Another Kind of Love (8 page)

Laura chuckled in spite of herself.

Ginny hoisted herself on one elbow. “You're really an awful prig, Laura. Know that?”

Laura nodded and stared thoughtfully at the girl beside her. It was true. She was a prig. And selfish, too. She had no right to expect other people to rearrange their lives at a moment's notice just because it was what she wanted. Besides, how did she really know how long she would go on wanting this. Maybe it was just a form of temporary insanity—or a kind of psychic rash that would disappear like measles after the fever passed. Hell of a thing to ask anyone—to revamp a whole future on the basis of one wild night. Looking at it this way, she certainly had no right to ask Ginny to give up everything on just the transient kind of love two women have for each other.

Everyone knew these “affairs” never lasted. And of all the people to choose, she had to pick an actress—where success meant being under constant public scrutiny. Oh, no, Laura, me girl, it would never have lasted anyhow.

All right. Now that my mind knows all this, she asked herself, when does my heart catch on? Why do I still love her? Can two people walk out of my life like that? Can I go through this all over again?

She's not walking out on you, Laura told herself resignedly—she's willing to just go on this way.

But I'm not! Damn it, I'm not!

“Laura?” Ginny asked quietly.

Laura wished she could cry then but knew she wouldn't. What for? “Yes,” she replied heavily.

“Do you hate me?” Ginny burst into tears, burying her face in Laura's breasts. “I didn't mean to hurt you . . . honest.”

It was almost more than Laura could take at that moment. She stroked Ginny's head and held her close with a slight rocking movement. “No, Ginny. I don't hate you.”

She had to take a deep breath before continuing. She hurt inside. In fact, the only way to think of the pain was that her guts were killing her.

Ginny kept repeating that she had not wanted to hurt Laura, that if she could she would undo the whole thing.

But it was too late now . . . too late for undoing. And she wanted Ginny too much to sit on the sideline waiting for bones. She wanted everything or nothing—and it looked as though it would be nothing.

Maybe she was being bourgeois and immature, but her pride—and her heart—simply would not let her conduct an
illicit
-illicit affair. She had not been playing with Ginny. . . . It had not been just a game to fill the hours....

She would have to get up now and go through the day somehow. She would have to take Ginny home, pick up her own car, and go to work. She would have to stay away from Ginny. . . .

She would have to.

I
t was a strained and awkward ride to Saundra's house. Ginny had become increasingly defensive, but Laura refused to rise to the bait. Talk would lead to charges and countercharges. Better to leave it alone. She would call Ginny later, Laura decided, when both of them had had a chance to put things in their proper perspective. She recalled briefly the wire she had opened while Ginny showered.

It had been from Walter, as she had suspected: he wanted her to come to New York as soon as possible.

She wouldn't answer him just yet—she had to decide what to do with herself first, then Ginny, and then and only then, Walter. It would be pointless for her to go to New York until this was settled. She wanted time—time to think, time for Ginny to reconsider, and time to make her own decisions. How much time? She didn't know.

At the office she went through the day in a frenzy of application to her work. She tried not to think about Ginny or last night or the conversation this morning. Each time her mind wandered back to Ginny, hot chords vibrated throughout her body, and her hands became cold. It seemed that she really didn't think of Ginny as a person but as a fleshly embodiment of her own passionate fantasies— something responsive to hold and kiss, to let out a torrent of emotions and love upon.

Finally, the unending day became evening, and at last Laura looked around the office and was surprised to see that she was alone. She knew she must have talked to people during the day—Helen, at least. But she couldn't remember anything that had happened, not even if she had had lunch or where, or what she had done.

Go home, Laura, she told herself, before you crack up. Home.

It was an empty word when there was no love.

 

 

She let herself into the apartment and found that it was near agony to remember that Ginny had sat in that chair, had crossed the room here holding a glass in her hand, and that it had been on that couch where they had first kissed.... She had to see Ginny here again.

“Call her,” she said aloud. “Call her and tell her you're sorry about the way you behaved.”

She walked over to the telephone, feeling her hands grow cold, and a thick heavyness touched the base of her skull.

Rrupp! Tic-a-tic-a-tic.
Operation Apology under way.

The line rang exactly three and one-quarter times.

A short silence.

“Ye-es?” A very hesitant and falsely bright Ginny answered.

What will I say? Laura wondered frantically.

“Ginny?”

Silence, then, “Where are you calling from?” Laura heard Ginny's breathing, short and quick. “You shouldn't have called me here.”

“I wanted to talk to you. . . .”

“But Saundra's back. I mean, she's just taking a shower upstairs. She'll be out in a minute, and I don't want her to know you've called. We've had a furious fight.”

That wretched hurt again, that miserable sick pain in the pit of her stomach. How can one person hurt you so much with a few simple words? Laura pushed her fist hard against the edge of the table to steady herself, to keep the choke out of her voice.

“I'm . . . I'm sorry, Ginny. I didn't mean to interrupt. I just wanted to talk to you. . . .”

“Not now, Laura, please. I'll call you. Later on, maybe, if I can think of an excuse to get out of the house. But not now. Please don't call here again. I've just gotten her calmed down. She'd be in an awful rage if she thought . . .”

Laura hung up quietly. She wanted to cry, to scream, to throw something. So this would be their life—don't call me; I'll call you.

And what happens when you run out of excuses, Ginny? Or if we get caught, Ginny . . . Who wins you in a hands-down fight?

My God, everything would have to be geared to keeping Saundra pacified. No. Damn it. No!

Laura walked into the kitchen and put some ice in a glass and brought the half-full bottle of Scotch to the living room. She sat down on the couch and filled the glass to the brim. Slowly she raised the glass to her lips and smiled at the television set across from her: dead, imageless—a prideless, sightless stand-in for life. Ersatz pleasure.

That's what I would be, she said inwardly . . . an instrument of amusement to be turned on and off, filling a need of sorts but not enough to be an entity. No. Not amusement, not even amusement. That's too healthy a word. Diversion. Yes. That's it.

Laura drained the glass without stopping for air. She threw off her shoes and stretched out on the couch, facing the TV set.

Then, she fell asleep while holding a silent conversation with the blank set, mulling over the things they had in common.

 

 

As she drove to work the next day, she decided, today I must make up my mind.

Somebody honked when she failed to move on a green light. Always pushing . . . Some bastard's always there to keep you moving, she cursed under her breath with unusual vehemence.

If Walter wants me in New York right away . . . if I could catch a plane this afternoon . . . if I could leave today . . . I wouldn't have time to change my mind or worry about the consequences.

She sighed as she pulled the car into the office parking area, and sat a moment after she turned off the ignition. Then, slowly, she climbed the stairs to her office.

If I can get reservations today, that will be it. No arguments, no decisions. Just Kismet.

As Laura entered the office, the receptionist gave her a bright “Good morning, Miss Garraway.”

Laura mumbled something and headed for her desk. She wished she could talk to Helen about this but imagined the shock on Helen's face if she did.

“Morning, Laura. Coffee?” Helen said cheerfully. “Must say, you've looked a wreck these past few days,” she chuckled good-naturedly.
“Tours l'amour?”

One more word, Laura thought with exasperation. Just one more word and I'll punch her in the nose! Wouldn't that be ladylike, she told herself sarcastically. Calm down, Laura, old girl. Helen is your friend—she can't know your problems. Take it easy or the only place you'll go to is an institution. Lesbians Anonymous, she joked bitterly, a quaint Village home for shook-up broads.

She saw Helen's hand place a cup of steaming coffee on her desk, then felt Helen's other hand on her shoulder.

“What's the matter, Laura?” she asked with serious concern. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Oh, yes, Helen,” she answered guiltily. “Got a wire from Mr. Hobson.” She gave the news as a peace offering. “Wants me to leave for New York right away and I'm trying to figure out how I'll do it.” With an effort Laura smiled. “Would you be a doll, Helen, and call the airport? Find out if I can get on a plane this afternoon . . . nonstop. Buy a ticket and charge it to
Fanfare
.”

“Sure, Laura. Sure.” Helen returned to her desk, leaving Laura alone to think things out. She'd just have to let Walter handle the loose ends around here when he got back. Walter, she thought. Her own part in his life seemed like an adolescent fling now.

Compared to what she and Ginny had shared . . . Ginny, Ginny.

Kismet. Reservations were available. Helen got her a seat on a 4:10 plane leaving from International Airport. With all the hectic arranging for her departure, the morning passed quickly.

At last Laura picked up her purse, looked over her desk to be sure she had forgotten nothing, and in an unexpected moment of fear of what she was venturing upon, hugged Helen quickly. “Thanks for everything, Helen. Take care of the boss for me when he comes back.”

She turned quickly to hide the unwanted tears coming into her eyes and walked swiftly out of the office. She hardly heard Helen's call of good luck.

She was leaving behind everything that she knew, everything familiar. . . for what? This wasn't the way to go, was it? But she knew the tears were mostly for Ginny. Never to see Ginny again . . . never touch her soft cheek with her own, never feel the young breasts with her own . . .

It had been so strange and so wonderful.

Laura drove home like a madwoman, packing hastily in constant fear that her phone would ring—or that like an alcoholic, she would weaken and make that “one call” just to say good-bye.

But nothing happened.

Ready at last, Laura ran out of the apartment.

“E
leven,” Laura told the bored-looking hotel elevator operator. The car was crowded with people who looked even more bored.

Laura leaned against the back of the elevator with a soft sigh of relief. The worst was over—at least for the moment. She'd made the break, and the trip itself had been quite painless. As soon as she had boarded the plane, she had taken a sleeping pill so that she wouldn't have those idle hours to think....

So far, so good.

She wondered if Ginny had ever called her.

“Nine,” the operator called out in a dry little voice.

Ginny. Forget Ginny, damn it. That's why you're here, isn't it?

“Eleven.”

Laura took a deep breath and stepped out of the car, grateful for the freedom. There was something about elevators that was too confining.

She stood a moment in the hallway, breathing the musty air and staring blankly at the opposing arrows indicating the division of rooms. Forcing herself to focus on the numbers, she turned left down the corridor, her footsteps making a muffled sound on the thick, worn carpet.

From the fire escape window at the end of the hall she could hear faint strands of dance music from the cocktail lounge in the hotel.

Funny, she thought, how most hotel dance bands sound the same . . . But the couples on the floor don't notice it. If I were dancing with Ginny, I wouldn't notice it.

And then that terrible stab of loss, of injustice. She could never go dancing with Ginny in public, never look at her with love in her eyes across a public dining table, never do any of the little things that people in love do.

Well, she barely whispered, that's why you're here, old girl, and not with her. . . .

She stopped at room 1107. Her knock sounded loud enough in the silence to wake the whole floor. No answer. Suddenly she was very impatient. The clerk had said Walter was in—why didn't he answer? Where else could he be at this ungodly hour?

“Laura!” The door opened, and Walter stood there, smiling broadly. He put his arms around her and hugged her fraternally. No kiss.

He has company, she guessed. She could
feel
it in his reception. Besides, he never played a radio when he was alone—always said it made him nervous.

“Come in, Laura. Come in.” Walter helped her off with her coat swiftly.

He gave her another little affectionate hug, then whispered in her ear, “We have a guest . . .” and led her into the suite.

“Madeline,” Walter said enthusiastically, “I want you to meet the best little feature writer this side of Hedda Hopper.” He grinned. “Madeline Van Norden. Laura Garraway.”

Laura saw a strikingly handsome woman seated on the divan. Her clothes were exquisitely simple. Her poised, easy manner, her pleasantly attentive glance—everything about her suggested wealth . . . and taste. Intelligence, too. Laura guessed her to be in her mid-thirties.

So this is our backer, she mused. Our gay divorcée. Even sight unseen Walter could pick'em.

“Welcome to New York, Laura.” Madeline raised a half-empty cocktail glass in salute. The soft, cultivated tones were exactly what Laura expected. “I can see you'll get along well here.”

She smiled and winked at Walter with a sort of mutual-appreciation expression.

Shades of Saundra Simons, Laura thought.

But she managed a polite smile and mumbled acknowledgment.

Walter fussed over her and praised her to Madeline.

“If you're going to talk about me as if I weren't here, Walter,” Laura said dryly but keeping a twinkle in her eyes, “I'll need a drink.”

Madeline laughed heartily. “Get the poor girl a drink!” The explosiveness of her laugh struck Laura as oddly out of keeping with the rest of her. Walter walked over to the small improvised bar on the writing desk.

“Scotch, Laura?”

“Fine. I haven't checked in yet. My baggage is in the lobby; wanted to be sure you were still here and”—Laura glanced confidentially at Madeline, “that you hadn't made reservations for me at some hotel on the other side of town.”

Walter brought her the drink and sat down on the arm of her chair. “No, I didn't register you anywhere, but getting a room at this time of the year isn't any problem. I thought it would be easier for you if you stayed in this hotel, but decided to consult you first.” His tone was elaborately businesslike, but Laura could sense an undercurrent of uneasiness in his manner.

Laura watched him with amusement. She was thoroughly enjoying his predicament: he wanted to keep his tomcat privacy for himself, play the faithful lover for her, and yet hide all this from Madeline.

As always, Walter's juggling was very adept, but this time he had failed. She had the feeling that Madeline was not missing a thing.

Laura feigned a look of indecision.

“Well . . .” she began.

“Had
you
any special hotel in mind?” he asked hesitantly.

Laura grinned mischievously. “Expense account?”

Walter stood up and laughed. “If you're a good girl.”

He reached over and took Madeline's glass. “Freshener?”

“Please.” Madeline reached across the small round table between their chairs and took out a cigarette, then handed the pack to Laura.

“This hotel would be convenient for you, Laura,” she said evenly.

“Yeah,” Walter added enthusiastically. “
Fanfare
on Madison Avenue. How do you like that for dreams coming true?”

“Sounds elegant,” Laura replied, feeling oddly disturbed by Madeline's curious glances.

“Tell you what,” Walter continued as if in one breath, “I'll call downstairs and have them register you and send your bags up.”

Laura sat quietly while Walter called. She listened with detached interest as he made the arrangements. She didn't want to look over at Madeline, and she felt strangely on guard.

“Is it difficult to find an apartment?” she asked Madeline finally.

Madeline laughed, and Laura decided that her laugh was not really loud or boisterous—just sincere, and full of a pleasant childlike gusto. There was no obvious attempt on Madeline's part to play the urban sophisticate. Laura thought that her naturalness made Madeline all the more genuinely sophisticated.

“A nice apartment is very hard to find,” she explained without snobbery, “even if price is no object.”

The conversation glided effortlessly from general observations to specifics about
Fanfare
and the new job. It seemed to Laura that Madeline and Walter had her future very neatly in tow. It felt good not to have to decide anything. Good—and safe.

At last the bellhop arrived with the key to Laura's room and the registration card for her to sign. Her luggage had been placed in her room.

“I don't wish to seem rude,” Laura said after a short silence, “but I think I'll turn in. It's been a long day.”

“Certainly, certainly,” Walter agreed. There was a touch of concern in his voice. “Anyway, you'll be seeing a lot of Madeline these next few days. There'll be a lot of things she can help you with in getting started—especially when Willy isn't around.”

“Stop yakking, Walter, and let the girl go to bed,” Madeline smiled. She extended her hand to Laura casually. “I'm going to enjoy working with you, Laura, even if it is only for a few days. Do you want me to call you in the morning?”

Laura wished everyone would leave her alone, but she knew that they were simply trying to be helpful. “No. No, thanks. I'll leave a call at the desk. See you at the office around nine?” she asked with equal casualness.

“Yes.”

“Well, good night, then.”

Walter walked her to the door. “Good girl,” he whispered. “She likes you.”

“Did you think she wouldn't?” Laura asked wearily, but she didn't wait for him to answer. “Good night, Walter. See you tomorrow.”

She closed the door behind her. She was grateful to be alone—and yet afraid of it, too. The best-loved person in the world can feel lonely in a hotel . . . and if you're already lonely . . .

Her room was a room; it was a “nice” room. It had four walls, a clean bathroom, and only slightly faded curtains. It had a view—an office building on the opposite side of the street. Laura looked for a radio but found none. Just a free TV set. Her luggage had been piled neatly at the foot of the bed.

She opened the suitcases and began hanging her clothes. The bureau drawer contained the usual card listing the hotel's regulations, and the Gideon Bible. Strange how she only needed three drawers now. In her apartment there had never seemed to be enough room.

Entering the bathroom, she let the water run for a hot bath. She stared for a moment at her reflection in the mirror. She wondered vaguely what other people thought when they looked in a mirror. . . . Did they think they were pretty or ugly? Did they try to hypnotise themselves by staring into their own eyes with noses pressed against the glass, or strike poses alien to their daily habits?

“What difference does it make . . . as long as it sells?” Laura said aloud to her reflection, and speculated briefly on why that phrase of Walter's had remained so tenaciously with her.

She tried to relax and soak in the tub but found that she couldn't; she was too keyed up and overtired. So she just bathed quickly and returned to the bedroom and turned down the bed.

As if the management wanted to be certain she would not forget that she was not at home, not where she belonged, the hotel name was printed on the sheets and pillowcases. Laura took this as an insult and turned on the television set as a small revenge. Only one station was still on. In between the commercials there was a badly edited and rather awful old horror movie.

But it was better than the silence that surrounded her. Better than this impossible aloneness. She sat cross-legged on the bed and stared at the screen with all the concentration of a sinner at a revival meeting.

A knock at the door startled her enough so that she gave a small cry, and then she laughed nervously at the state of her nerves. She crossed the room to the closed door.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“Walter.”

She unlocked the door and stood back for him to enter.

He walked in almost sheepishly and closed the door quietly behind him. “Anything good on TV?” he asked inanely.

She laughed. “No. I'm just trying to unwind before going to sleep. What brings you out?” She walked over and turned off the set.

He followed her and put his arms around her.

“I've good news for us,” he whispered.

Laura could feel herself tense up in his arms but tried not to let him realize it. “Wonderful,” she said, disentangling herself as nonchalantly as she could. “What is it?”

Walter chuckled with self-approving mirth. “I can finally get a divorce. . . .”

“Oh. Walter,” she answered immediately, “that's wonderful.” Then she realized all that this meant. She was frightened suddenly. Walter would now want to marry
her
—and she couldn't do it. Not now . . . maybe never . . .

“. . . That detective agency we thought was doing nothing finally came up with proof that Edna
has
been fooling around. Now let her try to contest a divorce. Let her try to take the magazine away from me!” he gloated.

“But the children . . .” Laura asked before she knew she was thinking it.

“I'll get the usual custody now—or at least, I'll stand a good chance. Don't you see what this means, darling? After the year is up, you and I can get married. But till then we'll have to be very careful. I don't want you to be involved as a corespondent. I'm sure Edna has had her little spies out, too.”

Laura sat on the edge of the bed. She wondered what she ought to do now. Just tell him she couldn't marry him until she got a woman out of her mind and heart? She had a big mental picture of a declaration like this. She shuddered.

Walter sat down beside her and pushed her back on the bed, very gently. He put his arm under her head and lay next to her, playing idly with her long hair, kissing her softly on her forehead and eyes. In between he went on with a narrative about their future.

She wished he would go away and not touch her. Then she felt unbearably cruel and guilty. It's not his fault, she told herself over and over; it's
me.
He loves me—how can he know . . . ? He mustn't know that I'm in love with someone else . . . a woman. Oh, God! she cursed silently. What a mess!

“. . . you'll love the kids, Laura. And they're no problem since both of them are in private schools anyway and only home during the holidays. You'll see.”

Oh, Walter, she asked voicelessly, what can I do? How can I tell you?

“. . . and that's why I didn't register you. I didn't want it to look premeditated, I didn't want Edna to have a shred of evidence that could be misused.” He sat up and laughed exuberantly. “I could hardly keep still while Madeline was there. I just wanted to take you in my arms and hold you and know that for the first time my being with you held a future instead of a checkmate.”

“Are you going to file as soon as you get back?” Laura asked, hoping she sounded happy and knowing she was failing.

“I've already wired my attorney. He can file without me.”

“I can't tell you how happy I am for you, Walter.”

He turned and faced her slowly, his expression suddenly perplexed and serious. “For me?”