"Come on, my darling." He took her gently by the hand and led her through the crowd of well-wishing friends in evening dresses and tuxedos. In fact as he looked at them he was grateful for the touch of her hand. There was so much that he was leaving, and suddenly he wondered if he had been wrong. But it was too late to reverse his decision. The announcement of the new publisher had already been made. And Ivo was becoming the chief adviser to the chairman of the board. It was an illustrious title, which in fact held very little power. He would simply become now a respected elder, and as he rode home in the limousine with Bettina, he found himself close to tears.
But they had already done some careful planning. She had taken three months off from the rep group and they were leaving the next day for the South of France. He had arranged their passage by ship, since suddenly they had so much spare time.
They drove down in leisurely fashion from Paris to St.-Jean-Gap-Ferrat, after a two-week stay at the Ritz, where Bettina teasingly said they did nothing but eat. Cap-Ferrat was heavenly in September, and in October they went on to Rome. And at last, in November, they regretfully returned to the States. Ivo called a vast number of his cronies and arranged to have lunch with everyone at their assorted favorite hangouts and clubs. And Bettina went back to The Players. Things were on the upswing for them, the previews good, the audiences plentiful, and Bettina was happy with her job. Steve was finally directing, and she had his old job as theater manager, for which she had gotten her equity card at last. The play they were doing was an original work, by an unknown playwright, but it had seemed different to her right from the beginning. There was a tension, an excitement, a kind of tangible magic one could feel in the air.
"All right, I believe you." Ivo had said it teasingly as she told him about it with excited, emphatic eyes.
"Will you come and see it?"
"Sure." He went back to his paper and his breakfast with a smile. It was rare, but the night before, he hadn't waited up for her. He had had a long day himself. Now and then his age peeked at him around corners, but most of the time nothing much had changed.
"When will you come and see it?"
He looked up at her again with a rueful smile. "Will you please stop pushing, Mrs. Stewart?"
But she grinned at him and firmly shook her head. "No. I won't. This is the best play I've ever worked on. It's brilliant, Ivo, and it's exactly the kind of play I want to write."
"All right, all right, I'll see it."
"You promise?"
"I promise. Now can I read my paper?"
She looked at him sheepishly. "Yes."
But by noon she was already anxious to get back to the theater. She watched Ivo dress for a luncheon at the Press Club, and then she showered and climbed into jeans. She left him a note that she had left early, and she'd see him late that night. She suspected he wouldn't mind it. Since they'd gotten back from Europe, he'd been very tired, and it would probably do him good to take it easy for the rest of the day. Besides, he was used to her crazy theater schedule.
She jumped out of the cab hastily and walked the rest of the way, humming to herself and feeling the bitter winter wind in her hair. She still wore it long to please Ivo, and today it flew out past her shoulders, like fine copper thread.
"What's your hurry, lover? You can't be late for work." As she crossed the street near the theater she looked over her shoulder in surprise. The voice was British and familiar, and when she saw him, he was wearing a warm tweed coat and a red cap. He was the star of their new play.
"Hi, Anthony. I just thought I'd tie up some loose ends."
"Me too. And we have a quick rehearsal at four thirty. They're going to change the opening of the second act."
"Why?" She looked at him with interest, and as they reached the theater he held open the door.
"Don't ask me." He shrugged boyishly. "I just work here. I never understand why playwrights do all that scribbling and switching. Paranoia, if you ask me. But that's the theater, love." He stood for a moment in front of his dressing room and eyed her with a long, friendly smile. He was more than a head taller man she and he had enormous blue eyes and soft brown hair. There was something enchanting and innocent about him, probably due to his very British intonations and the light in his eyes. "Are you doing anything for dinner tonight?"
She looked pensive, and then shook her head. "Probably not. I'll just eat a sandwich here."
"Me too." He made a face and they both grinned. "Care to join me?" He waved behind him into the dressing room, and she hesitated for a moment, and then slowly nodded.
"Sure."
"And then what?" He was looking at her with fascination over the pastrami. They had been chatting, sitting on two canvas chairs in his dressing room for half an hour.
"Then I worked on Fox in the Hen House, Little City, let's see ..." She hesitated pensively, and then grinned. "Oh, and Clavello."
"You worked on that?" He looked impressed. "Christ, Bett, you've had more work than I've had, and I've been at it for ten years."
She looked surprised as she surveyed him, nibbling at the remains of her pickle. "You don't look old enough to have been at it for that long. How old are you?" She wasn't embarrassed to ask him questions. In the past half hour they had somehow become friends. He was easy to be with and fun to talk to, unlike the others she had met in the theatrical world. Despite the camaraderie, jealousy was always thick in the air. But it rarely touched her. She was only the stage manager, after all. Yet she never tired of what she saw in the theater, and the magic was there for her, every night.
"I'm twenty-six." He looked at her enchantingly. A small boy in a man's clothes, pretending to be in a play.
"How long have you been in the States?"
"Just since rehearsals. Four months."
"You like it?" She finished the last of the pastrami and the pickle and cast a jeans-clad leg over the arm of her chair.
"I love it. I'd give my ears to stay."
"Can't you?"
"Sure, on temporary visas. But, Christ, that's all such a mess. I take it you don't know about the never-ending search for the almighty green card."
She shook her head. "What's that?"
"Permanent resident's card, working permit, et cetera. They'd be worth a fortune if you could buy them on the black market. But you can't."
"What do you have to do to get one?"
"Work a minor miracle, I think. I don't know, it's too bloody complicated. Don't ask. And what about you?" He stirred his coffee and looked at her seriously for a moment. She was startled, she felt almost caressed by the blue eyes.
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, you know," he shrugged, smiling. "Vital statistics, age, rank, shoe size, do you wear a bra?"
She grinned back at him, startled, and then shrugged. "All right, let's see. I'm twenty-five, I wear a size five-and-a-half shoe, and the rest of it is none of your business."
"Married?" He looked casually intrigued.
"Yes."
"Damn." He snapped his fingers regretfully and they both laughed. "Been married long?"
"Six and a half years."
"Kids?" But this time she shook her head. "That's smart."
"Don't you like children?" She looked surprised, but he was noncommittal.
"They're not the greatest thing ever to happen to a career. Distracting little bastards at best." It reminded her of the egocentricity of most actors and made her think of her father too. And then he smiled at her again. "Well, Bettina, I'm damn sorry to hear you're married. But"--he looked up at her cheerfully--"don't forget to give me a call when you get divorced." But as he said it she stood up with a broad grin.
"Anthony Pearce, my friend, don't hold your breath while you're waiting." And then with a wave and a smile she walked to the door and saluted. "See you later, kid."
She saw Anthony again that night as she left the theater, and they both pulled their collars up against the cold.
"Jesus, it's freezing. God knows why you w
ant to stay in the States."
"Sometimes I ask myself that too."
And then she smiled at him again as they walked toward the corner, trying to avoid the patches of ice. "Nice performance tonight."
"Thank you." He turned to her questioningly. "Want a lift?" He was about to hail a cab.
But she shook her head at him. "No, thanks."
He shrugged and walked on as she turned left at the corner. And she saw Ivo's car waiting for her, with the driver, the motor running, and inside she knew it would be warm. She looked over her shoulder quickly to see if anyone was watching, and then she pulled open the door and slipped inside. But as he crossed the street, seemingly oblivious, Anthony had turned one last time to wave good night. All he saw was Bettina, disappearing into a long black limousine. He dug his hands deeper into his pockets, raised an eyebrow, and walked on with a smile.
Chapter 15
"Hi, darling." It was bright and sunny the next morning at breakfast. Again Ivo had been asleep the night before when she came in. It was unlike him. And they hadn't made love in a week. She felt guilty keeping track of it, but he had spoiled her so much for so long that now she was suddenly aware of any change.
"Missed you last night."
"Think I'm over the hill, little one?" He said it softly with a kindly light in his eyes. It was clear that he didn't think so, and Bettina rapidly shook her head.
"Not a chance, so don't start counting on using that as an excuse."
He went back to his paper, and Bettina went upstairs to get dressed. She had wanted to tell him about her dinner with Anthony, but suddenly it didn't seem quite right. She was always careful not to make him feel jealous, even though they both knew he had no reason to be.
Three quarters of an hour later Bettina was wearing gray slacks and a beige cashmere sweater, brown suede boots, and a silk scarf the same color as her hair. Ivo had just come upstairs in his robe.
"What are you doing today, darling?" She had the urge to slip her hands under his robe. But he was looking at his watch and hadn't noticed the look in her eye.
"Oh, God, I have a board meeting at the paper in half an hour. And I'm going to be late." That took care of the morning.
"And after that?" She looked hopeful.
"Lunch with my fellow board members. Another meeting. And then home."
"Damn. By then I'll have left for the theater."
His eyes were both wistful and tender. "Want to quit the play?" But she shook her head emphatically.
"No!" And then in a childlike voice she explained, "It's just that I miss you so much now that we're back in the States and I'm working. In Europe we were together all the time, and now suddenly it feels like we never see each other anymore." He was touched by the remorseful tone in her voice and he reached out to hold her.
"I know." And then after stroking her hair for a few minutes, he lifted her face up toward his and kissed her lips. "I'll see what I can do about not scheduling so many lunches. Want to take another trip?"
"I can't, Ivo ... the play."
"Oh, for--" There was fire for a moment, and then it subsided with the wave of a hand. "All right, all right." But then he turned to her more seriously. "Don't you think after all these years you've absorbed enough to write something of your own? Really, darling, I have visions of you turning eighty-seven and still hobbling down to work the curtain for some off-off-Broadway play."
"I don't work off-off-Broadway." She looked insulted, and he laughed.
"No, you don't. But don't you think you've done it for long enough? Think of it, we could go away now for six months and you could write your play."
"I'm not ready." She seemed terrified at the thought, and he wondered why.
"Yes, you are. You're just afraid, darling. But there's no reason to be. You're going to write something marvelous when you finally do it."
"Yes, but I'm just not ready, Ivo."
"All right. Then don't complain that you never see me. You're down at that damn theater all the time." It was the first time that he had complained of it, and Bettina was surprised by the quick anger in his tone.
"Darling, don't say that." She kissed him, and his voice was gentler when he spoke again.
"Silly girl. I love you, you know."
"I love you too." They held each other for a moment, but then he had to leave.
At the theater everything was already bustling, people were hurrying everywhere, and the stars of the show had begun to arrive. Bettina saw Anthony walking around backstage in jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and his red cap.
"Hi, Beit." He was the only member of cast or crew who insisted on shortening her name.
"Hello, Anthony. How's everything?"
"Insane. They want to make more changes." It was a new play and last-minute rewrites were to be expected. He didn't look especially perturbed. "I wanted to ask you to dinner again, but I couldn't find you."
She smiled easily. "I brought a sandwich from home."
"Made by your mother?" Bettina laughed but she couldn't very well tell him No, made by our maid. Instead she only shook her head. "Any chance I can induce you to join me for coffee a little later?"
"Sorry, not tonight." She had to get home to Ivo. She didn't want to stay out too late. Only once or twice in years of working in the theater had she gone out after hours with the crew. Last night was enough.
He shot her a disappointed look and disappeared.
She didn't see him again until after the show. He found her setting lights and overseeing the routine house cleanup before she went home.
"What did you think of the changes, Bettina?" He looked at her with interest and sat down on a stool, and she paused for a moment before answering, her eyes narrowed, reliving the scenes in her head.
"I'm not sure I like them. I don't think they were necessary."
"That's what I thought. Weak. I told you, writers are fucking paranoids."
She smiled at him again. "Yeah. Maybe so."
"Can I lure you out now for that cup of coffee?" But she shook her head.
"Maybe another time, Anthony. I'm sorry. I can't."
"Hubby waiting?" He sounded flip as he said it, and she squarely met his eyes.
"I hope so." He looked irritated, and as Bettina put her coat on she was irritated too. He had no right to be annoyed that she wouldn't go out with him. No right at all. It bothered her that he had looked aggravated, but she was strangely afraid that he wouldn't ask again. She picked tip her handbag, jammed on her hat, and walked out the door. Screw Anthony Pearce. He didn't mean anything to her.
She walked briskly down the street toward the corner, feeling the wind whistle past her ears. She hastened toward the waiting limousine, grabbed the door handle, and put one foot inside, only to hear a voice behind her. She turned in astonishment. It was Anthony standing behind her, his collar turned up, the red cap on his head.
"Can you give me a lift?"
Despite the cold, she felt herself flush with embarrassment. He was the first person in six years who had discovered her getting into the car. And all she could think of to say was "Oh."
"Come on, love, I'm freezing me arse off. And there aren't any cabs." There was a fine mist of snow starting to filter into the air. And he had seen her now, so what did it matter? She looked at him for a moment, and then answered tersely.
"All right" She climbed in and he got in beside her, and she turned to him, annoyed at his pushiness. "Where do you want me to drop you off?" He seemed unperturbed by the embarrassment he had caused her. The address he gave her was in SoHo.
"I have a loft. Want to come up and see it?" She grew angry again at how persistent he was.
"No, thank you, I don't."
"Why so angry?" And then with a smile he looked at her admiringly. "But I must say, love, it becomes you."
In rapid irritation she raised the window between the driver and them. And then she looked at him hotly. "May I remind you that I'm a married woman?"
"What
difference does that make? I didn't say anything out of line. I didn't tear off your clothes. I didn't kiss you in front of the chauffeur. All I did was ask for a ride. Why so touchy? Your old man must be jealous as hell."
"No, he's not, and that's none of your damn business either. I just ... it's just that ... oh, never mind." She sat in steaming silence as they drove south toward his loft. When at last they reached it, he held out a friendly hand.
"I'm sorry to have upset you, Bettina." His voice was gentle and boyish as he spoke. "I really didn't mean to." And then hanging his head, "I'd like to be your friend."
As she looked at him something about him cut straight to her soul. "I'm sorry, Anthony ... I didn't mean to be rude. It's just that no one has ever ... I felt so awkward about the car ... I'm really so sorry. It isn't your fault."
He kissed her cheek gently--a friendly kiss. "Thanks for that." And then hesitantly, "Will you slap me if I offer you a cup of coffee just one more time?" He looked so earnest, so anxious, that she didn't dare refuse. But she wanted so much to get home to Ivo. Still ... she had been very sharp with the young English actor.
She sighed and nodded. "Okay. But I can't stay long." She followed him up an endless narrow staircase as her car waited downstairs, and at last when she thought they must have walked to heaven, he unlocked a heavy steel door, and on the other side was revealed to her an apartment filled with charm. He had painted clouds on the ceiling, filled corners with wonderful tall, leafy trees; there were campaign chests and Oriental objects, straw mats and small rugs, and huge comfortable chairs upholstered in a soft blue. It was more than an apartment, it was a haven, a piece of country, a garden in an apartment, a cloud riding in a pale-blue summer sky. "Oh, Anthony, it's wonderful." Her eyes widened with pleasure as she looked around.
"Do you like it?" He looked at her innocently again, and they both smiled.
"I adore it. How did you put all this together? Did you bring it from London?"
Loving (1981) Page 9