Spa

by Olivia De Grove

  But he cleared his throat and plunged ahead. “Well, here goes. Uh, let me ask you something, Cliff, have you ever considered acting?”

  “Are you trying to be funny, Alvin?”

  “No, no, no. I mean stage acting. Broadway. The bright lights! It’s a chance for you to do something different. Get out of L.A. for a while. Stretch yourself a bit. I thought of you right away when the offer came up.”

  “Funny you should mention it, Alvin, but that’s exactly what I have been thinking about. I want to do some serious acting. Forty-seven isn’t over the hill in the theatre.” He pronounced it the-a-tah. “I could still have a future there. Besides, I’d like to spend some time in New York. Why do you ask? Have you got something concrete? Something without fur, perhaps?”

  Alvin ignored the last comment. “Concrete as Gibraltar, my friend. It’s already a hit show, so you’re halfway there, right? And they’re looking for a replacement for the guy who’s playing the romantic lead right now. Apparently he’s had enough of treading the boards for a while and NBC has been courting him for a television series, so there’s going to be a vacancy. I already put in a good word for you, Cliff. The producer practically shook my hand, he was so excited. Says you’d be perfect for the part, especially with your background, the kind of movies you’ve done. The whole romantic-lover schtick. He’s already talking about how he’s going to publicize it if you take the part. I’ve set up a meeting next week in New York for the three of us to sit down and kick the shit around.”

  “Sounds interesting, Alvin. You may get back into my good books yet. Now, which show is it? Something Shakespearean? I’ve always liked the idea of doing ‘The Taming of The Shrew’.”

  Alvin hedged. “Well, it’s not exactly Shakespeare, Cliff. It’s a musical. Your part has a lot of singing, but your voice is in pretty good shape and it shouldn’t take too long for a good voice coach to get you up to par.”

  “A musical?” Cliff was trying to think of which musicals were currently on Broadway. “A Chorus Line,” of course. But he was definitely too old for that and, besides, there were no romantic male “leads,” per se. And “Evita” kept coming back all the time, but he really couldn’t see himself as Peron and certainly not Che. Too stuffy and too scruffy, in that order. Maybe it was one of those avant-garde London shows by Webber or Rice. Maybe he could still learn to roller skate.

  “Alvin, I don’t hear you volunteering any information. You want me to ask the question, ‘Which musical?’ first, before you tell me?”

  “Uh, Cliff, before I tell you, just do me a favor, O.K.?”

  “Uh-oh, I smell a rabbit. No guarantees on the favor, Alvin.”

  “No, no it’s nothing like that. Just promise me you won’t say No right away. Think it over. It really is a good part, great show, terrific music. You could do a lot worse than say Yes.”

  “Why do I get the feeling that I’m not going to like this, Alvin?” He sighed into the phone. “Alright, then, let’s have it.”

  “La Cage aux Folles.”

  Cliff gripped the phone tighter. In his mind it was Alvin’s neck.

  “La Cage aux Folles!”

  “Yeah, and you would be playing the part of Georges. He’s the butch one.”

  “You call that a romantic lead, you asshole!” shouted Cliff across the miles.

  “Calm down, calm down. It’s a good part, Cliff. Seriously. And they’re talking about making an American movie version of the play. You would certainly have a good shot at that. And besides, what do you really care if your leading lady is a man? You’ve been out with some really ugly broads in the years I’ve known you, Cliff. If anything, this’ll be an improvement.” Alvin ran out of steam.

  “Look, Alvin, I know you’re trying, but I don’t want people to think I’m getting heavily into pastels in my declining years, if you get my drift. I mean, if I have to have a reputation, I’d rather be known as a dirty old man.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  The agent tried another tack. “Cliff, for Christ’s sake. You’re a forty-seven year old man who’s never been married. What do you think people have been saying about you all these years? That you’re just waiting for Ms. Right?”

  “It’s true.”

  “True? What’s truth got to do with what people think?”

  “You have a point there, I guess.”

  “Sure, Cliff, sure.” Alvin could sense, even long-distance, that he was gaining ground. “Look, you’ve got the name, so why not play the game? And if it really bothers you, we’ll make sure that you get fixed up with a lot of good-looking broads so you can get your picture in the Daily News and you won’t be lonely.”

  “That’s alright. I can handle my own social life.”

  “Well, then, what’s it gonna be? Do I tell Gerry that you’ll see him next week in New York, or what?”

  Cliff was playing pros and cons. It wasn’t a part he would have chosen if he had his druthers. But once you got past the sex thing, it was a good show. He had seen the L.A. version with Gene Barry playing Georges. And nobody thought he was a little light in the loafers. And he did want to spend some time in New York.

  “Cliff, I gotta have an answer today,” prompted Alvin.

  He thought for a moment longer. “O.K., Alvin. Tell Gerry I’ll be there.”

  Then he hung up and sat there considering the possibilities. It could be just what he needed. Besides, Regina lived in New York. And so did Joyce.

  Chapter 37

  Cathy was also pleased to be in touch with the outside world again. She had made a decision and she wanted to call Michael and tell him about it, with the emphasis on “tell.”

  So, after the afternoon weigh-in, which confirmed that she had lost another two pounds, for a total of five in all, she went back to her room and placed the call to Tibbermore, Tavitch and Stewart.

  A rapid combination of clicks and whirrs signaled that the correct series of electrical pulses was racing madly through the long-distance system, and, in a moment, she got through to the switchboard.

  “Good morning, T, T & S,” chirruped a too-cheery voice.

  “Mr. Stewart’s office, please.”

  “Just one moment, I’ll connect you.”

  But when she got through to Michael’s secretary and before she had a chance to identify herself, she was informed, in the somewhat superior tones used by those who occupy the inner sanctums of power at whatever level, that “Mr. Stewart was in conference” and could not possibly be disturbed. Cathy uttered a meek “Thank you,” and hung up.

  But no sooner was the receiver resting in its cradle than she snatched it up again and redialed T, T & S. The new, improved Cathy was not about to give up that easily.

  “Mr. Stewart’s office, can I help you?”

  “I just called for Mr. Stewart.”

  “Oh. And I just told you that Mr. Stewart is in conference and cannot be disturbed.”

  Cathy took a deep breath. “Well, you go and tell Mr. Stewart that Mrs. Stewart is on the line and that I want to speak to him NOW.”

  “But, Mrs. Stewart.”

  “NOW,” said Cathy, gripping the receiver tightly, her palms wet with perspiration and anxious audacity.

  “Very well,” sniffed the secretary, as she put Cathy on hold.

  Like good secretaries everywhere, Michael’s secretary had long ago learned that orders from the boss were automatically transcended by orders from the boss’s wife. It was a typical case of being between a rock and a hard place. Either way, she would get reprimanded for interrupting him. It was only a question of when. Now, because she had, or tomorrow because she hadn’t and he had had to listen to an earful over dinner.

  A whiny rendition of “Greensleeves” filtered down the polyoptic cable and into Cathy’s left ear. She drummed her fingers on the table. It was a gesture that was part impatience and part fear. She knew he would be upset.

  In a few moments Michael came on the line. “This had better b
e important, Cathy. I was right in the middle of a big presentation.” His voice was tinged with threat and heavy with hints of husbandly annoyance.

  “Where have you been?” She forgot her carefully prepared speech and said the first thing that popped into her mind.

  “What do you mean, where have I been?”

  “I’ve called you three times at home and you’re never there. All I ever get is the babysitter. Where have you been?” she said, repeating the litany of wives everywhere.

  “Look, Cathy, I don’t have to give you a blow-by-blow account of my whereabouts every second since you’ve been gone. I’ve been out most nights with clients. You should know that. I’ve been working.” He emphasized the word “working” to delineate what to him were the obvious contrasts in how they had each been spending their time.

  “I’ve been working too, Michael.” Cathy refused to be put down, after all her efforts. “You won’t believe it, but I’ve already lost five pounds.”

  “Five pounds. Great. That’s really great, Cathy. You pulled me out of a meeting that could net the company ten million over the next three years to tell me that you have lost five pounds. I’ll tell that to Tibbermore. He’ll probably make me chairman of the board.” He exaggerated the sarcasm to let her see how ridiculously trivial her achievement was, compared to the one on which he was working.

  “I thought you would be pleased,” she said weakly, disappointed that he didn’t see what an important victory it was for her.

  “Look, Cathy. I am pleased, really.” His voice softened. He wanted to placate her. It would save time, and he wanted to get back to his meeting. “I know you want to lose some weight, but it’s no big deal. I already told you, I don’t care if you do or not. I like my Big Mama.”

  “It is a big deal … to me. And Michael, please, I’ve asked you not to call me that. I don’t want to be anybody’s Big Mama. I want to be the way I was.” She hesitated. “I want to stay on another week here. I think that by then I will have made real progress, not only with the diet but with how I feel about myself as.…”

  He cut her off. “Absolutely out of the question.” He said it flatly.

  “But why? Why is it out of the question? We can afford it. You have someone to look after the children and someone to take care of the house while I’m away. You don’t need me to be there, Michael.”

  “Cathy, you are my wife. I want you home. You are the mother of my three children. We all want you to come home.”

  Cathy felt tears begin to sting her eyes. “But what about what I want?”

  “Don’t be so selfish, Cathy.” He sounded exasperated. “The children and I all miss you. Think about how we feel for once.” And then he added. “It’s not like another week is going to make any difference. So what if you lose another five pounds. You’ll only gain it all back. Cathy, you know what you’re like with these diets.”

  “Stop saying that! I’ve changed. And I’m not being selfish. You are. It’s always what you want. Michael wants this and Michael wants that. When you wanted to trade in the Oldsmobile for a red BMW, did I say anything, even though it’s very difficult to fit all of us in the new car? When you work late and go out with clients and don’t come home till eleven or later, do I complain?” The tears subsided and she could feel her face burning with years of pent-up anger.

  “Cathy, I thought we agreed that my job was very important to the welfare of this family. I work like a dog to make a good life for you and the kids. It isn’t easy, you know, being the breadwinner. As for the car, I need that kind of image in this business. To be really successful you have to project a successful image.”

  “That’s a crock, Michael and you know it. You got the car because you wanted it. You love your job, and the reason you can spend so much time on your career is because I make it possible by doing all the other things, like running your home and raising your children.” She was letting it all out now, all the unspoken frustrations of her marriage.

  “I work like a dog, too. But you never stop to consider that, do you? You never think that my hard work entitles me to any special treatment. Everything in our whole marriage has been designed around what you want, only you. Can’t you see that?” She knew she was shouting now, but she didn’t care.

  “Cathy, I think you’ve said enough.” His voice held the cold, hard edge of disapproval that once would have been enough to silence her.

  “Oh you do, do you? Well I don’t think I’ve even started yet. It’s time for me to think about what I want for a change, and I want to stay another week.”

  “Don’t raise your voice to me, Catherine,” He said coolly, in the carefully measured tones usually employed for talking to hysterical children and disobedient pets. “I expect you to come home at the end of the week and that’s my final word on the subject.”

  Cathy suddenly felt herself growing smaller, losing ground, knuckling under. Her short burst of rage was so uncharacteristic that it had unsettled her, thrown her off her course. She had so little courage to draw on, and she had just about used up her reserve. Then she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror. For the first time, she saw a noticeable improvement. She smiled at her reflection. “Don’t let him bully you,” said the Cathy in the mirror. “If you give in to him now, you’ll be giving in for the rest of your life.”

  “Catherine, did you hear what I said? I expect you to come home at the end of the week and that’s final.” The sudden sound of his voice startled her out of her musing.

  “Yes, Michael,” she said slowly. “I heard what you said.” She was back to her normal decibel rate, but her voice was different, firmer. “And now I have something to say to you.” She paused, gathering the remaining shreds of her courage around her. “Don’t bother going to the airport on Saturday, because you’ll have a long wait!”

  She hung up, slowly and carefully laying the receiver into its cradle. There was no need to slam it down. For the first time in a long time, Cathy Stewart was in perfect control.

  Chapter 38

  It was late afternoon when Joyce had finally finished the last of the spa activities outlined on her card. It had been an exhausting two weeks, in more ways than one, she thought, remembering the little scene on the beach the day before. But, all things considered, and no one was more surprised at this than she was, she had never felt or looked better. At the back of her mind she was even playing around with the idea of doing a follow-up story on the spa in a few months time. If Harry should go for it.

  Feeling relaxed and pleasantly tired now, she decided to go for a last swim before the sun moved off the pool area. God knows how long it would be before she had the opportunity again, sunshine and swimming pools being a rare combination in New York City. So, after changing into her bathing suit and noticing with satisfaction that tan lines had actually begun to delineate the boundaries of the suit across the tops of her breasts and thighs, she grabbed a towel, slipped into her cork-soled mules, and slapped contentedly down to the pool.

  Heading straight for the deep end, she threw her towel over the arm of one of the molded white resin chairs that were scattered about in groups of three or four beside their matching tables, and kicked off her shoes.

  A moment later, as she balanced on the edge of the pool, dipping a tentative toe into water that was as warm as a tide pool on a hot day, she looked up to see Cliff grinning at her from the other side of the pool.

  “Still can’t decide whether or not to take the plunge, eh?” He started to walk around the near end of the pool toward her.

  She moved away from the edge and slipped back into her sandals. “Go away. I don’t want to talk to you.”

  But he kept on coming, looking even more tanned and more gorgeous in his tennis whites than he had the day she had first seen him at the airport.

  “I can’t say that I blame you for being upset.” He was standing right in front of her now, flashing his teeth and his eyes at the same time. “You and I do seem to have a hard time getting
together, don’t we?”

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve. You were the one who was … who was.…” She sought for an appropriate turn of phrase. “Thrashing around like a grunion.”

  He laughed. “I wasn’t thrashing. And what’s a grunion?” He was taking this all far too lightly as far as Joyce was concerned, and his attitude infuriated her all the more.

  “Maybe you can get Annette Funicello to look it up for you in one of her school books, next time you’re playing Beach Blanket Bingo,” she said acidly.

  “Joyce, I think in all fairness you should know that what happened yesterday was not my idea.”

  “No, I could see that the thought never crossed your mind. Next thing you’ll be telling me that she raped you.”

  “Look, she was there when I came out of the water and.…”

  “Don’t tell me … she forced herself on you.”

  “In a manner of speaking. She took off her top and.…”

  “And you lost all control.”

  “You don’t know what it’s like to be a man. Sex is not always a matter for logical debate. A rising.…”

  “Don’t give me that bullshit about ‘a rising prick has no conscience.’ That’s just an excuse to avoid responsibility. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go for a swim.” She kicked off her shoes once more and moved past him toward the water.

  “Joyce?”

  Balancing on the edge of the pool, she looked over her shoulder. “Maybe if I translate this into Californese you’ll get the message better. ‘Call me sometime. We’ll do lunch.’ Or, as we say in New York, ‘Get lost, buster.’” And she dove into the deep end.

  After swimming a few laps she climbed out and returned to her chair. Cliff was sitting on her towel, absently twirling his tennis racket.

  “Why are you still here?” she asked, pushing a handful of wet hair out of her eyes.