Then sometimes you knew someone at a nearby table, and waved, and they waved back. You were doing your thing, and they theirs; you were all part of the going concern that was big business … Manhattan big business.
It was frantic, yes. But when you were part of it, it was wonderful.
And I didn’t do this often enough.
I felt grateful to Peter for getting me out of my closed-in little office, giving me drinks and a feeling of being with it. I stopped thinking of why he had asked me, and settled for being glad he had.
We talked freely, and laughed; we overstayed our hour and I didn’t care at all. It was almost three when we went outside again, and he said, “I’ll walk you back to your office.”
“Is it in your direction?”
“Oh, I’ll cab it back downtown.”
“Downtown where?”
“Wall Street,” he said casually.
“Wall Street … you mean you work all that way downtown?”
“Right. I’m in law, with my father.”
“What are you doing in this neck of the woods?”
“I just took you to lunch,” he said, with a nice smile.
“Rather out of your way, isn’t it?”
He gave me a long, assessing look. Then he smiled that nice smile again. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t out of my way at all.”
I was a little flustered. He had certainly gone out of his way to take a comparative stranger to lunch. And as we went through the streets to my office, I fet rather sobered, almost as if I had been on a job interview … one of those briefing lunches.
When we reached my office building he took my hand, held it loosely for a moment or two, and then thanked me for giving him a good time. For a second I thought he was going to follow this up with a quick kiss on the cheek.
Then he said again, “It was great being with you. Thanks much, and I’ll see you next week-end, Jan. Don’t work too hard.”
He walked away, turned, said, “Ciao,” and strode off, disappearing around the corner, joining the crowd on Madison Avenue. I rode up on the elevator and five minutes later was swamped with work: there was no time to think of anything but blue penciling and title changing.
Nor was there much opportunity to reflect on anything but my editorial duties for the rest of the week. I didn’t give another thought to Peter Lestrange, or much else, in the days ahead.
But when Eric and I ran into him the next week-end, neither of us referred to our lunch together. It was a deception, of course, but one of those obligatory ones that are intended to spare someone’s feelings. Not that I thought Eric would be miffed at my having seen Peter in such a casual way … but why bring it up?
It was the beginning of a subtle change in myself. Only I didn’t realize it at the time.
The week-end was much like the other ones. We had our time to ourselves and our time with the others; with Caroline, with Tom, Peter, Emily, and Anthony Cavendish. True, the hours we spent alone were not very considerable: it seemed that there was always someone asking for our company, or we were having lunch with Caroline, or Tom on the beach.
But I didn’t object to it, and I didn’t think Eric did either. A couple shouldn’t live entirely in each other’s pockets, and after all, we were having fun, what with the swimming pool should we care to use it, being among fairly interesting people, and with a Viscount on the premises.
I thought it was all marvelous. I drudged through the work week, waiting for play time, when the fun would begin again. I was having a perfectly splendid time.
Then Eric delivered a bombshell.
He said he had to go to Germany.
“What for?” I asked, my heart sinking.
“It’s that business about Günter-Hesse Verlag.”
“What about it?”
“We’re picking it up after all.”
Günter-Hesse is a rather prestigious publishing house based in Berlin: there had been talk of Eric’s firm taking it on as a subsidiary. “But what’s it got to do with you?” I wanted to know.
“I’m to be in on the finalities. After all, there’ll be a rather close working relationship, and the fact that I’ve been chosen to represent the firm does seem to indicate that I’m deemed worthy of it, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, of course.” I was pleased. “My Lord, they must rate you pretty high.”
“Okay, then, congratulate me.”
“Oh, I do, I do!”
“All right, let’s drink to it.”
He poured out some more retsina, said, “Prosit,” and sat back looking smug.
“Prosit,” I agreed. “Darling, it looks as if the competition’s been left behind, wondering what hit them.”
“You are a crafty little piece, aren’t you?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Certainly, but I’m male, and men have to make it.”
“While I’m simply a mujer, and as such should be satisfied to take a back seat. Right?”
“Wrong. But you would rather we have a glittering future in publishing, wouldn’t you? This is for both of us.”
“All right, I won’t argue. I won’t spoil your moment of glory.”
So we sat, at the Plaka, on Manhattan’s upper East Side, toasting my Eric. There were pangs, of course. He would be away for about two to three weeks, probably, and his flight was on that Thursday. “I won’t see you for a time,” I mourned.
“Nor I you,” he reminded me.
“I’ll drive you to the airport.”
“The hell you will. Departure’s ten-thirty P.M.”
“Then this is practically good-bye.”
“Let’s stay in character. Auf wiedersehen. Much less final. Jan, I’ll be the lonely one.”
“Oh? My guess is you’ll be doing all the local Rathskellers with some fräulein. I can see her now. A young Marlene Dietrich, with a cute accent and gorgeous legs. A beautiful blonde specimen of the master race.”
“Bunk,” he said; we sat there listening to the strains of bouzouki music, holding hands and drinking retsina … oh, the delicious melancholy of lovers about to be parted.
And later on, lying in bed, I realized that I had become used to not being alone.
10.
I had once settled, tiredly and resignedly, for being alone. Before I met Eric, after my broken engagement, I had lived quietly and without asking for anything, all alone and without any obligations, glad to be able to find a way again, with a good job and in a fairly comfortable manner.
I had found a good apartment in a brownstone building, one flight up, with high ceilings, an eat-in kitchen, a windowed bathroom, a fair-sized living room, and a pleasant terrace.
It was in the back, facing south, where I had the sun, and where, on the terrace, I lay on week-ends, with a drink and magazines, starting my tan as early as possible; there were a few neighbors who were compatible. It was a sober life, but a safe one, and dates were relatively few, because I had been scared off men. I had nothing against men except the fact that one of them had hurt me, had made a muddle of my life for a while, and so I was not rushing to make any new male acquaintances.
I was back in the womb, I guess.
Then I met Eric.
And now I was half of a twosome again.
I drove out to East Hampton with a certain unwillingness. I had Friday, Saturday, and half of Sunday to myself. Just like the old days. How would I cope?
It was a kind of regression, in a way.
I stopped off and bought some fruit and vegetables at a roadside stand, and it was violet dusk when I reached the estate. I parked, started unloading my packages and, straightening up with an armful of groceries, nearly jumped out of my skin. Someone was standing a few feet away, startling me badly.
I hadn’t heard any footsteps. I hadn’t heard any approach at all.
It was Toussaint, his great bulk seeming to darken the day still further. He must have come up silently, like a big, creeping cat, and now he stood there, without a word, ju
st watching me.
I said, “Good evening, Toussaint. It’s good weather, isn’t it?”
There wasn’t even an inclination of his head. No word, no acknowledgment that I had spoken. For a moment or two he didn’t move at all. He stood, tall and massive, in that quiet, menacing way, and remained mute. Then at last he looked into my eyes, through the screen of his dark glasses, and as I stared at him, shaken at his uncommunicativeness, he turned abruptly and strode away, finally disappearing behind a cluster of trees.
What a loathsome man, I thought, angry and upset. What a truly horrible creature! How could Caroline tolerate him?
Then young Tom appeared, loping across the lawn from his house, and gave me such an eager greeting that it almost made up for Toussaint’s wretched behavior toward me.
He said, “Hi, Jan,” and I put my arms around him and gave him a quick kiss. I was very grateful to see him.
We got the things in and as Tom helped me put them away, he said, “You want to feed those dumb ducks again?”
“Sure, I’d love to,” I said, and we opened a loaf of Pepperidge Farm. Then we trudged up the road, in the deepening evening, and cast our bread upon the same waters. The quacks were loud and vociferous: we were greeted, this time, by birds who recognized us as dispensers of good will.
“How’ve you been?” I asked him after a bit.
“Great. You?”
“Fine. Working hard. Glad to be set for a week-end’s rest again.”
“Yeah, I guess,” he said.
This time, when we had unloaded all our contributions, the ducks tried to follow after us when we left. They climbed out of the water and waddled along the road on their webbed feet, looking like drunks.
“Go back,” we said.
They didn’t want to go back. They wanted more. “We don’t have any more,” I explained reasonably, and showed them empty hands. “So go back.”
Unconvinced, they trailed us.
“You’ll be run over!” I shouted.
Which fell on deaf ears. I made some threatening gestures. “Scram, you.”
Tom threw a small pebble. They were outraged, and made angry noises, but finally took the hint. Disconsolate, grumpy, they waddled back to the leafy pond, climbed in and muttered irritably.
Tom and I resumed our walk back.
There was a long evening ahead, with no one to share it, and no one to drive up in a Porsche tomorrow. “I suppose you’re expected home for dinner,” I said.
“I suppose.”
“Then I mustn’t keep you.”
“Only,” he said, “if you’re going to have dinner alone, maybe I could have it with you. Do you think?”
“Well, but your family?”
“They don’t care one bit,” he said passionately. “Don’t you know? If I didn’t come home, they wouldn’t care.”
“Oh, Tom, I’m sure it isn’t like that.”
“It is like that. If you for some reason wanted me to eat with you, I could manage it. I mean, I could. Only if you wanted that, of course.”
“I’d love it. But I don’t want — ”
“Am I invited?” he challenged.
“Of course you are. Only — ”
“Then I accept,” he said loudly. “I’ll be back right away. I’ll tell them, and then I’ll have a coke while you’re having a drink. Wait for me.”
He bounded across the lawn. I watched him go into his house, and thought, I shouldn’t depend on that boy. I shouldn’t let him depend on me. He has his own family.
But I wanted very much not to be alone.
When he came back he was flushed and breathless. “It’s okay,” he said. “Can we cook outdoors?”
“Yes, sure.” I got some cube steaks out of the freezer. “While they’re thawing, we’ll have our aperitifs.”
We sat outside for an hour, Tom with his cokes, and I with my martini pitcher, before we went in. I tossed a salad, and it was almost nine when we put the charcoal on the grill, doused fluid over it, and then tossed in a match.
The charcoal ignited with a festive blaze, and I went back for the steaks. They were nice tender little steaks: they’d cost almost as much as filets, and while Tom watched over them, I set the table on the patio.
It was pleasant, with the candles I lit wavering in the soft dark, and both of us eating as if there were no tomorrow.
Afterwards, smoking a cigarette, I thought, somewhere in Germany Eric is doing his thing. We were separated by thousands of miles.
“Gee, that was great,” Tom said, patting his stomach. “I did a pretty good job on the steaks, didn’t I?”
“You sure did. Thanks, Tom.”
“Are you afraid to be here when you’re alone, Jan?”
“No, of course not. Why should I be?”
“Oh, just — ”
“Tom, this isn’t Manhattan,” I reminded him.
“Yeah,” he agreed.
We sat there peaceably, in the quiet night; the song of the sea, the country sounds, and the stars brightening the darkness were like blessings. We stayed outside until the mosquitos won, and then Tom helped me wash up, after which I saw him home.
He was shocked when I said I’d go with him. “Gee, I don’t need someone to hold my hand!” he said, looking offended.
“I just want to stretch my legs a little, that’s all.”
As we were crossing the lawn, his father, Garrison, came out of the house, saw us, and stood waiting. When we came up to him he smiled, his teeth flashing in the darkness. “I see you’ve charmed my son away,” he said.
“Hardly that, Mr. Lestrange.”
“Oh, I’m afraid so,” he said. “It looks to me like an early, first love.”
Even in the faint light I saw the boy’s flush.
“I’d like to thank you for letting your son share a lonely dinner with me,” I said. “It was very kind of you. And Tom, thanks to you, too. Good night, Mr. Lestrange. Good night, Tom.”
“Good night, Jan.”
Mr. Lestrange said, “Good night, Miss Stewart.”
Damn, stupid parent, I thought, recrossing the lawn.
No wonder there was a rebellion here. What a crass thing to say. An early, first love.
I went back to the cottage and to my aloneness. Everything was very quiet except for the night sounds; tree frogs, the rustling of leaves in the trees and the hum of the refrigerator as the motor recharged.
The city was far away, with its fire engines racing through the night, and the unceasing roar of cars along avenues and cross streets. This was East Hampton. It was muted here at nightfall.
There was really nothing to do but go to bed.
• • •
I breakfasted at around ten, and was not even finished with the dishes when I had a visitor. An unexpected visitor. It was Bobo Lestrange.
She stood on my doorstep and asked if I were very busy. I said no, not particularly, and invited her in, seeing that that was what she wanted. “How about some coffee?” I asked.
She held her lovely head to one side and asked, “How about a drink instead?”
It was barely ten-thirty.
She saw my startled look and said, “I know. But I’m upset. Need a drink.”
“Sure. Of course. What can I give you? I have most everything, I think.”
“Bourbon, then.”
“Okay, Bobo, sit down.”
She sat on the sofa, stiffly, looking uptight. I hoped I wasn’t going to be treated to a saga of misfortune, but rather thought that that would be the case. When an almost-stranger barges in and asks for a drink because they’re upset, it’s generally because they have “things” on their mind and want to spew them out.
I resigned myself. I handed her a generous drink and sat down beside her.
“Oh,” she said. “You’re not having anything?”
“I’m not upset at the moment,” I said.
“You’ve got to have something,” she said, distressed. “I can’t drink alone.�
�
“But I — all right. I’ll have a little campari.”
I poured a thimbleful into a glass and sat down again. It was a small gesture, but it satisfied her. “That’s better,” she said, and raised her glass.
“Cheers,” she said.
“Cheers.”
We made a little small talk. Her glass was empty in no time at all. She looked at it, and then held it out wordlessly.
I got up and refilled it.
She didn’t say anything until she took a deep swallow. Then she sighed, took a deep breath, and said, “Thanks. Thanks a lot. Ah, that’s better.”
“Something wrong?” I said.
She said, “Yes, but there almost always is,” and then seemed to forget about me as she went on emptying her glass. And once again, it was empty rather quickly.
She held it up, as if it were a test tube, and she in a lab; she was scrutinizing a magic formula which would cure cancer or multiple sclerosis — or whatever. At last she convinced herself that it was, indeed, empty, and she gave me a rueful little glance and said, “May I have some more, please; I’ll remember to replace this with a bottle.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” I said. “I’m always happy to have people drop in.”
I got up and refilled the glass.
She took it avidly, almost grabbing it. Another greedy swallow, after which she choked a little, coughed, hiccuped, and then said, almost sighing, “Christ, I needed that.”
Then she put down the glass, this time far from empty, since what she had so far drunk had apparently done the trick, and launched into an incoherent exposition, a spate of quick, impassioned words, jerky and spastic.
“Don’t you worry,” she told me, and her eyes were bright and furious and feverish. “Don’t you worry one bit. I’ll pay him back, wait and see if I don’t. I won’t rest until I — ”
She broke off then, because tears rose to her eyes. With tears in her eyes she looked even more stunning. I could suddenly see why men couldn’t stand to see a lovely woman cry. She was so gorgeous and flamingly angry, and so quintessentially beautiful in that anger that I understood a man’s instant thaw at the onset of tears from a bewitching woman …
Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances Page 108