Milton Berle walk down the room to the front table, he said to Eddie Flynn, “I think we’re sitting in left field.”

  The show girl said in a tinny voice, “No, Chris, honest. As long as you make this room, you’re in good shape. It’s known as the Cub Room. The squares with the brown-and-white shoes sit in the other rooms. This is the in room.”

  “How would you know?” Christie snarled.

  “I know,” she said calmly, loading butter on a breadstick. “I once came here with a square—oh, long before I met you, lover,” she said as she gave Eddie’s arm a reassuring pat. “And we were led right into another room. I dug right away where all the action went on when I saw all the celebrities being shown in here. But the square, he was from Minnesota, he had no idea. He collected matches to take home and was happy as a clam.”

  “Yeah, but Berle has the front table. And look, the McGuire sisters are at the other.”

  “Marty Allen is sitting along the side.” This was Kenny Ditto.

  “Yeah—but up front on the side. Someday I’m gonna sit at the front table. And someday I’ll go to the ‘21’ Club.”

  Amanda was surprised. “Haven’t you ever been there?”

  “Once,” Christie said. “I had a date and all she wanted was dinner at the ‘21’ Club. I called and made a reservation. Then, wham—upstairs left field, in a corner. And like Agnes said, the girl I was with didn’t know the difference. She collected matches, too. But I knew.” He seemed thoughtful. “I got to get my name in the columns. That Ethel Evans isn’t any good—Eddie, tomorrow we start with our own press agent. Smell around, find out who’ll work for a C-note a week. All he has to do is get me three column mentions a week. Nothing else.”

  It continued on throughout dinner. Christie Lane and his “go-fors” plotting his career. The show girl ate everything in sight. Amanda learned that Kenny Ditto’s name was really Kenneth Kenneth—Christie had tacked the Ditto on, and Kenny was thinking of legalizing it. Kenny Ditto was a better name for a writer, it stood out on the crawl on the show.

  Amanda sat with them feeling strangely isolated, yet relieved at being left to herself. When they drove up to her apartment building, Christie remained in the cab and let Eddie take her to the door. He shouted out, “How about tomorrow night, doll? There’s an opening at the Copa.”

  “Call me,” and she dashed into the building.

  He called the following morning and she accepted the date. It was better than sitting home moping about Robin. That night Christie exuded confidence. The Copa was his “home ground.” They had a ringside table. She was crammed in among Christie, the “gofors,” and the new press agent—a skinny boy who worked for one of the major publicity firms. He explained that no decent press agent would take on an account for that money, but if Christie paid in cash he would “moonlight” and deliver the three column mentions a week.

  After the Copa, Christie wanted to go to the Brasserie, but Amanda begged off, pleading an early call. The following morning, Ivan called to congratulate her on an item in Ronnie Wolfe’s column which stated she and Christie were the new big romance in town. “Now you’re making sense,” he said. She was frightened at first, but when three more days passed with no word from Robin, she decided to see Christie again. It was another nightclub opening, another table filled with the “gofors,” the press agent and a second-rate dance team who had latched on, hoping for a guest shot on Christie’s show.

  The night of the third Christie Lane telecast was charged with excitement. The two-week Nielsens had come out—Christie Lane was in the top twenty! The sponsors appeared, Danton Miller was shaking everyone’s hand, everyone was congratulating everyone. Alwayso gave Dan an immediate renewal for the following season. Thirty-nine weeks firm. That night Danton Miller threw a little victory party at “21” after the show. Christie unloaded his “gofors” and took Amanda. Jerry Moss came with his wife. They had a table downstairs in the middle section and although none of the captains knew Christie Lane, everyone knew Danton Miller and some of them even knew Jerry Moss. At one point in the evening, Danton Miller tried to make the proper small talk with Amanda. He complimented her and said she was excellent on the commercials.

  “I’m used to a camera,” she said modestly. “My real feat was learning to hold the lipstick without letting my hand shake.”

  “Have you ever acted? Pictures? The stage?”

  “No, just modeled.”

  He looked thoughtful. “But it seems to me I’ve heard of you—”

  “Perhaps in magazines,” she said.

  Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “Robin Stone! Didn’t I see your name coupled with his?”

  “I’ve gone out with him,” she said carefully.

  “Where the hell is he? And when is he coming back?” Dan asked.

  “He went to Brazil.” She was conscious that Jerry had stopped talking and had turned his attention to them.

  Dan waved his hand. “That tape from Brazil came in over a week ago. Then he sent us one from France. He actually saw de Gaulle.” He shook his head in amazement. “But now I hear he’s in London.”

  She sipped her Coke and kept her expression bland. “I imagine he’s getting wonderful tapes over there.”

  Danton smiled. “The ratings are pretty good, and for a news show it’s solid. But your new boyfriend is our jumbo!” Dan looked at Christie and smiled.

  Her new boyfriend! She suddenly felt she was going to be sick—physically sick. She was grateful that it was an early evening. Dan had a limousine and they dropped her off first. But Ivan was right. Two days later one of the afternoon papers carried a feature story on Christie Lane. The caption was THE MAN WHO LIVES NEXT DOOR. Amanda’s picture was featured in a three-column cut: “The man who lives next door doesn’t date the girl next door—he dates the top cover girl!” Christie was quoted as saying, “We’ve just been dating a few weeks, but man, I’m really hung on her.” She threw the papers down in disgust. And she slammed down the phone on Ivan when he said, “Now you’re getting smart, baby.”

  She reread the story. It was horrible—horrible! She s
tared 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. No
w 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?”