by Rona Jaffe
It was. He was even running again, encouraged and accompanied by his friend Larry, who was also a theatrical lawyer. Edward told Laura about it at dinner. “He has a big dog who runs with us,” Edward said. “Sometimes I hold the leash. If the dog is out to the side I can feel the leash but I can’t see the dog. Weirdest feeling,” he said cheerfully. “But luckily it hasn’t affected my career. The dogs I deal with are all in front.”
They laughed. “I suppose I should start looking for an apartment of my own soon,” Laura said.
“You know you can stay as long as you want,” Tanya said. “There’s no rush. When you’re ready.”
“I know. But I’d like to. New beginnings.”
“They’re nice,” Nina said. They smiled at each other. “You’re going to be so busy, Mom.”
“Yes …”
How wonderful it was to be together again with the people she loved.
37
1988—PARIS, LONDON, LOS ANGELES
This is the triumphant trip to Europe, Bambi thought, this is what I’ve been waiting for, what I wanted for so long: and she was sitting on the small double bed in their small double room at the Plaza-Athénée, surrounded by expensive clothes she had purchased, and crying. She felt like a bimbo, or a stupid wife. It had all gone wrong from the very first minute.
She had been so proud to tell the man at passport control that she was here on business, so excited she wasn’t even tired after the endless flight over the pole from Los Angeles. Paris was beautiful in the morning, and she gaped at everything. On their way to the hotel in the taxi she noticed a woman hosing down the sidewalk in front of a corner café before opening time, the water gleaming in the sun, and it seemed to mean something although she didn’t know what. She felt she could soar and fly away. Everything was so French.
The Plaza-Athénée, where they were staying, was an incredible chalk white gilt-decorated building that shrieked money and power, bright red awnings on the windows, a big marble-floored lobby furnished with antiques, men in uniforms to hover and help. She and Clay went to the desk to register. She was a little disconcerted when it appeared that they were staying in the same room, but she assumed it was a suite until they got upstairs. It was not a suite, it was … this.
“Where’s my room?” she demanded when the bellboy put down all their luggage.
“This is it,” Clay said, handed the man some money, and glared a warning at her. The man gave them a key and left.
“With you?”
“You’ve never complained about living with me before,” he said, his voice now winsome, his look no longer glaring but mild.
“But this is an important business trip,” Bambi said. She was disappointed and humiliated. “People will know we’re both in the same room and they’ll know we’re lovers and they’ll think I’m just your girlfriend.”
“This hotel is very expensive,” Clay said. “Have you any idea how much it’s costing me for even one room?”
“Then we could have stayed somewhere else.”
“I always stay at the Plaza-Athénée.”
“Who cares?” Bambi said. Now she was the one who was glaring. “I’m your partner! I’m not your wife, I’m not your mistress, I’m not your slut.”
“How can you even think that?” Clay said. “You just hurt me very much—you hurt us.”
“You hurt me,” Bambi said.
“No one is going to know we’re in the same room,” Clay said. “We won’t entertain here.”
“I should think not.” She looked at the little room. Now that the bags were there she didn’t know how they could walk around the bed. There was one closet, and one tiny chair, which already had his attaché case on it. There was a price list on the wall which charged extra for a chien. What optimists. There was no space in this room for a chien unless it was a Chihuahua.
He was already on the phone making business calls. She unpacked, but there was still no place to put her bags. “You should try to take a nap,” Clay said, between calls. “We’re going to have dinner tonight at the Tour d’Argent with Guy, and Max April is going to join us; you remember me mentioning him, an old friend.”
“You should rest too,” Bambi said.
He looked at his watch. “No time. Guy set up a lunch meeting with some people, and then I’m going to stop at his office. I’ll try to come back and lie down for a while before we go out for drinks at eight.”
“But what about me?”
“You take it easy today.”
“I want to come to the meeting,” Bambi said.
“You can’t. This is all men.”
“I don’t believe you said that,” she said, enraged. “What is that, ‘all men’? The boys in the locker room? What am I, The Little Woman?”
“It’s business, honey,” he said. “There will be very delicate negotiations, and I’m going by myself.”
“But we’re in business together.”
“Of course we are,” he said warmly. “But today I go alone. I should think you’d be glad for a chance to go sightseeing your first day in Paris.”
He had a point. Much as she wanted to be part of his world, it would be a shame to be cooped up all day. She could buy her power wardrobe and walk around. There would be other meetings. He unpacked a little and left.
There was not much on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré that she couldn’t have bought on Rodeo Drive, and the prices weren’t much cheaper. In francs they looked like phone numbers. Still, it would be nice to say, I bought this in Paris. She bought a suit, a blouse, two sweaters, a handbag and a wallet, and had a late snack by herself at a sidewalk café. Then she went back to the room and collapsed, which was fortunate because the bed was so small, so by the time Clay came in to try to hog it she was already asleep. They woke up in time to get ready for dinner.
Guy was a jovial older Frenchman Clay’s age. The three of them had glasses of champagne at the bar in the hotel, while he and Clay talked about how the meeting that she had not attended had gone, and some people she didn’t know.
“You will like this restaurant,” Guy said to her. “It’s very famous. Clay is a generous host.” She smiled sweetly. “Did you have a nice day?” Guy asked.
“Yes,” she said.
La Tour d’Argent was very dramatic-looking. On one side were windows looking out at the flying buttresses of Notre Dame, and on the other was an open grill where a chef was doing things with food and flames. They let Bambi choose where she wanted to sit and she chose the view. Max April was an expatriate American who had lived in Paris for thirty-five years: her entire lifetime. He, too, seemed to have known Clay forever. They ate the famous Tour d’Argent duck, drank a lot of famous wine, and the men reminisced.
“Walter Wooden,” Clay said. “What’s he up to these days?”
“Still can’t come back into the country or he’ll be arrested,” Max said cheerfully.
“All that money must be sitting in a numbered bank account somewhere,” Clay said. “I wonder how much it is.”
“We’ll never know.”
“Remember when he ran off with the fourteen-year-old girl and had to live in Switzerland?” Guy said. They all laughed. “What was her name?”
“Benedetta.”
“That was it, yes. They were together for years. Her father tried to get him arrested.”
“Good old Walter. What a character.”
“He sounds like an asshole to me,” Bambi said.
They looked at her, surprised she was still there. “Well, he was a rascal,” Guy said.
“You would have liked him,” Clay said.
I doubt it, she thought, but didn’t answer. She looked out the window at the glittering mystery of Paris, turned her chair slightly so she could watch the theatrical cooking, and listened to them go on and on about people she’d never heard of in the far far past. None of them tried to include her further in the conversation, and by the time they got to the brandy after dessert she thought she would fall asle
ep right at the table. She wished they had talked about business, but of course they had done that when she wasn’t there.
The bill was appalling. Clay put it on his credit card and she sneaked a look over his arm. Why did he have to show off and take these idiots to a meal that was so expensive it would have paid the difference between their room and a suite? He complained about money, but now look at him.
When they got back to the hotel he put in a wake-up call. “What are you going to do tomorrow?” he asked pleasantly.
“Whatever you’re doing,” Bambi said.
“Honey, I have some meetings.”
“Are you saying I can’t come?”
“I’m trying to close a deal.”
“But I’m your partner,” she said, upset again. “Why did you bring me if you’re not going to let me be a part of what we’re doing?”
“You were so anxious to come to Europe that’s all I heard from you,” Clay said. “You’re here. Enjoy it.”
“But I want to learn.”
“Honey,” he said tiredly, “there’s nothing to learn. Believe me, I’m sick of this stuff. Do you think I like listening to boring bullshit in dreary offices with people blowing Gitanes in my face?”
“It would be new to me,” Bambi said. “I would like it.”
“What I need you to do,” Clay said, “is be happy. If you’re not happy, I’m not happy. Paris will be a whole new education for you. I wish someone had taken me to Paris when I was your age.”
“When you were my age you were already famous,” she said. They went to bed. She supposed she should cheer up and be grateful she was here at all, under any circumstances, even as his traveling companion, but the thought depressed her further. She was glad that he went right to sleep and didn’t try to have sex with her.
The next day she went to the Left Bank, walked around and looked, and bought more clothes and some shoes. The room was getting crowded. They had dinner with Max and Guy again, and this time Guy picked up the check, which made her feel better. But they kept talking about old times, and when she attempted to talk about business she realized there wasn’t much to say. It was all about trying and frustration and hopes. As for the deal the men were working on it was still pending. Apparently they wanted to shoot a television series in Europe, any one of several projects. She hated them for leaving her out this way.
They stayed in Paris four days. It was always the same. She walked along the Seine lonely and bored, wondering whether London, where they were going next, would be any better, and doubting it. And now finally she was sitting in their room at the Plaza-Athénée, ostensibly packing, waiting for Clay to come back from his last meeting before they went to the airport, and she burst into furious tears. By the time he got there, rushed and frazzled, she had pulled herself together, but she didn’t talk to him at all in the cab or on the plane. He didn’t seem to notice.
She was relieved that the room they shared at the Dorchester in London had twin beds. Clay complained constantly about the hotel and said he had never liked it since the Arabs had bought it, but when she asked why he didn’t stay somewhere else he said he always stayed here. He told her he used to have a big suite. They were in London three days, and it rained the entire time. She didn’t know anybody. She went to Harrods and a couple of boutiques while he went to his meetings, but there was nothing more she wanted to buy. They had all their dinners at the hotel, and he always dragged his English business friend along, who seemed a replica of the men in Paris except that he had a different accent; and even he talked about Walter Wooden, who Bambi now supposed was the most interesting person they knew.
She used to think Clay Bowen was the most interesting person she knew.
Now she wasn’t so sure.
“What’s the matter?” Clay asked finally. “You’re not happy.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Why?”
“You leave me out. You treat me like something you own.”
“I don’t,” he said, seeming genuinely surprised. “I couldn’t get along without you. You’re the little wonder deer.”
For the first time she cringed. “I’m beginning to hate my license plate,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to be cute. I want to be your partner the way you promised, in every sense of the word.”
“You are,” Clay said.
“I see no evidence of that.”
He looked at her sadly for what seemed like a long time. “Would you like me to make you vice-president?” he asked finally.
Vice-president …! It had a nice ring to it: substantial, impressive. “Yes,” Bambi said.
“We’ll get you new business cards as soon as we get home.”
“And new memo pads and stationery,” she said.
That night Clay had an anxiety attack and she was very solicitous. The next day on the plane going back to America he gave her a script to read, which Max April had given him to drop off at the Beverly Hills Hotel for a possible investor who was staying there. It was called “Teckel and Hyde,” and was a comedy about a detective named Teckel and his assistant Ms. Hyde who fought but were really very attracted to each other. The folder it was in was terribly dog-eared and the edges of the pages were yellow.
“You should make Penny retype this before you show it to anybody,” Bambi said.
“I intend to. I think it’s good, don’t you? It’s sort of like that stupid thing that’s such a hit …”
“Moonlighting,” Bambi said.
“Yes. It would depend on the actors we get.”
“It’s awfully English …”
“A lot of the best shows were originally English,” Clay said. “We would adapt it.”
“Then what do you need this for?” Bambi asked.
He grabbed the script back from her. “What do you know?” he said.
“Then why did you ask me?”
“I wanted your opinion.”
But only if I agree with you, she thought. She comforted herself by thinking of the logo she wanted on her new business cards, and when after a while he took her hand she squeezed it back. They sat there holding hands until he fell asleep.
When she got back to Hollywood she told everybody that her business trip to London and Paris had been very productive, very interesting. She ordered the new business cards, memo pads and stationery, and showed off her clothes. Penny retyped the ancient script, and Bambi went with Clay to the Beverly Hills Hotel to drop it off. They were walking through the lobby when Clay suddenly tapped her arm.
“Look!” he said. “There’s Link Murphy. He starred for me in a series years ago at RBS. It made him rich and famous.”
Bambi looked at the tall, lean, craggy-faced middle-aged man. She had never even heard of him. “Link!” Clay called, and walked up to him. The actor turned. “Clay Bowen,” Clay said, and extended his hand.
Link Murphy’s blank look turned to pleased surprise. “Clay Bowen!” he said. “We were just talking about you. We thought you were dead.” Then he realized how that sounded and tried to cover up. “I mean, I said: he was very well known, if he was dead we would have heard.” He trailed off, dimly aware he was making it worse.
“Well, I’m not dead yet,” Clay said, and chuckled. “This is Bambi Green.”
“Bambi,” Link said, and shook her hand. She glanced at Clay. He looked smaller somehow, shrunken; like a carapace, with all the light gone out inside him. She wondered how long he had looked like that.
“Nice to see you, Clay,” Link said.
“Nice to see you.”
Seven years since Clay had had anything on television. Was there a statute of limitations? She had been with him over three years and they hadn’t managed to get anything on. Nothing but promises from him and rejections from the networks. Maybe he really was dead.…
“Well, how are you?” Link said. He obviously didn’t ask Clay what he was doing now because it might be embarrassing; he waited for Clay to offer
.
“Just great,” Clay said. “I’m doing a comedy series called ‘Teckel and Hyde.’ ”
No you’re not, Bambi thought. You hope you’re doing it.
“And a miniseries based on a book called Like You, Like Me, by Susan Josephs. And Bambi is working on a Movie of the Week script for me.”
“You’re very busy,” Link said.
“It’s a living.” He chuckled again, jovially. “And you?”
“Couple guest shots. RBS wants me to star in a new series, but I don’t know. I don’t need the money and I’m awfully lazy. To get up every morning that early again … we’ll see.”
“Yes …” Clay said.
“Well, it was nice seeing you, Clay. Bambi.”
“Nice seeing you,” Clay said.
“Lovely meeting you,” Bambi said.
They walked away and Clay didn’t say anything. She couldn’t look at him. Reluctantly she let the realization sink in. He’s a has-been, she thought. He’s not powerful. All this time he’s been pretending. She felt sick.
They waited in front of the hotel for the parking attendant to bring Clay’s car. She looked at the expensive cars with the tanned men in them and wondered who they were. Most of them looked like movie and TV executives. This town was full of them. She would have to start networking again.
She thought of her new title. What good was it to be vice-president in an office of two? Did anybody know that? Not unless she told them, and she wouldn’t. She would simply say, quite truthfully, that she had gone as far in her current position as she was able to go, and it was time to move on. Other independent producers had problems too. These things happened all the time.
Of course she would have to be very discreet. But she had always been good at that.
38
1988—NEW YORK
Susan was immersed in her research for Tiny Tombstones while Andy was on location for his miniseries. He called her every few days and came to see her twice. She was beginning to think that a romance based on hot sex and supportive friendship was probably ideal, but sometimes the damage Clay had done intruded and made her feel old, depressed, and alone, needing more reassurance from Andy than he could give. She never told him that. He kept telling her he loved her, and that they would be friends forever, and she tried not to think about the probable end.