Going Home

by Danielle Steel

  “I remember that much.”

  “Good. Look, I haven’t got time to brief you now. We have a decorating department meeting in Templeton’s office in five minutes, and I’ve got to get this crap off my desk. There’s a list on Julie’s desk of the stuff you’ll be doing for the next week at least. You’ve got to find me a very unusual dining room for a shooting, and we’re doing children’s bedrooms, and . . . what the hell was that other thing? . . . Christ! . . . Oh! Right! You’re supposed to talk to the food editor about something tomorrow morning, and John has an interview for you to do next week. It’ll get a little saner in a week or two, before that though you’ll mostly be shoveling your driveway, so to speak. Okay? Ready? Off to our meeting. I have to stop and look at the slides from last Friday’s shooting on the way. Lamps. We’ll talk later, and Julie’s office, yours, is two doors left of mine.” The entire time she had been speaking to me she had been sorting through papers on her desk, shoving things into files, stacking photographs, and making notes, but the stream of conversation never lagged for a second. She was one of those wiry, dynamic women in her late thirties who lives for her career. She was tough, competent, and nice, which was a rare combination. And I guessed correctly as I watched her that she was also divorced.

  The meeting in John Templeton’s office was brief and to the point. Mimeoed sheets were handed out listing future features in the magazine, and I listened intently, feeling as though I had somehow missed the first two weeks of school and already needed to catch up.

  By noon, I was following Jean back down the hall. She zipped into her office, and I proceeded two doors down to mine.

  I gingerly opened the door, wondering what I would find, and then stood and looked around for a moment, liking what I saw. Two walls were blue, one was orange, and the fourth was brick, there was thick brown carpeting on the floor, and the walls were covered with photographs, posters, and funny little plaques. “Too much of a good thing is wonderful” was attributed to Mae West, two others said “Mierda” and “Courage,” and behind the desk was one that said “Not Today, Johnny Boy.” There were two plants on the desk, and in the corner an immense array of multicolored paper flowers. It was a small room, but it looked like a pleasant place to work and I plopped myself down in the chair that said Madame Director and momentarily felt like the winner on “Queen for a Day.” I felt every bit the part, and the first day at school feeling began to wear off.

  “I hear I owe you an apology. And how is the Ambassador, by the way?” It was Gordon Harte, standing in the doorway, with a solemn expression, watching me try my office on for size.

  “I trust he’s well, Mr. Harte. And how are you?”

  “Busy, thank you. Why aren’t you?” I wondered for an instant if he were serious, and groped for an icy retort, but then I saw his face relax.

  “I feel like I’ve taken a job in a factory all of a sudden.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, you have. And don’t ever let Eloise catch you sitting around with empty hands. Even a spoon will do. You can tell her it’s a prop for a photograph you’re checking out.”

  “That bad, huh? I hear the Art Director’s pretty bad too.” I raised an eyebrow and tried not to smile as I gave him back a little of his own. But I knew he was right about Eloise. Eloise Franck, Managing Editor, and resident terror. I still remembered her from the days I had free-lanced at Woman’s Life. She was an ex-newspaperwoman who was at least sixty, and looked forty, and had a heart of ground glass and cement. But she was a pro. From head to foot, a pro, hated by her underlings, feared by her colleagues, and valued only by John Templeton, who knew her worth. She knew how to run a magazine, never lost control, and had an infallible sense for what was right for Woman’s Life.

  “By the way, Mrs. Forrester, there’s a general staff meeting at nine sharp tomorrow morning. You’re expected to be there.” I had almost forgotten Gordon’s presence while I remembered the terrors of Eloise Franck.

  “Fine. I’ll be there, Mr. Harte.”

  “You’d better be. Now get to work.” And then he vanished, still something of an enigma. It was hard to tell when he was serious and when he was joking, or if he joked at all. There was an edge of sarcasm to everything he said. Those eyes would look at you, and take hold . . . turn you around . . . squeeze you for a moment, and then drop you when you least expected it. As though life were a game. His height and slimness exaggerated the leanness of his face, which somehow reminded me of an El Greco portrait . . . what was it? I wondered to myself that day. Perhaps that despite the glint of humor in the eyes there was something else there, a quality of hurt, something that made him seem just out of reach.

  “Oh well, Mr. Harte, you do your thing and I’ll do mine, and hopefully we won’t get on each other’s nerves.” I mumbled to myself as I began to ferret through the stack of notes on my desk. It looked as though I had a lot to do. And a lot to catch up on.

  I was so totally engrossed in sorting out what lay ahead that I didn’t pick my head up until almost five, having forgotten everything but my work, including Gordon Harte.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee from the machine across the hall and returned to my desk as the phone began to ring.

  “How’s it going?” It was Jean Edwards.

  “Okay. But I feel swamped. I’ve just spent the entire day going through the stuff on Julie’s desk. But I think I’m catching up.”

  “In one day? Not bad. Have you been notified of the staff meeting tomorrow?”

  “Yes, thanks. Gordon Harte came by to tell me.”

  “That’s quite an honor. As a rule, he speaks only to John Templeton and God. And I’m not even sure he speaks to God.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. He looks like he could be a real. . . .”

  “Don’t say it, Gillian. But you’re right. Just don’t step on his toes and you’ll be all right. He’s a perfectionist, but you can’t quibble with it; he drives himself even harder than he drives the rest of us. He’s had some kind of a chip on his shoulder for years.”

  “Sounds like someone to stay away from.”

  “That, my dear, is up to you. And now I’ve got to run. I’m having people in tonight.”

  “Okay, Jean. See you tomorrow, and thanks for the help.” I hung up slowly and wondered about Jean’s last remark about Gordon. One thing was for sure, chip on his shoulder or no, he was a very attractive man.

  I looked at my watch then and decided it was time to pack up and go home. I had promised Sam a pizza, and it would be nice to have a few hours together before she went to bed.

  As I left my office I took a last look over my shoulder and smiled. It had been a lovely day. I felt useful again, and busy, and pleased with the job I had found.

  I walked slowly down the corridor and turned right into the maze. One more right and a left, and I was at the elevator bank. And so was Gordon Harte, looking preoccupied, and carrying a large manila envelope in one hand and a huge portfolio in the other.

  “Homework?” I asked him.

  “Yes, in the left hand. No, in the right. I teach a life drawing class on Monday nights. The portfolio has some of my old nude studies in it, to show the class.”

  The elevator arrived then, and we moved into the Muzak-infested aura of people from other floors. Gordon saw someone he knew and was busy talking, so I thought I’d walk out quietly without saying anything more. But when I reached the revolving door he was just behind me and we hit Lexington Avenue one after the other, like gum balls out of a nickel machine.

  “Which way are you headed, Mrs. Forrester? I’m walking uptown to pick up my bike. Would you care to join me?” I wasn’t sure, but I acquiesced, and we walked slowly through the crowds on Lexington.

  “Do you ride the bike to work?”

  “Sometimes. But it’s not the kind I think you mean. It’s a motorcycle. I picked it up in Spain last summer.”

  “Sounds terrifying in this traffic.”

  “Not really. There is very little that terr
ifies me. I just don’t think about it much.” . . . Or maybe you don’t care? . . .

  “Do you have children?” It was something to talk about as we walked along.

  “A son. He’s studying architecture at Yale. And you?”

  “A daughter, she’s five, and she’s still at the stage where she enjoys taking houses apart more than putting them together.” He laughed and I noticed as he did that he had a nice smile, and he looked more human when he forgot to look fierce. I had noticed too something odd in his eyes when I asked about his son.

  We talked about New York on our way uptown, and I mentioned how strange it seemed to be back, how different it was from California. I liked it but I didn’t feel at home anymore. It was like watching animals at a zoo.

  “How long have you been back?”

  “About a week.”

  “You’ll get used to it again, and you’ll probably never leave. You’ll just go on talking about how weird it all is. That’s what we all do.”

  “Maybe I’ll go back to California one of these days.” It made me feel better just to say it.

  “I used to say that about Spain. But those things never happen. One never goes back.”

  “Why not?” I felt naive as I asked the question, but it just slipped out as I looked up at him.

  “Because you leave when you have to, or when you’re meant to. And part of you dies when you go. You leave it there, it stays there. And what’s left of you moves on to someplace else.” It sounded pretty heavy but I knew myself how true it was. Part of me had died when I had left San Francisco, and part of me had stayed with Chris.

  “I hate to admit it, Mr. Harte, but your analysis sounds apt. What made you go to Spain in the first place?”

  “It was a moment of madness, as they say. My marriage had just broken up, I was bored and frustrated with my job, and I was thirty-two years old. I figured that if I didn’t get going right then and there I never would, and I think I was right. I’ve never regretted going there. I spent ten years in a tiny town near Malaga, and in retrospect they were the best years of my life. The people in our business call them ‘wasted years’ but I don’t. I cherish them.”

  “Have you ever thought of going back?”

  “Yes, but at thirty-two, not forty-nine. I’m too old for grandiose gestures like that now. That’s behind me. This is it—’’his right hand swept across the skyline—“for better or worse, until death do us part.” It struck me that he was a little morbid.

  “But that’s absurd. You could go back anytime you want to.” Somehow it bothered me that he should be so loath to run after his dream. It was as if he didn’t even care anymore.

  “Thank you for your concern, my dear, but I assure you I’m far too old to cherish delusions about living on bread crusts in Spain, or being an artist.” He punctuated his words with a dry little laugh and I saw then that we were standing on the corner of Sixtieth. I was almost home. He shook my hand while I noticed that the spark of amusement hadn’t died in his eyes. For some reason he had apparently enjoyed our conversation and I had to admit that, despite his penchant for sarcasm, away from the office he was almost an agreeable man.

  I turned right toward Park Avenue as he walked away, and reached the Regency thinking of Sam. Gordon Harte had already vanished from my mind.

  “Hi, sweetheart. What did you do today?”

  “Nothing. I don’t like Jane. And I want to go back to Uncle Crits. I don’t like it here.” Sam looked unhappy, tear-stained, and rumpled. Jane was the baby-sitter, and neither one looked too smitten with the other. Sam could be tough when she worked at it.

  “Hey, wait a minute. This is home, you know. We’ll go back to our apartment soon. And it’s going to be nice, and Uncle Chris will come and visit us in a while, and you’re going to make new friends in school, and . . .”

  “I don’t want to. And there was a big, bad dog in the park.” God, she looked so cute, those big eyes looking up at me. “Where were you all day? I needed you.” Whamm. The nightmare of the working mother all rolled up in that “Where were you all day?” and the clincher, “I needed you.” . . . Wow! . . . But Sam sweetheart, I have to work . . . we can use the money and I . . . I have to, Sam, I just have to, that’s all. . . .

  “I needed you too. But I was working. I told you all about that. I thought we agreed. Hey, how about our pizza? Mushroom or sausage?”

  “Ummmmm . . . mushroom and sausage?” She had brightened at the mention of the pizza.

  “Now come on. Pick one.” I was smiling at her, she was so nice to come home to.

  “Okay. Mushroom.” And then I saw her look up at me, and I could tell she had something on her mind. “Mommy . . .”

  “What, love?”

  “When is Uncle Crits coming?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll see.” And let’s not get into that dammit . . . please. . . .

  The pizza arrived half an hour later, and Sam and I lunged into it, seemingly free of our problems. I didn’t know when or even if Chris was coming, and maybe I didn’t even care. I didn’t want to care. Sam and I had all we needed. We had each other, and a great big, drooling, cheese and mushroom pizza spread all over the Regency’s best Louis XV. What more can you ask of life? On some days, not much. Not much more at all. I looked at Sam and wanted to laugh I felt so good, it had been a beautiful day, and she looked up at me and smiled back. She could feel the good vibes too.

  “Mommy?”

  “Uh huh?” My mouth was full of food.

  “Can I ask you for something?”

  “Sure. What? . . . but not another pizza.” I felt like I was going to explode.

  “No, not a pizza, Mom.” She looked at me with disgust at my simplemindedness.

  “Then what?”

  “How about a baby sister sometime soon?”

  19

  The second day at work was even better than the first. I felt as though I belonged. The staff meeting was no different than any other, but it gave me a chance to take a look at the other faces I’d be working with, and what was going on.

  John Templeton conducted it like a board chairman in an early fifties movie, and Gordon Harte stood at the back of the room watching the show while I sat with Jean. I half expected Gordon to say something when we walked past him on our way out, but he didn’t. He was involved with briefing one of the junior editors on some project John had discussed. He didn’t even try to catch my eye.

  The only thing directly pertaining to me during the two-hour session had been that Milt Howley, the black singer, had agreed to give Woman’s Life an interview, and John Templeton had assigned me to do the job. It sounded like the proverbial plum.

  When I got back to my office, Matthew Hinton called, and I succumbed to the lure of the opening of the horse show the following night. Once again, I couldn’t resist.

  And before lunch, I called Hilary Price. I had tried her a few days before and had been told by her secretary that she was in Paris for the collections.

  I had met Hilary Price during my early years of work. We worked on the same magazine briefly, and she had since risen to rather impressive heights on one of the more important fashion magazines. A far cry from Woman’s Life, it was one of those super fashion books that paint women’s faces green and then paste peacock feathers on them.

  We took a liking to each other when we first met. It’s not a deliciously noisy, rude, obvious friendship like the one with Peg, but, though more polite, relaxed in its own way. I always feel I have to rise somewhat to Hilary’s level though, which in a way is good for me. But the effort is never overwhelming. I can still let my hair down and kick off my shoes. In a way she’s kind of mind expanding. . . . Hilary. Always calm, always unruffled, discreet, elegant, witty. Obviously strong, but basically kind. Very chic, very “New York,” an intelligent woman whose mind appeals to me immensely. She looks amazingly flamboyant because she has a lot of style and a look that classifies easily as “sophisticated.” But in spite of the looks, she’
s actually quiet. About thirty-five, or thereabouts, her age is permanently veiled by an aura of mystery. . . . She never tells . . . or gives herself away. Divorced also, she has lived in Milan, Paris, and Tokyo. Her first husband was an aging Italian Count, whom she refers to once in a while as “Cecco,” short for Francesco, I gather. He had been on the verge of death when she married him, or so she had thought, but he managed to revive long enough to marry a seventeen-year-old girl three weeks after their divorce.

  The phone rang in Hilary’s office and on the second ring she picked it up herself.

  “Hello?”

  “Hilary? It’s Gillian.”

  “Welcome back, my dear. Felicia gave me your message. And what brings the little bird of peace back to the Mecca?” She was laughing in her funny way.

  “Who knows? God, it’s good to hear your voice. How was Paris?”

  “Exquisite. And rainy. The collections were abhorrent. Rome was much better. I ran into my ex-husband Cecco. He has a new mistress. Delightful girl, she looks rather like a palomino colt.”

  “How was he?”

  “Alive, which is in itself remarkable. I cringe to think of how old he must be. . . . It must be costing him a fortune to keep having the dates changed on his passport. . . . The paper was wearing thin years ago . . . and we both giggled, she was so bad sometimes. I had never met Cecco, but I had these terrible visions of him. “And you, Gillian . . . how are you, dear? You didn’t answer my last letter. I was a little worried.”

  She sounded throaty and sarcastic and the same as ever. There was a warmth beneath the sarcasm, and a tone which suggested that she cared about the person she was speaking to. It was a knack she had, which might have been cultivated, but I thought it was sincere. Hilary sounded great, and asked for a brief résumé of “all the news, please”—“in other words, Gillian, the bare essentials: when did you get back? how long are you here for? and what are you doing?” I answered the first two briefly, and then told her about the job at Woman’s Life, about John Templeton and the miracle of an eight-week job that was made to measure, about Julie Weintraub’s broken pelvis, and even about my dining room search. I thought she might have an idea.