Dreams Are Not Enough (13 page)

As she reached the dais, Desmond Cordiner looked up.

“Listen, you little cunt” -In this flat, conversational tone, the obscenity, one she loathed above all others, rang more venomously than if he had ranted. “—I’ve had it up to here with you.”

“Now what have I done?” she said, inwardly astonished at the contrast between the strength of her voice and the weakness of her body.

“None of that big blue-eyed innocence. You know the fuck why you’re here.”

“Give me a clue.”

“I will not have you screwing up Hap’s life.”

Her breath expelled loudly. A blinding light expanded painfully within her brain. Believing those clandestine meetings at Cahuenga Inn to be totally secret, she had never once considered Hap as the reason behind her summons.

“How did you find out?” she asked in an oddly pitched tone.

He ignored the question.

“Stay away from him or else he’ll hear about the shithole you crawled out of.”

“He knows,” she said, digging her nails into her palms.

“And it doesn’t matter to him.”

“The kid’s always been too decent for his own good,” Desmond Cordiner said in that same restrained tone. Then suddenly his rage broke its dam, inundating her. He slammed his fist on the massive desk, rattling papers.

“I want you away, cunt!” he bellowed.

“You mean out of the country? Or the world?” Her mouth was dry, yet somehow she managed a note of defiant humor.

“You get out of Los Angeles! If you don’t I’ll phone the cops and tell ‘em you’re peddling ass and horse.”

“Ass and horse. Cute.”

Desmond Cordiner’s eyes narrowed. Braced for further assaults, possibly physical, she tensed her muscles. But he took off his black rimmed glasses, wearily rubbing the bridge of his scimitar nose.

“It’s been a bitch of a day,” he said, descending the steps to mortal level.

“Let’s start over.”

In an industry of wily, often dishonest negotiators, Desmond Cordiner was famed: a real pro, his peers and underlings called him admiringly. Fury, obscenity, blackmail, threats, offers of advancement or prestige, sympathetic gentleness, appeals to human decency—he could switch from one to another deftly and with unparalleled success.

“Here, sit down,” he said.

Her legs were about to give way, so she didn’t argue but sank into the deep, comfortable leather chair.

He sat opposite, leaning toward her.

“Alicia, a few months ago you refused to give up Barry. Now you think you’re in love with Hap.

You’re very young. Isn’t it possible that this is another infatuation?

“

“It’s totally different,” she said.

“And Hap’s twenty-one.”

“A veritable Methuselah,” Desmond Cordiner said with a tired smile.

“What about your marriage?”

She shrugged.

“I talked to Hap this morning, asked him what the hell was going on.”

“What did he say?”

“That it was none of my damn business.” He paused.

“By now you’ve certainly realized that Hap’s thoroughly decent—he must’ve inherited the virtues from his mother’s side—she comes from good blood. So I cannot believe he enjoys sneaking into motel rooms with his cousin’s wife.”

Alicia tried to control her expression, but she had not yet learned acting technique: her bleakness showed.

Desmond Cordiner went on.

“Granted Barry’s been goofing off in the worst way” “His mother” — “I respect that loyalty of yours, Alicia. But Clara’s been out of the woods for a while now. Barry should be home nights with you. What’s with that boy? Leaving a wife who’s not only gorgeous and sexy, but has brains and spunk. And not keeping up his grades”

“Last semester he got all As.”

“Ds and Incompletes. I checked.” He shrugged sadly.

“The dean says he’s killed his chances at a good law school.”

“But it’s only one semester!”

“The grades are on record. Now listen to me, Alicia. We both know Barry’s always fiddled with writing. I’m suggesting we give him a chance at it. Clara’ll threaten another coronary, I grant you that.

Damned if I know why she’s so hot to have a lawyer for a son. Probably has something to do with her being Jewish. What a family! Catholics, Jews, Episcopalians, a Christian Scientist—even a crazy Rosicrucian.

“

And one itinerant arm worker.

“You’re positive he won’t get into law school?”

“Maybe one of those shyster mills.” Desmond Cordiner laced his fingers.

“Alicia, I have a good friend in France, Philippe Saint-Simon. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”

Who hadn’t? Saint-Simon wrote, directed and produced. He had put his stamp on French film as Fellini had done in Italy, as Bergman was doing in Sweden. Even the most vituperative critics mellowed when reviewing a Saint-Simon movie, often using the word genius.

“If you could become one of his troupe, you’d have a go at an important career.”

Career. The word had a rich patina, like fine old silver.

Despite her innocent pride at being an extra, she knew it was merely a job. Career?

“You and Barry could learn your respective professions.”

Profession, another evocative word.

“It’s become a damn rat race here, but it’s different in France.”

France. In France she’d be separated from Hap by thousands of miles.

Not to see him, feel him, taste him, smell him?

Desmond Cordiner was watching her.

“Have you ever considered how much this is damaging Hap?”

“I’m not hurting him,” she said through numbed lips.

“Not you, Alicia, the situation. Before this, he’s never behaved in any way that wasn’t absolutely aboveboard. I pride myself on being a judge of character. You’re too good a woman to turn him into something less than he is.”

“But what if” — “If you leave Barry? Hap would feel even more rotten. It would gnaw his guts constantly.”

“I’m not hurting him,” she repeated.

“Think about it, at least.” He got to his feet.

“Saint-Simon is a good friend.”

Drained and hopeless as though she’d been tried for murder by a hanging judge, she closed her eyes, thus missing Desmond Cordiner’s satisfied little smile.

When Alicia left the Executive Building, she saw by the round clock above a sound stage door that it was nearly eight. Since Barry was to be with his parents, she had arranged to meet Hap at the Cahuenga Inn.

He always waited in his car until she arrived. How else could she see him emerge from the office with the key? How else could she follow him to the right room? She accepted now that these were the clumsy maneuvers of a man unskilled at adultery—or any other form of chicanery.

As she trudged shivering toward the parking lot, the chill wind that gusted along the dark, empty studio street seemed a fit companion.

Once Henry Lopez had beaten up on her with a plank of wood, and that was how her interview with Desmond Cordiner made her feel. Bruised, weak, dazed. She—low-life Alice Hollister—had corrupted Hap, a knight nonpareil. In her demoralized state, she rushed into an anguished decision.

/ won’t show up tonight.

I won’t talk to Hap. I’ll end it now. Quickly. Quickly. Quickly.

Halting, she leaned against a cement-block wall, overcome by sobs. She remained hunched and gasping, the cold wind tearing at her clothes, then a passing car’s headlights bathed her in yellow light and she straightened, heading for her VW and home.

When she opened her front door, the phone was ringing. Positive it was Hap, she stood over the instrument with her hands tightly balled into fists until the insistent sounds ended. When, a few minutes later, the ringing began again she pressed her hands over her ears.

The following night Barry stayed home. His realization that he needed Alicia had combined with its frightening corollary: she might walk out on him. He was trying to cut down on the number of dinners he ate with his parents.

Alicia was doing the dishes when the phone rang. Barry answered.

The conversation lasted no more than thirty seconds, and he replaced the instrument with a baffled frown.

“That was Hap,” he said.

“After lo these many moons, he calls. And for what? To ask when Mom’s birthday is.”

The next night, Saturday, it was raining, and Clara begged her son not to risk driving the slippery roads. So again it was Barry who answered Hap’s call. And again they spoke briefly.

“What’s come over Hap?”

Barry said mystified.

“He’s the reliable, steady type, never discombobulated. And you know what he wanted? To find out what to get for Mom’s birthday—and I told him yesterday it’s not until August.

Sometimes I can’t figure the guy out. “

Sunday was brilliantly clear and Barry elected to spend the day with his parents. The phone rang on numerous occasions but Alicia did not answer. And neither did she on Monday, when Barry stayed late at the UCLA Research Library.

Tuesday she worked at Columbia on a ballroom sequence: having invested in a black sequined mini dress and a fake mink coat, she was eligible to earn the higher wage scale available to dress extras.

She arrived home to find the familiar note propped against the lamp.

Am at the folks. Be back around 10.

She felt light-headed, as if she might pass out. Since her summons to Desmond Cordiner’s office five days earlier, she had drunk gallons of black coffee and bottle after bottle of Pepsi, but downed no more than a few forkfuls of solid food. Telling herself she must eat, she peeled a small russet potato, slicing it into cold salted water, lighting the stove. She hung up her formal, sliding out of the cheap nylons that bit uncomfortably at the thigh. In the bathroom she slathered Albalene cream on her face, neck and shoulders, tis suing off the greasy layer of brownish cosmetic. As she soaped herself, the front door buzzer sounded, but with the faucets on she didn’t hear.

“Alicia?” Hap said.

She jerked up. She hadn’t locked the door, and Hap was standing in the middle of the room. Snatching the towel, she draped it around her waist—what idiocy to hide herself from Hap, who had kissed every part of her nakedness.

“Be with you in a sec,” she said, pushing the bathroom door shut.

She held on to the washbowl, feeling as if her raw flesh were contained only by the thinnest membrane of skin. She resolved to muster all of her strength. It’s breakup time, she thought as she rinsed her face. Do it quickly. Quickly. Quickly.

She emerged from the bathroom with Barry’s terrycloth robe pulled high around her throat and the sash knotted tightly.

“Why’ve you been hiding?” Hap asked. There were bluish smudges under his eyes.

“Hiding?”

“You know what I mean.”

“We had a fling and it’s over. That’s all.” Desmond Cordiner would be proud of her calmly unemotional tone.

“You call what went on between us a fling?”

“For me it was.”

He took a step, grasping her shoulders.

“Like hell. I was there, Alicia. You weren’t faking it.” He paused.

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” she said numbly.

“Don’t you think I’m entitled to the truth?”

“Let’s just say I came to my senses. One person has to first.”

“You damn well weren’t over it the other night.”

Probably because Hap was a large man and apparently selfassured, many people considered him impervious to mental anguish. Alicia knew him better. From his voice and expression she understood how profoundly she had hurt him—and was hurting him now.

“Hap,” she sighed, “sooner or later we have to stop. Sooner’s easier.”

“Why is breaking up inevitable?”

“We both know the reason. I’m married.”

“Barry doesn’t remember it often.”

She went to turn off the potatoes. With her back turned, she said, “Once I suggested to him that we split. He rushed out and got loaded, then came home and cried.” She winced, trying to black out the memory of Barry groveling on the rug, of the slobbery, teary kisses that wet her feet.

“He’ll recover,” Hap said expressionlessly.

“Maybe. But you won’t. He’s your cousin, one of your closest friends.

You even felt guilty talking to him on the phone. None of the conversations lasted a full minute. “

He was gazing at her, his lips parted and soft. When she opened the door at the Cahuenga Inn he would look at her like this, as if his eyes were indelibly photographing her. She drew a shaky breath, her body traitor to her resolve. She was ready and Hap must know it—he could see the flush of warmth rising from the collar of Barry’s robe, the moisture in her eyes.

He stared at her another few seconds, then lifted her off her feet, carrying her in two strides to the couch, pushing aside the lower half of her terrycloth robe while unzipping his fly. They were both shaking violently. She flung one slim leg up on the sofa back while dropping the other on the floor, opening herself utterly to him. This was the truth, the only truth. She belonged to Hap. It was artless, swift.

Afterward, still tingling, she smiled at him.

“Is that your caveman act?”

“I didn’t hear any complaints.” He stroked back the mass of moist black hair.

“Were those potatoes for your dinner?”

“It was my dinner.”

“I’m taking you to a restaurant. No arguments. And if somebody sees us, good!”

At the Pacific Diner, they devoured the rolls, laughing at each other’s jokes, falling silent when the waiter brought their steaming slabs of beef and football-shaped baked potatoes. She ate hungrily, but the heroic platter proved too much for her. Hap reached over for the filet she had pushed aside.

“How do you know I’m not going to finish that?” she asked.

“Simple. / am.”

Laughing, she threw the end of a sourdough roll at him. He fielded it.

“Nice catch,” she said.

“Hey, who do you think you’re patronizing? Sitting in this booth is a three-year letterman in baseball, a man whose Little League team went to the All Star game.”

“It’s not in the Guinness Book of Records yet,” she said. But his words had struck a slender dart into her unfettered euphoria. What’s Little League? There’s so much in his life that I don’t understand.