Going Home

by Danielle Steel

  “Too heavy for you, Gill?” I felt a little bit square in that ambiance and Chris’s question made me wonder if I looked it.

  “No. It’s neat. I think I like it.”

  “And I think I like you. Come on, I’ll take you around to meet some of the troops.” He took me by the hand and we drifted through the crowd, occasionally accepting a hit of hash or a puff on a joint as we went, and stopping for refills of red wine from one of the gallon jugs sitting on the floor. There must have been at least fifty of them in key points.

  It seemed like a particularly low-key party. And much quieter than the scene at the Art Directors’ bash on Friday. I was expecting exciting things to happen at any minute; it looked like the sort of group that would take off its clothes and begin to writhe on the floor in orgiastic glee. But instead, the crowd seemed to be thinning. We had been watching the scene for almost two hours, and then I looked up at Chris, wondering.

  “It looks like more ought to be happening. Or am I missing the point?” He looked amused at my question, and seemed to hesitate.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.” I felt silly having asked. Maybe this was it.

  “Well, little Gillian, you’re not too far wrong, but I thought we’d stick with the gang downstairs.” We were still on the ground floor of the house. If you can call it that in San Francisco. Ground floor in this case had been two dizzying flights up the side of a hill as we approached the house from the street.

  “Is something else happening upstairs?” I was curious.

  “Maybe.” Chris looked vague. He could have been dodging me, or it could have been the grass and hash.

  “I want to see, Chris. Show me.”

  “We’ll see.” He introduced me to a few more people, necked with me in a corner for a while, and then we sat down on the floor to talk. But I noticed after a while that the crowds on the main floor seemed to walk up the stairs never to return. The party had moved on, and we were left like pebbles on the shore after the tide goes out. There were only a dozen people left sitting on the floor around us.

  “Is the party over, or has the action moved on?”

  “Gillian Forrester, you’re a pest, but you asked, so . . . here goes . . . get up. We’re going upstairs.” He made it sound like a major event. “But I’m not sure you’re going to like this.”

  “What lurking evils are you protecting me from, Mr. Matthews? Or should I wait and see?” We were weaving our way through the remaining bodies on the stairs; they were either drugged or drunk, but there seemed to be little life in them. The blues music on the stereo had turned to hard core jazz, and the sounds wailed through the gut as they did through the house, with a kind of strange pull and tug.

  At the top of the first flight of stairs, Chris turned and looked at me for a long moment before kissing me longingly with his hand on my breast. The shirt I was wearing was so thin that I felt naked to his touch, and I suddenly longed to go home and make love to him.

  “Gill, there are two scenes here . . . in there a bunch of people are dropping acid. It’s not much to see, and I don’t recommend it, and upstairs they’re doing other stuff.”

  “What other stuff? Heroin?” My eyes were wide and I wasn’t happy. I didn’t like the idea of that scene at all.

  “No, dopey. Not heroin. Other stuff . . . come on, at least I know you can handle that.” He grinned to himself as he tucked my hand under his arm and raced up the stairs with me in tow. We were just under the skylight then, and that and two huge candles provided the room with its only light. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust. I knew that there were a lot of people where we were, but I couldn’t tell how many, or what they were doing, or what kind of room we were in. It struck me only that there was relatively little noise. And then I saw where we were.

  We were in a room the width and length of the house, a kind of loft that lay just beneath the skylight and had few windows, and like the rest of the house no furniture. But it had more action. Lots. In the sea around us were most of the two hundred bodies we’d seen downstairs, their jeans and shirts off, their bodies pretzeled into odd positions, locked into each other in groups of four and five and six, and they were all making love. It was an orgy.

  “Gill . . . is this okay?” I saw him watching me in the candlelight.

  “I . . . uh . . . yeah . . . sure, Chris . . . but . .

  “But what, love? We don’t have to get into this.” A scene behind him had just caught my eye. There were two girls making love to each other while two men stroked their bodies with hungry pleasure and yet another girl wove her tongue between one of the observers’ thighs.

  “I . . . uh . . . Chris . . . I don’t think I want to.” I knew I didn’t want to, but I was still a little too stunned to speak coherently. I was twenty-eight years old and had been hearing about stuff like this for years. But it was different seeing it . . . and I didn’t want to do it.

  Chris took my hand and led me slowly back down the stairs, smiling over his shoulder at me, and stopping to kiss me on the way. The kiss was a gentle one and his smile was warm. He didn’t seem sorry we had left.

  “I’ll take you home.” . . . And come back here alone? . . . My heart sank and my face must have showed it. “Not like that, dopey. No sweat. I can do without that. Group sex is a bore.” I wondered how often he’d tried it until it became a bore, but I didn’t say anything. I was grateful for his reaction. And I was glad we were going home, I’d seen enough. My education was complete, without joining in a gangbang. I’d seen it. Basta cosí.

  “Thanks, Chris. Am I a horrible stuffed-shirt?”

  “Nope. Kind of a nice one.” He grinned happily at my transparent shirt, leaned down to kiss one breast, and led me out the door. We were going home.

  The ride back to my place was brief and comfortably silent, and I felt even closer to him than I had before. He parked the truck in front of the house and helped me out, and I wondered if he was going to stay.

  I paid the sitter and she left. And before she did, she diligently told me there were no messages, which made me smile. I was with the only one I would have wanted anyway.

  “Some wine, Chris?” He shook his head and looked at me for a long moment as we stood there. “Are you angry we left?”

  “No. I like your style. Come on, Gill, it’s late. Let’s go to bed. I’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

  “So do I.” There was a nice homey feeling as we turned off the lights in the living room and crept past Sam’s room to mine. I was glad he was staying and thought it funny that we had so easily slipped into the kind of relationship we had—“let’s go to bed, it’s late, I’ve got a lot of work tomorrow.” I expected him to peel off his jeans, sit lazily on the edge of the bed as he set the alarm, and then kiss me goodnight before going to sleep. I didn’t even mind not being made love to, it was comfortable the way it was.

  I was smiling to myself as I brushed my hair and Chris looked surprised.

  “What are you doing, Gill?”

  “What’s it look like? Brushing my hair, you dopey.”

  “The hell you are. I don’t give a shit about gangbangs, but I brought my orgy home. . . . Come here, you, let me do that.” He stood up and met me halfway across the room, his hands already stretched toward me to peel off my clothes. I unbuttoned his shirt as he did mine, and then we stood there chest to chest, the smoothness of our skin met and melted into one, as my slacks came off in unison with his, and his whole body seemed to enter mine.

  7

  Hey . . . Chris . . . it’s getting light outside. And you didn’t get any sleep.” I felt faintly guilty about that, but not very.

  “I’m not complaining. Are you? But I’ve got to get to work soon. We start at six.” It was already five. “Let’s get dressed and go outside. I want to see the sun come up.”

  “So do I.” But inside me, it already had. We climbed back into our clothes which still lay in a jumble on the floor and walked outside to sit on the tin
y patch of lawn in front of where I lived. It was chilly and the ground was damp, but it felt good as we sat there and watched the sun come up over the East Bay.

  “No fog today. That’ll be good for my shooting. Want to come watch?”

  “I’d love it, but I don’t think I can. I’ve got to get Sam to school, and I’ve got a shooting at ten. Textile stuff. They’re shooting just the fabrics somewhere outside first, and then we do the models at ten. At the Opera House yet. It sounds like fun.”

  “Of course it does . . . who do you think’s doing the camera work?” He looked amused as he grabbed my hair and pulled it back so he could kiss me. “Hey . . . are you on that job?”

  “Who do you think recommended you?” He tried to look pompous.

  “Bullshit you did. They told me Joe Tramino gave them my name, you big phoney.”

  “Well, okay . . . but I told them you were a great stylist.”

  “After I had the job.”

  “After you had the job. Boy, the ego of some women.”

  “Not to mention some men. . . . I’m glad we’ll be working together. Think we can ride a horse across the orchestra pit and down Van Ness?”

  “We can try . . . baby, we can always try.” He rolled his body onto mine on the wet grass and we lay there smiling for a moment in the early morning sun. “I gotta go, Gill. I’ll see you at work.”

  “That’s the most unusual morning good-bye this neighborhood has ever seen, Chris Matthews. But I like it.”

  “Good, because it isn’t the last. And this neighborhood can’t do a goddam thing about it if they don’t like it.”

  “They could evict me.” I was feeling playful and I walked him to the truck.

  “We’ll talk about that sometime . . . but not just yet.” He slammed the door to the truck, put it into gear, and I wondered what he had meant as he drove away. Whatever he had meant, it would be fun to work with him that day, and it was nice to know that the head of the film crew would be at as great a disadvantage as I. I knew exactly what he’d been doing the night before. And neither of us had had a moment’s sleep. To hell with the Clay Street orgy. Chris and I had had our own.

  I arrived at the Opera House at exactly ten o’clock, stood back to look at its splendor for a moment before going in, and then smiled. It looked like a funny place for Chris.

  I went in the stage door, and was told where to go, and arrived somewhere behind the stage to look at the clothes and props I’d picked out the day before, and check in with the agency people who seemed pleased with what I’d dug up. It was going to be a pretty shooting.

  They had seven of San Francisco’s top models and three they’d imported from Los Angeles for the day. They were beautiful girls and the clothes they were going to wear in the commercial we were filming were superb. Everything from evening clothes to beach wear to show off some new man-made fiber.

  I assigned the appropriate clothes and accessories to each girl and then went off to find Chris. It didn’t take long. He and his crew were lying in the string section of the orchestra pit, eating tacos and salami sandwiches and drinking cherry soda.

  “Breakfast or lunch? Hi, boys.”

  “Neither. This is just between the two. Come on down and have a bite.” Chris looked wicked for the briefest second, and then looked pleased with his double entendre. It made me wonder how little or how much he wanted his crew to know. I suspected less than more. And I was glad . . . I didn’t want Joe Tramino to offer his condolences quite yet. Not till we were sure.

  I hopped into the pit, landed on my feet near Chris, and then sat down to guzzle cherry soda and munch on tacos.

  “You know what, boys? This stuff is disgusting. Blyergh.”

  “You know what? She’s right.” Everyone looked pleased to agree, and we went on eating happily until they told us the models and the scenery were ready to go. We had been allowed the use of some of the opera’s stage props for the day, and it was fun to see it all from backstage. As I stood in the wings, checking each girl as she went out, and watching for lack of continuity as girls went out for a second or third time in the same clothes, I looked towards the Boxes, and the Grand Tier, and wondered what it would be like to sing to them . . . or to be in the audience again on the snobby, social nights when everyone would wear white tie and tails. Those days were so far behind me, it was funny to think of them.

  “Whatcha thinking about, Gill?’

  “Nothing much. What are you doing back here?”

  “We’re all through.”

  “Already? It’s only . . .” I looked at my watch and gasped. It was four-fifteen.

  “That’s right. We’ve been working six hours straight. Let’s go pick up Sam and put in some beach time at the Marina.”

  “Yes, boss.” I saluted sharply, and we left hand in hand.

  The day of working with him had flown. This time there had been no crazy escapades, just a lot of hard work. And stolen kisses in the pit.

  We picked up Sam and wandered over to the beach where she chased sea gulls and we played word games in the sand until the sun began to fade.

  “Sam, time to go home!” She was far down the beach and had other things in mind. But Chris changed it for her quickly.

  “Come on, podner, I’ll give you a ride.”

  “Okay, Uncle Crits.” She galloped down the beach to meet us, hopped on Chris’s back, and I watched them hobble home. The child and the man I loved . . . Samantha Forrester and her “horse.” My man.

  “What are you doing today, Gill? Any work come up?” He had been staying with us every night for a week, and breakfast a trois had become an ordinary thing. It looked routine, but it felt like Christmas to me every day.

  “Nope. How about going out to Stinson, Chris? We could take Sam after school.”

  “Can’t. I’ve got a job today at three. Another cigarette job.”

  “That’s nice. I’ll do stuff here. Will you be home for dinner?” That was the first time I had asked him that, and I held my breath.

  “Maybe not. We’ll see.”

  I did. He wasn’t. He was gone for two days, and when he reappeared on Thursday there was nothing to show that he’d been gone. He looked and sounded the same, but he had left a tiny dent in my heart. Not to mention Sam. I had finally decided that if he didn’t show up by the end of the week I was going to use her much dreamt of trick and tie her to a chair and gag her. I couldn’t stand the questions anymore.

  I wanted to ask him where he’d been but I didn’t dare. I made hamburgers and French fries and we all went to Swensen’s on Hyde Street after dinner. They had the best ice cream in town.

  “Want to take a ride on the cable car, Sam?” She was dripping strawberry, and we were dripping rocky road. We had made the appropriate choice.

  “A cable car ride? Wow!” And so it was. We hopped on when it came by and reeled down toward Fisherman’s Wharf where Chris bought her a painted turtle. How can you stay mad at a man like that? He ran around us playfully like a big dog, kissed me back into a feeling of almost-security, and further seduced Sam. By the time we got home we were a solid trio again and all was well. Almost.

  “Want to go to Bolinas tomorrow, Gill?” We were lying in bed and the lights were out.

  “Let’s see what the weather’s doing.” I wasn’t sure.

  “Don’t be a grump, Miss Gillian. I meant for the weekend. I got someone to lend me their shack till Monday.”

  “You did?” I was pleased. “That would be nice.”

  “That’s what I thought. And now, stop being grumpy. I’m back, and I love you.” He kissed my neck and put a hand gently across my lips to silence them, and we lost another night of sleep. But we won each other back.

  The weekend in Bolinas was lovely. The shack which someone had lent him was almost that, but not quite. It was a small two-bedroom house buried in the woods. We went to the beach every day, had dinner at the Watson House one night, and the rest of the time spent quiet evenings at home. There was a marve
lous aura of peace about the few days we spent there. San Francisco seemed quiet to me after New York, but the time in Bolinas even managed to make San Francisco seem too busy. There was a golden stillness to those days. And I was sorry to leave on Monday .

  The week following the Bolinas weekend was busy. I got another job from Carson, but Chris wasn’t on it this time; he had other things to do. He came to dinner with us in the evenings though, and most of the time he spent the night. He vanished again that weekend but reappeared Sunday night and never left us for a week after that. It was a bit strange the way he came and went, but I got used to it, and everything was rolling smoothly.

  We were unbelievably happy together, and I got to the point where I didn’t even mind his disappearances—they gave me some time to myself and I needed that too.

  The weeks rolled by and I realized at the end of May that we had spent two months together, which seemed more like two years. I had become a combination wife-mother-girl friend-pal to Chris Matthews and I could no longer imagine a time when I hadn’t known him. He was my best friend, and the man I loved. And he was always fun to be with. There was a selfishness about him too—he never did anything he didn’t want to do, he couldn’t be pressed into anything—but I didn’t try. I understood his ways, and I accepted them. In many ways I felt older than he, but I had led a different life. And I had Sam to make me feel grownup. He’d never had anything like that. He only had Chris Matthews to think of and, when he felt like it, me.

  We were lying under a tree in the park one Thursday morning, with nothing much to do except enjoy the world and love each other, and I remembered that Memorial Day weekend was that week. Not that it changed things for us a great deal—almost every weekend we had was a long one, unless one of us had a job on Monday, which was never sure for either of us.