'No. I hinted that you had gone to London to see Laura, but by that time I think the message got through to him that even if he found you it wouldn't do any good. I must say, Bianca,' he went on admiringly, 'you do seem to attract interesting men. That's two movie stars you've left behind in California with broken hearts. I'm Impressed. First Bruce Holloway, now Gerald Richards.'
'Tom, it isn't funny.' She was close to tears again. 'I didn't even know Bruce Holloway, and Gerry… Well, as it turns out, I didn't really know him, either.'
'Bianca,' he said softly, 'I don't know what happened or why you were so upset yesterday that you felt you had to run off like that, but he was really concerned about you. Actually, he seemed like a nice guy once he decided I wasn't the villain of the piece. You can imagine what he thought when I answered the door early this morning in my bathrobe.'
Men! Bianca thought bitterly. How they stick together! 'Tom,' she said in an even tone, 'have you ever seen one of his films?'
'No,' he replied slowly, 'I can't say I have. I'm not a movie-goer, and besides I don't think he's made one for several years.'
'Well, there's a Gerald Richards festival playing now at a cinema in downtown Los Angeles. Go see it, and you'll understand just why I bolted out of there, why I can't marry him, why…' Her voice broke then, and she couldn't go on.
'Okay, okay, honey,' came Tom's soothing voice. 'I'm sorry. Let's just forget it. When he left here, he seemed to accept the fact that you were gone for good and it was really over between you. I don't think he'll bother you. Take my advice and concentrate on your music now. The hurt will pass, and you'll be a better musician for it, believe me.'
The days and weeks passed slowly. In time, Bianca's hurt and anger settled down into a dull ache. She was far from happy, but not quite so grindingly miserable, either. When the worst of the grief had passed, she took Tom's advice and concentrated hard on her music. It didn't seem to her that she was making any progress at all, but she kept doggedly at it, the hours she spent practising filling the long days and keeping thoughts of Gerry from consuming her.
He never contacted her in any way. As far as she knew he hadn't even tried to find her. Tom never mentioned him again, nor did she ever ask. As time went on, she had half-convinced herself that he had abandoned her, that his silence was further evidence of his shallow nature, that giving up so easily proved he'd never really loved her. It was all a game to him, she told herself. He'd been acting a part, and only seen her as a challenge, someone different from his usual bedmates. She even began to wonder if he had ever really intended to marry her; if that, too, hadn't been a deception, a manoeuvre to add her to his list of trophies.
The hot New York summer passed into an early Fall. By late September, the leaves in the park had begun to turn and there was a cool tang in the air. Soon it would be winter again. Bianca dreaded the thought. She'd been back home for three months. Surely Gerry would be gone from the beach by now. He'd said his friends were coming home from Japan in another month, and that was back in June.
She was playing now in a small chamber orchestra some old friends had recently organised, and gradually as they became known they were getting quite a few engagements. Between those concerts, in New York itself and in smaller outlying communities, and her gruelling hours of practice, she kept herself from moping. Her thoughts were never far from those months she had spent in Malibu, however, or from the man she had loved so completely. Even after all this time without seeing him or hearing his voice, his presence, if she let it, was almost as real to her as it had been then. It was a constant effort to keep thoughts of him out of her mind, and although time had dulled the pain, it hadn't dimmed her memories.
Gradually, too, she began to realise that she had behaved badly herself. All she could recall now were the good times, how much fun he was, how he had helped her get ready for her job at the restaurant, how much she had liked him, even aside from the strong physical bond between them. She remembered, too, the look in his eyes when she had called him that awful name and wished now that she could retract the hurtful words.
More than once she had been sorely tempted to call him, to apologise, to talk things over, perhaps begin again, but by that time it was too late. She didn't even know where he was. Besides, if he had really cared, he would have found her, called her, somehow got in touch with her.
No, it was too late. Surely in time the dull ache in her heart would be gone, she thought. There were other things in life. She had her music. And her memories.
Then, suddenly, in early October, New York seemed to be full of Gerald Richards. His book had been published and caused quite a sensation, not only for the publicity value of his movie fame, but for the shocking contents of the expose of the Hollywood scene and its obvious literary merit. Everywhere Bianca looked, it seemed, there was that familiar face staring at her, in book shops, department stores, subway advertisements, newsstands. His publisher was milking the last drop of publicity out of the unusual situation.
Even the most severe literary critics seemed to take the book seriously. They had to, Bianca thought as she read the latest review one morning at breakfast in the apartment. It was a serious book. Beside the review in the morning newspaper was yet another photograph of the author, this one taken at the beach in Malibu. She recognised the exact spot. He was standing near the surf, the breeze ruffling through his dark hair, wearing a familiar pair of worn jeans and a knit shirt. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his eyes gazing directly into the camera. Barney was sitting at his feet, securely leashed and looking up at him adoringly.
Bianca caught her breath when she saw it, and tears stung her eyes. He looked so serious, she thought, but then isn't that what he said, that he was trying to be a more serious person? An agonising wave of sheer despair passed over her. This is what she had rejected and thrown away in her mindless, childish tantrum.
'Ex-Sex Symbol Turns Serious Novelist,' the caption read. And further on:
Gerald Richards, former heart throb of a million panting women, has written a book, his first, that rips apart the Hollywood system of exploiting gullible young actors—male and female—in language that is stark and explicit, yet strangely poignant.
Bianca's eyes blurred. 'Ex-Sex Symbol,' she thought. 'Former heart throb.' Wasn't that exactly the point she had missed? The Gerry she knew, had fallen in love with, given herself to, promised to marry, was no more that stranger she had seen on the screen that day than she was the silly young girl who'd had a crush on Tom Schiffren at just about the same point in time.
She sat at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, the newspaper thrust aside, and groaned aloud. How could she have been so stupid, so blindly wanton as to throw away the one chance she had of real happiness? Tom was wrong. Music was no substitute for the man she loved. She'd tried. God, how she'd tried!
It was too late, she thought starkly, staring blankly into space. She'd really blown it. She turned back to the article and continued to read through the mist in her eyes.
It went on to praise the book, as well as the author's courage in relating experiences that must have been very painful to him. She came to the last paragraph:
Mr Richards is currently on a whirlwind trip to the East Coast to promote his book and will appear at several book stores in the New York metropolitan area itself this week to sign autographs.
It went on to list the times and places of his appearances.
He will also be interviewed tonight on PBS by the writer of this review. Tune in and see for yourself the apotheosis of sex-symbol into serious literary artist.
Bianca sat for a long time at the kitchen table, the newspaper in her hand, her breakfast forgotten, her thoughts churning. With all her heart she longed to get up from that table, go get dressed and run out to the first store where he was appearing that day. Just to look at him, she thought. She wouldn't speak to him or approach him in any way or let him know she was there. She only wanted to see him.
For a moment, she was stron
gly tempted to do just that and even half-rose from her chair. But she knew she couldn't. Just the thought of it made her knees grow weak, her pulse race. Slowly, she sank back down in her seat. She couldn't face it.
Somehow she managed to get through her normal day of household chores, grocery shopping, practising and rehearsing with the orchestra without succumbing to the temptation to go and see him, but it wasn't easy. Half a dozen times she found herself on the verge of looking up his schedule of appearances in the newspaper article and going there, but at the last minute her courage always failed her.
That night she sat huddled in her robe before the television set waiting for the interview to begin. Andrew Faraday was one of New York's most respected literary critics, and this was his regular programme. As she sat through the end of a nature programme and the station break, her heart pounded erratically and she sipped nervously at a glass of wine.
Then, suddenly, he was there on the small screen. He was sitting comfortably on a chair, totally at ease before the camera, his long legs slightly apart and bent at the knees, his elbows propped on the arms of the chair, his hands laced together under his chin. He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt and muted tie. She had never seen him in such formal, conservative dress before, and the sight of him took her breath away.
He was talking now, answering a question Andrew Faraday had apparently asked him. There was a serious expression on his face, and he gestured casually in the air with one hand as he spoke. Bianca made herself concentrate on the words.
'Naturally, I'm very pleased the book has been so well-received,' he was saying in a calm, relaxed tone. He smiled broadly, his even white teeth flashing against the dark tanned skin. 'Especially by the more serious critics.' He nodded courteously at his interviewer.
'Tell me, Mr Richards,' Faraday said, 'have you found your former—ah—reputation, shall we say, as a sex symbol to be an advantage or a hindrance in your new career as a writer?'
The smile faded. 'Quite definitely a hindrance,'
Gerry replied firmly. 'I realise it's possible that my book wouldn't have received the attention it has without the ballyhoo of my former film career, but I must accept the fact that I'll probably never live down that reputation you spoke of entirely, and it has been a handicap to me in many ways.'
'Are you speaking professionally or personally?'
Gerry hesitated for a moment. He appeared to be deep in thought. Then he said in a low voice, 'Both, I guess. It took me a long time to break out of the Hollywood mould, and even longer before I could get any publisher to take me seriously as a writer.' He waved a hand in the air. 'So the professional aspect was difficult enough. Personally, however, it's been a disaster.'
Faraday's ears perked up at that, and he leaned forward in his chair, 'Would you care to elaborate on that?' he asked silkily.
'No,' was Gerry's curt reply. Then he smiled again. 'We're here to talk about the book, remember?'
The rest of the programme was a blur to Bianca, a meaningless jumble of words. What did he mean by saying that his film reputation was a disaster to his personal life? Could it possibly be his relationship with her that he was referring to? A little ray of hope began to flicker in her breast.
Then she remembered the note of finality in his voice when he spoke of his personal life to the interviewer. Whatever it was, he seemed to have put it firmly out of his mind. And she remembered, too, that in all these months he had made no effort to contact her. She couldn't blame him, she thought, as she switched off the television set and walked slowly down the hall to her bedroom. Her parting words to him had been so brutal, her sudden disappearance so final, that it was no wonder he had put her out of his mind completely.
After a sleepless night, Bianca awoke the next morning with a resolution fixed firmly in her mind. Finally, she thought, she knew what she had to do.
After a light breakfast, she got up from the kitchen table and marched purposefully down the hall to get ready. She had to see him, even if it was only from a distance. She showered quickly, then dressed carefully in her bright red suit, hoping the cheerful colour would give her courage. She combed the mop of curly dark hair and tried to disguise the pallor of her face with a little blusher and a touch of lipstick. He wouldn't see her, but she knew the better she looked, the better she would feel.
When she was ready to go, she made a careful list of the book stores where he would be appearing that day. His first appearance was for ten o'clock at Brentano's, and it was after that now. She'd have to hurry. It was only a short walk away, and down on the street she set out in that direction. It was a crisp Fall day, bright with sunshine, and as she walked briskly along the crowded pavement, she realised that she felt better, more alive, than she had in all the months she'd been back in New York.
At last there was something she could do, she thought, some purpose to her life instead of the aimless drifting she'd been caught up in. She knew nothing would come of it. She had no intention of approaching him or even letting him know she was there. She just wanted to see him again.
At Brentano's there was a large crowd spilling out on to the pavement. In the front window she could see a colourful display made up of several copies of Gerry's book stacked on a long table. There was also a large photograph of him placed prominently at one side of it. She craned her neck over the heads of the crowd and stood on tiptoes to get a better view of what was going on inside the store.
All she could see was the back of a dark head. He seemed to be seated at one end of the table, bent slightly forward. His face was not visible, but there was no doubt in her mind who it was. What should she do? The crowd seemed to be perfectly stationary, not moving at all. It might take hours to get inside, and even if she waited long enough to get a glimpse of him, what good would it do? She didn't want him to see her in any event.
At that moment there was a break in the crowd as it slowly shifted towards the door of the shop, and at the same time he turned his head slightly so that she could see his profile quite clearly. There was a fixed smile on his dark handsome face, the black hair was neatly combed and looked recently cut, the eyes hooded protectively. His head came clear around, then, and for a split second he seemed to be gazing directly at her. The dark eyes seemed to widen briefly in recognition, and the smile on his face faded.
Bianca's resolution suddenly faltered at the sight of him. With a little sob, she lowered her head, turned around and made her way through the crowd that had gathered behind her. She couldn't face it, she thought, as she began walking slowly back to the apartment.. Just the sight of him shook her to the depths of her being.
CHAPTER TEN
She stumbled blindly along, hardly looking to see where she was going, bumping into the scurrying passersby, the tears streaming freely down her face. She started across the street against a red light. A taxi driver yelled at her, and she stepped back up on the curb, dropping her handbag in her confusion. The contents spilled on the pavement, and as the unconcerned pedestrians hurried past her, she stooped down and with fumbling fingers began to retrieve her belongings.
Suddenly, she was conscious of someone stooping down next to her, a dark-clad pair of legs, bent knees straining against fine woollen material, then a large hand reaching out to pick up her wallet and place it inside her open bag.
She swiftly swivelled her head, startled, and found herself staring into a familiar pair of dark eyes. For a moment, all she could do was stare at him. A wave of dizziness passed over her.
'Gerry,' she breathed. 'You saw me.'
His face was only inches away from hers, so close that she could clearly see the fine stubble of his beard, the lines of strain around his eyes, a pulse throbbing along the firm curve of his jaw. The crowds continued to surge past them, cursing loudly at the pair stooping on the pavement, blocking traffic.
He looked away and finished stuffing things into her bag, then grasped her firmly by the arm and pulled her bodily over to a newspaper stand out of the line of traffi
c. She continued to stare dumbly at him, unable to take in the fact that he was actually there standing beside her.
'You—you followed me,' she finally managed to choke out.
He glared down at her with smouldering eyes. 'I ought to murder you on the spot,' he snarled. His hand was gripping her arm painfully.
'Gerry, I…' she began.
'Why did you come?' he barked at her.
She lowered her eyes. He hated her, she thought, and she didn't blame him. Then why had he followed her? Revenge? That wasn't in Gerry's make-up. She looked up at him, quailing before the grim expression on his face and the hard fury in his eyes.
'I didn't think you'd see me,' she said at last in a small voice. 'I just wanted to…' she faltered.
'To what?' he growled, giving her a shake. 'Did you leave something out last time we met? Have you learned some new names to call me?'
The tone of utter contempt in his voice finally undid her. With one stricken look at him, her face crumpled and she began to cry in earnest, great wracking sobs, like a hurt child. She was dimly aware of the interested glances of a few spectators, but she was beyond caring.
'No,' she blubbered. 'Not that.' Then, with her pride in tatters, she sniffled loudly and groaned. 'I came because I—I still care, and I just wanted one last look at you.'
For several long seconds he simply stared at her with an intense penetrating expression in his face, as though trying to pierce his way into her mind. A terrific battle seemed to be raging within him. Then, through her tears, she saw the hard mouth soften and the hand gripping her arm pulled her close against his chest. He stroked her hair and leaned down to place his cheek next to hers, his lips at her ear.
'God, Bianca, stop it.' he muttered. 'I can't stand to see you cry.'
A delicious warmth began to steal through her there in the shelter of his arms, and gradually the sobs subsided. She sighed happily. She may have lost him, she thought, but at least she had this one last moment of joy, the only one she'd experienced in all the months she'd been away from him.
Malibu Music Page 14