Another Kind of Love (3 page)

L
aura awoke in the morning to a bright sun in a smog-free day. As she threw back the covers, she was startled to feel her arm and leg muscles aching uncomfortably. Then last night returned to her quickly, and she smiled slowly to herself. “Little Miss Passion Flower,” she said aloud.

She showered quickly, her mind working on what she would have to do today: finish up that article about Ron Ramsey and his horse. And, oh God, I have to stop over at Saundra's and pick up the glossies I left with her—she wondered briefly if Ginny would be there too—and I'll probably have to grin politely again, and that'll be a bore....

I need to fall in love again; that's what I need.

No. No point in falling in love, she decided. Only means I neglect my work, and I never pick out a man who's really marriage material. It's too much of a risk, and I can't afford to lose again. What I really need is a few friends so I won't be so dependent upon Walter.

Better find a new man to date, she advised herself again. But she knew it was more trouble than it was worth—the countless dates to weed out one or two men who didn't really bore her. No. She was just as well off with Walter—it was safer. And friends—a couple of old maids like herself were the obvious solution. Maybe she could begin getting together with Helen, Walter's secretary, after office hours . . . but she decided against it. Office friendships sometimes proved very awkward or unbearably tiresome.

Her makeup completed, she gulped down a hasty cup of coffee and called the office to let Helen know she would be a little late because she had to stop off at Saundra's.

The huge Bel Air house was awesomely majestic even in the harsh daytime glare. She rang the bell impatiently. As she waited, the morning atmosphere reminded her of days when she was a little girl, especially those last few weeks of school before summer vacation. There was that moist, clean smell and the light breeze just barely touching her hair. She remembered the hush of the classroom while everyone studied and only the old wall clock broke the silence with its tired tick-tock. Somewhere in the room someone would shift his position, with the sound of feet shuffling on the worn wooden floor, and invariably someone would sneeze, warning them all of summer colds.

Laura sighed in wistful reminiscence and turned her mind back to the present. She hoped today wouldn't get too much warmer. She wished now she hadn't brought her jacket.

As if of its own accord—no one was in sight—the front door opened slowly. Then she recognized Ginny, half hidden behind the door, dressed in blue jeans and a bright green cashmere sweater.

“Hello, Ginny,” Laura said warmly. “Is Saundra home?” She took a step forward.

The girl stood back and opened the door wider to let Laura pass. “No. But she left a package for you and said that the pictures she wanted are marked on the back.” Ginny walked ahead of Laura into the cool living room. “She also asked if you could possibly wait for her. . . . She should be home any minute.”

There was an odd, cloying deference about the way Ginny asked her to stay. It was almost the you-great-big-wonderful-you type of phrasing so popular in Cinemaville. Laura didn't like it . . . not at all. It smacked of that obsequiousness she had observed in so many shallow Hollywood hopefuls.

But she tried to push it out of her mind and told herself that she was becoming a cynic and a self-righteous prude. What if Ginny was an opportunist . . . so what? Wasn't everyone—in one way or another?

Laura watched her leafing through the secretary desk, and the incongruity of Ginny in Saundra's home still troubled her. Yet, the way she had said that Saundra would “be home” instead of “be back” had a note of authority—even possession—about it.

“Here it is,” Ginny exclaimed finally, with a nervous laugh. She pushed her thick red hair back from her face. There was something in her manner that gave Laura the impression of flight, almost fear of being “caught.” At what? Laura was puzzled and watched the girl move a few objects on the desk as if she didn't know what to do with herself or her hands. Suddenly, Ginny asked, “
Can
you wait for Saundra? Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

Laura couldn't imagine what Saundra wanted her to hang around for, and she really had no time. But Ginny's hospitality was a trifle too anxious for comfort, and she couldn't flatly refuse without sounding rude . . . and Walter would not like it if she didn't go out of her way to please Saundra.

“Well.” Laura hesitated, looking at her watch, then laughed with practiced good nature. “I'm expected at the office, but they know where I am if they need me. I'll take you up on that coffee invitation.”

“Fine! I'm sure Saundra will be glad, and she really shouldn't be too long.” Ginny smiled brilliantly at Laura, then left the room, almost running.

Laura was grateful for a few moments to shift into gear for this change in plans. She disliked finding herself in uncertain situations like this—this one didn't feel like an adventure. More like a trap. Her original, dubious reaction to Ginny suddenly swept through her. She wasn't too sure she liked Ginny—but she had to admit she was fascinated by her, by the odd mixture of shyness and opportunism.

Once again she looked around the big living room with its rococo furniture and ornately framed Flemish paintings. Laura decided that the room looked like a movie set: artificial. The only time it had life was when Ginny was in it.

At least she's alive, Laura told herself. Wonder how she endures Saundra? And what the hell is taking her so long for a cup of coffee?

Curious, Laura walked out into the hallway and followed the faint aroma of fresh coffee.

In the kitchen, at a table, Ginny stood pouring the coffee. Her back was to the door.

“Hi,” Laura said as casually as she could. “Need any help?”

Ginny turned slightly. “Oh, hi.” She smiled and held up the pot. “Just coming in. Sorry to be so long.”

Laura smiled and sat down at the table.

“Long as we're here, we may as well stay. Or do you like all those fifteenth-century ghouls peering down at you?”

Ginny laughed and sat down lithely.

The kitchen was almost as sterile in its perfection as the rest of the house—the smell of coffee saved it.

There was a short silence, and Laura felt that if she didn't break it now, this brief moment of friendly casualness would be lost. She asked Ginny several questions about her career and her friendship with Saundra. Ginny was thoughtful, courteous, and artfully noncommittal, her answers both too pat and too evasive.

Conversation lingered uncertainly and then came to an abrupt halt as they heard the front door slam and Saundra's unmistakable voice call, “Hello there? Anyone home? Ginny?”

Then Saundra pushed open the kitchen door exuberantly.

“Well!” she said, glancing sharply at Ginny, then at Laura. “Here we are. Enjoying yourself?”

Saundra threw her few parcels on the drainboard and sat down with swooping grace. “And how are you, Laura? So glad you waited for me.”

“I'm . . .” Laura began.

“Well, Ginny? Don't I get any coffee?” Saundra smiled, but the coolness in her tone was unmistakable.

“Oh, sure. I'll get you a cup.”

“We don't say, ‘Oh, sure'; we say, ‘Surely.' ” It was a cruelly deliberate burlesque of the old “impatient but amused mother” routine. “It's a foregone conclusion that if you agree to serve me coffee, it will be in a cup.”

Ginny said nothing, but it didn't take much to know she was exerting self-control. She rose and brought back Saundra's coffee.

Laura couldn't help wondering if Saundra often treated Ginny this way, or if it was a performance strictly for her benefit.

“How's the shooting going on the new picture, Saundra?” Laura asked, deftly shifting the dangerous mood of the moment. “Wilson sober long enough to finish his scenes?”

Saundra laughed sarcastically. “I wouldn't know, since I've never seen him sober. But his agent will give you a better story for the public. After all”—Saundra smiled knowingly at Ginny—“a few sordid tales could be spread about me, too.”

“Or any of us, for that matter,” Laura offered. It seemed a benign comment to make in view of Saundra's notorious reputation.

“I like you, Laura.” Saundra said it as if the walls should crumble and the waves should part at this earth-shattering pronouncement.

“Thank you. . . .”

“As a matter of fact”—the older woman reached over and patted Ginny's hand affectionately—“I was planning on taking Ginny to Tijuana for her first bullfight a week from Sunday. Would you like to come along? We'd love to have you as our guest.”

Ginny slowly pulled her hand away from under Saundra's. Her face was immobile, and she avoided Laura's glance.

“Wouldn't we, Ginny?” Saundra commanded.

Ginny looked up obediently. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

“Silly child hardly ever listens to people. Be a dear, Ginny, and get my purse.”

Laura watched Ginny stiffen slightly then get up to bring back Saundra's huge straw bag. Laura wondered when Saundra was going to tell Ginny to go out and play in the yard and not bother the grown-ups.

“Have you ever been to Tijuana, Ginny?” Laura asked as casually as she could manage.

Saundra didn't even bother to wait for Ginny's reply.

“Of course she hasn't. I don't know how she's lived this long and managed to remain so ignorant.” Saundra laughed at her little joke.

“I don't know about that.” Laura matched Saundra's smile. “I've never been to a bullfight.”

“Really?” Saundra asked absently, and took from her purse her famous special cigarettes that were almost twice the length of any American brand. “Do you have a light, Laura?”

She leaned forward to accept Laura's match, steadying Laura's hand, which didn't need steadying. “I seem to have lost my lighter. It never worked properly, anyway.”

“The one I gave you for Christmas, Saundra?” Ginny asked.

“Oh. So you did.” Saundra laughed gaily. “But then, it is the sentiment that counts, isn't it?”

Laura wanted to say something—anything—to break the tension. But she didn't dare. Instead, she sat quietly in her chair, pretending an air of amiable detachment. She could just see Ginny's hands out of the corner of her eye and noticed that they were nervously clenching and releasing her coffee cup. Somebody say something, Laura thought as she felt the silence grow.

Finally, Saundra's well-controlled laugh shook the air like a volley of pebbles against plate glass. “You two may sit here and meditate if you wish,” she said gaily, “but I have more important things to do.”

She rose busily from her chair, gathering her purse and cigarettes from the table. “We'll call you a few days before the bullfight and remind you, Laura.”

Laura looked up at the actress's smiling face and was torn between a feeling of sudden hatred for Saundra and overwhelming pity for Ginny. Before she could realize what she was saying—much less why—Laura nodded. “Fine. Do we wear anything special?”

“No. Just be comfortable. Slacks or something.” Saundra gazed musingly at Ginny's bent head for a moment. Then turning her head toward Laura, she looked at her long and steadily. “Ginny's a sweet child,” she remarked as though the girl weren't even in the room. “Don't keep her too long,” she added tensely. “We've lots to do this afternoon.”

Laura laughed. “I wouldn't have kept her at all, except that I thought you wanted to talk to me about something.”

Ginny's head came up abruptly, and Laura thought she caught an expression of defiance in her large gray-green eyes. “You did say you wanted to talk to Laura . . .”

“Don't be ridiculous, Virginia. I would have called Laura at the office if there had been anything to discuss. I certainly wouldn't waste her time by asking her to wait for me. I thought she'd stayed on to talk to you.”

Saundra smiled sweetly at Laura and left the room like a vindicated politician.

Laura watched Ginny's rigid position at the table for a few seconds and finally said, “Don't worry, Ginny. She doubtlessly just forgot about it. Anyway,” she said more lightly, “it gave me a chance to get to know you better.”

“She really did tell me to ask you to wait . . . really.”

Laura stared into Ginny's eyes. Her first reaction was that Ginny was lying, but she shoved it aside quickly.

“I never doubted you.”

“Thanks.” Ginny smiled a little uncertainly. Then she stood up and took the cups to the sink. There was a sort of resignation in her walk.

Laura had to get out of here. It was uncomfortable. She patted Ginny's arm gently and walked out into the warm sunshine. Exhaling a deep sigh of relief, she got into her car. She sat there for a moment, resting her head against the seat. What a morning! Well, at least it wasn't boring.

But as she drove to work she couldn't throw off a feeling of anxiousness about her Sunday date with them. And the more she tried to understand why she was anxious, the more confused she became.

“Oh, the hell with it,” she said aloud.

T
hursday and Friday passed for Laura with the usual routine and nonroutine events. But she was aware that something had changed inside her. Only, she couldn't figure out what it was. In one way, she seemed to be unusually lighthearted, filled with a vague but pleasant sense of anticipation. On the other hand, she was strangely irascible—more quick-tempered about the daily annoyances.

“Schizoid,” she told herself. “The split in my personality is definitely showing.” But her mocking self-abuse didn't alter the situation. Even with this awareness of her contrary emotions, she continued to seesaw from one extreme to another.

Returning to the office late Friday afternoon in her new mood, the old Spanish-style office building took on a fresh appearance for her, with its black wrought-iron gates and patio in the center of the squared structure. It didn't seem quite so much in need of paint, nor did it any longer look like a rather poor imitation of the colonial California days. As a matter of fact, Laura decided as she reached the top of the stairs, it was really rather quaint and charming.

“Hi, Laura. Coffee's on.” Helen, Walter's secretary, poured another cup from the battered coffeemaker.

Laura accepted it gratefully and sat down at her desk, feeling companionable.

“What's the matter, Helen? Bad day?” Laura asked with friendly concern as she opened her purse and took out her cigarettes and reading glasses.

“No. Nothing that simple,” Helen laughed bitterly. “Just one of those old-maid blue days.”

“We all get them, so don't feel alone.” It occurred to Laura that she was an old maid, too. Last week she had felt just as miserable and numb. Last week, hell! Two days ago.

Her thoughts were broken as Helen tilted her head toward Walter's office, whispering, “He's in a work-work-work mood today. Otherwise, the place has been pretty quiet, considering it's press time.”

Laura watched her as she neatly arrayed her day's work. She admired Helen's quiet efficiency. But she also knew that Helen was unable to think for herself and took as little responsibility as possible. That had often annoyed Laura.

“Any calls while I was out, Helen?”

“Nothing in particular. Fishburn called about the copy on Mario. And Excelsior called to find out when the Dalton Scott story will hit the stands. Oh, and a Ginny Adams called. Said it wasn't urgent and she would call back.”

Laura tried to control her swift reaction. She was almost shocked that Ginny had called. Even perhaps guilty, as if Ginny shouldn't have called at the office—strangely illicit. She considered quickly why Ginny might have called—perhaps for Saundra, or perhaps they were not going to Tijuana after all.

Then, seeing Helen's questioning gaze, she covered up by asking for more coffee.

Afterward, Laura busily leafed through papers on her desk and read the afternoon mail. Just like Ensignia Studios to veto the press release on their lawsuit against their top box-office star! Neurotic Hollywood characters, Laura thought.

Saundra Simons is a good example, she told herself. What the hell is she trying to do to Ginny? Wonder what Ginny wants . . .

The door opened behind them loudly as Walter called out, “Laura. Can you come into my office a minute?”

Laura gulped down the rest of her coffee. “Sure, Walter.” She rose and walked into his large office, sank onto the overstuffed leather chair in front of his desk.

She waited for him to begin and wondered if she should expect one of his “Chairman of the Board” orations or if this was just a social confab. Should I let my nails grow really long and paint them a bright red? Walter does have a nice strong back . . .

“Now, if the phone will stop ringing long enough for me to discuss a couple of things with you, then it shouldn't take too long and we can both go home.” Walter rapped lightly on his desk with one of the ballpoint pens given to the staff by their printing house.

The word “home” from Walter always jarred Laura. She never really thought of him having a home, or being any different from the way he was at the office or when out with her. She tried to visualize his “home personality” and finally gave it up. Why should he have a different personality at home?

She followed his pen's tapping for a few seconds, then stretched languidly in the chair to get his attention. With an inward smile of satisfaction, she watched his eyes pass from her face to her breasts, and on down to her legs.

She crossed them casually—but artfully—for his benefit and began to keep time to imagined music with one foot swinging loosely. I've become a terrible flirt, she scolded herself. But the observation really delighted her.

Walter was still staring at her legs.

“What's on
your
mind?” she asked pointedly.

He looked up, obviously a little taken aback. She returned his gaze steadily.

Walter abruptly shifted his expression into neutral and cleared his throat, as if to signal her that this was not the time or the place for reminding him of their personal relationship.

“I called you in,” he began in his most businesslike voice, “to tell you that I'll be leaving for New York sooner than I expected, and that I'm going to leave you in charge.”

“Oh?” For some reason Laura felt cheated at his change in plans.

“Yes. I'm leaving tonight instead of next week. I had a wire from Willy last night. He thinks he has the backer we need to foot the bill for a New York office.”

“Walter, that's wonderful!”

“A very sane divorcee he met—Madeline Van Norden. Wealthy and looking for a good investment.”

Laura sat quietly while her mind was racing with possibilities. “I must admit it sounds like this is it.”

“It hasn't come through yet. I rather imagine Willy wants me to talk to her in person before she gets away and some other guy relieves her of the money.”

“Darling,” Laura laughed, “if she's a divorcée, you won't have any trouble competing for the investment—not after she gets a look at that gorgeous exterior of yours.”

She knew she was being feline rather than jealous.

“Cut the jokes, Laura.” He said it with a smile. However, his tone gave away how much he wanted to put over this transaction. Circling the desk, Walter placed his arms on Laura's shoulders.

“I want you to finish up anything you've got on your desk—for a very good reason.”

“What reason?” Laura asked suspiciously.

He cupped his hand under her chin and looked down into her eyes affectionately. “If this goes through—the financing—I want you to take over the Special Features Department of the New York office. Make the rounds with Willy for the right contacts, and help get it going. Sound interesting?”

Laura was a bit stunned. “The New York office!”

“That's right. I'll even throw in a retroactive raise if everything works out as I think it will.”

She pulled away from his grasp gently and ground out her cigarette in the enormous ashtray by the framed photograph of Edna and the children. “I don't know, Walter. Helping to organize something like that is a pretty big job to take on. I'm a writer, not a—”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Walter interrupted. “You know you can do it. I can trust you, Laura, and I'll need someone I can rely on to do a good job. Frankly, I think it would be the best thing that's happened to you since you came to work for me. There's no future for you as a staff writer on a fan magazine—no real future, anyway. But in New York you'll have a good chance to get a production background, work into real editing. Not the piddly stuff you're doing here. Writers are a dime a ream, but a good writer with editorial production experience . . .”

Laura stopped listening as she turned over the possibilities in her mind. It was a big jump. She'd been to New York on a vacation once, but that was hardly enough to make her feel she would know her way around. She would have to set up an apartment from scratch—no point in moving her things until she saw how the department shaped up.

Am I crazy? she wondered. It was the perfect rescue mission for an aching libido—a real shot in the psyche for someone on the verge of stagnation. It was a gift from the gods. And she was certainly able to take care of herself. With Willy there, too, she wouldn't have any real trouble setting up the department—she had enough experience to handle that.

“Well? What do you say, Laura? Is it a deal?”

She looked up quickly, her decision made. “Deal.”

“That's my girl.” He placed his arm around her shoulder and escorted her to the door.

Laura felt a sudden surge of maternal sympathy for Walter. He is sweet, and I certainly can't complain, she said silently. If only I could fall in love with him—but she knew she wouldn't. She felt his warm hand on her and looked up at him with an unexpected choked feeling in her throat. “Well, have a good trip, Walter.”

His face was serious. “Thanks. For many things that I never thanked you for before.”

She wanted to kiss him but knew that if she did she would probably cry, and then everything would be ruined.

“Walter,” she said quietly.

His answer was a light laugh, a little too forced. “Never mind, Laura.” Walter opened the door and swatted her affectionately. “Just get out of here and let me get some work done. Go on, beat it!”

She reached up and pulled his face to her lips quickly. They heard Helen drop some papers and laughed together when they realized that she was doubtlessly shocked to the core. But now the strain of the moment was gone.

“Helen,” Walter called in his business voice, “will you come in for a moment? Bring your pad and the New York file.”

“Yes. Yes, sir,” Helen answered, fumbling in the gray file cabinet behind her desk for a moment, then stiffly walked into Walter's office.

Laura went over to the coffeemaker and refilled her cup with tepid coffee. Dear world, she thought with mixed feelings of sadness and elation, today ends a chapter of my life.

From this moment on things will be different.

How do I know?

I just know . . .