by Rona Jaffe
He came in alone, without his agent. That was nice. He was taller and even more handsome than he seemed in the movies, or perhaps movie stars just seemed larger than life. His skin was tanned, his teeth were perfect (real?), and his eyes a deep blue. He was wearing a suit and tie, even carrying an attaché case, and he shook Nikki’s hand. So far she liked his act. What she didn’t like was that he had obviously asked to meet her before he entrusted his manuscript to her, and she resented being auditioned just as much as he did, although she was more used to it by upbringing.
“I hope you like it at Heller & Strauss,” Nikki said pleasantly. “We’ll all do everything we can to help you, and we’re all on your side. I can’t wait to read the book.”
“The hundred pages,” he said. “The rest is in outline.”
“That’s great. A hundred pages is fine.”
“I know I’m going to need help,” he said easily. “I’ve never written a book before and sometimes my ideas run ahead of my words.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
He looked toward the open door of her office. In the hall there was nearly every woman in the place, from nineteen to ninety, gaping at him.
“God, I’m sorry,” Nikki said. She went to the door and closed it. “That won’t happen again.”
He shrugged. “I’m used to it, but when it comes to my baby—my book—I feel a little vulnerable.”
“They certainly won’t read it,” Nikki said, “—until it’s published, of course. I will read it, and our editor in chief, Pete, whom you’ve met, and that’s it. Your work will always be sacred. As for your person, once you’re out in the hall, I can’t make any guarantees.” She smiled but did not giggle. The new Nikki. She was proud of herself.
He opened his attache case, took out an agent’s folder with a thin manuscript in it, and handed it to her. “This is it,” he said. He then took it back and wrote something on the folder. “This is my private home number. Please call me when you’ve read it, even if it’s in the middle of the night. You can talk about business with my agent, but please talk about rewrites with me.”
“Of course,” Nikki said.
“Where can I reach you when you’re not at the office?” She wrote down her apartment number and gave it to him. He glanced at it and put it into his pocket.
“That’s unlisted,” Nikki said. “Don’t send it to the cleaner’s with the suit.”
“You’d be surprised how well I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure.”
He stood up. “When will I hear from you?”
“I’ll call you first thing tomorrow morning. Is ten too early?”
“I’ll be waiting.” He shook her hand again, and she walked with him down the hall to the elevator. Even the men were gaping at him. While she and John Griffin were waiting for the elevator Nikki allowed herself to give him a guarded once-over. Almost too handsome, but apparently nice and sincere, at least about his book. Perhaps later he would show fangs and claws. Well, lots of writers did, even when they weren’t movie stars. He seemed to trust her. She was glad she had decided not to play her usual role with him.
She realized she didn’t expect his hundred pages to be very good. But that was unfair. He was prettier than she was, and although they were the same age he would still look a lot better than she did when they were sixty, but that didn’t make him dumb. The poor man was probably sick and tired of being a sex symbol. After all, he’d never had to work to be one as she had. Maybe they could be friends.
When she walked back to her office Nikki was conscious of the envious looks she was getting from everybody. Reuben winked at her as if she were half in bed with John Griffin already. The office world was so different from the world outside. Here she was their sex symbol, back in Wilton she was just another suburban housewife. Here her brains and push meant a great deal, she was respected, she felt sure of herself. If John Griffin had made an appearance in Wilton for some reason, he would never even have noticed her, nor would she expect him to. Here he needed her assurance, comfort, and talent, and was waiting for her verdict. This was her world, not Wilton. For the first time Nikki realized how many times Robert had knocked down her ego when she went home and how often she’d had to build it up from scratch.
She read the first hundred pages and the outline of the Griffin novel that night. He had been wrong about his ideas running ahead of his words: his words ran ahead of his ideas. On and on. There was promise of an excellent plot, and she could see how with a lot of work it could be a best seller, but it badly needed tightening, and the story really started on page 75. How could you tell an author to throw away the first seventy-five pages of his first, dearly beloved novel? She knew how, she had done it before. Get him on the right track, build up his confidence and enthusiasm, and then when he had written enough to make him feel he wasn’t a failure, gently explain how much better the story would be if it began where it really did begin. Sometimes she even managed to make an author think the cut was his own idea. This sort of editorial leading was something Nikki did very well.
She telephoned John Griffin promptly at ten o’clock the next morning from her office. He answered on the first ring.
“Good morning. It’s Nikki Gellhorn. I think your book is going to be tremendously exciting.”
“Yes, but did you like it?”
“Very much. I’ll be happy to work with you on it and give you as much time and help as you want. It has a wonderful story. It’s so unusual. Could you come into the office this afternoon and we’ll talk about it more?”
“Three o’clock?”
“Perfect.”
In their meeting they discussed the plot and character development, how soon things would happen, and he took avid notes in a tiny illegible handwriting. By six o’clock Nikki was exhausted, but he was excited and eager to begin writing the rest of his book. He was now thinking in terms of the forward flow.
“A lot of the things I wrote,” he said, “I was scared, fishing. Some of it doesn’t seem to make too much sense to me now. I mean, it’s not getting on with it. Do you know what I mean?”
“Absolutely,” Nikki said.
“I want to go on now, but maybe later we can go back and get some of the fat out. I didn’t realize that all I had to do was tell the story. For some reason I thought I had to embellish everything or no one would take me seriously.”
“You tell it your way and it’ll be terrific,” Nikki said.
He gathered up his notes and put them into the attaché case. “How soon do you want to see more?”
“Whenever you want me to.”
“How about twenty-five pages? Would that be all right?”
“I’m here every day. Give them to me and I’ll read them right away.”
“You know,” he said, “you’re a very easy person to work with.”
“But so are you,” Nikki said. When he left he kissed her lightly on the cheek. She was glad everyone but Pete had gone home. Her little kiss of appreciation would have gotten her a lot of office teasing.
For the next two weeks John worked like a machine. He brought in pages and she read them and encouraged him, sometimes asked him questions about his intentions to keep him on the right track. She knew she would have to do an allover cutting job when he had finished the whole novel, but it wasn’t going to be as difficult as she had feared. It wasn’t a major plot overhaul. Nikki always dreaded those, and authors hated them, rightly so.
One Friday he asked her if she would have dinner with him. She did, going straight from the office because that was the way he wanted it. Everywhere everyone looked at them; at him because he was a movie star, at her because they didn’t know who she was or why she was with him. He took her to “21,” where the management didn’t allow table hopping or autograph hunting, but they couldn’t prevent staring. Nikki enjoyed it.
They were seated downstairs, where people could stare at them to their heart’s content. The restaurant looked like a spe
akeasy, which it once was, with a long bar and red-checked tablecloths. Hanging from the ceiling were all sorts of miniature toys: trucks, planes, cars, sports equipment, each of which had been put there by the person who owned the company it represented. On second thought, Nikki decided, it didn’t look like a speakeasy, it looked like a little boy’s room. And all the little boys, grown up and rich now, were lining the bar.
They talked about the book for a little while, and then they talked about music and politics, two subjects that he knew much more about than she did. Then he told her funny stories about things that had happened when he was making some of his movies. She was glad she had seen almost all of them. Out here in the restaurant they were more in his world than in hers, she was not as safe as in her office, but she reminded herself she was still his editor and he needed her. It would be too easy to be impressed just because he was a celebrity, and she couldn’t let that happen.
“You’re married?” he said. “Or divorced?”
“No, I’m married,” Nikki said. “We’re … semiseparated.”
“How separated is that?”
“He lives in the country and I live here. We haven’t seen each other for a while, but neither of us has admitted it yet. It’s odd, I guess. I haven’t quite gotten used to it myself. I don’t know what will happen. And you?”
“I have an apartment in New York and a house at Malibu. People think I live in California, but I don’t if I can help it. I like New York.”
“So do I!”
“How do you find being alone? If you are alone, I mean.”
“Oh, I’m alone,” Nikki said. “I like it.”
“Both my ex-wives remarried almost immediately. They hated being alone. But it’s more difficult for a woman in Hollywood. It’s such a married-people’s town. And there’s a lot of nineteen-year-old competition—every beauty contest winner from East Gnat’s Ass wants to be a movie star. I don’t like young girls. When I do, I’ll know I’m getting old.”
“Hurray,” Nikki said. “A grown-up.”
“You better believe it. I’m fifty.”
“I thought you were forty-two!”
“That’s my publicity age. How old are you?”
“Forty-two.”
“You said it so fast I believe you. But I would never believe it from looking at you. You look thirty.”
“I feel thirty.”
“So do I,” he said. “That’s why I’m trying to be a writer at my age and I’m not writing my memoirs.”
“You wouldn’t give up films!”
“Oh, no, I like the money too much. I don’t think this book is going to make me a fortune, although naturally I’d like that.”
“I’ll tell you a secret,” Nikki said. “If it won’t make you so conceited you’re impossible to work with. I think this book of yours is going to be a big, big best seller.”
“You really do?”
“Yes, I do. One never knows these things for sure, and we all make mistakes, but I have a strong feeling about this book.”
He leaned over and gave her a light, happy kiss on the mouth. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” Nikki said. “You just made me a celebrity. I think that woman over there just fainted. Unless it was from the weight of her earrings.”
He took her home in a cab after dinner, and she didn’t ask him to come up for a drink although she knew he would have. She wasn’t sure it was a good idea. She’d never invited a man upstairs, and since she was separated from her husband, it might look too much like an invitation into her bed. She couldn’t imagine any woman ever inviting John Griffin upstairs to her apartment without intending that invitation. He told the cab to wait, walked her to the outside door, waited until she had opened it, and then she shook hands with him.
“Thank you, I had a marvelous time,” she said.
“So did I.”
It was only when she was safely upstairs, alone in her bed in front of the television set, that she realized it had never occurred to her to offer to take him to dinner. After all, she was his editor, the company would pay for it, and that was customary. But from the outset he had made it clear that he was taking her out. What does he know about author’s rights, she thought, he’s a movie star. And kind of an old-fashioned man. I think I just had my first date.
John asked her to have dinner again with him the following Wednesday. “I’d love to,” Nikki said, “but this time let me take you.” He looked annoyed. “It’s on the company,” she said quickly. “I’m supposed to take you to dinner. It makes them happy. I just want to reciprocate.”
“I want to have dinner with you, not the damn company,” he said. “I can afford it.”
“I know that.”
“Don’t be so insecure. You don’t owe me anything. I’m not going to jump on you. Why are you laughing?”
“Because any woman would give her eye teeth to have you jump on her, and you’re promising not to molest me.”
“My sex life is mostly myth,” he said. “I don’t do it with groupies, I can’t stand the vapid girls-around-town, the scalp hunters, and any type of moron. It’s hard to find an intelligent, human woman who isn’t already in love with someone. I happen to like you as a friend. You’re pretty, and you’re a good person, and you’re very smart. You’re not looking for something. I like to be with you, that’s all. If you’re free tonight let’s have dinner.”
“I’d love it.”
In a way she was a little disappointed that he so obviously wasn’t after her. She supposed that no matter what he said, she couldn’t possibly compete with the beautiful women he met all the time. On one hand it was a compliment to be considered a friend, on the other hand she had been brought up to think there had to be something wrong with a girl who was considered just one of the guys. She reminded herself sternly that she was the new Nikki.
He took her to Romeo Salta, and the captain recognized John with delight. She liked being made a fuss over. The front room seemed cozy and warm, with paintings on the walls and an open view of the Italian kitchen in the far back, but it was actually a large room with uninterrupted sight lines. They were seated side by side on a leather banquette against the wall. For the first time Nikki realized how much a part of the entertainment a restaurant’s patrons were, and tonight she was the entertainment. But she quickly forgot it. She felt comfortable with John. When dinner was over she didn’t want to end the evening because she was really having a good time. She’d ask him up for a drink. Why not? He was safe.
She asked him casually in the cab, and he looked pleased. He seemed very large in her small apartment. She put on the air conditioner and picked out a cassette that she knew he would approve of and put it in the player while he looked around.
“This place is like a fortress,” he said. “Why do you need all those locks and bars?”
“I had a robbery.”
“You should live in an apartment house with a doorman.”
“I suppose so. But I like this place.”
“You should come to California.”
“Sure. Brandy?”
“Fine.”
She poured brandy for both of them and they sat on the couch. “What’s your apartment like?” she asked.
“Messy compared to this. I love your place. It’s very open and to the point, like you.” And then he put down his glass and kissed her.
She didn’t know what to do. She was supposed to be honest and not play games, but how could she be that way when she didn’t even know what she wanted? She couldn’t believe John Griffin actually wanted to go to bed with her, but he was in her apartment at night kissing her, she had invited him here, and grown-ups didn’t just sit and neck. She wished she’d had an affair so she would know what to do. Then he stood up, took her by the hand, and led her to the bedroom. Obviously there was nothing to do now but go through with it. It was what she wanted, she might as well admit it. She’d sensed it was going to be somebody eventually; how lucky that it was this man who
was so attractive and sexy and seemed to like her.
He made love to her all night, in all sorts of athletic positions she had never even heard of. It all seemed unreal. She enjoyed it thoroughly, but at the same time she seemed to be outside herself, observing. I am in bed with John Griffin, she told herself. Is he this good because he thinks he has to be, or do all men act like this the first time they go to bed with a new woman? How would I know? I’ve never been to bed with anyone but my husband, and he doesn’t do all these things. Maybe men learn things from their wives and girl friends. God knows, Robert never learned anything from me!
Finally, at dawn, he slept. He snored, and that amused her, because she could imagine how horrified his fans would be. She poked him and he rolled over and stopped snoring, and then she set the alarm to give herself two hours’ sleep, and slept, exhausted, but exhilarated too. She felt very close to him. He was a nice, nice man.
In the morning she made coffee. He didn’t seem tired. She was not really tired either. She hoped that she could handle this professionally. She still had to edit his book and tell him what was wrong with it. She didn’t even know if sleeping with someone changed the way you worked together! What a nuisance to be so innocent.