An American Love Story

by Rona Jaffe

  He was with his lawyer or his rich Arab, running to dinner meetings that ended too late to call her, turning off his phone to sleep, leaving the office early in the afternoons before she could catch him. He had told her there was no point in her coming to Los Angeles during this busy period because he would have no time to spend with her, so she waited, and took another assignment.

  Every time she called Clay’s office his secretary Penny asked her when she was coming to visit, and every time Susan pleaded work. But one particularly cold and dreary New York winter day, thinking of the California sunshine, Susan said wistfully, “I wish I could be in California.” And after that, as if her mouth had snapped shut, Penny never asked her again.

  She wondered if Penny knew now that Clay didn’t want her there.

  But then on Valentine’s Day a thick envelope arrived from Clay via Federal Express. Susan opened it. There was a tape cassette and a note in his handwriting, a note so sweet and sentimental that it made all the unhappy thoughts go away. “Dear Susan: All the time I was in Germany before Christmas, I kept hearing this song and I kept thinking of you. Somehow it made me think about how I feel about you.” A song! He’d sent her a song, like a schoolboy. “Since it has never been published in the U.S. I called Germany after I returned and got a copy of the record and I have made a tape for you. With all my love, Happy Valentine’s Day, Clay.” Then he had drawn, in red ink, a heart pierced by an arrow. And, in black ink again, “Valentine. As you know, I can neither aim—or draw.”

  The album was called If I Could Fly Away. She put the tape on her cassette player. Wild, strange, modern music played; electronic, almost martial, and then a voice with a German accent that was difficult to understand. Sign in the sky, lain (?) we must rise, the time has come, and our dreams have to die. What kind of depressing song was this to send the person you loved for Valentine’s Day? Was he talking about his career, his broken marriage, his thoughts of becoming famous again? Maybe he thought he wouldn’t make it after all, and wanted to know if she would continue to love him anyway.… She played on.

  Now there was something that sounded like German. The words were unintelligible to her. There was a long instrumental, a sort of new age rock. And finally: If I could fly away, I’d take you on my wings, I’d carry you right back, where everything begins, and we’d find love.… If I could fly away … I’d take you back again, back to the origin of our destiny … And a lot more strange music. The rest of the side was blank.

  The song was bewildering. Fly away on my wings … She remembered how often Clay had told her to get on his back and he would take her for a ride up into the sky. I’d take you on my wings … That must be it. He was going through hard times and he wanted to escape to the happier past, with her.

  She looked at his drawing of the heart. There were five drops of red blood coming out. He certainly couldn’t draw, poor thing; it was a bit bizarre to put blood on a Valentine’s Day card. But it was sweet of him to try to draw, and he obviously meant well. Imaging hearing a song and thinking how he felt about her; Clay had never done that before. She decided to come out to L.A. no matter what he said.

  She called Dana. “Come stay with me,” Dana said. “Goujon is shooting his special two-hour pilot in Canada. You can keep me company. You’ll have your own guest suite with your own entrance, at the other end of the house—total privacy. It’s ridiculous for you not to have seen Clay for so long.”

  “I know.”

  “So come right away.”

  When Susan told Clay she was coming he said he had a party to take her to and she should bring an evening dress. There would be industry people there, it was important. She knew she had made the right decision.

  Waiting in her apartment for the taxi she had reserved to take her to the airport, she looked at the tape again. There was another side. Perhaps there was more to the song that she had overlooked. She put it on side two.

  Something strange was in the air. A faraway voice was talking to me. Give me your love, you’ll never feel alone, so give me your love, that’s a sign for you to rise. If I could fly away, if I could change my ways, if I could fly away, could fly back to eternity, I’d take you on my wings, I’d carry you right there, where everything begins, back to the origin of our destiny … It was so metaphysical she couldn’t stand to listen to any more of it. What was this eternity, and origin of destiny? The cab was here. She put the tape away.

  Dana picked her up at the airport and drove her to Malibu. It was still afternoon in L.A. Susan put her bag in the guest suite, which indeed had the promised privacy, and called Clay at his office. “I’m here.”

  “Good. Don’t forget the party tomorrow night.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’ll pick you up at six-thirty.”

  He didn’t say anything about tonight, or now. “I just discovered the tape you sent me had a second side,” she told him.

  “Of course it had a second side,” Clay said, in the loving voice he used to talk to his precious monkey.

  It was a weird song, but apparently he had meant it to be a love song.

  “Dana says hi,” Susan said. “We might come into town a little later.”

  “Well, you enjoy being with Dana, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “So?” Dana said after Susan had hung up and met her in the kitchen.

  “He didn’t say anything about tonight.”

  “All right, let’s go into town, and I’ll shop and you visit Clay at his office. Surprise him.”

  “He didn’t seem to want to see me.”

  “Don’t be silly. Drop in. I’ll go look at an exercise bike for my sins, and if he invites you to dinner just tell me.”

  For some reason Susan was afraid to bother him. He was her lover and they had been apart for two months, but he was also her best friend, anxious and struggling, and she didn’t want to interfere. But that was ridiculous. She could at least see him, and if he had business plans for tonight she would go back with Dana.

  Penny was pleased at her unexpected arrival, but when Susan walked into Clay’s office he looked up from his desk startled.

  “I came to say hello,” Susan said. She felt strained, unwanted, standing on his threshold like a casual visitor. He seemed uncomfortable. She remembered when his face used to light up when she came into the room.

  “Where’s Dana?” he said.

  “Shopping.”

  “You shouldn’t leave her alone.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Let’s get a drink,” he said. He got up and ushered her out of his office in an instant. “I’m leaving,” he said to Penny.

  “Have fun.”

  He took her to the bar of a restaurant down the street. It was too early to have a drink, but they sat there at the empty bar sipping harsh house wine by the glass and eating peanuts. Clay talked about business, and how to adapt her drug article. Work was obviously the only thing he cared about. He didn’t touch her, and somehow it seemed natural that he not; almost as if they had been together all along and this was not a reunion but simply a continuation. And yet, she felt uncomfortable.

  “Do you want to have dinner?” he asked.

  “I’d love to. But I have to call Dana.”

  “Bring her.”

  “I’ll see if she’s free.”

  Susan called the store from the restaurant’s pay phone. “He asked me to dinner. He wants you to come too.”

  “I’m not coming—you two should be alone.”

  “Why don’t you come?”

  “No, that’s silly. I’ll see you later. You have your key, just bring him home to your little wing and pretend it’s your house.”

  “You’re a wonderful friend,” Susan said. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. Anyway, I just bought a fifteen hundred dollar bicycle.”

  “Is Dana coming?” Clay asked.

  “No.”

  “That was rude.”

  “She has other plans,” Susan said. She
had never seen Clay evince such concern for Dana’s feelings before. He paid the bill and took her to one of the small restaurants they used to love. It was still so early that the restaurant was empty too. She forced herself to drink more wine to prolong the meal, feeling out of sync, wondering what he would do next, feeling somehow that she had only borrowed him.

  “I’m still going to do Like You, Like Me,” Clay said. “I never give up. There are some people I’m going to talk to. These things are cyclical.”

  “I know.”

  “Anwar loves it.”

  “Good. Tell me about Anwar.”

  “What’s to tell? He’s very rich. Lives in the Hills. Mid-forties, has a wife and several kids.”

  “Just one wife?”

  “Oh yes. A lot of cars though.” Susan smiled. Clay paid the check. “Did you rent a car yet?”

  “I’m picking one up tomorrow.”

  “Good. This is a long trip for me, driving you all the way back to the beach, and then coming back here. I’m busy, and it’s tiring. I never understood why Henri wanted to live so far away. It’s pretty, but lately with the traffic … And he’s even older than I am.”

  “You’re not old.”

  “Yes I am. Tomorrow night I’m getting a limousine.”

  “I’ll have my car after that, I can meet you in town,” Susan said. “No problem. I’m on vacation.”

  He drove her to Dana’s house and Susan let him into her suite through her private entrance. Her bedroom had been decorated very prettily, with expensive white linens on the king-size bed, soft lighting, and wide shutters affording privacy. She had no sooner locked the door than Clay was undressing, pulling down the bedcovers, reaching for her. He seemed frantic, as if he had missed her more than she had realized. A token moment of foreplay and then he was inside her. She was unexpectedly, instantly, wildly aroused. But he came immediately, and got out of bed and put on his clothes as quickly as he had taken them off. Susan just sat there, staring at him, still aroused, now bewildered. Then he made for the door.

  “It’s late, it’s late,” he cried like the White Rabbit, in a panic, and was gone.

  She got up slowly and walked to the door. She heard his car driving away. Clay had not even left her the wet spot to sleep on; the wet spot was still seeping out from between her legs and running down the inside of her thigh.

  What was wrong with him? She tried to compose herself, and waited for her swollen readiness to subside. If he had stayed they could have had real passion together. He seemed guilty to spend even a moment doing something so removed from his work and the plan he had put together to save his life. Suddenly Susan felt a sharp pang of loneliness. She threw on sweat pants and a T-shirt and went to find Dana.

  Dana was in the den watching television. “Where’s Clay?” she asked.

  “He left.”

  “So soon?”

  “He had to.”

  “Well, that’s a shame. I thought he might stay all night.”

  “You’re a romantic,” Susan said. She sat down on the couch with Dana and they watched an old black and white movie and ate fake ice-cream pops that were supposed to contain only thirty calories each. She didn’t know what she would do without her friend; Dana was family, security.

  At the party the following night Susan had never looked prettier. She had on a new black dress, and had even had her hair done. People she knew were glad to see her, and Clay introduced her to everyone he knew whom she had not already met. Some people asked her about the plans for Like You, Like Me. It was obviously not forgotten, even after all this time. A few of them said what a great TV miniseries it would make, and Clay agreed and said he had decided to do it as six hours now, not eight. It was sheer bravado, but at that moment, standing by his side as his partner, the successful author of a book people wanted, she believed it.

  The party ended late, and Clay dropped her off at Dana’s house in the limousine and went home. It reminded her of their early dates together, so many years ago, back in time.

  He was working hard. Some nights he took her to dinner, and others he had dinner with Anwar and she was not invited, and she had dinner with Dana. He was so distracted Susan preferred to be with Dana. “Goujon acts like that when he’s on a project,” Dana said. “That’s why I wouldn’t be caught dead going with him to Canada this trip. The last picture we were on he never spoke to me except to ask if I’d sent out his laundry.”

  “The other day we were in the parking lot outside Clay’s office,” Susan said, “And he opened the trunk of his car to show me it was filled with clothes for the laundry and dry cleaner, all stirred around in a mess. Shirts, suits, ties, everything. He said: ‘Look at the way I live now.’ It was pathetic.”

  “It’s his choice.”

  “I’m not sure he has a choice …”

  In a way Susan was relieved to go back to New York after two weeks. Clay promised he would come soon to see her.

  26

  1985—HOLLYWOOD

  Bambi had been up all night trying to decide how she should present herself to Clay Bowen. As soon as she’d mentioned Sally Exon’s name to his secretary she got an appointment. She could see that people respected Sally, but who should she be to impress him and make him give her a job?

  The waiflike sad widow did not strike her as someone an important producer would hire. Simon was dead, and she no longer had to struggle against the image of being just his wife, or even just his widow. It was someone like Sally she wanted to be; independent. Covered with silver jewelry as she was, there was no wedding ring on Sally’s finger. She traveled alone and quickly, and had friends everywhere. Bambi looked down at her own hand. The past was over: her wedding ring only gave the wrong impression. With a quick pull she took it off.

  Her finger felt strangely free, and so did she.

  But she didn’t want to be exactly Sally, she wanted to be Bambi, special. She tried to think what Sally would have been like starting out. Probably feisty but humble. Talented and more than willing to work hard and learn. By dawn Bambi had decided to take along her script as well as some of her mood pieces from the coffeehouse. Everybody knew a fiction writer took bits and pieces of life and blended them with imagination—let Clay Bowen think what he wanted.

  It was so hot out that walking from her car to his office her new shoes had already stretched. When she got into the air-conditioned coolness she realized that she was still perspiring from nerves. This could be her chance, at last.… His office made her gasp. There were photos of everybody who had ever been anybody, including people she knew had been famous but couldn’t place. There were actual Emmy awards, and plaques. Everything screamed success. Bambi was so impressed her heart was pounding.

  “You can go in now,” his secretary said.

  Clay Bowen was sitting behind a huge desk. There were more important mementos here too, and against the wall there was a big bookcase filled with books and scripts. He was not really so scary; an ordinary-looking man, oldish—probably in his middle fifties—tallish, lean and very tan, sort of grayish brown hair. He had reading glasses on and he looked like a teacher. Then he took them off and smiled, and suddenly Bambi felt totally comfortable. She smiled back.

  “Sit down, Bambi Green,” he said.

  She sat in the chair opposite him, clutching her manila envelope.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “I want to learn the business. I’ll do anything. Sweep the floor, even.”

  He had a funny little laugh, like a chuckle, that made her feel he was on her side. “We have a dropout Arab kid named Anwar Akmal to sweep the floor,” Clay Bowen said. “I don’t think you’ll have to do that.”

  “I write,” Bambi said. “I brought some things.” He held out his hand and she gave him the package. “Some of these I performed in a coffeehouse named Simon Sez, you may have heard of it, which I owned with my late husband, and there’s also a TV script I wrote called ‘The Far Waters.’ I haven’t submitted it to an
yone yet. I wanted you to have a sample of my work.” She looked around at the treasury of his past, trying to think of something intelligent to say. “Oh, you have Like You, Like Me. I read that. It would make a wonderful movie.”

  “Actually, I’m doing it as a miniseries.”

  “Even better,” Bambi said. “It’s a very important book. I could never understand why any woman would let a man abuse her like those women did, but after I read it I understood, even though that son of behavior, to me, I mean, it’s like on Mars, I would never let any man get away with anything remotely like that. It’s frightening that they became such total slaves. I’m more than a bit of a feminist.”

  “Your generation is,” he said mildly, as if she were a little girl. But perhaps to him she seemed like one.

  “Economic freedom is very important to women,” Bambi said.

  “To men too,” Clay said.

  She laughed. “Yes, of course.” He liked her, she could see that. And she liked him too, had right away. She wasn’t sexually attracted to him, he was way too old, but she admired and respected him and he made her feel protected somehow. What she wouldn’t give to be able to work for him, to learn from him, to have a piece of the world she had dreamed of for so long.…

  He looked at his watch. “I’d like to know some more about you, but I’m sick of this place. Let’s go downstairs and have a drink.”

  He gathered some papers into his briefcase, including her script and sketches, and led her out. “I’ll be back,” he said to his secretary.

  “Good-bye, Penny, it was very good meeting you,” Bambi said, reading her name off the little plaque on her desk. You had to be nice to secretaries, they had a lot of power. They could keep you away from their boss.

  “How does the Polo Lounge sound?” Clay Bowen asked.

  “Like the gates of heaven,” Bambi said.

  He laughed. “Does that mean you’ve never been there?”

  “Oh, once. But I’m sure it would be different with you.” They walked to his parking lot. He had a vintage T-Bird convertible, she couldn’t believe it. That was so hip. They drove to the Beverly Hills Hotel and everybody knew him there; the parking boys, the bartender, and a couple of television producers in the Polo Lounge in the prized front booths.